哈佛大學開學典禮演講稿

演講稿體現着演講的目的和手段。演講稿是人們在工作和社會生活中經常使用的一種文體。它可以用來交流思想、感情，表達 主張、見解;也可以用來介紹自己的學習、工作情況和經驗等等

　　哈佛大學開學典禮演講稿篇【1】

當我們的開國先輩於1630年來到馬塞諸塞州的這片海岸時，他們是作為持異見者而來的——他們摒棄了家鄉英國的體制。但是一直令我驚奇的是，在當時的這片荒地裏，在如何生存下去還是個未解的問題之時，這些開國先輩很快就意識到了建立(哈佛大學)這所高等學府的必要性。

自此以後，一代代人來了又去，哈佛的校園也不斷擴大，不再侷限於當年的幾間小木樓。但沒有變的是，每一代人都充滿信心，想要建立更好的社會，每一代人也都相信，這所大學將使這種願望成為可能。正如一位早期創始人Thomas Shepard 所説，我們希望畢業生走向世界之後，能夠成長為對國家有益之人。

而如今，將近四個世紀後，我們發現我們處在一個充滿挑戰的歷史時刻。我們應如何鼓勵我們的畢業生去做對他人有益之事?我們是否培養出了以造福他人為目的的畢業生?還是，我們所有人都已變得對個人成就、機遇和形象如此痴狂，以至於忘記了我們的互相依賴，忘記了我們對於彼此和對於這所旨在促進公共利益的大學的責任?

這是一個自拍——還有自拍杆的時代

不要誤解我：自拍真是件令人慾罷不能的事兒，而且在兩年前的畢業典禮演講上，我還特意鼓勵畢業生們多給我們發送一些自拍照，讓我們知道他們畢業後過得怎麼樣。但是仔細想想，如果社會裏的每個人都開始過上整天自拍的生活，這會是怎樣一個社會呢?對於我來説，那也許是“利己主義”最真實的寫照了。

韋氏詞典裏，“利己主義”的同義詞包括了“以自我為中心”、“自戀”和“自私”。我們無休止地關注我們自己、我們的形象、我們得到的“贊”，就像我們不停地用一串串的成就來美化我們的簡歷，去申請大學、申請研究生院、申請工作——借用Shepard 的話來説，就是進行不停的“自我放大”。

正如一位社會評論家所觀察到的那樣，我們都在不停地為打造自己的品牌而努力。我們花很多時間盯着屏幕看，卻忽視了身邊的人。我們生活中的很大一部分經歷不是被我們體驗到的，而是被保存、分享並流傳於Snapchat 和Instagram 等APP 上的——最終它們呈現出的是一種由我們所有人合成的自拍照。

為什麼我們還需要大學?

批評家們問道：我們就不能全靠自學嗎?硅谷創業家Peter Thiel 敦促學生們輟學，甚至還給予他們經濟補助，讓他們輟學創業——這其中也包括我們哈佛的一些本科生。畢竟，從邏輯上來講，馬克·扎克伯格和比爾·蓋茨都輟學了，他們似乎都很成功。事實如此，沒錯。

但是請大家別忘了：比爾·蓋茨和馬克·扎克伯格都是從哈佛輟學的!哈佛是孕育他們改變世界想法的地方。哈佛以及其他像哈佛一樣的學府培養了數以千計的物理學家、數學家、計算機科學家、商業分析師、律師和其他有一技之長的人，這些都是Facebook 和微軟公司賴以生存的員工。

哈佛也培養了無數的政府官員和人民公僕，建設和領導國家，讓像Facebook 、微軟以及類似的公司可以繁榮發展。哈佛大學還培養了無數的作家、電影製作人和新聞工作者，是他們的作品給互聯網增添了“內容”。

而且我們也要看到，大學是人類和社會技術革新的源泉，這些革新是互聯網公司發展的基石——從早期創造計算機和編寫計算機程序的成功，到為如今無處不在的觸屏奠定基礎的樣機的發展。

我們還被告知，大學將土崩瓦解，顛覆性的創新將使得每個人可以自學成才。

人們可以在大規模開放在線課程(MOOC)中選課，並設立DIY學位。但在線學習與大學學習並不相悖，前者可以拓展——但不會取代——後者。通過類似像edX 和HarvardX 的這樣的在線課程平台，我們已經開始與全球數百萬的學習者分享哈佛的精神財富。有趣的是，我們發現世界各地的在線學習者中，有一個羣體人數眾多，那就是老師——他們正用這些在線課程中的知識來豐富他們自己線下的學校和課堂。

