OMOC

Miller Williams on Writing

2011-11-07T16:49:00.001-08:00

Let Me Tell You

how to do it from the beginning.
First notice everything:
The stain on the wallpaper
of the vacant house.
the mothball smell of a
greyhound toilet.
Miss nothing. Memorize it.
You cannot twist the fact you do not know.

Remember
The blond girl you saw in the bar.
Put a scar on her breast.
Say she left home to get away from her father.
Invent whatever will support your line.
Leave out the rest.

Use metaphors. The mayor is a pig
is a metaphor
which is not to suggest
it is not a fact.
Which is irrelevant.
Nothing is less important
than a fact.

Be suspicious of any word you learned
and were proud of learning.
It will go bad.
It will fall off the page.

When your father lies
in the last light
and your mother cries for him,
listen to the sound of her crying.
When your father dies
take notes somewhere inside.

If there is a heaven
he will forgive you
if the line you found was a good line.

It does not have to be worth the dying.

God and Legal Rights

2011-09-28T10:32:00.000-07:00

As we should have expected, a minor functionary in the Bible belt has brought attention to herself, and her community by refusing marriage licenses to gay people in New York State. Ms Belforti claims that God will not allow her to issue such licenses, despite civil marriage equality's legal status in that state, choosing instead to delegate the task to a deputy. Unlike straights, gay people seeking a license to marry must make an appointment, while the deputy is called in to do what Ms Belforti chooses not to do, even though it is explicitly her job. This poses several interesting questions. One that comes to mind is this: if gays are sinners, as she claims, thus not eligible for marriage, how do straights prove they're sin-free? Another is, if the deputy is called, who pays for this person's time? There are several others, but the whole issue is troubling, and instructive at once. Does there exist anywhere in this great land a government functionary who agrees with every issue, every legality that they must transact every day as part of they're job description? How many license bureaucrats, cubicle-denizens grit their teeth when giving a marriage license to two unemployed, uneducated, barely legal-age, underfinanced hetero kids? A lot of them, I'm guessing. How many of those office technocrats who keep the wheels turning look the other way when mere children apply for a driver's license? How many of them, if asked, would admit their true feelings about children of welfare parents obtaining what they feel are undue benefits? The point is that we pay those people to do their job, not to selectively choose who they feel deserves whatever benefit or civil document is at issue. We pay them not to make decisions like that. That's what legislators do. And legislators in New York have decided for 'we the people' that civil marriage equality is the law. Ms Belforti needs to do her job or find another one, and our conservative friends need to challenge her selective enforcement of New York State law. Does she withhold voting registrations from LBGT people? Not give them driver's permits? Building permits? What else does she do that limits LGBT rights since God tells her not to recognize them? I'm guessing Ms Belforti has no trouble processing their tax deposits.

