When I was a boy, my mother's mother referred to "Clifford," her younger brother who lived "in Atlanta" and ran a dry cleaning store. My brother, mother and grandmother would travel fairly often from either North Carolina or--later--Tennessee to see Clifford and my great-aunt Annie Will as well as perhaps either or both of their daughters Anne and Deborah. The Walker side of my family was and remains very small even by adding the children of my cousins Mark, Scott, Jeff, Todd and Julie (who, to clarify, is not yet married and has no children) and the children of Pat, who married Clifford a few years after Annie Will died in 1984. All that as it is, I have more memories of Clifford from my childhood than perhaps a typical great-nephew does in similar situation given the size of our family and the manner in which it has managed to stay in contact--by association and, more recently, by spending time at this or that event--through the years. For however these matters came about and have continued, I am grateful. I'm writing on December 28, 2007 in recognition that Clifford, after a somewhat unexpected illness, probably will not live much longer. As my relatives say, there may be a miracle, but I'm nonetheless trying to gather thoughts in case something else takes place in the next several days.
My Grandmother--Lorraine Walker Brookshire--was Clifford's oldest sibling of the four born to the union of their parents Joshua Taylor and Mary Bronson Walker. If ever there was a southern lady, my Grandmother fit the bill and Clifford became, in his own type of way, an elegant southern gentleman. I do not mean to say that either of them were stiff cigar-store Indians without spirit or life for they both radiated with each. It was difficult for a small boy--me--to appreciate the extent to which Grandmother and Clifford resembled one another and tried to give something to me besides a desire for material matters of this, that or the other variety. As I've gotten older, however, what they said and, more importantly, did enabled me to begin to somewhat grasp what they had in mind. After Grandmother died in 1980, I guess Clifford came to serve that role in my life to a larger extent than I knew until I more fully realized it over the last four or five years. I have been increasingly grateful that he has lived as long and been as healthy as he has. Six months ago, I had a chance to visit with Clifford and Pat in their home, share a few stories and simply to hear his words and see his facial expressions as some of his great-grandchildren scurried around the living room almost literally under his feet. Being able to have that set of experiences with someone who was, at the time, 97 and then to share a huge Sunday brunch the next day will remain with me as long as I live. As will the picture I have of Clifford, Pat and myself on their front porch (thanks to Scott for taking the shot).
During my childhood, I was full of fire and vinegar about a lot of things that I now find, well, foolish and misplaced. I suppose that's a normal retrospective, but I wish that I would have appreciated Clifford more for who he was rather than sometimes what he may or may not have thought. We all have those sorts of disconnects and I would rather honor Clifford's person than quibble over matters that were much more products of an earlier time and place than any sort of actual notion. Heaven knows I retain more than a few disconnects and wince at memories of occasions when my mouth bellowed a whole lot of vingear and oil (mixing metaphors on purpose) than I imparted wisdom and grace. These matters, it seems to me, are all of a piece and Clifford is more important to my life and memory than my own warped priorities of my youth and early adulthood. Clifford's presence and patience are realities that I hold with appreciation and love.
I guess I have lived long enough to know that, as one of my seminary professors put it, "there are many things I don't know." My mother and I talk a good deal about our family's past and the importance we have placed in those experiences. Mother wants me to know how her parents and Clifford--among others--shaped her experiences and how they have subsequently given form to mine. I've come to think--I think--that much of that form is not so much words or even actions, but something like instincts, although that's not quite the right word. It's hard to explain, but something still that "is"--however ambiguously at a given moment--and won't ever leave me. Clifford played a large part in that "is" for me and I shall always love him, both for that, but moreso, just for being who he was. I don't know the Latin for rest in peace, but I'll guess and say "requiem et pacem." He would understand--
Friday, December 28, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Semester and Bowl
At last, the semester is finished and somehow I survived. What's more, my beloved U of M, after starting the season 2-4 rallied to win 5 of their last 6 and finish 7-5. We play this Friday--December 21st--in the New Orleans Bowl against Florida Atlantic coached by Howard Schnellenberger (best guess on the spelling), he who coached Miami to the 1983 Championship against Nebrasks before Tom Osborne discovered the need for speed on defense. Coach S also played for the Bear (the Coach for the Ground of Being and I'll concede that Bear is presently assisted by Knute Rockne and Frank Leahy) at Kentucky, which would make him at least passably plausible if he weren't lined up against Memphis. I'm hoping U of M can win, but even going to a game after last year's 2-10 "transition" is a large accomplishment. Too many folks on the Commercial Appeal's sports blog argued that our Coach West should be fired for the slow start, but I think they reflected our cultural tendency to want everything now (like a National Championship for a school that isn't even a BCS Conference) rather than giving his staff time to regroup AD (after DeAngelo). So I'm happy the semester is done and the U of M is in a bowl game. We'll go from there--
Monday, August 13, 2007
New Academic Year
Wednesday of this week at 11:30 AM, the returning Graduate Assistants in SIU's English Department return for three days of pre-semester workshop. Many of my colleagues and friends have worked hard putting these events together and, in my judgment, deserve extensive credit for their efforts. Classes begin for the year on Monday next, August 20th, and after a summer of people basically doing their own thing, the routine of regular academic schedules will make its own reappearance. Freshmen will get lost in Faner Hall and 18 year olds will--bravado aside--feel anxious about starting a new part of their lives. New Graduate Assistants across our campus will walk into classrooms and begin teaching, in the process learning more than they realize as the semester develops. I went through that process three years ago and, while being older than perhaps many of my fellow GA's, I had to learn as well, occasionally by "un-learning" from assumptions I had about how students see themselves and what they expect from a Composition class. These next several days, in other words, will be busy and, frankly, I'm grateful.
