Why We Gather
A Catwalk on a Cold NIght
I have religiously, usually passionately, published weekly on Substack for over three years. Please, hold your applause.
Last week, between tending to the ordinary carousel of teaching, parenting, emailing, and existential fretting—as well as the less ordinary joy of hosting dear visitors from Chicago—the writing plate slipped and nearly shattered. Nearly.
I did write something last week. I wrote a speech for a ceremony I host every year. A colleague in the audience joked that I delivered a Junction essay with a microphone instead of a keyboard. I thought he was just talkin’ smack, as we do.
But as I reflected on my remarks that evening, I realized my dude was right. My speech carries a familiar Junction vibe. So rather than let it vanish into the ceremonial ether, I thought I would share it here.
Like so many Junction essays, it was part reflection, part confession, part invitation. So here is my speech, more or less as it unfolded with my bald pate glistening beneath the hot stage lights.
I am Daniel Lazar, and I am proud to be the faculty adviser to the National Honor Society. I respect what this organization stands for. Even more, I respect what the Kennedy School NHS chapter strives for.
I am grateful for the opportunity to support young scholars in their pursuits of service and leadership. I have supported NHS chapters in three countries over twenty-five years. The students who will be inducted this evening comprise the sixteenth NHS chapter that I will have the privilege to work with at the John F. Kennedy School.
After I re-introduced NHS to JFKS in 2010, the ten members of the NHS Class of 2011 laid a strong foundation for NHS at our school. Every NHS class since then has built on that foundation. Every NHS chapter has been exemplary in its own way.
Every NHS class is an experiment and, on some level, a struggle. Our new inductees to NHS will build on the foundation that has been laid for them. You too will experiment. You will struggle. For your task is ambitious.
I do see NHS as an ambitious project, and I see NHS members as ambitious people. Most of you are ambitious for the right reasons. Maybe a few of you are misguided in your ambitions.
Usually, when I deliver these NHS induction speeches, I try to offer words to gently guide your ambitions. My standard approach is to try to tether this induction, this ceremonial moment, to an historical framework—because the pig gonna squeal, the cow gonna moo, and given a microphone, a history teacher gonna yammer on about history.
There is, dare I say, a long history of that.
But the howls from history seem to fall on deaf ears these days. I have theories about why this is. I will spare you my theories.
Instead, tonight, this old dog is going to try a new trick. Rather than focus on the noble honor of community service, this dog is going to bark at you about the “S” in NHS. For those of you playing along in the audience, the “S” stands for society.
As opposed to perching myself on my soapbox and getting all rabbinical, as I am wont to do, I just want to share a story. It is a story in which many of you play leading roles, though you wouldn’t have known it until now. It is actually a story I have been telling friends and colleagues because I think it is an important story.
Do you all mind if I tell you a story?
It was long ago on a bone-chilling January night, way back in the year 2026. Indeed, it was January 27. Does anyone know what happened on that fateful night? Any guesses?
Yes. It was the eve of the NHS Fashion Show, a splendid evening of good old-fashioned stupid fun. NHS built a catwalk from here to the middle of the cafeteria. We pumped tunes. Folks made their fashion statements. I certainly made mine, and I stand by it.
It was an evening of good vibes and big energy. NHS came together to build something for our community. It was great.
And no one was there. There were, what, twenty people in the audience?
I was in the audience lamenting that this thing was a flop. A legit flop, I was legit bummed. Maybe lowkey embarrassed. But then I went backstage where the fashion models were gathered, and everyone was bouncing with beautiful energy. I peered around the curtain at the crowd, and everyone was smiling and laughing. Then a model walked through the curtain, and the crowd roared.
When it was all said and done, when the catwalk was disassembled and the lunch tables were set back into place, and I was bidding the NHS kids farewell before venturing out onto the ice sheet that had overtaken Berlin, I saw the light in the eyes of all the kids congregated. We had a few laughs and shared a few smiles. The attendance issue did not matter so much. We were there, laughing together, gathered.
Still, I left our fashion show with bittersweet feelings of fulfillment from the gathering and emptiness from all the empty seats. I left school and skated gingerly across the sea of ice, shivering my way home to Kreuzberg. I laid my head to rest with that bittersweet feeling, and I slept on it.
When I awoke, all the bitterness was gone. All that was left was the sweetness of the gathering, and the fact that we had gathered.
Then I gathered my belongings for work. I gathered my daughter and coaxed her out the door, reminded once again that my kid and I can have a chill morning or we can get out the door on time, but we can’t have both. We got on the train to school. I was telling people about the night, feeling the joyful vibe of reminiscence.
When we arrived at the green school gates, I was met by a JFK parent. A pal. Someone I legit like. And she said to me, and this is almost exactly what she said….
“OMG is your daughter going to the Foreign Languages Open House tonight?”
Before I could even answer, she was venting to me…
“OMG, WHY do we have to have all this stuff!? The kids are going to school in the dark; they are in school until its dark again. It’s bitter cold. There are only 3 full days of school this week. Next week is Winter Vacation and I have to plan and pack for that. It’s one event, one gathering after another. Enough is enough. Honestly, Lazar. Why this thing tonight? Why now? Ugh. I just can’t.”
Tempted as I was, I did not say to her, buddy, you’re asking the wrong fella. I kept kids here screaming in the Aula until 9 last night. I got home at 10 and glad to be back here before sunrise doing the work. I am the problem you’re lamenting. But I get it.
You know the idea that when you’re listening to people complain, it helps to try to discern if they want to be heard, helped, or hugged?
So I gave her a hug, told her we’ll grab a beer soon, and walked into work. But you know what I wanted to say to her? I’ll tell you. I wanted to tell her that:
The Foreign Language Open House is an annual gathering where our community eats and sings and dances. You wanna know why?
We gather to show empathy, even in a culture on the verge of descending into barbarism.
We gather to feel the love of community and to show love for one another.
We gather to push back against the tyrannical forces that seek to keep us apart and polarized.
We gather because the small gestures, the smiles, the glances across the room, all of that is what makes us safe. That is what makes democracies safe.
We gather because the free, voluntary engagements in the public square is our bulwark against authoritarianism.
Gathering is a political action. Staying home is also a political action.
Hannah Arendt wrote about after escaping the Nazis. Priya Parker explores it poetically today. Read them. But trust me.
Gathering. Joining together for a common cause—a cause as critically important as an International Women’s Day March or as stupid as a charity fashion show—these gatherings save society from the quiet horrors of disconnection and isolation.
We gather to make meaning together. This is the essence of society. There is honor in this.
The four pillars of NHS: scholarship, character, leadership, service. They matter! But may the NHS Class of 2027 also make space for face-to-face empathetic engagement. For gathering. For society.
I look forward to working with you. Together.
Thank you.
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