Why I'm involved

2011-09-20T17:38:00.000-07:00

“Why are you involved in the struggle for LGBT rights?” It’s a question I hear often as I attend rallies, gay rights gatherings, HRC meetups, the occasional Stonewall, or Equality Ohio, or PFFLAG event. I suppose as a straight, male, middle-class, white, recovering Catholic, the question is a good one. Why indeed?
    It came up again the other day. My wife and I were at a HRC evening in the Short North. I was asked to put in my nickel’s worth, so I did. Afterward, I decided to get serious about the question itself, commit to paper just why it is the gay rights struggle is indeed so important to me. And here’s the result: I’m not interested in gay rights; I’m interested in human rights. Does the LGBT community need straight allies like my wife and me? I would say yes, though I’m confident the community can speak for itself, so we’re grateful that our LBGT friends seem to accept us, even consider us safe, which is a bit sad when you think about it. Do gays have a legitimate reason to demand their rights? Well, let me see, can I get fired (or not hired)/evicted/booted out/beaten up/harassed/forced from a school board/kept from adopting/prevented from running for office/prevented from marrying the person I love for being a straight male middle-class formerly Christian white guy? Probably not. I take all those previously listed ‘rights and benefits’ pretty much for granted.
    When I start my day, I assume that I’m going to still have my job, my access to places, my safety, my marriage, my residence, my agency as an adult, and the other myriad facilities and comforts of my position in society (times 1138 if I’m married, which I am). Indeed, I never question any of those things. They’re available to me, just for the taking. Of course I can do all the listed things, come and go as I please, assume that I’m safe holding hands with my beloved walking down High street, or Low Street, whatever. This is twenty-first century America, right? The land of the free, and the home of the brave, right? This is a place where anyone who works hard, obeys the law, pays taxes, pays attention, tries to be a good citizen, avoids jaywalking to excess, doesn’t frighten the horses, and minds her own business should be able to assume everything I do, right? And we all can, of course--unless you happen to be gay. Then all bets are off.
    But wait a minute. Here’s where it gets really dense and complicated for me. You see, I’m a really simple man. I tend to see the world in black and white, no frills, no embellishment, just out front and easy, that’s me. Some would say naive,’ and they’re probably right. When I stood up in third grade and put my hand over my heart, stared at the flag in the corner of the classroom, and chanted along with those other bright-eyed, snot-nose kids: “...with liberty and justice for all...” I really believed that, see? That word ‘ALL’ was really comforting to me, somehow. The simplicity of it. ALL. There’s no wiggle room there, no shading, no ambiguity. It doesn’t say “...with liberty and justice for white, middle-class, heterosexual, Christian males who own a yacht. It doesn’t say that. It says--ALL. Comforting, isn’t it. I think so, but I’m a simple guy.
    Except it’s not simple, because we insist on making exceptions to it, slicing and dicing it, and getting ourselves ALL wrapped up in rules, and differences, and nuance that twists things into a pretzel shapes, and makes distinctions, and creates divisions, and that makes us look really hypocritical, and just bad. (Third graders would be confused by this.)
    So here’s the deal. When people ask me why I’m involved in the gay rights struggle, I have two responses: the first one is my standard smart-ass response--why are you not? It works only on certain groups, and not so much on others. My second response is this: As a guy who has taken all those rights and protections and benefits for granted all my life, as highfalutin’ and altruistic as it sounds, I really do feel I have a responsibility to see that anyone who is denied those things has at least the opportunity to acquire and enjoy them on an equal basis with me. This, to me, is the essence of being an American citizen. Anecdotally, it happens to be one of the reasons I spent more than 30 years in uniform defending the principles described above. I didn’t spend a year in Vietnam for instance, just for my health.
    In my opinion, the act of denying another citizen the rights, benefits, legal protections, and assurances of this society, that act is itself UN-American. For those who insist that our LGBT brothers and sisters be denied the rights heterosexual Americans enjoy every day, I say to you, you are un-American. There is no shading or ambiguity in that phrase. That denial is against what this country stands for, and thereby, in my simple mind, Un-American. In particular, for those who deny any citizen of this country access to civil marriage because of who they are, that, my friend, is un-American. And don’t drag out your Bible, or your Koran, or any other religious tome to justify this denial. I’m not talking about holy matrimony, or church weddings, or America’s brides and grooms industry. I’m talking about civil marriage. If someone visits a State office for a building permit, a tax matter, a driver’s permit, or to register to vote, they need not bring along their Bible. I can cite a few countries that use religious texts to back up their legal adjudications: Iran, Iraq, Saudi-Arabia come to mind. And civil marriage equality will only strengthen marriage, not threaten it. The threat to marriage in society today is heterosexual divorce. Good Lord, if only people who were sin free could marry we’d be a nation of singles. It sure as hell leaves me out.
    It’s a no brainer for me. LGBT rights are human rights. I’m no Tea Party Patriot. I’m no jingoistic, flag-waving, street-corner renegade, despite what my Republican friends might say, either one of the two. I love this country, and the idea behind it. When we Americans fail in our efforts to address the inequities around us, I get involved. I speak up. Why do I do that? You tell me.

2011-08-18T09:14:00.000-07:00

Speed Bumps

    When my wife and I lived on the island of Kauai, our condo overlooked a public park where young people would congregate. Nearly every night, well into the late hours, the young men of Kauai arrived at the park in the only thing of value in their lives, their hopped up cars. The ritual seldom varied: taking turns, they’d stop the car straddling the speed bump, the vehicle’s drive wheels against the raised surface. They would then depress the brake, and at the same time press the accelerator. The rear tires spun, screaming noise, sending clouds of thick, smelly, rubber-burning smoke into thin air, as the car--and its driver--went exactly nowhere. In both a metaphorical and a literal sense, this noise and smoke-generating, tire-ravaging ritual described the lives of those young men. Stuck on their island home, or assuming they were, lacking skills, credentials, hope of leaving, they reverted to the only thing they knew that gave them satisfaction, the very celebration of their inertia.
    In society today we find ourselves behind a speed bump. By complaining about current conditions, and blaming anyone who differs with our position, we’re spinning our wheels, emitting a screen of smoke and fog, angry, hopeless, and fixed on no particular purpose aside from raising more noise and smoke, celebrating our inertia. Our collective angst has become a purpose in itself, a way for us as a nation to find meaning in our lives, the degradation of meaning, almost a nihilism that feeds on itself. This is not to make light of current difficulties, economic, psychosocial, spiritual, or otherwise challenging current obstacles. It is, by way of metaphor, a way to identify with those young men trapped on an island in the middle of an ocean, and to see the similarities, and a path forward. In short, we need a collective, shared, positive goal of some sort, perhaps a national agenda aimed at reducing our collective ecological footprint, or the collective care and feeding of those unfortunates who are homeless. We need a moon shot, not a speed bump.
    Speaking of moon shots, John F. Kennedy once told the story of a young Irish lad who saw a hat in a shop window, and decided that he simply must have it. The boy lusted for the hat. It was nothing special, just a standard soft-sided beret, a typical Irish hat. But the boy wanted it, pined for it. He pestered his father for months to purchase the hat for him. The father ignored the boy’s repeated requests.
    The boy and his father lived beside a wealthy man’s farm. Their properties were separated by a high wall, the top of which was just out of reach of the boy’s ability to scale it. The boy had grown up with the wall; its presence was his reality, and he never questioned its hold on his ability.
    One day the boy returned from school, to find his precious hat waiting for him, its box wrapped in tissue. Happily, the boy tore the package open, and he shrieked with delight as he pulled the hat from its box. It was perfect; the boy had his hat, and all was right with the world. Just as the boy began to fix it on his head, his father took the hat, and stepped into the yard. He proceeded to toss the hat over the wall. Then he waited for the boy’s reaction.
    Astonished and hurt, the boy watched his once-prized hat sail over the high wall, and disappear. “Why did you throw my hat over the wall, father?” The boy was perplexed.
    His father said not a word. He walked back to the house, and left.
    Again the boy accosted him. “Why did you throw my hat over the wall?”
    There was no response from his father, but the boy soon understood for himself.

