Remembering . . .

Hello from the little borough of Lewisburg,

The morning is bright with a brilliant sun, and yet a hint of autumn as there is a morning fog across the fields in the valleys her in Central Pennsylvania. The corn has tasseled, and, yet, in spite of some pretty dry recent weather, things are still quite green for the first few days of August. This morning I drove to Allenwood (about 30 miles from Bloomsburg) for a pre-surgery visit before my cataract surgeries this month. While driving across I80, there was a small group of Harleys cruising West, and I wondered if they were Sturgis-bound. I think they are a week or so late if I remember the dates correctly from my two pilgrimages to the Mecca of motorcycle gatherings. If you’ve never attended the rally, and I have been to Laconia, but not to Daytona, it is a scene to behold. It was 20 years ago (literally on these few days) I trailered out with a group of others. While I only had a 1200 Sportster Low at the time, I felt quite proud of myself making the trip. It was an experience. I would go again a couple years later and I would ride (solo actually) meeting other 2-wheeled-disciples on my way across I90 in South Dakota. Both trips taught me a lot, and ironically the best bike I would own (a 2014 Street Glide with a stage 4 upgrade and some upgraded stereo and other things) never made the trip. I did, of course, live here in Pennsylvania by that time, which would add more than 2,500 miles or so to the trip.

In the 20 years since that first excursion to the motherlode of motorcycle gatherings, I’ve heard there are changes. Some of the things considered ubiquitous to Sturgis are not as common today as supposedly they have limited some of the typical self-expression of the past. I remember walking down the street and seeing three very attractive individuals whose clothes were air-brushed. I did not realize it until I was by them. Amazing! I think that first year I was there there were in the neighborhood of a half million bikes. Stunning for town of barely 7,000 people (2020 census). Every square inch of that town is considered for sale that 10 days of August. The majority of residents and businesses pack up and leave town. Both years I attended, I have significant remembrances. And the breadth in the people met or observed go beyond the wildest of one’s imagination.

The first week in August and those days have other memories. I’ve noted from time to time, I have dates that seem to create couplets between people who’ve had a profound influence on my life. August 5th is the passing date and the birth date of two people who both had the role of parent to me. In 1989, my adopted mother, Bernice Martin, passed away at the age of 68. It does not go unnoticed that soon I will have lived three years longer than she did. She had been in the hospital only three days when she was removed from life-support. I remember my father signing the papers to facilitate that removal after learning that she was functionally brain dead. That was an incredible thing to watch, to experience. There are a number of memories from those few days. The second person, whose birth date is that same 5th day of August, was someone I would meet by chance. I was introduced to this little giant of a woman by a faculty colleague, who lived two doors down from her on the little circle above the lake, in a small town where I was teaching in my first tenure track position. To say this two-digit-midget (no disrespect to those genetically undersized) would change my life is in no way hyperbolic. Lydia was born in Europe in 1924 and immigrated to the states at the age of 29. Austrian by birth, her family lived in the Sudetenland through the Second World War (though she had been sent back to Vienna before the war’s end. She would eventually find her way to London, where she married a Polish POW, who had escaped Dachau, and the two were sponsored by other Polish immigrants already in Chicago. This facilitated their opportunity to come to the United States.

They lived in the Oak Park area of Chicago after some time, and they both worked diligently to assimilate into their new chosen country. Like many others who self-exiled from their native countries in Europe, they worked multiple jobs and saved carefully. Lydia once told me that George had the following philosophy about their purchasing of durable goods if you will. He supposedly said, “Jesteśmy zbyt biedni, by kupować tanio.” Which when translated from Polish is “We are too poor to buy cheap.” George would become an incredible painter and interior decorator. Lydia would end up ABD in international economics. When I met Lydia, George had passed 10 years before, and she managed this unbelievably stunning three story mansion above the lake. At one point, she owned three of the houses, and paid the taxes on a fourth so struggling neighbor would not lose hers. All this from a woman, who as a couple had come to the US with two suitcases and $100.00.

What still stands out for me is how Lydia, George, and an entire generation of Europeans would come to the US after the extensive displacement in Europe, giving up their homelands, their languages to a great extent, many of their customs, hoping to be accepted in this new land. The first time I met Lydia, I listened to her for a few words, and I asked her, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” To which she responded, “Natürlich bin ich Österreicher.” So I introduced myself now in German and spoke a couple more sentences to her. Again, in her cute, and distinctive accent, she said, “Michael, you can live next door to me.” She once told me, “Michael I took classes to get rid of my accent. It never worked.” And of course, I found her accent endearing, and she saw it as a failure. She determined that her accent would never allow her to be seen as an American. That is a very difficult thing for someone who voluntarily chose America as her country. I never met George, I heard stories about him and how private and quiet he was. Indeed he had the numbers tattooed on his arm, but never once, from what I can tell did he speak about his time in Dachau or about the war in general. It was not until Lydia was in the memory unit, the last three years of her life, and she told me what had happened to her parents at the end of the war. Lydia actually spoke four languages: German, Czech, Polish, and English. But because of what happened to her parents, and anyone else without Czech citizenship on September 1, 1939, the day Hitler invaded Poland, she would never speak Czech again.

