Excerpt from Chapter 14: Day-O, Day-O

From that moment on, I decided to surround myself with people who would lift me up in life instead of tear me down. I wanted people in my life who filled my cup instead of emptying it, and living by myself gave me the confidence and freedom to limit the negative influences of others. Through that interaction and subsequent lesson, I learned that sometimes the people closest to you are the ones trying to stop you from pursuing your dreams. They are the dream stealers, the yeah, but-ers around you. By this time, I could stand on my own two feet and was not moved by what others thought I should do. I was moved only by what I felt was best for me in that situation.

When my classes ended that day, I retreated to the serenity of my apartment to reflect on the conversations I’d had with others throughout the day regarding the student commencement speaker application. I was surprised that none of my friends had any interest in applying for the opportunity and was even more surprised at the revelation that most of the naysayers in my life were people who were close to me—people I had known for a long time. With this thought as the backdrop in my mind, I started working on the application. In just two nights of purposeful intensity, I finished a first draft of the speech, which was the major component of the application; however, I decided that I would not share my progress with anyone until my application was submitted—I was finished letting negative people sprinkle their opinions in my life. Every day for a week, I worked on the application, refining sentences, phrases, and whole paragraphs. I wanted each statement, each word, to reflect a universal message of hope, accomplishment, and inspiration, not just to my fellow classmates, but also to all who would hear it.

By the end of the week, and several days before the deadline, I submitted my application with all the required documents. I felt very strongly that the speech represented me, the student body, and the university well. The process beyond that point was out of my hands.

There were three rounds to the application process: the first was passing all the application requirements; the next was having the speech reviewed, evaluated, and scored by a mixed group of student leaders and faculty members; and the final part was auditioning in front of a panel comprising the Dean of Students and other faculty members and student leaders.

After I submitted my application, I went back to my life and did not think about the application any further. My goal was just to apply and see what happened. Two weeks later, I received a letter in the mail informing me that I met the requirements and that my speech was moving to round two. It would be reviewed and scored by the graduation commencement review board. Less than one week after that, I was in my room when I received a phone call.

“Mr. Luffborough,” said a man with a baritone voice, “I am with this year’s graduation commencement review board, and I’m calling to congratulate you for passing the second round and to schedule your final oral audition with our review board next week!”

I was beside myself with surprise and excitement. I immediately took out my planner to reserve one of the available slots. I was ecstatic. I had made it to the finals, and now it was on! I decided that I needed to take it up another level, but how? I only had one week to prepare.

I took out the speech and read it from beginning to end, pausing and taking notes where I thought I could improve it. When I finished, I still felt like something was missing . . . but I could not figure out what it was.

Deciding I needed a mental break, I turned on my nature music and stared at the bridge picture at the foot of my bed, meditating about the present moment and the possibility of becoming the student commencement speaker. I envisioned myself standing at the edge of the dock. Then, the dock transformed into a stage at the old Boston Garden. Speaking with confidence and conviction to a sea of excited graduates, proudly wearing their graduation gowns, hats, and tassels, I conducted the audience into embracing their overwhelming pride. I could hear the applause of friends and family members swelling to a roar in the auditorium.

In that moment, I saw myself singing in my speech. I jumped up from bed. That was it! I needed to start my speech by singing like Maya Angelou had my freshman year! After nine years of singing in high school and college, and singing musical selections at karaoke and during the last call for alcohol at the local watering holes, I knew I could carry a note or two. My only obstacle now was that I did not know what song to sing, and more importantly, how I would connect the song to my speech.

The next day I called my mother to tell her that I was chosen as a finalist for the student commencement speaker, and I told her about my daydream about opening my speech by singing. Ma was very supportive.

“Douglas, that is so great,” she said. “I told you that one day all of those music lessons would pay off. Yes, you should sing for them. No one else will do that.”

“Yeah, Ma, I think singing will set me apart from the others, but the only problem is I don’t know what song to sing,” I replied. In the long, silent pause on the phone, I could tell my mother was thinking.

“If God inspired you to sing, then I am in agreement with it, and I’m positive that He will give you the song. Just spend some time praying, and God will reveal it to you.”

This response soothed me, as I had come to know it as her default anytime we came to a crossroad in life. My mother always trusted in God for direction, and nine times out of ten, God responded.

