 When I was a young boy, I fantasized about the career I would pursue as an adult. Airplane pilot. Being a pilot had the same cachet as the favorite careers of my playmates, police officer and firefighter, and for the same reasons. It had a uniform, it commanded authority, and it was an action job. When I was 10, my older brother and I actually built a 24-foot glider, which we took turns flying and crashing in the Black Creek ravine in Toronto. A couple of years later, my gaze turned from airplanes to rockets, and I decided instead to be a rocket scientist. Once again, my brother and I gave concrete expression to our interest, until one of our six-foot-long space probes blew up, severely injuring a friend who tried to set it back upright when it fell off the launching pad. Nonetheless, in retrospect, I see that my dream career had already moved from doing to thinking. Throughout high school, maths, physics, chemistry were my passion, to such an extent that I studied German for three years simply because my high school physics teacher told me that most of the best work in physics was being done in that language. Then, poof! At age 17, I had an epiphany. A visit to my grade 13 class by Stokely Claremichel of the U.S. Civil Rights NGO Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee led me to toss over science completely and to study the humanities at university. Theoretical thinking in the sciences no longer seemed good enough. I decided that I needed to focus on thinking that would lead to social transformation. Four years later, I was all set to do a PhD in politics and economics. Unfortunately for my pursuit of a career as a political theorist, however, June 1968 produced another epiphany. Against the tidal wave of true Romania, I worked on the Forlorn Hope campaign of NDP leader David Lois. The experience galvanized me to see the power and the promise of law in areas of social justice and the fight against poverty. After this political experience, I concluded that I could contribute to social well-being by pursuing a career as an advocate. During my studies in law, I got to know a remarkable professor, Gerhard Ledin, Harry Arthur, Judy Lamarche. Although almost all my classmates were white men from comfortable socio-economic environments, most of them were also passionate about social justice. Today, I am pleased with their success as an advocate of the Grand Cabinet or as a small town, as a functional, politician, legal advisor, with the activist, professional, and more and more active NGOs. But note well, the fight for social justice is perpetual. As my classmates, we must all continue to work for life. As you know, after several years of a law career, I concluded that my contribution to achieving a just society could best be achieved within the university, where I could, at least metaphorically, pursue all my erstwhile careers at once. So for 33 years, I've been lucky to be a pilot, a rocket scientist, a social activist, a researcher, and a teacher. Why you might ask am I reciting this ancient history? It's because I see in each of you, members of the class of 2008 at McGill University, a similar history to my own. And because I see in your class collectively the same enthusiasm that animated the class of 1972 at York University. The invention and reinvention of yourselves as you reflect on life's projects and possibilities. The passion, the commitment, the engagement with ideas and action, the outrage at injustice, the optimism that your efforts to achieve a more just world will bear fruit. You will each pursue your own careers in your own way and each of you will have many such careers, I'm certain. Each of you will accomplish much, whether in New York, New Westminster, B.C., Paris, Ontario, or Paris, France, whether in Montreal, Mumbasa, Melbourne, or Mumbai. I can't express adequately what a privilege it is to have learned from you these past four years, to have been energized by your enthusiasm, to have watched you frame up and chase down your diverse ambitions, to have appreciated your affection for each other, and now to celebrate your triumph. But as we celebrate tonight, as we continue to pursue our dreams, let us not forget those who are not among our cohort. Life is not easy. To get this far, each one of you has confronted and surpassed several hurdles. Some have overcome physical limitations. Some learning disabilities. Some the streaming of a school system that does not always permit those with dreams and aspirations to flourish. Some a grind of poverty or straightened economic circumstance. Some the hazards and missteps in your youth. Some the crush of inflated expectations of your parents, relatives, and siblings. Some the disappointments of a failure to reach the lofty goals you've set for yourselves. But the key is this. You have overcome. You are here tonight and you are still pursuing your dreams. The measure of a person is not where you start, nor even where you end up. The measure is in what you make of your life. What you do with the opportunities you've been given and the opportunities you strive to create for yourself. We ought never to forget the sobering words of Ecclesiasticus 44. Let us now praise famous men and our fathers that begat us. Leaders of the people by their wise and eloquent counsels and by their knowledge of learning. All these were honored in their generations and were the glory of their times. But some there be which have no memorial, who are perished as though they had never been. These too were merciful men whose righteousness have not been forgotten. Their seed shall remain forever and their glory shall not be blotted out. The message of Ecclesiasticus 44 is two-fold. First, we're not placed in this world either to seek our own happiness or to chase awards in recognition. Much more deserving of public honors are those whose contribution to the lives of others has been quiet and personal. Mrs. Petey, the babysitter who nurtured my siblings and me over eight years. Mr. Potiphan, the auto mechanic who gave up his Friday nights to serve as the Aquila for the tooth's 39th cub pack in suburban Toronto. Miss Nectle, who for 45 years taught generations of youngsters about life, beauty, and self-discipline in the guise of weekly piano lessons. Deuxièmement et finalement, voici la message clé que je veux passer ce soir. Chaque individu, chaque être de ce monde est doté du potentiel de vivre une vie virtueuse. Il faut imaginer toute personne comme un fin en soi et non pas comme un simple moyen de réaliser nos propres fins. Réussir et obtenir la reconnaissance de ces pères ne sont pas la preuve d'une vie bien vécue. Ce sont des jalons purement transitoires et fmer. Notre vertu se manifeste par nos actes et nos croyances, telles que sont reflétées dans les vies virtueuses de ceux et celles qui nous rencontrons au long de notre vie et qui vivent virtuellement après notre mort. I'd like to conclude my reflection with a song written 40 years ago. The folks was a sensitive and a vulnerable poet, writer of popular songs, who when inspiration dried up began to drink heavily and in one moment of despondency killed himself. Before he did, however, he penned an extraordinary call to action, an anthem to engagement. The song which many of you may remember from the administrative process course is entitled When I'm Gone. I hope you carry its message with you for the rest of your careers. For the moment, however, let me congratulate you all on your magnificent achievement. And here I pray about my cares when I'm gone. Won't be asked to do my share when I'm gone. So I guess I'll have to do it. And I won't be running from the rain when I'm gone. Can't even suffer from the pain when I'm gone. Nothing I can lose for even pain when I'm gone. So I guess I'll have to do some when I'm gone. All the evenings and mornings will be one. Can't be singing louder than the guns when I'm gone. So I guess I'll have to do my days. They won't be dances of delight when I'm gone. Sounds will be shifting from my sight when I'm gone. Can't add my name to the fight when I'm gone. So I guess I'll have to. Won't be laughing out their lies when I'm gone. Can't question how or when or why. Can't live proud enough to die when I'm gone. So I guess I'll have to do it. There's no place in this world where I'll be long. And I won't know the right from the wrong. Won't find me singing out this song when I'm gone. So I guess I'll have to do it.