Within a few weeks as well, SIU's football team will suit up for its first game. One of my former students plays on the team and from what I can tell, has done well throughout his career. The first few games are always in weather too hot for comfort, but I will be always grateful for warmth after going three years ago--with my friends Nathan and Chris--to what we came to call our own version of the "Ice Bowl" when SIU lost to Eastern Washington in Round One of the NCAA Division I-A playoffs. We froze and each got wet in the persistent drizzle; we all escaped pneumonia by probably the skimmest of margins, or so it seemed; and to make matters worse, SIU was ranked Number One in the country, only to lose the game at home. So warm or cold: who knows? I don't know how the Salukis will fare this year, but I imagine I'll take in a game or two after I see my beloved Memphis Tigers twice in early September. I only wish the SIU would sell Coke products rather than Pepsi. I guess the older I get, the more I feel drawn to my original preferences and tend to notice negative taste--personal choice, nothing "scientific" here--that I just can't seem to swallow for the length of a game. Memphis, being a Southern school, sells Coke soft drinks, I believe. Then again, the Dallas Cowboys sell Pepsi at their games and they are somewhat Southern even as my Texas friends will insist on being known as Texans prior to anything else. Maybe the Cowboys' choice of Pepsi is another reason I don't like them. Now if my Minnesota Vikings sell Pepsi, I'm not sure what I'll do.
I'm hoping, in any case, for a productive academic year and that we as students and those students we teach will enrich one another's learning experience.
Within a few weeks as well, SIU's football team will suit up for its first game. One of my former students plays on the team and from what I can tell, has done well throughout his career. The first few games are always in weather too hot for comfort, but I will be always grateful for warmth after going three years ago--with my friends Nathan and Chris--to what we came to call our own version of the "Ice Bowl" when SIU lost to Eastern Washington in Round One of the NCAA Division I-A playoffs. We froze and each got wet in the persistent drizzle; we all escaped pneumonia by probably the skimmest of margins, or so it seemed; and to make matters worse, SIU was ranked Number One in the country, only to lose the game at home. So warm or cold: who knows? I don't know how the Salukis will fare this year, but I imagine I'll take in a game or two after I see my beloved Memphis Tigers twice in early September. I only wish the SIU would sell Coke products rather than Pepsi. I guess the older I get, the more I feel drawn to my original preferences and tend to notice negative taste--personal choice, nothing "scientific" here--that I just can't seem to swallow for the length of a game. Memphis, being a Southern school, sells Coke soft drinks, I believe. Then again, the Dallas Cowboys sell Pepsi at their games and they are somewhat Southern even as my Texas friends will insist on being known as Texans prior to anything else. Maybe the Cowboys' choice of Pepsi is another reason I don't like them. Now if my Minnesota Vikings sell Pepsi, I'm not sure what I'll do.
I'm hoping, in any case, for a productive academic year and that we as students and those students we teach will enrich one another's learning experience.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Bonds and Bridges
Through last night's baseball action, mercifully, Henry Aaron continues to hold the Major League home run record. I grew up watching Mr. Aaron play for (mostly) bad Atlanta Braves teams, although they did come within--I believe--8 games or so of winning the division one year in the early 1970s. I attended a game in which he played, on September 25, 1972, when the Los Angeles Dodgers and Frank Robinson defeated the Braves 5-4 (a score I would some six years later find even more painful). Ron Reed started the game for Atlanta and I remember thinking when I saw him warming up before the game, "We're going to lose." Reed never pitched consistently well, although he did belong to the Phillies team that won the World Series in 1980. I was pleased for him, but also wish Phil Niekro--also a Brave on "my" day--could have done so as well.
All that aside, most of you remember I posted not too long ago about my--shall I say--intense disdain for Barry Lamar Bonds. Barring something horrific that I do not wish for him, Bonds will in reasonably short order pass Mr. Aaron and receive credit for hitting more home runs than anyone else in baseball history. I could care less as even if Bonds plays until he is 725 years old--his knees already seem about that age--Mr. Aaron will be, in Milo Hamilton's words on April 8, 1974, "the new home run champion in baseball." Alex Rodriguez will someday--without major injury--pass Mr. Aaron and You-Know-Who, for which I will applaud his well-earned and legitimate accomplishment. Maybe Albert Pujols will approach 755 as well. I'm venting, of course, and trying to not pay attention to the inevitable.