總而言之，主張大學已經沒有存在意義的斷言來源於人們對於機構的不信任，這種不信任的根本在於我們對於個人權利和感召力的陶醉以及對於名人的崇拜。政府、企業、非營利組織都和大學一樣，成為了質疑和批評的靶子。

很少有反對的聲音來提醒我們這些機構是如何服務和支持我們的，我們常常認為它們的存在理所應當。你的食物是安全的;你的血液檢查是可信賴的;你的投票站是開放的;當你撥動開關時，一定會有電;你所乘坐航班的起落都是根據航空安全規定進行的。設想一下，假如所有的市政基礎設施停擺一週或一個月，我們的生活會是怎樣?

機構體現了我們與其他個體之間持久的聯繫，它們將我們不同的天賦和能力擰成一股繩，去追求共同的目標。同時，它們也將我們與過去和未來維繫起來。它們是價值的金礦——這些恆久的價值超越了每一個自我。機構促使我們放棄眼前即刻的快樂，思考更遠大的圖景，更長遠的全局。它們提醒我們世界只是暫時屬於我們，我們肩負着過去和未來的責任，真正的我們要比我們自己和我們的自拍照要廣博得多。

而大學的責任正在於此——用我們共同的人類遺產號召大家去開拓未來——這個未來將由今天從這裏畢業的數千名哈佛學生去創造。我們的工作是一個持續的承諾，它並不針對單一的個體，甚至不針對一代人或一個時代，它是對一個更大的世界的承諾，是一個對於正在等待它服務的時代的承諾。

哈佛校園正中的約翰·哈佛雕像

1884年，我的前輩、Charles William Eliot 校長為約翰·哈佛雕像揭幕，並談到研究約翰·哈佛——這位冠名了這所大學的人——“波瀾壯闊”的一生帶來的啟發。

Eliot 校長説：“他(約翰·哈佛)會告訴人們善行會流芳百世，會以超越所有計量方式的速度和規模繁衍。他會教導人們，在這個教育花園裏播下的種子，如何迸發出喜悦、力量以及永遠新鮮的能量，年年花開，隨着時光流轉，在人類活動的所有領域，花繁葉茂。”

所以，今天下午我們列隊行進經過的那座雕像，它不僅僅是一座代表個人的紀念碑，更是代表一個不斷自我更新的社區和機構的紀念碑。你們今天坐在這裏，就代表了一種對於哈佛這個社區和機構的認可，這種認可也是你對於哈佛驅使你超越自我、惠及他人的感召力的認可。我感謝你們今天在這裏的許下的承諾，祝你們每一位都開心、健康且永遠充滿活力!

　　哈佛大學開學典禮演講稿篇【2】

今天是新一學年的開始。歡迎各位來到哈佛。大家都是來自不同國家和地區，成長背景與生活環境也各有不同。在此，我想重申哈佛的辦學理念和目標。

每當新生到校的時候，我常常會提起，哈佛是個多麼多元化的大學，它可能是學生所生活過的最多元化的集體之一。來自不同種族、民族、國家的人們匯聚於此，他們政治觀念可能各不相同，性別觀與身份認同也各有差異。我們認為，這種不同是哈佛教育中不可分割的一部分。不管你是大學新生，還是滿懷抱負的研究生，還是教職員工，都能從哈佛的這種教育中受益。

今年，哈佛的錄取政策遭到了質疑，這更是對我們根本原則，對哈佛多元化的努力提出的挑戰。在這一學年內，我們會積極應對質疑，向其他的聲音證明多元化的重要之處。

然而哈佛的努力還不止於此。我們不僅要為哈佛所招收的優秀學子提供多元化的環境，更要讓每個人都有一種歸屬感。“我就是哈佛的'代表，就是哈佛的一部分”，我希望每個學子都可以感受到這一點。光有多樣性還不夠，歸屬感、包容性也很重要。要做到這一點，哈佛要做的還有很多。我們知道，我們生活的這個社會充斥着不平等、不公正，這些無形之中對每個人的生活都產生了影響，對於哈佛也是一樣。

因此，當我們規劃未來、迎接挑戰之際，建立一個真正包容的集體非常重要，這項任務也十分艱鉅。剛剛入學的新生中，有很多人對於周圍同學的文化、國家並不瞭解，你們彼此對對方也各有期待。因此，大家可能會擔心，如果嘗試着和不同的人交流，能否得到理解，還是會被忽視、無視?如何讓哈佛成為一個相互學習相互瞭解的集體，而非冷漠忽視?如何消除隱性歧視並從中吸取教訓?如何能消除一些歧視性或者針對性的語言?如何才能讓大家以治學般的嚴謹態度探詢、理解人與人的差異?

