Elephant Carcass, Unsepulchred: An 8th Grader’s (Unconventional) Valedictorian Speech

Story by Jordan Hunter. Photo courtesy of Caleb Franklin.

I won’t gas myself up. My name’s Jordan Michael Hunter, and I’m the 8th Grade valedictorian today. But to be frank with you all, I do not want to stand on this stage. 

Maybe I should be excited—I got valedictorian, after all. But what does it matter when that’s all I am to people? Did you really think I’d waste your time with the usual “we made it” clichés? 

For most of my life, I’ve been shaped into the image of the “smart kid.” When I was younger, I bought into that image and carried my so-called gift with pride. 

But over time, I got tired of the endless assignments, the pressure, and the judgment. I began to lose my mind—and myself—having to say only what I was meant to say.

Today, I’m supposed to celebrate all of this. That’s my role as the smart, gifted kid, right? But when people only see you through that lens, they stop seeing you as a person. They see only the brain and the performance.

I do not want to spend my life working for a picture I never asked anyone to take. People hoist my name and image on fridges, then shut them so tightly that nourishment is no longer an option. My reputation becomes a demand. Framing me as the perfect student creates unnecessary, elephantine pressure. 

And it turns out, I am the elephant in the room. 

Can’t you see it? The sorrow, the anger, the dread, the stress in my attitude and expressions—they are elephantine. And when you feed someone not love and understanding, but the crushing weight of expectations, something in them begins to die. 

That elephant dies of starvation. But people remain bystanders, as if neglect has no consequences. Is it really fate, or is it a choice? 

As the elephant’s carcass begins to rot, no one volunteers to give it a proper burial. People ignore it, overlook it, or polish it with makeup and air freshener to make their own lives easier. But what about mine? Do I not get comfort? Is there not enough time? 

A couple of weeks ago, those fears were confirmed in technology class. I was struggling with the first step of an engineering project, piecing together two tiny wooden parts. Because persistence is preached so often here, I just kept forcing myself through it until I shut down. With controlled exasperation, I put the pieces away, dropped my head into my arms, and began to cry. No, not externally. In my mind. 

For years, my emotions have been so suppressed that I can no longer cry properly. The tears resist. I had weights in my throat, not knots, and I felt smaller than ever. And though I was visibly suffering, no one really stepped in. 

As I stomped back to our main building once class ended, an adult asked whether I was alright. But that’s like a mere tap on my shoulder; it’s too small to register. I walked past and started hyperventilating once seated in my final class. When you shut down, it is not quiet. But somehow it is still not loud enough for people to listen. For 30 minutes, I sat there with my head buried in my arms, unacknowledged. Sweat, weak cries, and suffocating breath—all for nothing. By the end of it, I finally realized what I had already begun to suspect: no one was going to save me. No one. Rescue was out of the equation. I was completely estranged. 

And I know others feel a similar way. I have spoken about how depression and my academic reputation have shaped my perspective. But I also want to shed light on those who struggle in similar ways—those who are seen only for their usefulness, achievement, and performance. Maybe our stories aren't exactly alike, but I urge you to recognize the consequences of this ignorance—not just for me, but for others too. 

Look around, won’t you? Examine the expressions and demeanor of those around you. Maybe this speech is boring you. But for some people, this plight is everyday life. 

That is why we need more than achievement. We need sympathy, compassion, and empathy. We should not have to teach ourselves merely to tolerate what is constantly intolerable. Too many people—students and adults alike—are living with weights that others often neither notice nor take seriously. 

No, I cannot give you all the answers or perfectly explain how to help. But that does not make this meaningless. Not everyone here has my exact experience, but everyone deserves understanding and relief from the relentless pressure this society has cultivated. 

So let’s acknowledge the elephant in the room. If someone seems off, do not be afraid to address it. If they seem aloof, do not give up on them. People who are suffering often become distrustful, and that only gets worse when they are ignored.

Do not refuse people the nourishment they need, and do not restrain them with elephantine expectations. Check on us. Believe us. Don’t give up on us. 

So, hey—won’t you address this elephant properly? Before you’re too late. 

Jordan Hunter is an 8th grade scholar at Friendship Southeast Academy.