The past 24 hours have been occupied with the much more serious news from Minneapolis and the collapse of the bridge over the Mississippi River. Some of my friends have posted about it and wrote in their usual eloquent fashion. It's easy to blame, even when--as it seems--the lack of funding from Washington in the Bush era has helped to create the circumstances in which our national infrastructure has been neglected. Given that they were in near total power from 2003 through last January, the Republicans and their aversion to "gub-mint" must assume most of the responsbility for the context in which these events can occur. It's in the hands of Norman Coleman, the Republican Senator from Minnesota, to make clear that they will "own up" to the neglect they helped to foster. It's also in the hands of the majority Democrats to push unrelentingly the sort of non-telegenic legislative drudgery that is infrastructure update and repair. Most people, I think, get "glazed eye syndrome" when "infrastructure" is mentioned, except when something like yesterday takes place. Then all too often, overheated, accusatory emotionalism assumes control more than reasoned debate and the necessary political compromises that rest at the heart of our political system. The Democratic Senator from Minnesota--whose name I can't remember how to spell--is in the position, along with her Congressional colleagues, to presently choose between blaming "Norm Coleman, George Bush and the Republicans" or doing the hard work of legislating that will insure increased funding for our very real and apparent national needs. Hubert Humphrey was as partisan a Minnesota Democrat as there ever was, but he worked with Everett Dierksen, Gerald Ford and other Republicans for the good of the whole country, not just the faithful who happened to belong to the same party. If, in any case, Norm Coleman, George Bush and other current Republicans try somehow to blame Democrats (or, in Pat and Jerry's words after 9/11, homosexuals and "liberals") for yesterday, then the Democrats ought to respond with some unrepeatable advice from Lyndon Johnson. Or, as Bill Clinton reportedly said, if they try to cut you with a knife, you cut their hand off with a meat cleaver. Human tragedy and suffering ought to be beyond even the most partisan political pale. But, as ever these days, we'll see.
All that aside, most of you remember I posted not too long ago about my--shall I say--intense disdain for Barry Lamar Bonds. Barring something horrific that I do not wish for him, Bonds will in reasonably short order pass Mr. Aaron and receive credit for hitting more home runs than anyone else in baseball history. I could care less as even if Bonds plays until he is 725 years old--his knees already seem about that age--Mr. Aaron will be, in Milo Hamilton's words on April 8, 1974, "the new home run champion in baseball." Alex Rodriguez will someday--without major injury--pass Mr. Aaron and You-Know-Who, for which I will applaud his well-earned and legitimate accomplishment. Maybe Albert Pujols will approach 755 as well. I'm venting, of course, and trying to not pay attention to the inevitable.
The past 24 hours have been occupied with the much more serious news from Minneapolis and the collapse of the bridge over the Mississippi River. Some of my friends have posted about it and wrote in their usual eloquent fashion. It's easy to blame, even when--as it seems--the lack of funding from Washington in the Bush era has helped to create the circumstances in which our national infrastructure has been neglected. Given that they were in near total power from 2003 through last January, the Republicans and their aversion to "gub-mint" must assume most of the responsbility for the context in which these events can occur. It's in the hands of Norman Coleman, the Republican Senator from Minnesota, to make clear that they will "own up" to the neglect they helped to foster. It's also in the hands of the majority Democrats to push unrelentingly the sort of non-telegenic legislative drudgery that is infrastructure update and repair. Most people, I think, get "glazed eye syndrome" when "infrastructure" is mentioned, except when something like yesterday takes place. Then all too often, overheated, accusatory emotionalism assumes control more than reasoned debate and the necessary political compromises that rest at the heart of our political system. The Democratic Senator from Minnesota--whose name I can't remember how to spell--is in the position, along with her Congressional colleagues, to presently choose between blaming "Norm Coleman, George Bush and the Republicans" or doing the hard work of legislating that will insure increased funding for our very real and apparent national needs. Hubert Humphrey was as partisan a Minnesota Democrat as there ever was, but he worked with Everett Dierksen, Gerald Ford and other Republicans for the good of the whole country, not just the faithful who happened to belong to the same party. If, in any case, Norm Coleman, George Bush and other current Republicans try somehow to blame Democrats (or, in Pat and Jerry's words after 9/11, homosexuals and "liberals") for yesterday, then the Democrats ought to respond with some unrepeatable advice from Lyndon Johnson. Or, as Bill Clinton reportedly said, if they try to cut you with a knife, you cut their hand off with a meat cleaver. Human tragedy and suffering ought to be beyond even the most partisan political pale. But, as ever these days, we'll see.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
A Humbled Viking Fan
Over the past three years, I have become teasingly good friends with a cashier in our Student Union cafeteria. He's an avid St. Louis Cardinal fan--and St. Louis sports generally--and I've enjoyed reminding him good-naturedly about the Cardinals losing 4 games to none against the Boston Red Sox, my American League team of long-standing, in the 2004 World Series. I also relished making more fun when the University of North Carolina defeated Illinois for the 2005 NCAA Men's basketball championship. Conversely, my friend has given equally as well since the Cardinals won the World Series last year.