    Of course we all know the answer. The father knew what the son did not: when something is desired, the best way to ascertain its value is to create an obstacle to it, then we will find a way to retrieve it. With that challenge in mind, there are no walls too high, no rivers too wide to stop our progress. The underlying message is that we have choices. Even not deciding is a choice. Like those young men on Kauai, we can choose to create that obstacle for ourselves, and then spin our wheels. Or, we can choose to believe that there are no speed bumps in sight, only those we place there ourselves, the self-imposed challenges that always exist. If we so choose, we can line up against them on purpose, then depress the brakes and the gas at the same time. The only result of that is noise, smoke, and the hopeless feeling of our lives drifting off into thin air with no purpose. Or we can choose to see the speed bumps for what they are, perhaps a way to slow us down so we can contemplate a different path, a new way to see a small wrinkle in some everyday thing we may have missed in our haste to be somewhere else.
    We humans simply must have a wall too high, an obstacle too challenging in order to avoid the self-absorption and self-imposed restriction of our lives. We must toss our hats over a wall too high, or life begins to lack meaning, a spinning of wheels raising smoke, when our lives could be spent stoking a fire.

Right, or left?

2011-08-04T05:24:00.000-07:00

Antrim Park 6 A.M. 8/4/11

A recent hike along the path at Antrim Park brought these observations. For one, it's almost too easy to lapse into poetic, or pseudo-poetic rhapsody and prose on a misty morning walking path. The silence and serenity become a kind of muse, a source of inspiration that I'm never quite sure whether to trust. I read a lot of Rod McKuen as a youth, and somewhat less Robert Frost. Perhaps that's instructive. As I composed my own piece this morning, I sensed right off that it had more to do with, as I wrote, "...not so much what's right, as what is left."
This is what happened: I entered the park early enough that it appeared I was alone. Unfamiliar with the hiking protocols, "...seeing no officious signs," I chose to proceed along the path starting out by turning left, my default choice almost always. It became apparent rather soon that I'd violated some unspoken, unwritten understanding that on odd days, walkers must choose left, even days, right. This being the 4th day of August, I chose to join the path heading off the incorrect way. Yes, this has been my choice throughout life, it seems, to push on in opposition to the mainstream, often making things more difficult for myself in the process. But often, too, this perversity of mine becomes that source of inspiration mentioned above. The road not taken may well be, it appears, a road taken in opposition. I hesitate to suggest entering a one way street facing traffic, but it must be said that the exercise would be at least inspirational. Mister Frost was correct in this regard; it would make all the difference.
So I did today, and my muse awoke with a start, beginning her chant before the first turn. Other walkers passed behind, all staring at their day ahead, unaware of the vision I saw. The path ahead of me contained the way ahead, true, but the path behind as well, the double joy of, as I wrote, "...seeing not what's to do, but what is done." Not what's right, but what is left.

zero-sum world

2011-07-29T06:56:00.000-07:00

We live in a zero-sum world. There is no longer a semblance of accommodation, compromise, or citizenship in a society in which those appointed to lead insist on being led. This diversion from my ordinary posting is prompted by the awful news out of our nation's capitol concerning the so called debt ceiling. If the government can no longer legally borrow money after next Tuesday, we will all be in default. I say we all, because this is part of the problem driving the zero-sum express. The government is in fact the 'we' in this equation. We are the government. All the Tea Party talk about The Government, the steady drumbeat of negative, trash talking, anarchic messaging from those who would dismantle 'the government' is meaningless, emotion-driven nonsense. There is a win-win proposition here, and we all know it; every American knows there are painful choices to be made, and they (we) even know what they are. They are increased tax revenues, spending cuts, accountability in funding and identification of unnecessary programs. In short, there's a need to rededicate ourselves as Americans to being who we are. It can start with identifying who we are not.
We are not cruel, unforgiving, vengeful people. Instead, we're one of the more generous nations on earth, even though, despite what some claim, we allot only a minute percentage of our budget to foreign aid. We are not the country that should be forcing our form of government, or our values, on another culture, another country. It is time to get U.S. troops out of both Iraq and Afghanistan, and keep them home, unless some hapless country makes an actual threat against us. In that regard, we are not a country imperiled. Despite what a former high government official said, it is not a with us or against us scenario. We can hang up our cowboy hats now, and put away the six-shooter. That behavior was endearing in fourth grade, but the world has moved on.
We are not a country that can afford any longer the hypocrisy that maintains white, Christian, heterosexual males in positions of power, when our sacred document states in no uncertain terms,"Liberty and justice for all."
We are not a country founded on Christian, or Jewish, or Muslim, or Buddhist, or Atheistic values. We are a diverse, secular country which has thrived for 235 years because of, not in spite of religious (and non-religious)acceptance. The so called founding fathers, those white, upper class, propertied, heterosexual males were not Christian oriented men. They were, almost every one, Deists, educated and immersed in the dangers and divisions of a single-belief society, thus their endorsement of a strong Constitutional barrier between church and state.
It is time to demand of our leaders that they lead, and not be led, by those who insist on narrow, Pyhrric victory, the dismantling of whatever They insist the government is. Unless the rigid right wing produces a viable, workable, acceptable plan to meet our debt obligations, and a win-win compromise toward fiscal sanity, we only strengthen an already overbuilt zero-sum world.

