Kindling a Fire: “Renouncing Falstaff”

By Cincinnati Country Day Head of School Rob Zimmerman ‘98

[Adapted from graduation remarks given May 30, 2026]

A few weeks ago, three seniors came to my office wearing the unmistakable expression of young people in possession of blackmail material. And it was true. They had found my senior yearbook photo.

One of the students was filming my reaction, clearly hoping for some conspicuous collapse of dignity. But instead, in a fit of pique and theatrical overreaction, I subjected them to a long monologue about how this cringe-worthy picture actually demonstrated my journey from youthful unseriousness to mature leadership, and how my example might inspire them to make a similar ascent.

By the end, I was really hamming it up, and I grabbed my volume of Shakespeare to read a favorite passage from Henry the Fourth, Part II. It is the famous scene where young Prince Hal becomes King Henry the Fifth – when he truly grows up. It is one of the most remarkable transitions in all of literature, and therefore, I thought, a suitable lesson for seniors headed off to college.

As I explained to the seniors, for the past dozen scenes of the play, Prince Hal has been a drunken rogue carousing in the taverns of East London with his buddy Falstaff and a merry band of boozing purse-snatchers.

But in that moment where leadership is required of him, the new king must renounce his wayward youth. And so, at his coronation, when the new King Henry is greeted by his old drinking buddy Falstaff, Henry sneers:

“I know thee not, old man…Presume not that I am the thing that I was. For God doth know – so shall the world perceive – that I have turned away my former self.”

It was, I thought, a fine performance. Perhaps a little over the top, but effective. I had repackaged damaging evidence as sage wisdom.

But then I realized just how lucky I had been. Because the most dangerous thing about my senior yearbook page was not the photograph, as embarrassing as it was, it was the quote beneath it, which the students had mercifully overlooked.

My senior quote was this gem from the comedian George Carlin:

“Hard work is for people short on talent.”

(Yes. I know. Truly one of those moments in life when one encounters one’s former self not as a cherished memory, but as a hostile witness.)

To be clear, I do not believe this quote, and I’m not sure I ever did. But, embarrassing as it was, that quote gave me hope. After all, nobody wants to peak at age 18, and on the evidence these seniors had submitted, it was clear that I had not done so, either.

Which leads me to my parting advice: don’t peak at age 18. Take the time to enjoy being young – but don’t forget to grow up eventually.

Because here’s the good news: You do not have to leave here as a perfectly optimized adult. In fact, too often these days the world tells you otherwise. Supposedly, you need the perfect resume and major and internship, and through all of it, you must be armed with every opinion sanded smooth enough to survive Instagram, Thanksgiving dinner, and a college admissions application. But don’t fall for it. The modern world tries to trap teenagers by suggesting they have to have everything figured out by high school graduation. It’s not true, and it deprives you of some of the joys of young adulthood.

What lies ahead of you ought to include some room to wonder and wander, some room to discover that you were wrong about things and that the world is larger and stranger and more interesting than you knew.

So take intellectual risks. Take emotional risks. Read things you do not yet understand. Care about things that are not obviously useful. Travel the world. Change your mind often, especially when the facts change. Change your major if it doesn’t work, even if it’s been your dream for years.

Don’t live in fear of messing up or saying the wrong thing. Explore, experiment, and let yourself become more than you are right now. Don’t peak at age 18; stay young.

But – and this is important – don’t fall into the second modern trap, which sees far too many grown-ups uncomfortable with adulthood: wanting the freedoms of maturity without its responsibilities the benefits without the burdens.

At some point, you do need to fully mature and take up the mantle of leadership; in fact, the world is counting on it. And to do that, you might need to disown some of your past.

Shakespeare understood this with customary insight: youth is an important stage not to be skipped – it’s simply too much fun to hang out in the taverns of East London – but nor can youth be a permanent address. This is why King Henry’s renunciation of Falstaff is such a powerful lesson for graduates (and why I read it to the three rapscallions in my office that day).

Falstaff is wonderful company. He is the patron saint of wit, debauchery, and YOLO. He is, for some period of time, almost necessary. But he is not where Prince Hal can remain if he is to become King Henry. And neither can you. At some point, you must stop merely performing life and begin actually leading it. And so each of you will reach a moment in life where you must renounce your own Falstaff.

Now, to be clear, renouncing Falstaff does not mean renouncing laughter, joy, and vitality. You will certainly need all three in adulthood. It just means that there comes a moment when charm cannot substitute for character; when you must become, if not quite the ruler of England, at least the grown-up in charge.

But not quite yet. For now, enjoy being young (and maybe even a little foolish). And if, twenty-eight years from now, some cheerful little hooligans walk into your office waving your yearbook, I hope you can look at your younger self and think: don’t worry, that was only the opening act, and one day this will make an excellent speech.