Earlier today, my friend and I were teasing one another yet again and I mentioned--as I have previously--that my only childhood team yet to win a Championship continues to be the Minnesota Vikings. To make matters sort of worse, the Vikings not only lay claim to the first team to lose four Super Bowls (out of the first 11 played and only the game against the Steelers was halfway close), but they haven't returned to the contest since 1977. They have come close three times (well, two and a half), but thirty years of no Super Bowl and counting. But I keep hoping that management, coaches and players will find a way to be on a similar page long enough to at least give themselves a chance to lose again. My friend knows all these matters and as I was referring to what hopes I have, he uttered these immortal words: "Maybe you can be like Cub fans." Since the Chicago Cubs have not won a World Series since 1908 and haven't been to one since 1945, I felt put in an exceedingly less than comfortable place. The Vikings, you see, will go on and on, year after year, finding ever more creative ways to lose NFC Championship games or, if they somehow miraculously get there again, the Super Bowl. The Vikings, you see, will continue year after year to make Herschel Walker-like trades and misuse (THANKS JERRY BURNS: pass the ball in the flat to a runner whose foot speed and power came from going straight ahead after a HANDOFF) tremendous players on both sides of the ball. The Vikings will go through coach after coach, coordinators upon coordinators and only remember the glorious games at Metropolitan Stadium when they would beat the Rams and the Cowboys (OH NO!! DREW PEARSON DID NOT INTERFERE WITH NATE WRIGHT!! OH NO!! AMERICA'S TEAM WOULDN'T EVER THINK OF DOING SUCH A THING AND NEVER, EVER WOULD GET--AHEM--INCREASED FAVORABLE AWARENESS FROM ANYONE IN A SUPERVISORY CAPACITY [Any inference to an actual person in any capacity at that or any other game between Minnestota and Dallas or any other NFL team at any time past, present or future is unintentional and purely coincidental]) for the NFC Championship. The Vikings, now that they are linked to the Cubs, will continue to lose, lose, lose and never win a Super Bowl as long as I live. I also expect to see a football version of Steve Bartman to show up at Viking games this year. Trust me, he'll find a way to interfere at the worst possible moment and Moises Alou will put on football pads long enough to ensure Viking defeat in a game they HAVE to win. Maybe Cubs and Vikings fans could form an association and support group as we endure more defeat together.
But that itself wouldn't be fully possible. You see, what makes matters worse is that the Cubs have at least won the World Series.
Earlier today, my friend and I were teasing one another yet again and I mentioned--as I have previously--that my only childhood team yet to win a Championship continues to be the Minnesota Vikings. To make matters sort of worse, the Vikings not only lay claim to the first team to lose four Super Bowls (out of the first 11 played and only the game against the Steelers was halfway close), but they haven't returned to the contest since 1977. They have come close three times (well, two and a half), but thirty years of no Super Bowl and counting. But I keep hoping that management, coaches and players will find a way to be on a similar page long enough to at least give themselves a chance to lose again. My friend knows all these matters and as I was referring to what hopes I have, he uttered these immortal words: "Maybe you can be like Cub fans." Since the Chicago Cubs have not won a World Series since 1908 and haven't been to one since 1945, I felt put in an exceedingly less than comfortable place. The Vikings, you see, will go on and on, year after year, finding ever more creative ways to lose NFC Championship games or, if they somehow miraculously get there again, the Super Bowl. The Vikings, you see, will continue year after year to make Herschel Walker-like trades and misuse (THANKS JERRY BURNS: pass the ball in the flat to a runner whose foot speed and power came from going straight ahead after a HANDOFF) tremendous players on both sides of the ball. The Vikings will go through coach after coach, coordinators upon coordinators and only remember the glorious games at Metropolitan Stadium when they would beat the Rams and the Cowboys (OH NO!! DREW PEARSON DID NOT INTERFERE WITH NATE WRIGHT!! OH NO!! AMERICA'S TEAM WOULDN'T EVER THINK OF DOING SUCH A THING AND NEVER, EVER WOULD GET--AHEM--INCREASED FAVORABLE AWARENESS FROM ANYONE IN A SUPERVISORY CAPACITY [Any inference to an actual person in any capacity at that or any other game between Minnestota and Dallas or any other NFL team at any time past, present or future is unintentional and purely coincidental]) for the NFC Championship. The Vikings, now that they are linked to the Cubs, will continue to lose, lose, lose and never win a Super Bowl as long as I live. I also expect to see a football version of Steve Bartman to show up at Viking games this year. Trust me, he'll find a way to interfere at the worst possible moment and Moises Alou will put on football pads long enough to ensure Viking defeat in a game they HAVE to win. Maybe Cubs and Vikings fans could form an association and support group as we endure more defeat together.