I worked on my speech for hours. “Day-O (The Banana Boat Song)” by Harry Belafonte kept coming back to me. But I couldn’t figure out how this Jamaican calypso folk song could tie it all together. Sure, it was a fan favorite at the karaoke bars at the end of the night. The song is widely known as a work song, as it’s sung from the point of view of dock workers who spend all night loading bananas onto ships, and when daylight appears, the shift is over and they want their work to be counted up so they can go home. Even though the connection wasn’t clear, I had to trust that the song kept returning to me for a reason. I was determined to find a way to connect it to my story.

Then, an inner voice—what my mother calls the Holy Spirit—spoke clearly and directly to me: “Home, daylight come and me want to go home. When you were a senior in high school, you were homeless and had no place to stay. Slow the melody of the song down, and sing it from a place of being homeless—as if you were recounting the days you spent on the streets, in the motel, couch-hopping from friends’ homes, and sleeping on the floor at Joe’s place.” I heard these words whispered into my ears and my heart, so right away I worked on revising my speech to connect the metaphor. I was certain this was the direction I needed to take, but I wanted to try it out in public before my audition.

I went back to the training department at John Hancock and asked Steven Bell and his team to give me some constructive feedback, and they graciously agreed to serve as my panel of friendly critics. I felt very nervous but told myself that if I couldn’t do it in front of less than twenty familiar faces, then how could I do it in front of thousands of not-so-friendly faces? With the confidence of a lion, I roared the opening bars of the Banana Boat Song from a place of being homeless, and in that moment, I saw the eyes well up on the faces of those staring at me. It was the first time since being homeless that I had emotionally put myself back in that situation, and it took everything inside me to finish the song and the speech without breaking down.

“Wow, Doug, what a voice,” one person said, and then others chimed in.

“Why that song and why did you change the melody that way?”

“Oh, I loved the song, but I would sing it this way.”

“What a story, Doug. I never knew you were homeless; you are such an inspiration to so many others . . . keep going.”

“There are some areas that need work, but I think you are on to something.”

Their responses were both encouraging and constructive—and the group was unanimous that opening my speech by singing was the best way to do it. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking of Ms. G and her pep talks about singing from my heart and using music to tell my story. She never knew how impactful her teaching and mentoring was for me, but I felt that winning this competition was a way for me to let her know.

By the day of my audition, my speech had undergone multiple iterations and had been reviewed by over a dozen critical friends who provided feedback, guidance, and constructive opinions. I felt that what remained was my very best work. It was out of my hands and in the hands of the judges.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, just as Coach Miller had taught me when I was ten years old. I checked in and sat down in the hallway, fiddling with the paper on which my speech was written, so much so that it lost its crisp and neatly prepared shape. There I sat, alone in the hallway, and I couldn’t help recounting the experience of living on the street less than five years prior. Regardless of the outcome, I had already won. There was nothing for me to be ashamed of. I had accomplished so much more than I ever thought was possible.  

A voice called out from the other end of the hallway. “Doug Luffborough!” “Yes,” I replied, jumping up from my seat. “We are ready for you,” the voice came back. As I walked down the hallway, I heard a bell go off in my head from the Rocky movie, and I knew there was no turning back. I gave myself a silent pep talk. Let’s do this. This is my Whitney Houston, one-moment-in-time chance to let them know what Doug Luffborough is all about, and I will never get this type of opportunity again, so let them have it.

When I walked into the room, I introduced myself to a panel of five people staring at me with blank, expectant faces. Three were faces of faculty members that I vaguely recognized, and the two others were student leaders on campus—but I did not know or have personal relationships with any of them. After I introduced myself, I handed out an updated speech. The judges seemed amicable to the change, so without any second thoughts, I put my head back, rolled my eyes back in my head, and took a deep and powerful breath. I opened my mouth with confidence and sang.

“Day-O, Day-O . . .” And just like my pre-audition with my co-workers at John Hancock, when I opened my eyes and looked at the judges, their eyes were welled up with tears. I could see that they were doing everything they could to fight off the emotional connections the song was making with them, just like what happened to me five years earlier with Maya Angelou’s speech. It was then that I thought, I might just get this thing.