Evening Street Review

2011-07-18T17:31:00.000-07:00

For your reading pleasure... What they don't tell you about returning to college at 62.

Plus, it's am amazing, energizing, exciting, terrifying, gratifying experience. I highly recommend it. Link below.

http://www.eveningstreetpress.com/evening_street_review.html

Submissions etc.

2011-07-12T12:28:00.000-07:00


Submit or Perish

Every once in a while I have an answer to every writer's most pressing question: why do we do this? Why do we plunk down in front of the Mac every day, often dawn to dusk, arranging words in some kind of order that we think might constitute a story, perhaps even one that someone might want to read? Why do writers feel the obsession to tap away, stringing words together, crafting sentences, fitting paragraphs next to each other, molding words, punctuating for maximum effect? Why not just curl up with some other author's already published stuff?

Yes, every once in a while I have the answer to that question. The definite article is no mistake; I wrote THE answer, not AN answer. THE answer is, that once in a while the words click together like all ten pins collapsing at once, the story makes the sense it ought to, out the door it goes, and lordy-magordy as they say, an editor grabs it. The feeling of knowing all those words hang together well enough that someone wants to read them, well, that's all the answer a writer needs. Call it obsessive, call it a lack of imagination, call it pathetic if you will, it's what keeps us plunked down in front of the Mac from dawn to dusk.

The latest such triumph for me is a non-fiction piece titled Permission that, lordy-magordy, has won the coveted Bailey Prize for essay for 2011. The piece will be published in the upcoming Chrysalis Magazine.

Marriage Equality

2011-07-06T11:38:00.000-07:00

Civil Marriage Equality. It sounds harmless, innocuous. It sounds like a concept anyone and everyone can get behind and subscribe to, regardless of their background, religious views, age, gender, or marital status. What's not to like about equality? Marriage has evolved over the years as an institution, and as a concept. Early in western tradition marriage was solely the purview of the state, a way to establish male property rights in a society that valued people only insofar as the property they owned. Because of an early legal reference called coverture, women were officially made chattel, the property of their husbands. Coverture said that the man was the marriage, that any interaction concerning either spouse, or the marriage itself, meant the husband, period. Women could not own property in their name; they could not obtain an education without their husband's consent; they could not have employment, earn money, or have their own income. The marriage was the man.
As more people became literate, marriage evolved, and women began to question their secondary status in society. The coverture laws faded away, as women realized how little protection they had if a husband died, or if he divorced them for another woman. Dower rights offered some protections, but if the man had no money, the woman had no recourse. When women started earning their own way, people began to marry for love. This is a new concept, that people marry because they love and respect each other, instead of marrying out of necessity.
The idea of marriage for love has brought us to where we are now. The idea of love and marriage also provides a way forward in the debate over civil marriage equality. LGBT people are no different than the rest of society: they meet people they want to be with; they fall in love with those people; they want to marry them. They want equality, in all things. But right now, today, at a critical time, lesbians and gays want recognition of this part of their humanity. They want to marry. This is a reason to celebrate. To celebrate the concept of marriage, and the level the institution of civil marriage has reached in society. People no longer routinely marry out of necessity--for family, or social, or religious need. We marry because we fall in love with someone.
It's time we celebrate the evolution of marriage. It's time for civil marriage equality. Marriage is for everyone. Enjoy the video. (And check out other music selections from Tom Goss.)

What they don't tell you...

2011-07-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

What they don't tell you...

...about returning to college at age 62 has been published in The Evening Street Review* Spring 2011 issue. If you've been wondering what it's like to rejoin the frat boys and coeds on campus, yearning to shuffle between classes again, to cram for that Stats midterm, the Linguistics final, to hand in that English writing workshop essay so your peers can critique it, to get a taste of college life again, this essay tells all. What they don't tell you... lists a lot of the pitfalls, the challenges, joys, anxieties, irritations, and the wonders of coming back to Ohio State at an advanced age, after four decades away. Studying is easier--because there's less pressure to par-tay; thus grades seem to come easier--10 classes/8 'A's,/1 B/1 C+ (long story--but included. Hint, be very cautious when selecting required courses. Ask questions; drink less coffee of a morning--classes are two hours, need I say more?
What's college at my age like? Fun, terrifying, exhausting, energizing, wondrous, taxing, exhilarating, gratifying. In a word--it's a hoot. But don't take my word for it. Buy a copy of ESR and read the story. Yes, you have time.
*The Evening Street Press 7652 Sawmill Rd. #352 Dublin Ohio 43016

Random Thoughts

2011-07-02T12:32:00.000-07:00


Age...just a number?