But that itself wouldn't be fully possible. You see, what makes matters worse is that the Cubs have at least won the World Series.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Frank Thomas, 500 Home Runs and, Well, ...
Today, June 28, 2007, Frank "The Big Hurt" Thomas hit his 500th career home run in a game against the Minnesota Twins (somewhere, Hubert Horatio Humphrey is rolling in his grave and, no doubt, is making a speech about the occasion). There is absolutely no question about the manner in which Thomas achieved his milestone, even in the age of steroids, human "They Ain't Intellectual" growth hormones and diluted pitching as caused--largely--by too much expansion. Thomas will, in due time, earn first ballot admission to the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. His personal career was also capped by being a member of the 2005 World Champion Chicago White Sox.
Last week, another former White Sox, Sammy Sosa, hit his 600th career home run against the Chicago Cubs, the team for whom he enjoyed the most individual success (OK, I won't put success in quotation marks as I usually do. Today at least, I won't quibble with its meaning as well as cultural and linguistic implications, ....). Unfortunately, "Slammin' Sammy" has been linked to useage of the same "enhancing" materials that Frank Thomas chose not to pursue. Linked, of course, not proved, and Sosa is innocent until proven guilty. Whether Sosa really forgot how to speak coherent English in his testimony before Congress or had an illiness that day, if I were a baseball writer with a Hall of Fame vote, I would not vote for his election the first year of eligibility, but would do so in the second year. I would do likewise for Mark "I Didn't Come to Talk about the Past" McGwire. Since, however, Raphael Palmiero did test positive after piously claiming never to have used steroids, I would not vote for his election unless some mitigating circumstances arose.
Whether Sosa forgot English or Palmiero forgot the difference between honesty and creative truth-telling, AT LEAST they had the intestinal fortitude to sit before Congress and the cameras. That is more than I can say for Barry Bonds. He is, as I write, within 6 home runs of tying Hank Aaron's all-time home run record and most of the major sports shows seem trying to navigate between a television event and the storm clouds currently downpouring their all-too-obvious rain on his allegedly ill-gotten parade. I do NOT doubt Bonds as one of the best players of the current era. I do NOT doubt, on the basis of his career prior to the (alleged) enlargment of his head, Bonds' election to Cooperstown. I do NOT doubt his unique offensive skills of speed and power. I DO have doubts--unproven, unsubstantiated and--ergo--Bonds is still innocent until proven guilty--about his post-35 years old, late 1990s power totals. Unless I see evidence that disproves my suspicions about his offensive totals from the late 1990s forward,--which just happened to be when steroid abuse came into public awareness and eventual scrutiny, even from the idiotic Commissioner's and Player's Union Offices--and I had a Hall of Fame vote, I would, as with Sosa and McGwire, not vote for Bonds in his first year of eligibility. Afterwards, I would hold my nose and vote to elect him on the basis of the earlier portions of his career. I do have the satisfaction however, that unless the San Francisco Giants get a lot better very quickly, that Bonds won't play on a World Championship team. He won't, in other words, have the same feeling as Mr. Aaron, Mr. Mays, The Big Hurt and the members of the 2004 World Champion Boston Red Sox. I rather enjoy that type of solace.
Last week, another former White Sox, Sammy Sosa, hit his 600th career home run against the Chicago Cubs, the team for whom he enjoyed the most individual success (OK, I won't put success in quotation marks as I usually do. Today at least, I won't quibble with its meaning as well as cultural and linguistic implications, ....). Unfortunately, "Slammin' Sammy" has been linked to useage of the same "enhancing" materials that Frank Thomas chose not to pursue. Linked, of course, not proved, and Sosa is innocent until proven guilty. Whether Sosa really forgot how to speak coherent English in his testimony before Congress or had an illiness that day, if I were a baseball writer with a Hall of Fame vote, I would not vote for his election the first year of eligibility, but would do so in the second year. I would do likewise for Mark "I Didn't Come to Talk about the Past" McGwire. Since, however, Raphael Palmiero did test positive after piously claiming never to have used steroids, I would not vote for his election unless some mitigating circumstances arose.
