Hello, everyone. It’s an honor to be here on this special occasion. Congratulations to the graduates and our deepest gratitude to the family and friends who have supported you in your studies. An MFA requires a surfeit of time, dedication, and creative energy–and this goes at least triple for a low-residency program. Thank you to everyone who kept your writers fed, showered, and hydrated over the past four semesters.

When I was first asked to write this speech, I froze; of all genres, the hopeful, congratulatory speech is the most difficult. What is there to say that isn’t an empty platitude or promise, that doesn’t blatantly ignore the realities of the material world? So, in true Warren Wilson fashion, I procrastinated and procrastinated, then decided to “trust the process” and just show up at residency in hope that a bit of inspiration would strike.

And it did, as it always does at these residencies. Many of our classes and lectures these past two weeks focused on questions of time and memory, and in writing exercises, this is the memory that kept surfacing–me, mid-twenties, packing for another cross country move, deciding whether or not to finally toss out an old sweater. The sweater had been my father’s, who passed away when I was in high school, and by now the fine cashmere had been reduced to moth-eaten lace. Following his death, I had become obsessive about objects (this sweater, his favorite pen, even a pack of gum I had found in his desk drawer), imbuing them all with an inordinate spiritual essence. Nothing is as powerful and irrational as a teenager’s nostalgia. But then, life continued to unfold in all its terrible and beautiful ways and the need for these physical tokens felt less vital. If I wanted to be reminded of my father, of my lineage, I realized all I had to do was look in the mirror–there, etched on my own face was his furrowed brow, his lips pursed, his particular stare when deep in thought. And there was more, so much more than a sweater could ever contain–from my fear of heights to my chosen career path–these traits, large and small, mark my inheritance. I carry these with me forever, whether I want to or not, his presence literally encoded in my DNA. I threw the sweater out.

I’ve always loved that graduates receive walking sticks–such an appropriate symbol of how we envision you all continuing your writing journeys in the beyond. But then, of course, that is all it is, a symbol, an object that represents the work you have done here. But no object, no book contract, no prize or award can ever fully represent what we inherit from this program. Part of what makes this program special is that all students, regardless of academic background or professional experience, begin their first semester as apprentices, together. You cannot transfer in credits from another institution or substitute a dissertation on Milton for your degree essay. Everyone travels the same path.

At the heart of this program is not product and publication, but instead, process and practice. In our time together, we learn to develop and practice a tenacious mode of deep attention, rooted in curiosity, empathy, vulnerability, and most of all–love. Love for the work, love for the process, love for the challenge of naming what has not yet been named, of imagining new and better ways of being. And when you graduate, you carry this love with you, as if it is now encoded in your DNA. This program indelibly changes anyone who is lucky enough to be a part of it–as a graduate, you will never see the world the same way again.

Over the course of your life as a writer, you will inevitably find yourself in fallow periods, the words stuck, the page still blank, your inbox pinging with rejections. You might think of all the time you spent on annotations and green sheets and wonder, what did I get from this? On these days of struggle, remember that the inheritance from this program is not the walking stick, not the degree, not the network of friends that will land you that six-figure book deal (for fiction writers) or $50 prize (for poets). Remember that the work, and love for the work, is your lineage. When in doubt, take confidence in your training and seek support from this community that, like it or not, will stay with you forever. To see our mark, all you have to do is look in the mirror. Congratulations, and welcome to the beyond. 

Christine Kitano

Swannanoa, NC 

July 2024