5 days from now I will be 63 years old. Sixty-three. Looking back at all the 'numbers' I've put behind me is a bit sobering: 62 is preparing to fall away, 61 has been gone for nearly two years. Who knows what ever happened to 45, 30, 27? They're only numbers. But each one represents a point of contact, a kind of stepping stone of wisdom acquired, or abandoned, or ignored. Has anyone ever looked back from the perspective of 63 and not seen missed opportunity, neglected chance, ignored luck there for the taking? As I make my way through school, with a plan to finish a year from now, just prior to 64, I see an opportunity not just to finish old business, to tie up a loose end. I see a chance to start something, to set new numbers in motion--1 year since graduation, 2 years from the birth of my grandson, 12 years of an ideal marriage. Numbers go both directions. Just numbers, true, but in their adding up, they don't have to always count down.

The Bailey Prize

2011-06-22T16:49:00.000-07:00


This Year's Winner is...

Book Review--Break the Skin by Lee Martin

2011-06-17T05:23:00.000-07:00

Break the Skin is on bookstore shelves, and available through on-line sources now. Here we have a tale of longing, desperation and the intrigues of the human heart. Break the Skin is a story anyone who has wanted to be loved and cherished--in other words any human being--will relate to, and read with empathy. It's a story of the things we all are doing, will do, or have done to put ourselves in the way of a meaningful relationship with another person. Break the skin is Laney's story. It's Miss Baby's, Emma's, Pablo and Carolyn's, Rose and Tweet's, even Slam Dent's story to an extent. Rose is the antagonist, the treacherous, scheming, all too human woman who steals Delilah's man, Tweet. Tweet is the music man whose band of rag-tag troubadours--Helmets on the Short Bus--start the novel. Tweet drops into Delilah's forlorn life of Walmart cashier, trailer-rental momma who has been used and abused of late by the villain Bobby May. Double-wide Roomies Laney and Rose see Delilah throw herself at the hirsute Tweet, he of the Samson-like dreadlocks looking to be shorn, and womanly wiles and jealousy insert themselves into the tale. It won't be long before walls come-a-tumbling. One by one the characters fall out of favor, then warmly, humanly, like sheep against winter chill they reconnect and huddle, for comfort, and to survive the ravages of the world's dismissals of them and their too-obvious desperation. Then Lester is turned away, arriving unannounced in Miss Baby's life in far off, but mirror-close Texas. Miss Baby discovers the amnesiac Lester, and proceeds to make him her very own, renaming him Donnie True. Lester, aka Donnie, the returning, tortured Iraq war vet, empty-handed but with plenty of baggage, cedes his life to Miss Baby. Pablo, Miss Baby's baby brother, on the lam from Slam Dent and the law east of the Pecos for good, new-fashioned cattle rustling, discovers Donnie in his sister's life and, as they say, the family plot thickens. In Texas, Slam slams Pablo, Miss Baby awakens to Donnie True's true ID via CNN. Pablo is discovered by the same sheriff Miss Baby has recently inked. Lester returns to Illinois to face the music, where the true crime of the heart has taken place. Rose and Tweet lay dead, shot by assailants unknown, but with Delilah's silvery, short-barreled .38. Laney-girl and her collaborators, it turns out, had hatched a plot to kill the witchy Rose. Our lovelorn trio Laney, Delilah and Lester--with an appearance by slow-Poke Hambrick, go the way of all flesh, looking for love in all the right and wrong places. Break the Skin is written in first person, as if recited to a court reporter, or just to be put on record somewhere, the unquenchable need we humans have to tell someone what happened to us. It's tender, gritty, and wise by turns, and ever mindful of the viscissitudes of the fragile human heart. Oh, and it's beautifully written, maybe better than The Bright Forever. Really.
Break the Skin ©2011 by Lee Martin Crown Publishers, a division of Random House New York

Book Review

2011-05-26T09:04:00.000-07:00

Books, Books, Books

Today: Missing, by Michelle Herman:
Once again, Michelle Herman has delivered a heartwarming tale of one woman's steadfast refusal to cede her independence, despite emerging old-age related issues and family members' intermittent attentions. Rivke is convinced that a box containing her string of precious beads has gone missing, or has been stolen. Metaphor for several things in Rivke's life that have also gone missing, each bead corresponds to a distant memory, a lost relative, her deceased husband, or the children she has seen leave her behind to pursue their own lives. An astute reader will pick up on the author's style right away: Herman's East Coast background; her affinity for run-on narrative that always seems to work in spite of its length and capacity; the humanity contained in every word. Missing is Michelle Herman at her (early) storytelling best. The book is filled with real, warm, honest characters who might live next door, or at least down the block. When Rivke realizes the truth of the missing beads (I'll never tell) the finale is so tender I wanted to cheer and say "of course!" A great read, by a compassionate writer who knows her stuff.

TKAM + 50 and Still making news

2011-05-20T18:27:00.000-07:00


Get up Miss Jean Louise Your Father's Passing...

To Kill a Mockingbird is fifty years old. This novel has likely done more to change minds, alter perceptions, raise awareness and respond to the need for a damn good story than most books in the last hundred years. And at the heart of it, TKAM is truly a damn good story.
And wouldn't it be nice if there was no longer a need for the basic story told within its covers, the pernicious and pervasive "ism" that haunts our society, seeming to replace every step toward equality with yet another reason to continue pushing for it? Just as, fifty years on, it is no longer common practice to dismiss out of hand a black person's demand for justice, as Tom Robinson's was brutally dismissed, now certain members of our society clamor for recognition of their own pervasive inequality. The price of being different in our culture has always had its price. Ironic in a society that claims to thrive on individuality and self-realization. Mockingbirds still do nothing but sing their hearts out for us, and while there is still injustice and hatred in America, it is still a sin to kill a mockingbird.