Whether Sosa forgot English or Palmiero forgot the difference between honesty and creative truth-telling, AT LEAST they had the intestinal fortitude to sit before Congress and the cameras. That is more than I can say for Barry Bonds. He is, as I write, within 6 home runs of tying Hank Aaron's all-time home run record and most of the major sports shows seem trying to navigate between a television event and the storm clouds currently downpouring their all-too-obvious rain on his allegedly ill-gotten parade. I do NOT doubt Bonds as one of the best players of the current era. I do NOT doubt, on the basis of his career prior to the (alleged) enlargment of his head, Bonds' election to Cooperstown. I do NOT doubt his unique offensive skills of speed and power. I DO have doubts--unproven, unsubstantiated and--ergo--Bonds is still innocent until proven guilty--about his post-35 years old, late 1990s power totals. Unless I see evidence that disproves my suspicions about his offensive totals from the late 1990s forward,--which just happened to be when steroid abuse came into public awareness and eventual scrutiny, even from the idiotic Commissioner's and Player's Union Offices--and I had a Hall of Fame vote, I would, as with Sosa and McGwire, not vote for Bonds in his first year of eligibility. Afterwards, I would hold my nose and vote to elect him on the basis of the earlier portions of his career. I do have the satisfaction however, that unless the San Francisco Giants get a lot better very quickly, that Bonds won't play on a World Championship team. He won't, in other words, have the same feeling as Mr. Aaron, Mr. Mays, The Big Hurt and the members of the 2004 World Champion Boston Red Sox. I rather enjoy that type of solace.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Retrospectively
In more or less four years, my alma mater will celebrate its centennial as a University. Originally begun as a Normal School to train public school teachers, The University of Memphis has grown into an institution that offers several doctoral degrees and has, I think, tried in recent years, to find a sense of itself beyond the shadow of the University of Tennessee. It's no sense in trying to out do the Vols. They will always receive more state funding and have a larger following. They've also been around since right near statehood in 1796. My sense is that the U of M tried to stand eye to eye with UT for decades and it simply didn't work. My own thoughts as a student--when I allowed myself to have them in between political crusades--was that we didn't need to try for the eye to eye. We could simply walk away from UT and let them have their space while we could create our own (mixed metaphors and all). I feel better about U of M now, especially since the early 1990s when some major new buildings were built, coupled presently with the burgeoning Student Center to replace the one I remember from my days on campus. We will always have land issues and never enough students to meet UT or now, it seems, MTSU in Murfreesboro. We have been able, however, to move in the direction of being a unique University by emphasizing what Memphis offers. Namely, the River, music, history and--for better or worse--issues involving race and religion (which are included in discussions about the first three). Let Knoxville be Knoxville and let MTSU stress its connections to Nashville up north and the Saturn plant down south. We Memphis folks will do the Delta as it were.
I went to U of M neither by intention nor legacy. I didn't spend my time doing nearly the number of enriching activities provided by a major campus. I talked too much about politics and didn't pay attention to what presented itself before me. Almost by coincidence, nevertheless, I benefitted from attending there as it became my place rather than that of anyone else I knew. I had mostly excellent professors, adequate library resources and--most of the time-- administrative help in getting my questions answered. I went to some football and basketball games, had a great time (except for the Louisville football game in 1982 when it rained all day long and we lost by something like 35-3), and even worked for a disabled student one semester as his assistant. Since 1999, I've belonged to the Alumni Association and just recently became a lifetime member. I wish I could do more and hope to be able to give some modest amounts of help to whatever celebrations the University has in store come 2012.
I graduated form the U of M in 1984. Unless I end up teaching at a nearby University, I doubt I'll ever attend classes there again. Retrospectively, in any case, I made a terrific decision to go there and it's a place with which I am proud to associate myself.
I went to U of M neither by intention nor legacy. I didn't spend my time doing nearly the number of enriching activities provided by a major campus. I talked too much about politics and didn't pay attention to what presented itself before me. Almost by coincidence, nevertheless, I benefitted from attending there as it became my place rather than that of anyone else I knew. I had mostly excellent professors, adequate library resources and--most of the time-- administrative help in getting my questions answered. I went to some football and basketball games, had a great time (except for the Louisville football game in 1982 when it rained all day long and we lost by something like 35-3), and even worked for a disabled student one semester as his assistant. Since 1999, I've belonged to the Alumni Association and just recently became a lifetime member. I wish I could do more and hope to be able to give some modest amounts of help to whatever celebrations the University has in store come 2012.
I graduated form the U of M in 1984. Unless I end up teaching at a nearby University, I doubt I'll ever attend classes there again. Retrospectively, in any case, I made a terrific decision to go there and it's a place with which I am proud to associate myself.
Monday, June 4, 2007
In Spite of Myself
Fairly recently, I experienced a situation that reminded me--positively--of the literary theory I tried to read two summers ago. Most people who have endured my tendencies to bloviate can attest to my suspicion of theory as it applies to literature and, more generally, theology and politics. Nevertheless, the situation I encountered connected some dots and led me to wonder if I might be missing a necessary tool for my overall approach to all matters literary.
