To write this speech, I asked myself one question. Who taught me the most about honor? The answer came easily: my parents. So I want to share two stories about them to show how they did it. First, my dad. 

I was born in Philadelphia where my dad was in medical school. His lab partner was Gary Kirkland, and Gary was probably a genius. He graduated from high school at 15; he finished college in three years; he was still a teenager when he started med school. About a month in, he came to my dad and said he was quitting. My dad said, what are you talking about—you’re the smartest student in the class. Gary said that because he looked so young physically, a classmate was picking on him. He couldn’t take it anymore; he was going home. My dad said, OK, you’re not going home. You’re moving in with me, my wife, and twin boys. We live in a small row house with a spare room right off Logan Circle. Move in; join our family. Gary said, what about the bully? My dad said, I’ll take care of it. So Gary moved in, became my Uncle Gary, and he lived with us for almost three years. Coolest guy. African countries? Periodic Table? Major League Baseball? He knew everything. Meanwhile, my dad went to where the bully lived and knocked on his door. The guy answered, and my dad said, I understand you’re picking on Gary Kirkland. The guy said, so? My dad said, Well, that stops right now. The guy said, What are you going to do? Tell the dean? And my dad said no—I’ll settle it right here. My dad wasn’t physically imposing—he was a middleweight—but he definitely had a certain aura—he was also a war veteran—in all the years I knew him, I never saw anyone mess with him. Anyway, the bullying stopped, and true to my dad’s prediction, Uncle Gary graduated first in the class. He secured and served a residency in thoracic surgery at the Mayo Clinic, then returned to his home town of Lancaster, PA, and had a brilliant career as a trauma surgeon, saving the lives of hundreds of accident victims. What does this story say about honor? You decide, but two things: one, my father did not have an intrinsically aggressive nature. He abhorred violence, and so do I. And two, if you ever see someone getting bullied, tell the dean; they’ll make it stop. But I will add, parenthetically, that at my father’s funeral, my Uncle Gary pulled me aside and told me that of all the people he had known in his lifetime, including his own parents, the person he loved and respected the most was my father. 

Next: my mom. If you jumped in a time machine and traveled back to the late 1960s, nothing about my mom would strike you as unusual. She was busy raising a family and volunteering. But in many respects, my mom was an exceptional person—exceptional enough to find her way from a one-room schoolhouse in Catasauqua to the University of Pennsylvania, where she earned a degree and met my dad. One day, she was at the hospital where my dad worked and the CEO asked her a favor. The hospital had a truly pathetic gift shop. It was the size of a broom closet, and it sold aspirin and Kleenex. The CEO asked my mom if she would supervise the renovation of an old pathology lab and convert it to the gift shop the hospital really needed. My mom said sure, and in the months that followed, she and a work crew transformed a dingy room with broken test tubes and peeling paint into a gleaming emporium that sold everything from boxed chocolates to stuffed animals to flower arrangements. It was a huge hit; everybody was talking about it. One day, I was with my mom at the hospital—I was about 12—and she stopped by the shop to meet with the two guys she had hired to run it. They were Kevin and Glenn, and anyone could see they were a romantic couple. Anyway, my mom held her meeting; I hung out. On the way to the car, I said, Can you believe those two________? My mom turned on me with a look I had never seen before. She said, what did you say? I said, Kevin and Glenn, they’re ________. My mom said, you march back in there right now, tell them what you said, and apologize. I said, I’m not doing  that. And she said, you’re doing that or you’re not welcome back in my house. Well, she had me over a barrel, so I went back in and said I was sorry.  At the time, I didn’t feel that contrite. And full disclosure: my apologies to Kevin and Glenn didn’t cure my homophobia, either. But over time, that incident really got to me. I mean, it just wouldn’t go away. Eventually, It showed me how cruel and stupid I had been. It also taught me the fundamental moral principle of our society—namely, that we owe to others the same respect and decency that we want for ourselves. For that life lesson, and how it has motivated me to be a better person, I have my mom to thank, 56 years later.   

In closing, let me say that I have sort of portrayed my parents as righteous superheroes, here to save the day. My parents weren’t superheroes—not even close. They were ordinary, middle class suburbanites, kinda bougie. They attended church on Sundays, they went to their kids’ sporting events when they could, and they danced gracefully to the songs of Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. But my parents were deeply principled people. And most important, they really tried to live by their principles in daily life. To the extent that I have done the same, I owe it all to them. So I want to dedicate this speech to my mom and dad, Elizabeth and Garrett Keating. May they rest in peace. And may the things they believed in, and stood up for, live on for the generations to come.

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Author photo by Anthony "Truncs" Truncale '26

To contact the author: Mr. Keating