Spring 2011

2011-04-17T15:28:00.000-07:00


Cocoons give way to wonderful things...

They do, and we can never be quite sure what's inside a cocoon until the creature emerges, and spreads its wings. There's no predicting it. And, as routine as we take the process, the mutation from homely caterpillar, to pupa, to emerging butterfly and then magical winged creature, as routine as it seems, every spring we marvel anew. There for a short time to envelop us in mystery, butterflies seem to have no reason to exist other than to reproduce themselves, display themselves to us, and make our day brighter. Then they disappear, back into hiding in their drab, unremarkable shell to await the winter and the next looming spring.
Certain people are like that, too. We see them emerge from their shells to demonstrate some useful purpose for a very short time, then they go away, out of sight out of mind. But isn't it comforting to know they're still there somewhere? Isn't it wonderful to know people, old friends, helpers, those who make our lives easier and more sensible, people who do nothing but bring magic into our lives? Everyone needs a butterfly now and again. Next time you see one, take a minute, and just marvel at its existence. There's no reason to have butterflies. But we do.

Winter '11 done

2011-03-23T15:41:00.000-07:00

English 265-A/English 468-A/Statistics 135-A

Winter quarter at OSU is finished, and yes, straight 'A's again. There's something gratifying about seeing results of hard, tough work recognized. It seems we rarely see a direct connection these days to what we toil at and the end result of that toil. There seems to always be some kind of disconnect, an interruption, or new priority, or the ever present something-else-required standing in the way, like being shuffled from one link to the next ad infinitum. We rarely get to finish anything, and it's beyond irritating.
So when a project or job is done, and the results are good, it's doubly satisfying. Winter term was hard, cold, often nail-biting work, but I got through it in fine fashion, and graduation is a big step closer as a result. And the very best part is that my sweet wife has gone out of her way to recognize my accomplishment. Roses and balloons, cards and kisses. Life gets no better than this. On to Spring quarter, and the elusive goal of graduation looms closer all the time.

Fall Quarter ends

2010-12-14T16:47:00.000-08:00


OSU/Purdue 10/23/10

Nothing like the snappy air of an October afternoon, a football Saturday in Columbus, and a final score of 49/7 Ohio State. Good seats, good company, good day all around in a sea of scarlet and grey. Yes, there is more to an academic environment than books, classes, mid-terms and finals. A day like this, and several like it, have given me a perspective I never thought I'd have: in a few months, likely Spring of 2012, which isn't far away at all, I will walk across this very field, marching along with my graduating colleagues, running interference for each other toward the goal posts--a handshake with the president, and a cheer from the crowd as I receive a diploma. It will be a day like this one, filled with energy, enthusiasm, good cheer, good company amid a sea of scarlet and grey. And I will have very mixed feelings about it. Unlike the last time I inhabited this campus, when I couldn't wait to leave it behind, I know this time I will miss it terribly. Just the immersion in this atmosphere of learning, support and affirmation has been a life-altering experience. I will miss the interaction with thousands of young, bright minds; the challenge of competing with them, and myself, to expand my thinking and processing; the sense of possibility that pervades the campus on all sides. Just as there is an end in football, there will be an end to my experience here at Ohio State. Unlike football, everyone wins.

Progress

2010-12-10T10:51:00.000-08:00

The Oval @ OSU

Another term under my belt. It seems I've managed to make it through another phase in my relentless pursuit of a college degree. Classes continue to invigorate, energize, challenge and expand me. And I seem to be rising to the challenge. Besides discovering that we're capable of giving and receiving love, there may not be anything in life more gratifying than succeeding at a life-long goal that had once been denied. A degree in English may not seem like the mountain top to some people, but to me the attainment of a diploma will be a fulfillment of a dream that seemed for many years not only out of reach, but not worth pursuing. There was family, career, bills, responsibilities. There was the dismal performance I'd displayed the first time on a college campus. There was the sheer weight of the challenge--matriculation, registration, navigation between classes and the very real potential for failure for a second time. Five terms in--after 38 years away--I'm plodding on, making grades, doing the navigating. The results speak for themselves--five terms, ten classes have produced eight 'A' grades, one 'B' with one pending. I've aced a lot of classes, written numerous pieces for the student paper, won $1,000 for an essay submitted to that paper's annual contest. I've been published in The Grove, a student Lit-Mag. I've raised my GPA by a nominal amount from its lackluster level and convinced myself and others that this goal isn't a fluke. One other thing: I've had a grand time in the process. I've had very few absences, added to every class, stood out to a number of instructors and generally excelled at this experience called higher education. I'm giving a lot of thought to establishing a Late-Bloomer Society on campus, for any old, gray compatriots wishing to gather and share experiences. In fact, I may label it the Late-B(l)oomers Club.
One thing I've said all along, and appears to be more true than ever--It's never too late.

Old Man On Campus

2010-11-17T07:39:00.000-08:00


Wise? Or predatory?