I recently attended a sporting event with family members. It sounded like a pleasant time and, for me at least, a time to sentimentally reconnect with my childhood "glories" on the field of athletic effort. We arrived at the stadium and, after spending more than ten dollars for "food," I sat down to watch the game. Every half inning, the PA Announcer would start to blare some promotion or "Congratulations to ..." for finishing this or that stupendous such and such. If it wasn't the PA Announcer, a young MC of sorts would invite someone from the stands to walk on to the field to play a game "like they do on The Price is Right. and have a chance to win X amount of dollars." If it wasn't either of these folks, still more folks would rush onto the field paralleling the stands to booming displays of music and--on cue--throw t-shirts toward grasping, clawing (but not quite desperate) audience members. The game itself seemed an intermittent after thought surrounded by endless meanderings of "entertainment." I soon realized again that if I want to experience sports as something other than mind-numbing diversions from issues that warp our lives, I could do better sitting home and pay my overpriced cable television bill.
Such is where theory renewed itself in my mind. One of the writers our class read--and it's always fair to say with these folks, "tried to read"--argued that capitalism as a system gets to the point of preserving itself through the mental deadening of its "customers." In so doing, the customers are literally and figuratively duped into continuing participation in the process that is against their own personal, psychological, political, even "spiritual" interests. We buy "stuff" in ever-increasing amounts--say sporting tickets and concessions and t-shirts, caps and ad infinitum--to keep up appearances with our neighbors who then buy more stuff to return the favor to us. We watch Grey's Anatomy and wonder who is sleeping with whom rather than ask ourselves what kind of actual life we have or what we--as my Baptist Grandfather used to say--are doing "to help our fellow man" (he lived in the early 20th Century, so his language reflected that time and its assumptions. His point, however, stands as timeless). Our churches argue over money, committee chair slots or how many banners to hang in the narthex as an enticement for "new members" "since that's what our consultant said to do." We--sadly--write blogs rather than sitting down with pen and paper to experience the mysterious and singular joy of our own handwriting. We, in short, anesthetize ourselves and our societal "base" and "superstructures" reflect the noxious reality of how much gas we pump into our lungs.
In that sense, I realize that theory has a point to make and in so doing, it is much like the best of Judeo-Christian theology as it provides a critique of culture from an admittedly "inside" perspective. I remain not sure that either theory or theology provides an equal measure of solutions alongside its criticisms. Perhaps, however, that's not its job and at its best, theory and theology invite us to reexamine ourselves, our priorities and find culturally-applicable solutions for our present experiences. What provides renewal for Americans, in other words, may not do so for Ireland or Japan or--as it were--someone from Vulcan. Perhaps my sense of theory--as it always has been for theology--is that it invites us to find our own way and, in so doing, discover the fullness of life that can be ours. That's both frightening and invigorating.
I recently attended a sporting event with family members. It sounded like a pleasant time and, for me at least, a time to sentimentally reconnect with my childhood "glories" on the field of athletic effort. We arrived at the stadium and, after spending more than ten dollars for "food," I sat down to watch the game. Every half inning, the PA Announcer would start to blare some promotion or "Congratulations to ..." for finishing this or that stupendous such and such. If it wasn't the PA Announcer, a young MC of sorts would invite someone from the stands to walk on to the field to play a game "like they do on The Price is Right. and have a chance to win X amount of dollars." If it wasn't either of these folks, still more folks would rush onto the field paralleling the stands to booming displays of music and--on cue--throw t-shirts toward grasping, clawing (but not quite desperate) audience members. The game itself seemed an intermittent after thought surrounded by endless meanderings of "entertainment." I soon realized again that if I want to experience sports as something other than mind-numbing diversions from issues that warp our lives, I could do better sitting home and pay my overpriced cable television bill.
Such is where theory renewed itself in my mind. One of the writers our class read--and it's always fair to say with these folks, "tried to read"--argued that capitalism as a system gets to the point of preserving itself through the mental deadening of its "customers." In so doing, the customers are literally and figuratively duped into continuing participation in the process that is against their own personal, psychological, political, even "spiritual" interests. We buy "stuff" in ever-increasing amounts--say sporting tickets and concessions and t-shirts, caps and ad infinitum--to keep up appearances with our neighbors who then buy more stuff to return the favor to us. We watch Grey's Anatomy and wonder who is sleeping with whom rather than ask ourselves what kind of actual life we have or what we--as my Baptist Grandfather used to say--are doing "to help our fellow man" (he lived in the early 20th Century, so his language reflected that time and its assumptions. His point, however, stands as timeless). Our churches argue over money, committee chair slots or how many banners to hang in the narthex as an enticement for "new members" "since that's what our consultant said to do." We--sadly--write blogs rather than sitting down with pen and paper to experience the mysterious and singular joy of our own handwriting. We, in short, anesthetize ourselves and our societal "base" and "superstructures" reflect the noxious reality of how much gas we pump into our lungs.