So as I write this blog, I remember how a hobby of two-wheeled vehicles has been part of my life since 16, and more or less from time to time. As I am a few hours from August 5th, I remember two extremely different women who share a date on the calendar. They were important to my development at different points and periods of my life, but I am grateful for both of them. Ironically neither had children that were in their lives for any period of time (there is a lot to all of that). They both accepted me as a child they had not birthed, and they provided in ways that taught me a great deal about the world and about myself. I use those lessons yet today. Life has a way of imprinting things upon us even when we do not realize it, but when we remember, we begin to understand.

Thank you as always for reading,

Michael

Consumption versus Creation

Hello from a hospital waiting room,

Before you worry, it is not for me. I am visiting. It’s been a fabulous couple days weather wise, and the weekend predicts more of the same. It might be the nicest 4-5 day stretch I remember in a very long time. The nights have not required the AC, even though I am on the third floor, and the afternoons are warm, but the humidity has been very manageable. It’s been great. It’s been a productive few days and there’s been a number of schedule changes in terms of August and medical management. The important thing is to get it all on my calendar so I do not miss anything.

The other morning I was listening to a news story, if I remember correctly, or perhaps it was something said at my weekly conversations group meeting. Someone brought up how differently our world might be if we focused on creativity versus merely consuming things. Let me note something I have come to realize about our Northern neighbors. There are two participants who are both Canadian citizens; I believe one has dual citizenship. They are two of the most insightful, engaging people I have ever met. One of them was in one of my classes back in the day, and the other I was just recently blessed to meet. Their ability to step back and see alternatives, and offer solutions in a profound kind manner speaks to the depth of both their intelligence and character. They both spoke about how things available for their children provides such a powerful force for being creative, and it was in this context that the juxtaposition with consuming stuff was offered.

While the last two years have changed my approach to my worldly possessions dramatically, I think I grew up subconsciously believing that the person with the most toys wins or the adage that the difference between men and boys is the price of those toys. Likewise achieving the American dream meant being wealthier or somehow more affluent than the preceding generations of my family. Just earlier today, I found out some information about my paternal grandfather. He passed away at 53, which was incredibly young, but I found information on his father as well as learned he was one of 13 children. Dang! That’s a lot of siblings. My grandmother, who I have written about often, was the youngest of four sisters. In fact, my research has revealed an entire side of my family and a connection between the Hannestads and Lymans that goes beyond more than one person. It appears two of the Hannestad sisters married two Lynam brothers. I found an entire group of Aunts and Uncles as well as a great generation I was unaware of. One of my breakfast colleagues does a lot of genealogy I will have to tell him of my discovery.

However, it seems I’ve digressed. Back to consumption and creativity. What I realize much more clearly now is how much of the proverbial shoestring my adoptive parents and yes, even my business-owning grandmother must of lived on. I’ve noted this in different ways in previously written blogs, but what I see now is my parents were not the keep-up-with-the-Jones type. My father worked hard to provide us with both what we needed to move up, but it was done in a thoughtful and non-recognizable manner. When we got our new home, I think my father had the kitchen remodeled shortly thereafter, giving my mother new customized cupboards. We got our first color television, the same television they would have long after I graduated from high school. Eventually the house would get re-sided, and my father worked diligently on his yard. The one thing we did have long before others was a 200 amp service and underground wiring to the detached garage. But even then, he was able to get all the wire, both for inside and outside the home more cheaply than others because of his status as a journeyman electrician, and he did all the work himself with my brother and me as gophers. I never remember them having a new car. And in spite of times in elementary school, where I believe things were particularly tight, then topic was never spoken of, and there was no real way that we were given a message of ever going without.