It had to happen: I was sitting in class, alone, or nearly so, ten minutes before the bell. The young fellow entered from my right, saw me in the front row and stopped. I watched him watching me, hesitant, unsure. He shuffled, shifted his backpack once or twice. I thought I recognized him as one of the 100 or so other students in the Earth Sciences class. Then he worked up his courage, crossed to where I was sitting, and stopped ten feet away. "Uh, sir?" he said. "I missed yesterday. Would it be alright if took the quiz today?"
I felt sorry for the kid. It had to happen. He'd clearly confused me with the instructor, even though I'd used the same seat in the classroom every day for the previous eight weeks. Every class I'd been in that seat, taking notes, asking questions, participating as a student as the real teacher conducted his class. Why did the young man think I was the teacher? I suppose it had something to do with my gray hair, my age, my casual demeanor conveying a complete lack of awe concerning such things as student-teacher interaction. Even in a class that size I didn't hesitate to raise my hand, ask questions, demand clarification on an issue I didn't get.
Hearing the fellow's query about taking his quiz, I could have preyed on his confusion; I could have scolded him, shamed him about his lack of diligence. I could have embarrassed him about his casual attitude toward such things as tests and class participation.
But I didn't. I simply told the guy, a fellow student, that I was the wrong one to ask. I advised him to check with the real instructor, and likely he'd allow the quiz to be taken. I assured him that asking about it would likely be wise, and fruitful. Before class, when the real teacher arrived, I saw the kid asking him a question. I'm hopeful that he was given the chance to redeem himself.
Often we have the opportunity to be either wise or predatory, helpful or derisive. When someone has the courage to be vulnerable with us, I believe we have an obligation to be wise, and to return the level of openness. That could be the best education any of us receives.

Pay it Forward

2010-11-13T06:46:00.000-08:00

Pay it Forward

Essay part of Buckeyes are Believin' initiative--2010, part of This I Believe.®

http://thisibelieve.org/essay/84728/

My wife and I believe that positives attract. We’ve taken a fair amount of heat for our sunny, optimistic view at times, but we persist. We also believe that paying forward is one way to create a positive, satisfying life together as a married couple, and also a way to pass along a bit of the aloha spirit we learned while living in the Hawaiian islands.

We moved in 2006 from Kauai to Columbus, and one of our first challenges was to find employment. But neither of us was prepared for the gracious (and positive) reception we experienced at Ohio State. Instead of the typical dismissive reaction to our sunny, open attitude, staff at OSU responded in kind, and then some. There was even an overreaction on the part of one administrator. This (very high level) individual was so taken with our energy, and our gratitude at Ohio State’s welcome that he offered us a pair of 50-yard-line football tickets as a friendly gesture. Imagine his surprise when we told him thanks just the same, but we really don’t understand football! Needless to say the fellow was speechless, and public speaking is part of his job description. Since then we’ve settled in, immersing ourselves in the positive culture of Ohio State and its wonderful people.

Here is one small example of how the atmosphere of support at Ohio State multiplies on itself, and how positive forces converge.

Drafted in 1969, I left OSU, assuming I would not be back. But, because of my wife’s newfound employment at OSUMC, and because of the strong support we both feel here, I went back to school after 38 years. It got better. Winter Quarter 2010 I won an essay contest through The Lantern, recognition that included a prize of $1,000. So, for the reception we were given, and to pay forward, albeit in a small way, but hopefully more so as time goes on, we found a way to give back. After the phenomenal welcome we had, the affirmation of our positive attitudes and our desire to share our good fortune–not to mention a chance for football tickets–we’ve established a scholarship fund in the college of Arts and Sciences. The fund is based on an essay contest in human sexuality studies, an area we’ve long championed. The contest is open to Sexuality Studies Majors and Minors, with preference given to youths who identify as LGBT. (Fund Number: 313427 https://www.giveto.osu.edu/igive/onlinegiving/search_results.aspx?fundnum=313427) One day soon OSU students who share our belief in the power of the positive will win that essay contest, and they, too, will experience the value of paying forward, thus creating opportunity for others, something The Ohio State University does very, very well.

Rejection

2010-11-07T16:21:00.000-08:00

"Rejection is the experience of discovering what doesn't work, so one may move closer to what does."