In that sense, I realize that theory has a point to make and in so doing, it is much like the best of Judeo-Christian theology as it provides a critique of culture from an admittedly "inside" perspective. I remain not sure that either theory or theology provides an equal measure of solutions alongside its criticisms. Perhaps, however, that's not its job and at its best, theory and theology invite us to reexamine ourselves, our priorities and find culturally-applicable solutions for our present experiences. What provides renewal for Americans, in other words, may not do so for Ireland or Japan or--as it were--someone from Vulcan. Perhaps my sense of theory--as it always has been for theology--is that it invites us to find our own way and, in so doing, discover the fullness of life that can be ours. That's both frightening and invigorating.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Justice, the Grizzlies and Tiger Football
It's rather tempting to comment about the Justice Department US Attorney firing idiocy, but it won't satisfy anything but my need to vent. I've long since relinquished any hope for basic decency in the current administration, but their lack can easily be applied to any grouping of politicians or, as George Orwell put it, those who seek power for its own sake. No one in politics has clean hands and our society needs a thorough hand-washing or, to paraphrase Al Gore's newest book, a return to reason. I'm not surprised, but I don't think the US Attorney scandal is anything terribly new.
Without a good transition, I sunk into a measure of despair when I found out that the Memphis Grizzlies got the fourth pick in the upcoming NBA draft. The Griz had the worst regular season record and had the best chance to get the first overall pick, but ended up getting the slot we had to get: God knows where the Griz's ping pong balls landed in the NBA bin. As a Memphian by feeling, I think it all but nuts that Nashville can have an NFL and an NHL team, but Memphis can't land anything outside a transplanted NBA franchise. Jerry West did the best he could and Hubie Brown coached the team to the playoffs, but the current ownership seems determined to remain mediocre or--worse--a replay of the Sacramento Kings of 20 years ago (bad, bad and always bad).
In a more hopeful note,--at least until the season starts, when anxiety and no doubt some frustration will ensue--Memphis Tiger football begins in less than four months. If we can find a consistent offense,--an effective running game would help--I have hopes for about a 7-5 season and a return to a bowl game. Much of our season also depends on our quarterback from last year, Martin Hankins, discovering that completing passes to players wearing uniforms similar to his own tends to result in favorable outcomes. He had good season statistics, but he was--politely--inconsistent and not much of a presence in key moments. If Hankins doesn't get off to a good start, Coach West might hear rumblings to replace him with our red-shirt freshman from Oxford, Mississippi, Matt Malouf (spelling?). That would put a lot of pressure on a 19 year old without one down in major college action--a prescription for a lot more trouble. To paraphrase my cousin's comment about his school (Georgia) last year: heaven help the offense. Well, at least the Dawgs went to a bowl game--
Without a good transition, I sunk into a measure of despair when I found out that the Memphis Grizzlies got the fourth pick in the upcoming NBA draft. The Griz had the worst regular season record and had the best chance to get the first overall pick, but ended up getting the slot we had to get: God knows where the Griz's ping pong balls landed in the NBA bin. As a Memphian by feeling, I think it all but nuts that Nashville can have an NFL and an NHL team, but Memphis can't land anything outside a transplanted NBA franchise. Jerry West did the best he could and Hubie Brown coached the team to the playoffs, but the current ownership seems determined to remain mediocre or--worse--a replay of the Sacramento Kings of 20 years ago (bad, bad and always bad).
In a more hopeful note,--at least until the season starts, when anxiety and no doubt some frustration will ensue--Memphis Tiger football begins in less than four months. If we can find a consistent offense,--an effective running game would help--I have hopes for about a 7-5 season and a return to a bowl game. Much of our season also depends on our quarterback from last year, Martin Hankins, discovering that completing passes to players wearing uniforms similar to his own tends to result in favorable outcomes. He had good season statistics, but he was--politely--inconsistent and not much of a presence in key moments. If Hankins doesn't get off to a good start, Coach West might hear rumblings to replace him with our red-shirt freshman from Oxford, Mississippi, Matt Malouf (spelling?). That would put a lot of pressure on a 19 year old without one down in major college action--a prescription for a lot more trouble. To paraphrase my cousin's comment about his school (Georgia) last year: heaven help the offense. Well, at least the Dawgs went to a bowl game--
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Progress
I try not to be vain, but now there are two photos of me (same one) on my electronic diary. It's rather a queasy feeling,--Miss Lorraine would look askance at me being too self-promoting--but after figuring out where to go with which key on the typewriter, I managed to get a smaller version in the right hand corner rather than just one placed in the "posting" log. More later--
Monday, May 21, 2007
Presumably
After checking with my friend Steve (aka: "The Cracker"), I've managed to post a photo and more or less enter the twenty-first century. I guess my next evolutionary step will be to familiarize myself with various and assundry programs that otherwise I want to ignore. With all the Community Colleges in my immediate area, my guess is that such "goals" remains accesible and--all else being equal--fairly simple. More concessions, more access to the sort of life I desire.
Trying Again
I'm not sure how I ended up here, but I'll try to post from henceforth via the current name and variances (I refuse to call this an "address"). Once I get a photo posted (hopefully today, once I speak with my friend the photo guru), I'll be satisfied for a while here.
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