The Graduation Speech I Had to Give
When I stepped up to the podium at graduation, I hadn’t planned on shaking anyone’s world. I was supposed to talk about dreams, futures, and recycled inspirational quotes. But as I scanned the gym, filled with classmates who had spent years mocking my grandmother, Lorraine, something inside me shifted.
To them, she was just the cafeteria lady. To me, she was the woman who raised me after my parents died, who kept the lights on, packed my lunches with notes that read, “You’re my favorite miracle,” and never let me feel small. In that moment, I knew the speech I’d rehearsed wasn’t the one I needed to deliver.
Grandma Lorraine was already in her fifties when she took me in, working long hours in aprons she’d sewn herself—strawberries, sunflowers, bright patterns to soften the hard days. Money was tight, but she never let me notice. When the heater broke, she turned it into a “spa night” with blankets and candles. When prom came around, she found a thrift-store dress and stitched rhinestones onto it herself.
But at school, things weren’t so sweet. Kids mocked her accent, whispered jokes, and rolled their eyes at her kindness. They called me names because she still packed my lunch, kissed my cheek, and quietly gave me strength. They didn’t know she heard every word—and chose love anyway.
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