 confession to make. I don't think I should be here. I don't say this because the other Jake came out with his guitar and serenaded you, and all I have is this tie bar. I say this because I don't think I should be standing here breathing. That was the trajectory of my life. Much of my youth was this darkness. You see, I grew up in a rust belt forgotten America, where I lived in more homes than I attended grades. I maxed out the days you could be suspended three of the four years in high school. Yeah, that's a thing. And I chose drugs and drinking, and my friends reflected that. You see, they ended up in hospitals, jail, and the obituaries. But me, I escaped this darkness. Why? Because I learned to love and find a home in school. It was because of my teachers. They were my light, and they saved my life. The first of these many lights was Mr. Rossino. In second grade, it was the year I got that stupid laser-line haircut on the side of my head, you know what I'm talking about? It was also his first year in a classroom, and the year my parents got divorced. You know, he didn't ask for a kid who brought baggage like me, but he stepped up. He was the man I needed in my life every day, and he was the first of many who inspired me to enter this noble profession. That divorce took my family and me to a new home the next year, and with that new home came a new school, and boy, I was nervous to go to that school. It got a bit more complicated when my mom and my doctor gave me some bad news. I had to go to that new school with grandma glasses. I know what you're thinking. New kid, new school, grandma glasses, lots of friends, right? Those kids blackballed me. It wasn't until about halfway through the year when I met Miss Lapis. She was a long-term sub of all people, and her pearly smile and warm heart flipped my life light side up, and she made me love school again. Later on in elementary, I was diagnosed with a learning disability. Nobody could really figure out what was wrong with me. They just knew I was starting to struggle to read, and because of that, I was a pain in my eye, teachers, you know what? It wasn't until I met Mrs. Kennedy, who was a special ed teacher, and she came up to me and said, honey, don't worry. I think you just have a bit of dyslexia. Watch me teach you through this, and I don't know how she did it, but she took my disability and judoed that stuff into an advantage. Yeah, she taught me how to speed read. In the sixth grade, I came to middle school with the worst bowl cut possible. Oh, my God. Those things were so terrible. The Beatles would have even kicked me out of the band, but I met three of the most luminary ladies who could have done no better to this bowl cut laden brain. They were Mrs. Zubeck who taught science, Mrs. Balliott who taught social studies, and Mrs. McKee who taught math. She was also my aunt too. The three of them had a policy together. Nobody fails sixth grade. Smart Alec. Me, first day of school, raised my hand and said, hey, I failed a lot, and they cut me off mid-sentence and said, Miller, you're going to keep on failing, but in the end, you're going to succeed with us. I don't think I've ever worked harder in my life. All the homework, the projects, the tests, and all the retests. But above it all, they smothered me with love, and therefore, they never smothered my light. Mr. Hoffman was twice my math teacher and always the intimidating wrestling coach. He treated math problems like workouts, man. It was all about repetition, repetition, repetition until your form was perfect. I was never much of an athlete, but boy did he turn me into a math elite, and I'll never forget the big warmth and bare hug that he gave me when I showed him my near perfect math SAT score. In 11th grade, I ditched the glasses. I ditched the bowl cut, but then I started wearing Janko jeans. Oh, God. If you're not laughing, I'll explain them to you real quick. Think of like a middle schooler, high schooler's waist, and then expand that, and it's bigger around your ankle. So when you're walking down a high school hallway, it's like flowing denim. But my 11th grade literature teacher, Mr. Morgan, looked through that tough skater boy exterior who thought he was the class clown, and he said, you know what? When you come to school, which is often, you do pretty well. You participate. You think you're a funny guy, but you're kind of smart too. You should be going to college. I didn't really think about going to college until he said that, and he took me on my first college visit. It should surprise nobody in this room that I attended Mr. Morgan's Alma Mater, Bloomsburg University of Pennsylvania, and that's where I learned to become a teacher, just like him. In 12th grade, I met the final flame of so many amazing individuals in my life. That was Mrs. Tarano. She taught British literature, and it wasn't so much about Chaucer and Shakespeare, which oddly I loved. Don't ask why. It was she taught us how to talk to one another. She taught us how to learn to love to read our own, and yeah, she even took this lexic boy and his poems and got them published. You see, I don't write poetry anymore, but I do get paid to write, and every time I put my name at the top of the page, I think very fondly of her and all those other amazing lights that came before her. Now I have a question for you. You know what makes them so special? You know what makes you educators so special? It's not how you teach. It's how you ignite the passion in your kids. It's not the content of your curriculum. It's the content of your character. When you return to your schools next week, you're going to see kids in your class whose stories rhyme with mine. I invite you to make your mark, be their spark, and don't be afraid to light candles in the dark. Thank you.