FFA Proceedings 2002 - National FFA Organization

Retiring Address
38
I love the end of the day. I come
home from a long day, change into
my favorite pair of shorts or sweatpants,
sit down with my guitar and
just strum and think.
What did I do today? Where did I
go? Did I do anything productive?
How was my day at school? How
was work? What will tomorrow look
like? What am I doing this weekend?
Do people like me? Am I cool?
Where am I going with my life?
Tim Hammerich
National FFA President
General Session Ten
OUR World
These are all very common
thoughts that fill my head as I sit
picking and thinking in my own little
world. Then someone will call or
enter the room or I will get a
thought that will cause me to put
down my guitar and leave my little
world for something else.
But do I ever REALLY leave my
world? I mean, with my mind constantly
set on what I’m doing,
where I’m going, how wonderful or
horrible I am and what I want, I
pretty much manage to stay in MY
WORLD for most of my day.
What about OUR world? We
don’t think about that one too
often. It’s the whole rest of the
world that’s filled with people in
need who are searching for a friend
or some help. A world that’s bigger
than you, your family, your friends,
your school. This world is in need of
people willing to not only stick up
for themselves, but stick up for a
cause. The only people who make a
difference in OUR world are those
who can recognize, embrace and
relish the differences that so often
divide us.
What divisions? one may ask.
Something tells me you may have
even experienced them yourself.
Exclusion, cliques and gossip in our
schools; misunderstanding, anger
and hatred in our communities; and
unwillingness to
understand others’
backgrounds, cultures
and perspectives.
Perhaps you’ve witnessed
this. Perhaps
you didn’t do anything.
Perhaps it was
none of your business.
Perhaps you would
have taken action if it
was “part of your
world.” These same
thoughts have run
through my head
many times before.
Part of my world
was my high school. Elsie Allen
High School sat in the less
fortunate part of Santa Rosa on the
southeast side. When I was in
school, the campus sat in the
middle of old, underdeveloped
roads with no sidewalks. If you had
to walk to school, you did so in a
ditch or in someone else’s field.
Fortunately, I was not in the
position that I had to walk to school.
But a young man in the class ahead
of me, Patrick Scott, was. Patrick
lived off of Wright Road, nearly five
miles from campus. I passed him
many times as he walked or rode his
bike every day.
I had met Patrick once. When we
were both younger, he bought some
sheep from my dad. However, that
seemed like a long time ago–I was
now a junior and he was a senior.
So I didn’t bother approaching him
to see if he remembered me. I
noticed he didn’t hang out with
very many people, just a couple of
close friends. I thought nothing of
it, assuming he wanted it that way.
Winter came, and while we don’t
get snow in Santa Rosa, we get our
fair share of rain. Like most other
winters, the rains came, the ditches
filled and the fields turned to mud.
I went about my routine, stuck in
MY world, not noticing the
individuals walking in mud or on
the road as I passed them in my
truck on the way to and from
school.
One day I came to school to a
solemn first period teacher. Mr.
Blake quieted the class and I knew
something horrible must have
happened by the tears streaming
down his face. He forced out the
words as he sobbed, “We lost
someone yesterday…” Who? I
looked around the class desperately
trying to make sure it wasn’t a
classmate. He continued, “A senior,
one of my students.” I began listing
off the seniors I knew in my head,
not able to wait for him to
continue. “Patrick Scott was his
name. Some of you may have
known him. He was struck by a van
as he was walking home from
school last night.”
That’s when it hit me. I saw in
my head the times I had passed him
riding his bike or walking down the
road with his friends. I remembered
him coming to my house when we
were younger. I remember wanting
to talk to him. I remembered
wondering if he remembered me.
Now I would never find out.
The next night, there was a
meeting to talk about the
dangerous situation of the roads
leading to and from school. The
meeting was filled with blaming,
name calling, accusations and
frustrations. Then one man stood
up at the microphone. He said,
“I’ve got an unlimited supply of
pallets and permission to make a
walkway through the fields leading
up to the school. Once this
meeting is done, I don’t care who
PHOTO BY SAM HARREL