這個暑假，我和JimRyan院長談及了這些情況，他表示，我們應該努力成為“包容的傾聽者”。我對此非常認同，這也是一個真正的學者應該具有的品質。大學言論自由——每個人都有權表達自己的觀點，但是在你們未來的大學四年內，這種言論自由可能無形中會因言語不當而帶來傷害。這些言語也許本來是一番好意，卻因為誤解曲解而事與願違。然而這些都是哈佛在努力推動多元化中無法避免的過程。這一點我們會繼續堅持，在應對指控的法庭上、在日後的公眾交流中、在我們每一天的生活中，都應該堅持這一點。

用心聆聽，更包容地聆聽，不要怕犯錯，不要擔心，勇於嘗試，努力包容。讓我們相互學習，共同進步。

　　哈佛大學開學典禮演講稿篇【3】

“Who Will Tell Your Story?”

May 24, 20xx

Greetings, Class of 20xx.

And so it is here—the week of your Commencement. The days of miracle and wonder when your theses are written, classes have ended, and you still have free HBO. And so it may seem strange to be gathered here today, as we pause for this ancient and curious custom called the Baccalaureate—but here we are, me in a pulpit and you in pews, dressed for a sermon in which I am to impart the sober wisdom of age to the semi-sober impatience of youth. Now, it is a daunting task. Especially since over the course of four years I have succeeded in disconcerting people on all sides of the many issues that you will soon be discussing with parents and grandparents over dinner—so in addition to a speech, for handy reference I’ve created a Placemat for Commencement, filled with useful phrases. Such as, “It’s ‘final club,’ without an ‘s.’”

Now, I am truly privileged today, for you are an extraordinary group. Your 80 countries of origin do not begin to describe you.

You may remember the day when we escaped the rain at your Freshman Convocation, and you heard from me and a phalanx of elders in dark robes: Connect, we said, make Harvard part of your narrative. Take risks, we told you. Don’t always listen to us.

And for four years you have distinguished yourselves with dazzling variety: In what may be Harvard’s most divergent dozen, you produced six Rhodes Scholars, including one who broke the world record for standing on a “Swiss” exercise ball, plus six athletes invited to the National Football League to play ball, players whose interests range from the ministry to curing infectious diseases.

You were good at long distances: You probed the atmosphere of an exoplanet; researched antibiotic use on a pig farm in Denmark; and you created a pilot program that cut shuttle times from the Quad by half.

You experienced old traditions: The mumps. A class color, orange. And the time-honored Lampoon theft of the Crimson president’s chair—this time transporting it across state lines to Manhattan’s Trump Tower, for a staged photo op with a then dark-horse presidential candidate.

You found your way: on campus, through a maze of renovations and swing housing; onstage, doing stand-up comedy on NBC, dancing in Bogota, and mounting Black Magic at the Loeb; through the halls of business and finance, running an intercollegiate investment fund; and exposing a privacy issue with Facebook’s Messenger app.

You won, with style and grace: as you captured the first national trophy for Harvard Mock Trial—by being funnier than Yale; and then you shellacked the Bulldogs in The Game for—yes—the 9th straight year; you produced the first Ivy “three-peats” in football and women’s track; and brought home the first Ivy crown in women’s rugby—how “Fierce and Beautiful” was that!

And, of course, all this was powered by HUDS, since 20xx, powered with ceaseless servings of swai.

And you were just plain good: You wrote prize-winning theses on sea level change, a water crisis in Detroit; you engineered a better barbecue smoker—and tested it in a blizzard; you joined the fight to end malaria; and earned the award for best hockey player in the NCAA for strength of character as well as skill; you became well connected—to Alzheimer’s patients, to kids in Kenya, to homeless youth; and, as the inaugural class of Ed School Teacher Fellows, 20 of you are preparing to help high-need students rise.

And I understand you even rested with ambition, as you tried to “Netflix and chill.”

You made it all look easy—all while facing blows to the spirit that have tempered and tested you. You arrived just after a breach of academic trust that, by your senior year, produced the first honor code in Harvard’s history, events that raised hard questions for all of us: What is success? What is integrity? To whom, or what, are we accountable?

