Senior Commencement Address
By Nathan Soland '04
May 30, 2004

Class of 2004, Judge Page, faculty and staff, administration members, family, and friends -- good afternoon and welcome!

I stand here today, wondering if you've heard of a town in northwestern Minnesota called Vergas. Many don't refer to it as a town, but instead, a village, as the main street consists of a meager two blocks, most of them lined with gift stores. The city sign reads:"Population: 310." Most of them are my family. Vergas' claim to fame is a 20-foot statue of a loon, a mammoth structure overlooking the glassy waters of Long Lake.

Vergas is the type of place where a handshake means more than a written contract. It's the type of place where municipal government is a volunteer passion and where people look at you strangely if they hear you've taken your grocery shopping out of town. In Vergas, you don't go to the bank to visit the loan officer; you go see Marv, a bubbly man, who's likely to know your name, where you live, and the health of your dog.

In Vergas, going to "The Cities" is a once-a-year journey where it's necessary to find a driver willing to venture into "such awful traffic." It's a place where your personal life seems to be everyone's business, but ultimately people just genuinely care.

If I could call Vergas anything, it would not be a city or a village. It would be a community -- an active, lively, thriving, friendly, prospering, thoughtful -- community.

For me, coming to Northfield was a step into the big city. Not many of us come from places where the St. Olaf student population is 10 times larger than our hometowns. So, I was a bit scared. I was scared that I would be plopped down into the middle of this college as a number, a mere abstraction. More than anything, I was scared I wouldn't find a community like Vergas.

I shouldn't have been, for I have learned that St. Olaf embodies the word community. In our community, it's not unusual to chat with President Thomforde as he walks home at night. It's not unusual to take a final at a professor's apartment or attend a departmental picnic behind Thorson. Whether we're in George Holt's Human Sexuality class or discussing an article from the Manitou Messenger , we've grown accustomed to arguing points, defending positions and engaging in dialogue. St. Olaf is not a place where education is only contained in the classroom, but also in conversations around a table in the Cage or through an African dance on the plaza lawn.

Lately, I've grown apprehensive about leaving this community. In constructing resumes and conducting the job search, I've begun to think about whether or not a resume -- this one-page piece of paper -- reflects me. In the same fashion, I wonder if our diploma and transcripts truly encapsulate what our St. Olaf education means. Employers will see grades, GPAs, majors, and courses taken, but will they understand we are people that truly care? Will they understand that we are more than grades earned, exams completed, and papers written? In turn, I wish, today, to construct a resume for the entire class of 2004 -- for once ignoring hours worked, jobs held, and events planned and, instead, concentrating more on our true essence. I think it would look something like this:

Communication Skills: We sat for endless hours outside of Buntrock, soaking in the sun, talking about what truly matters. We took our class periods outside, concentrating on readings while defending ourselves against the invasion of Asian beetles. We learned to communicate through language barriers on off-campus programs -- by smiling, gesturing, embracing, laughing.

Tolerance Skills: We endured four years of Norwegian Sweater-mania each Christmas Fest. We reluctantly paid, um, how many parking tickets? We slept in eight-foot lofts potentially for four years. We've put up with the question, "Isn't that where Rose from the Golden Girls is from?" constantly. We've tried to ignore the smell of Lutefisk, laughed off registration woes, and walked to class in all nuances of the word: "freezing."

Human Relations Skills: We held doors for strangers and greeted the custodians in the morning. We jumped each other's cars in winter, directed lost visitors to Skoglund, and held our friends in times of joy and sadness. We developed the St. Olaf power lunch, 10 minutes each of two friends spitting out everything that happened in the last week. We made snow angels on nights when the snow seemed like it would never end. We laughed at a play, cheered Um! Yah! Yah! at a game, listened to a recital -- all with people we loved sitting one seat over.

Emotional Skills: We cried together on Sept. 11, 2001 in Boe Chapel. We cheered or jeered when George W. Bush won in 2000. We consoled each other when we received yet another e-mail telling us about another classmate that would no longer be with us. We laughed at stories while walking in Norway Valley on cool fall nights. We sat in awe, listening to musicians bring scores of music to life on stage. We became families on off-campus programs, sharing memories of meals taken, sights seen, people met, and emotions felt.

As we venture off into the world, I strongly believe that this type of resume -- the one that displays our community and passion for each other -- should accompany our transcript and diploma. Four years ago, I left my small town's community to enter another. Now we leave our St. Olaf home to enter into thousands of different communities. I hope that we can take this place, this feeling, this moment with us. Let us continue to take time on clear, spring days for lying in the grass and listening to friends. When we see a St. Olaf sticker on a car, let us stop and hear someone else's Olaf story. Let us try to sing four-part harmony during church hymns, just like in Boe Chapel. Let us continue to sing throughout our homes, throw Frisbees down the street, take walks through the woods. But maybe, most simply and most importantly, let us continue to care.