Forget Graduation Speakers Hyping AI on Stage. At My Ceremony, Bots Ran the Whole Dystopian Show

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I finished my undergraduate degree in December of 2022, one month after ChatGPT arrived on the scene. This meant that I had made it through the bulk of my education, and the first 21 years of my life, without this thing I now hear about at least once a day. As I entered the real world, I was smug and appalled at what the kids were doing with this AI stuff. “It’s true,” I thought, “nobody wants to work these days.” Three years later, though, I’ll admit: I’ve experienced the temptation of an easy solution or a quick answer. Apparently, so has the business of graduation.

On May 15, I graduated with a Master of Science in Professional Writing from NYU. I considered skipping the buttoned up, official ceremony for a celebratory weekend trip, but I was surprised by a faculty nomination to hold my program’s flag as we processed into Radio City Music Hall. To avoid my parents’ proud wrath, I decided to attend. Eventually, I leaned all the way into the celebration of it all—I bought a new dress, got a major silk press, and I pulled out my Martha Stewart cake stand for a post-ceremony party at my apartment. By the time I entered the venue, I was indisputably excited.

I refused to believe that I’d become so invested in a moment that might be conducted by a bot.

While the other flag bearers and I anxiously waited for our instructions and calmed each other’s fears of tripping or walking the wrong route, a staff member casually mentioned they’d heard a rumor about AI reading our names as we walked the stage. Our eyes widened. “If that’s true,” a girl in the publishing program said, “I’m going to freaking lose my mind.” I couldn’t have said it better. I refused to believe that I’d become so invested in a moment that might be conducted by a bot, but, unfortunately, the rumor had legs.

It all started before we even got to the venue. To get into Radio City, we needed both a physical ticket and something called a “Grad Pass,” which was vaguely marketed as a pre-requisite for crossing the stage and could be saved to an Apple Wallet. I mentally dismissed the Grad Pass as a way to verify we’d been approved to graduate, even with the pieces starting to click into place. Surely, the school was just being diligent to ensure everything went smoothly.

To my horror, the podium remained empty, and instead, two faculty members stood beside it with a scanner you’d find at a Target self-checkout.

After our procession and a few speeches, it came time to cross the stage. I still thought—prayed—that our phones would be checked backstage or in the darkness at the bottom of the staircase to legitimize that we were, indeed, supposed to be there. I waited for someone to step up to the empty podium, ruffle the list of our names, and deliver a nervous disclaimer about pronunciation. To my horror, the podium remained empty, and instead, two faculty members stood beside it with a scanner you’d find at a Target self-checkout.

When it was time for me to receive my degree, I walked up the stairs, and into the view of the crowd. Positioned right under the lights and in the center of the big screen, I fished my phone out of the makeshift pocket I’d created in my robe and held it under the scanner. This then triggered an AI voice with inflection and bounce to read my name and flash it across the big screen as I walked, phone still in hand; there was no time to stuff it back into my fake pocket—AI waited for no one.

The AI voice adjusted for names in different languages, made it possible for students to cross the stage in any order, and ensured the ceremony wrapped promptly at 7 p.m. sharp. After learning of the other colleges whose AI systems malfunctioned and skipped graduates’ names altogether, I almost consider me and my classmates lucky.

The thought that a machine was sufficient enough to officially usher us into post-grad life almost made the entire accomplishment feel fake, or unworthy.

I left the stage feeling this overwhelming mix of sadness and embarrassment that I’m still trying to unpack. More than anything, I hated having to hold my phone up there. It felt like everything anyone had ever said about Gen Z was true. “I’m not addicted, I swear,” I wanted to scream. “The adults made me!” Someone had to stand on stage for two hours to scan our phones. Could they not have spent that time reading our names aloud? The thought that a machine was sufficient enough to officially usher us into post-grad life almost made the entire accomplishment feel fake, or unworthy. Just something to get through before the venue kicked us out.

And it went beyond name reading and scanners. Like the other viral commencement speeches in 2026 you may have heard of, AI was a main character from the beginning. It came up within the first five minutes of the ceremony. A faculty member made a point to speak to his excitement about the developing technology as he stood in front of students who studied writing, publishing, media, and translation. Students who had paid thousands of dollars and received constant reassurance from professors that, while AI would only become more prevalent, our human voices were important and necessary to our fields. With this ingrained in our minds, we didn’t give the faculty speaker any sort of reaction. No booing, no chuckling, just tone deafness that could be ignored.

AI has irrevocably impacted my generation’s job prospects, education, and even our love lives. While our superiors calmly present this technology as the future, hard numbers reveal it as a source of fear. NBC News polled 1,000 registered voters, who gave AI an overall approval rating of -20 points. It was in the negatives. Alongside it: ICE, at negative 18 points, and Donald Trump at negative 12. What’s that saying about the company we keep?

My graduation day gave me a glimpse into a future where AI takes away our biggest moments.

I’ve seen firsthand how AI is changing the professional world, impacting the natural world, and infiltrating the small aspects of our lives, like making reservations or assembling a grocery list. But my graduation day gave me a glimpse into a future where AI also takes away our biggest moments. The human experiences you’re meant to only have once and remember forever, like writing your vows before your wedding day or hearing someone read your name on stage after balancing a full-time degree with a full-time job.

I can admit that AI could be good for impossibly quick results and inhuman precision: two things that aren’t often found in the long, joyful, and unpredictable life I’ve realized I want to live. I want to chuckle through words or names being mispronounced or events taking too long. I want to learn I said the wrong thing and know better for next time. These moments can be uncomfortable and even painful, but I like these human parts of living. After all, they’re where the good lessons and funny stories lie.

I’ve accepted I might have to live with AI—so many people refer to it as a train that’s left the station. Nothing I can do about that besides a monthly wallow in despair. But I desperately hope to keep AI away from the moments that make up my life. I prefer them imperfect.