When a hurricane prompted the first Harvard closing in 34 years, you rallied with generosity and goodwill—and did so again when we closed for snowstorm Nemo—the fifth largest in Boston history. And that was just a warm up, so to speak, for the Winter of Our Misery—the worst in Boston history—when you sledded the slopes of Widener in a kayak.

And when the bombs went off at the Boston Marathon, in just your second semester, we considered still larger questions: Who are we? What matters most? What do we owe to one another? You told me that you became Bostonians that day, bonded to a city beyond Harvard Square, and to each other during the manhunt and lockdown, when the University closed for an unprecedented third time in 6 months.

Who can forget the images—of the mayhem, of the people who ran, not for safety, buttoward the danger, into the chaos? The Army veteran, who smelled cordite, and expecting more bombs, saved a college student’s life; the man in the cowboy hat, who ripped away fencing in order to reach the most injured. And who can forget the moment when Red Sox first baseman David Ortiz stood in the center of Fenway Park and said in eleven words of fellowship and defiance that the FCC chose not to censor, though I will today—“this is our [bleeping] city and nobody[’s] gonna dictate our freedom.”

A few months ago as I was lucky enough to be sitting in a Broadway theater, absorbing the final number of the musical Hamilton, I thought of you, and that fierce spirit of inclusion and self-determination. I watched as Eliza, center stage, sang, “I put myself back in the narrative,” and asked the question in the title of her song, “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?,” the spirited summation of a production that, like you, has broken records. Like you, has created a new drama inside a very old one.

Harvard, one might say, is a bastion of opportunity and unimaginable good fortune—for all of us, who find a place, with varying degrees of comfort, at the center of its long and successful narrative. And yet the burden is on us—to locate the discomfort, to act on the restless spirit of that legacy. As I thought about speaking to you here today, it occurred to me how much the question in that final song has framed your time here, and how much it will continue to affect your lives, as college graduates, as Harvard alumni, as citizens and as leaders. Who will tell your story?

You. You will tell your story. That is the point that I want to leave you with today. Telling your own story, a fresh story, full of possibility and a new order of things, is the task of every generation, and the task before you. And that task is exactly what your liberal arts education has prepared you to do, in three vital ways:

First, telling your own story means discovering who you are, and not what others think you should be. It means being mindful of others, but deciding for yourself. It’s easy to tell a tale that others define, the one they expect to hear. A moment ago I sketched your Harvard history. But what did I leave out? One of Harvard’s legendary figures and Reverend Walton’s predecessor, the Reverend Peter Gomes, used to put it this way: “Don’t let anyone finish your sentences for you.” He loved being a paradox, an unpredictable surprise, but always true to himself: a Republican in Cambridge; a gay Baptist preacher; black president of the Pilgrim Society—Afro-Saxon, as he sometimes put it. Playful. Unapologetic. Unbounded by others’ expectations. “My anomalies,” he once said, “make it possible to advance the conversation.”

Advance the conversation. This is my next point. Telling our own stories is not just about us. It is a conversation with others, exploring larger purposes and other worlds and different ways of thinking. Your education is not a bubble. Think of it as an escape hatch, from what Nigerian novelist and former Radcliffe Fellow Chimamanda Adichie calls “The Danger of a Single Story.” She has observed, “[h]ow impressionable and vulnerable we are in the face of a story.” Not because it may be untrue, but because, in her words, “[stories] are incomplete. They make one story become the only story,” even though “[m]any stories matter.” For four years you have learned the rewards of other stories, and the risk of critical misunderstandings when they go unheard—whether those stories emerge from the Office for LGBTQ Life, or the Black Lives Matter movement, or the international conversation on sexual assault—and perhaps most powerfully, from one another. This is precious knowledge. Only by knowing that other stories are possible can we imagine a different future. What will medicine look like in the 21st century? Energy? Migration? How will cities be designed? The question, as one of you wrote in the Crimson, is not “What am [I] going to be,” but “What problem do [I] solve?”

Which brings me to my final point: keep revising. Every story is only a draft. We re-tell even our oldest sagas—whether of Hamilton and the American Revolution or of Harvard itself. The best education prepares you because it is unsettling, an obstacle course that forces us to question and push and reinvent ourselves, and the world, in a new way. Steven Spielberg, who will speak to us on Thursday, has explained the foundation of his powerful storytelling. He says: “Fear is my fuel. I get to the brink of not knowing what to do and that’s when I get my best ideas.”