Writers know better than anyone, with the possible exception of encyclopedia salesmen, the continual presence of rejection. It's a constant, almost expected part of the writing life, and one that seems to have a kind of contrary nature. Any writer who has not experienced rejection is either writing family travelogues, or has yet to submit. And the family writing part may be wrong, too.
                But the thrill of having a piece of writing accepted for publication is akin to the feeling of falling in love the first time, or passing a critical test. Indeed, the joy of receiving the acceptance letter is better than getting the check in the mail, depending on the size of the check or how far overdue the electric bill is. Mostly, writing is a drudge, a slog through a swamp filled with the alligators of indecision, the wolves of self doubt and the buzzards of despair circling above the blank, incriminating page. It's a lot like a toothache only really painful and distracting. The reason any writer writes is simple: it's not a choice, or we wouldn't be doing it. No one chooses to put their bare hand on a hot stove and leave it there until the stove stops working because the electric bill is overdue.
             As for pursuing a writing degree, and then volunteering for yet more pain as an MFA student in creative writing (as if there were any other kind--mundane writing?) it takes a particular kind of masochism. The courses themselves consist of exercises in self-flagellation and public humiliation. The typical writing workshop demands, first of all, that a student must write. This sounds absurd to even mention, but that's not as simple as it may seem. The act of pinning one's buttocks into the seat for several hours a day, while attempting to churn out a series of words that some (besides the author him/herself) would actually want to read is painful on a good day. On bad days it's beyond adverbial description.
           Ah, but on the really good days, when the words flow like poetry, and they actually make sense--life is good, better, best. Some days it's like being connected to some form of spiritual energy, a force the Hawaiian people refer to as Mana'. Writers have been known to forget food, water, sex, drugs, The Price is Right and other such humanoid distractions. I have a picture in mind, of my fantasy writing experience: I've been discovered dead at my keyboard, cobwebs anchoring me to the chair, fingers frozen--left pinkie on the ESC key, right on the RET key. On the numinous screen, a pristine, perfect tale of human achievement, courage, love, loyalty and commendation. It is the great human story that the world has long awaited, and that the writer has always known lay hidden in his own tangled emotional debris. Beneath the last, lingering, triumphant sentence are two simple words, words that every writer works toward, and strives to place in the perfect spot. Two words:

The End.

Perspective

2010-10-06T17:30:00.000-07:00

The Oval at OSU

I'm not sure why this didn't occur to me sooner, but as I look across the campus at all the fresh young faces, I have the oddest realization. None of these kids even existed the first time I was here. It truly was a lifetime ago. The thought is very strange, almost upsetting. On a few occasions I've allowed myself to step back from the wheel-to-the-grindstone focus and look at myself. Here I am at 62, retired, an actual lifetime behind me, marriage (X-2), kid(s), career, a war, a divorce (even more frightening), and a social security check in my account every month. I'm a grandfather for Pete's sake. Yet here I am, schlepping books and a backpack across the campus, competing with kids who could very nearly be my great-grandchildren, taking quizzes and tests with them.
It would be quite interesting to hear what they have to say about the OMOC. Most likely they ignore me, or consider me just another student after the first day or so. There are forty thousand of us, after all. I'm sure some of them think I'm one of those older folks who audit courses just to get out of the house while we're taping Wheel of Fortune.
Actually, the less these kids react to my presence in class with them the better. I'm hoping they assume I'm here to enhance my education, and that reinforces why they're on campus as well. It may give them a clearer focus on why they're doing the same thing I am. It's amusing to think about them returning to school eons from now when they're my present age. I'll be long gone, and some of them will be schlepping to class at age 50-60-even 70 wondering about that old guy years ago, and maybe even giving me a nod for showing them it's really never too late.

Heroes

2010-10-01T14:13:00.000-07:00

Sen. John H. Glenn jr.

We hear that there are no longer heroes in America. I take exception to that statement. This morning I shook hands with a true American hero. Senator/Colonel/Husband/Father/Astronaut and all around decent human being John Glenn has been a hero of mine for a very long time. A pioneer in aviation, human rights activist and true educator, Colonel Glenn exemplifies all that's courageous and forthright about Americans and who we are as a people. Plus, he's a dynamic public speaker, devoted husband and father (and Grandfather) and the man still flies! Remarkable. As I continue my pursuit of a college degree, I couldn't find a better ideal or mentor than this fellow. It was a pleasure to finally get to meet him, and I wish him tailwinds in all he does. I added a bucket list item today: I'd like to sit around sipping a cold one with John Glenn telling war stories and flying tales. If that's not a good afternoon I don't know what is.

Scholarship Fund

2010-09-30T18:19:00.000-07:00

Sexuality Studies Scholarship Fund

It is time to recognize that LGBT youth are in danger. We can no longer ignore the fact that the suicide rate among LGBT youth is twice the national average. Interventions are required, but what is truly needed is a sea-change in social acceptance of gay and lesbian young people. There are those who discuss tolerance, and that is at least better than outright rejection. But tolerance is a low-grade form of dismissal, a condescending attitude that says, in short, I allow you to be who you are, it's okay if you're gay, I'll allow that. This is nonsense. Imagine someone saying I'm okay that you're straight. I allow you to be a heterosexual, go ahead if you must.
For our part, we're promoting a newly created scholarship fund aimed at youth who identify as LGBT. It's called the Sexuality Studies Scholarship Fund. It is available at The Ohio State University to undergrads and grad students with a Sexuality Studies minor. The SS Major should be approved soon at OSU, marking the first such Sexuality Studies Major in the nation. The scholarship award will be based on an essay of between 500 and 1,000 words. The scholarship is awarded to the student essay which best exemplifies how sexual or gender identity 'difference' has had a positive effect on the author's life and how this difference influenced their decision to work for positive change in society. The award is $250 or more, which will be applied toward tuition and fees. There will be a Fall and Spring competition every year. Our goal is to advertise and promote the fund until it reaches endowment status at $50,000. At that point it will create one full scholarship.
Anyone wishing to donate to this fund should go to http://www.giveto.osu.edu. Enter Fund # 313427.
Donations can also be made through Campus Campaign via OSU payroll deductions. Consider also dedicating part of your estate funds to this worthwhile and timely fund. These young people need recognition and acceptance now more than ever. For more information go to the Sexuality Studies website.
http://sexualitystudies.osu.edu/scholarships/