I spent most of my high school career being very jealous of a classmate who shared my first name. My first name is a common one, so we shared it with another few girls in the class, too--but it was her that everyone thought of when the name was spoken out loud. She was tall, slender, blonde, athletic, poised, and involved in student government. If we had had cheerleaders, she would have been one of those, too. I was none of these things, and I hated her. Mostly for the poise. We shared a couple of classes over the course of four years, and so I was able to note up close that while she was not a brilliant student, she was neat and precise and punctual, and had none of my shyness when answering a question. I got better grades overall, but she got into colleges that rejected me. I would have traded with her any day. All of this changed the day of our graduation. She was senior class president, and as such, gave a valedictory address after diplomas had been handed out. She stood in front of the podium, tall and flawless and golden in her white dress, and in her opening paragraph, explained that her speech would be about the importance of values. I rolled my eyes, a little. I was the type of high school student who would roll her eyes at that sort of introductory paragraph. There were plenty in the audience, however--students as well as parents--who nodded with approval and leaned forward a little in their seats. Mine was an old and traditional private school. Then-Senator Dick Cheney was that year's graduation speaker. She said that we the graduates were poised to become leaders of America and the world, and as such, must take care that our actions be guided by a solid value system. Fine, as far as it went. A bit insipid a topic, but fine. And then she moved from the "statement of argument" to the "supporting anecdote"--as we had all been taught to do, when making a speech. And her supporting anecdote was the story of George Washington and the cherry tree. Told in dialogue format. I slowly looked up from my diploma case. I wasn't sure I believed what I was hearing. It wasn't just that it was a stupid example. It wasn't just that she might have picked any other story from mythology or history. It wasn't just that she had learned many such stories, from a variety of cultures and historical periods, over the last four years--and that instead, she'd chosen a fable we'd all learned in first grade. It wasn't just that she was telling the story in elaborate detail--"'Father,' George said... 'Yes, George?' Mr. Washington replied..."--when she might have merely referred to it with as great or greater effect. No, that wasn't the best part. The story of George Washington and the cherry tree is fictitious. It was invented by Mason Weems, who wrote a biography of the first president shortly after Washington's death, and felt himself at liberty to elaborate on the little that was known of Washington's childhood. Weems invented the cherry tree story to illustrate values that he believed all American children should strive for. It's a fable. And Miss Senior Class President and I had taken the same American lit class our junior year. Taught by an extremely cynical and left-leaning Wesleyan graduate, who hammered unceasingly for a year the theme that all societies have their own mythology. And that the truly educated do not swallow the mythology of their culture without contemplating it. The truly educated challenge everything, think about everything, evaluate everything--from manifest destiny and "the city on the hill" to "evil empires". He had taken particular delight in revealing to us that the story of George and the cherry tree was fictitious. We had spent an entire class period talking about what the creation of such a fable said about early American culture. I dragged my fascinated eyes from Miss Senior Class President's face, where the lock of shining golden hair fell over her eyes as she bent to turn a page of her notes. I searched the faculty section for our American lit teacher. He was staring at her, and there was a vein bulging in his forehead. My God, I thought. He's going to jump up onto the platform and choke her. He didn't. She finished her speech amid applause. Senator Cheney shook her hand. And I stood up and gathered my diploma and my flowers and turned for the reception. I felt as though the world had suddenly and irrevocably shifted. Not because I had left high school behind--that realization came later, that night, and was like nothing so much as falling down a flight of stairs. The epiphany of the graduation ceremony itself was that I was no longer jealous of Miss Senior Class President. I never would be again. I hadn't made a horse's ass out of myself with a speech about George Washington and the cherry tree. In dialogue form. And sure, she was going to Harvard. But I was going to Wesleyan.