What is a university but a place where everyone should feel equally sure to be unsure? Our best discoveries can start out as mistakes. As Herbie Hancock told us, his mentor jazz legend Miles Davis, said there is no playing a “wrong” note, only a surprising one, whose meaning depends on whatever you play next.

In the evolving universe of profiles and hashtags and selfies, it seems no accident that you are the class of Snapchat—a platform that took hold when you were freshmen and developed with you, from showing “snaps” to telling and sharing “stories”—stories that vanish every day, to be replaced by new stories, free of “likes” or “followers.” An app that, in the words of a founder, “isn’t about capturing … what[’s] pretty or perfect … but … creates a space to … communicat[e] with the full range of human emotion.”

And so for four years you have been learning to re-tell things: finding your voices, putting yourself in a narrative, whether that was demanding action against climate change, discovering that you love statistics, or creating the powerful message of “I, Too, Am Harvard.” You have seen things re-told. Even Harvard’s story. Last month one of my heroes, Congressman John Lewis, came to Harvard Yard to unveil a plaque on Wadsworth House, documenting the presence of four enslaved individuals who lived in the households of two Harvard presidents. John Lewis said, “We try to forget but the voices of generations have been calling us to remember.” Titus, Venus, Bilhah and Juba—their lives change our story. After three centuries, they have a voice. They, too, are Harvard.

Telling a new story isn’t easy. It can take courage, and resolve. It often means leaving the safe path for the unknown, compelled, as John Lewis put it, to “disturb the order of things.” And during your years here you have learned to make, as he urged, “good trouble, necessary trouble.”

For years I have been telling students: Find what you love. Do what matters to you. It might be physics or neuroscience, or filmmaking or finance. But don’t settle for Plot B, the safe story, the expected story, until you have tried Plot A, even if it might require a miracle. I call this the Parking Space Theory of Life. Don’t park 10 blocks away from your destination because you are afraid you won’t find a closer space. Don’t miss your spot—Don’t throw away your shot. Go to where you think you want to be. You can always circle back to where you have to be. This can require patience and determination. Steven Spielberg was, in fact, late to class his first day as a student at California State University, because, as he put it, “I had to park so far away.” He went on to sneak onto movie sets, no matter how many times he got thrown off.

“You shouldn't dream your film,” he has said, “you should make it!”

Perhaps this is the new Jurassic Parking Space Theory of Life—don’t just tell your story, live it. Your future is not a . It’s an attitude, a way of being that can create a new narrative no one may have thought possible, let alone probable:

Jeremy Lin—Harvard graduate, Asian-American—changed the narrative of professional basketball, still sizzling with “Linsanity” when you arrived as freshmen.

Think about Stephen Hawking, who spoke to us last month through a speech synthesizer. He changed the narrative of the universe, a story about what ultimately will become of all our stories—one he has been revising since he was your age, when he was given three years to live.

And you are already changing the story:

Think of the astrophysics and mythology concentrator who started a mentorship program for women of color to change the narrative of who enters STEM fields, and she wrote a science fiction novel to tell a new research-based story about the galaxy.

Or think of the Second Lieutenant—one of 12 new Harvard officers—who will serve her country in the U.S. Marines, battling not only the enemy, but persistent gender divides. “How will that change,” she says, “unless we start now?”

And think about the pre-med student who found himself literally running away from campus, fleeing in misery, until he suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned back, because he remembered he needed to be at a theater rehearsal where he had stage managing responsibilities. Some 20 productions later, he has a theater directing fellowship for next year, and even his parents, as he puts it, now believe “that I am an artist.”

Value the ballast of custom, the foundations of knowledge, the weight of expectation. They, too, are important. But don’t be afraid to defy them.

And don’t worry, as you feel the tug of these final days together. I am here to tell you that your Harvard story is never done. In 1978, two freshmen watched a screening of the movieLove Story in the Science Center. Three decades later, they met for the first time. And their wedding story appeared last month in The New York Times.

So, congratulations, Class of 20xx. Don’t forget from whence you came. Change the narrative. Rewrite the story. There is no one I would rather trust with that task.

Go well, 20xx.

哈佛校長福斯特演講中文

人們也許會説哈佛是天堂，充滿了各種難以想象的機遇和好運——確實，我們每個人都有幸在她漫長而成功的歷史中佔有一席之地。但這也對我們提出了要求：我們有責任走出自己的舒適區，尋找屬於我們的挑戰，踐行哈佛奮鬥不息的精神。

在我準備今天演講的時候， 我想到了音樂劇《漢密爾頓》中最後那首歌裏的問題：

“誰來講述你的故事?”