When I finished my speech, the judges still seemed to be fighting back tears, but they maintained the same stoic demeanors they displayed as I entered the room. One member of the panel said, “Thank you, Doug. We have five finalists, and we will make our decision in about a week. Regardless of the outcome, you will hear back from us. Thank you for coming in.”

Outside the building in the quad area, I felt the weight of all that pressure had lifted. There was no trace of the stuttering impediment that plagued me in the third grade and throughout most of elementary and middle school. It was not an overnight transformation, but this was when public speaking became natural to me, as natural as breathing. In one way or another, I wanted to become a professional speaker and move others with my words.

Before I knew it, a week had passed and I received the phone call I had been waiting for. “Doug, I want to start off by congratulating you for being chosen as our next student commencement speaker for Northeastern University.”

“Wow,” I said, in total amazement. “I am so excited and honored to win this distinction and to represent my class.” In that conversation, I learned that I needed to meet with the president of the university, who would assign a speech coach to work with me, but that bar none, my speech was the best and the most creative. I had put myself out there by singing, but my motto in life was swiftly becoming, “Go big or go home.” God knew what He was doing, and I immediately called my mother to tell her the good news. I went to my bedroom and lay on my bed to make the call, and as the phone rang, the boardwalk picture at the foot of my bed caught my attention.

“Ma, you are never going to believe this, but I did it! We did it! I was chosen as the student commencement speaker for my graduation!” “Praise God,” she replied. “I knew it! I knew you could do it. Thank you, Jesus. Yes!” I added to her excitement. “I don’t know who the keynote speaker will be at this point, but usually it’s someone famous, and I will be sharing the podium with that person. I cannot believe that they chose me!”

“Well, whoever it is, it will be someone that complements you, son. Now is your time, and I have a feeling that whoever speaks will be moved with what you have to say,” Mom said confidently. They picked me, they picked me, I do have something to say! I said to myself after getting off the phone.

The next week, I started working with my speech coach. To my surprise, he did not cut up the speech or re-write it. The only thing we worked on was my delivery, formalizing certain comments and phrases, and slightly condensing the speech to fit within a seven-minute window that had little wiggle room.

After my speech was polished, I went to my meeting with John Curry, who was then President of Northeastern University. He was a very warm and welcoming person. He wanted to know more about my family and me, and he reviewed my transcript. “So, Doug, tell me a little something about yourself.”

“Well, sir, I grew up in Worcester, the oldest of four and the first person in my family to go to college.” The words flowed freely from my lips as I continued. “I had a tough upbringing but have learned to take my disadvantages in life and turn them around.”

Next, Mr. Curry shared his story, and as he was talking, I realized that this was a bigger deal than I expected. He looked at me with serious composure and asked, “Is there anything in your past that I need to know about that could reflect negatively on the university?” I got nervous, not wanting to self-sabotage this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, yet I also wanted to be as transparent as possible.

“I have nothing to hide, President Curry. My story is true. I grew up without a dad, had challenges in school, was involved in a breakdance gang, and was homeless my senior year of high school. That’s it. I have never been arrested and really want to make you, my mother, my mentors, and the university proud. This is an opportunity of a lifetime, sir, and I’m not trying to mess it up.”

Assured by my confidence, President Curry nodded and said seriously, “Good, because the spotlight will certainly be on you and the university. Our keynote speaker for your graduation will be the President Bill Clinton.”

I grabbed the desk with both hands. Excuse me? The President of the United States will be the keynote speaker?! No pressure there. My internal sarcasm competed with my enthusiasm, but shock won out. I felt like I blacked out for a couple of seconds, and chills went down my spine as I envisioned preceding the President of the United States of America. If there was ever a time to step up to a challenge, now was it. For most of my life, I had sought shadows instead of spotlights, and now I would share my story and the stage with the President of the United States while my mom, Mr. Cott, Coach Miller, Mrs. Quinn, Ms. G, Pam Boisvert, Steven Bell, and the rest of the world watched.

The news travelled fast, and students came up to me saying things like, “Wow, how did you get that?” and “Are you ready to speak before the President? What an honor.” The team that had helped me with my speech at John Hancock was ecstatic. Every time I passed one of them in the hallway, they looked at me as if to say, “That’s my boy!” Pride gleamed from them.

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