我想這個問題奠定了你們過去四年大學生活的基調，也將對你們未來作為哈佛畢業生和校友的生活產生深遠的影響，無論是作為公民或是領袖——

誰，來講述你的故事?

是你，你要來講述你的故事!

這就是今天我要對你們説的話：講你自己的故事，一個充滿了無限可能性和新秩序的嶄新故事，這是每一代人的任務，也是現在擺在你面前的任務。你在哈佛所接受的文理博雅教育，將會用以下三種重要方式，幫助你去完成這項任務。

“聽別人的建議，做你自己的決定”

講述你的故事意味着發現你自己是誰——而不是成為別人認為你的誰。你要參考別人的意見，但要做出自己的決定。講述一個別人定義好的或別人希望聽到的故事，那太容易了。

哈佛的傳奇人物之一、可敬的彼得·戈麥斯教授曾説：“不要讓任何人替你把話説完。”

戈麥斯教授自己經常“自相矛盾”，令人難以捉摸，但永遠忠於他自己：他是一位劍橋市的共和黨人(注：在哈佛所在的劍橋市，共和黨是少數派);他是一位浸禮會的牧師，但同時是個同性戀(注：天主教大多不支持同性戀);他是朝聖者協會的會長，同時又是一位黑人(注：朝聖者協會白人居多)。

他對自己的信仰堅定不移，他不為外人的期望牽掛束縛。他説：“我的不同尋常，讓開啟新的對話變為可能。”

“開啟與他人的對話，傾聽他人的故事”

開啟新的對話，這是我的下一個重點。講述我們自己的故事並不意味着只關注我們自己。講故事是與他人對話，藉此探尋更遠大的目標、探索其他的世界、探究不同的思維方式——你所受的教育不是一個真空的大泡沫。

如果我們只講述單一的故事，那將是危險的，就像諾大的場地只有一個逃生口，令所有人變得異常脆弱。單一的故事不一定是假的，但它是不完整的。所有的故事都很重要，不能把單一角度的故事變成唯一的故事。

過去四年，你們感受到了傾聽他人故事的益處，也體驗到了忽略他人故事所帶來的危險。只有意識到，世界上充滿了各種各樣的故事，我們才能想象一個不一樣的未來。21世紀的醫療是什麼樣?能源是什麼樣?移民是什麼樣?城市將如何設計?面對這些問題，你要問的不是“我會成為什麼樣的人”，而是

“我能解決什麼問題”?

“在不安和不確定中，不斷修正你的故事”

這也引出了最後一個重點：不斷修正。每個故事其實都只是一個草稿，我們連最古老的傳説都會不斷拿來重提——不管是漢密爾頓將軍的故事、美國獨立戰爭的史詩、亦或是哈佛自己的歷史。

好的教育之所以好，是因為它讓你坐立不安，它強迫你不斷重新認識我們自己和我們周遭的世界，並不斷去改變。

斯蒂芬·斯皮爾伯格將在畢業典禮上為我們演講，他就曾經這樣解釋他創作的基石：“恐懼是我的動力。當我瀕臨走投無路的時候，那也是我遇見最好的想法的時候。”

大學，不正是這樣一個讓每一個人都接受挑戰、讓每一個人都產生不確定性的地方嗎?

就這樣，大學四年間，你都一直在學習重新講述你的故事：尋找你自己的聲音，將自己放入一個故事中——無論是對氣候變化採取反抗行動，發現你對統計學的熱衷，還是發起了一項有意義的運動，你親眼目睹故事不斷被重新講述。

“不要妥協，直奔你的目標”

這些年，我一直在告訴大家：

追隨你所愛!

去從事你真正關心的事業吧，無論是物理還是神經科學，無論是金融還是電影製片。如果你想好了目的地，就直接往那裏去吧。這就是我的“停車位理論”：不要因為覺得肯定沒有停車位了，就把車停在距離目的地10個街區遠的地方。直接去你想去的地方，如果車位已滿，你總可以再繞回來。

所以在這裏，我想祝賀你們，20xx屆的哈佛畢業生們。別忘了你們來自何處，不斷改變你的故事，不斷重寫你的故事。我相信這項任務除了你們自己，誰也無法替你們完成!