So what then was offered to us in terms of creativity. Music was a big part of the household, from music lessons to listening to records, from singing in choirs to band concerts. In elementary school our yard was the neighborhood playground, from a whiffle ball diamond to a basketball court and a side yard football field. And the alleys and sidewalks around our block provided hours of bike riding. We created our own fun if you will. There was both a routine and a creativity to what we did. Things I perhaps took for granted (e.g. installing playing cards in the spokes of our bicycle wheels to sound cool; creating snow tunnels and snow forts in the winter snows; developing stories and characters with other playmates on the block to create our plans for a day’s hanging out). We did not have tons of money to go anywhere, and yet, we never felt poor or deprived. As someone who appreciates our love/hate relationship with technology, as someone whose first computer maxed out at 640KB, and yet, had his first smartphone in 2004, has owned more than his share of gadgets, I still hand-write cards and thank you notes and there have been moments (days) where I’ve intentionally left my phone home (though not so much now because of health concerns), I’ve used technology to assist me versus see it as an extension of my identity. And yet, I must ask myself, how true is that statement, perhaps examining intent rather than actuality? Certainly my use of social media is identity creating. It is a narrative and in classic narrative ethical reasoning, story telling creates identity and we understand ourselves through and by the stories we create. There is that word: create. I once co-authored a paper (video presentation) with a student about how our text messages (in two languages) over a six-month period created a family of sorts, one message at a time.

What I am pushed to accept is that we are caught in the tug-o-war between consumption and creativity, and it permeates every aspect of who we are. So the decision of what to do in our management of that is profound. Perhaps it is learning how to integrate the two, vacillating to some extent in the area that lies between. As I have meandered my way through writing this post, which has taken the better part of a week, it has placed into perspective how much we are constantly consumers. To make some conscious change in our propensity consumption. And just possibly there is the real kernel of what I am trying to consider. Consumption is self-centered, inward looking, one might go as far as asserting it is intrinsically selfish. Creation is both intrinsically and extrinsically the opposite. It offers something to the other. It provides both physical and emotional opportunities to change things for the better, at least generally speaking. It does not go unnoticed that there are moments (or even more) where this does not occur. However, that is complexity whenever one thing is juxtaposed to another. What I’ve realized is I do not need to consume nor do I desire to consume as I one felt I did or believed that I was somehow entitled to do. I would, instead, to focus on doing things that create an atmosphere, an attitude, or a situation where what I do creates a better world for those around me.

While this was the song that came to mind, I do not believe materialism is an issue for a specific gender, but it is related to our human greed.

Thanks for reading,

Michael

Is it Choice or Something Other?

Hello from the Eastern Shore,

The next month or two seems likely to be a bit hectic, but I am working diligently to get the ducks-in-a-row. I am still trying to catch some of them, but that will happen. Last evening I had dinner with a friend and we had the most wonderful chat about the realities of life, particularly about how much we can expect to control as well as what we actually can control. Hearing someone else, a person I believe is both intelligent and capable, say much the same was refreshing. Too much of my life I wasted energy on things, on other’s attitudes or beliefs, or worrying about circumstances over which I had little or no influence. I’m quite sure I am not unique in this practice, and yet why are we so wired to engage in something with so little ROI? It is simply our need for power or control or is there something more deeply engrained in us as fragile humans?

Too often there seems to be a pattern where we occupy ourselves with something that does little to improve our circumstance and not nearly enough time either thinking or acting on issues that have a more significant consequence in life. Is it we are overwhelmed by the present or fail to realize the longer view of something. Since returning to Bloomsburg late last September, I think for the first 8 months felt like I had no footings, no bearings, and I was much like a flag on a pole constantly at the mercy of the wind and weather. Feeling that way is one issue; understanding why I felt like that is another. While I believe there is always a connection, it is impossible at times to clearly establish that exact relationship, but it’s also difficult to draw a clear line of demarcation. It is often how life works. There seems to be more truth or actuality to Hegelian dialectic: thesis, antithesis, and the resulting synthesis. In terms of identity and position, retirement and a sort of re-identification, it’s been a process. Likewise, in spite of some anticipated bumps, what I’ve come to know even more profoundly was the depth that the following statement I often spoke was true. Being a professor was not what I did, it is who I was (written now as past tense), and yet not even that is completely accurate. People still refer to me as Dr. Martin; people still introduce me as a retired faculty person from Bloomsburg (Commonwealth). I am still asked for my expertise when it comes to writing, if it is possible for me to be a reference, and even if I might be involved with a class that is currently being developed for veterans..

The point is simply this: we make choices and while we are influenced by the choices of others, the only thing we have any power over is what we ourselves do or how we respond. As I found myself seeming to be battered by the changing winds of retirement, and it was a serious storm, I struggled to find a place to hold onto. I felt like the proverbial boat was in the middle of the waves and I had no oars, and there was no engine or motor to use. That along with my continued health issues, which are always there made both things more overwhelming. Managing the changing rules of Medicare, insurance, and geography were unanticipated and simultaneously unavoidable. In spite of some thoughtful planning, learning the ins and outs of being on the other side of a paycheck was also more complicated than I expected. Again, there was little in my daily routine that seemed to be where I believed it would be. And yet, regardless the seeming contradiction of anything planned, I find myself in a place of relative contentment. Was the movement to this place a choice or merely part of a continuum? I think that is still up for discussion, for interpretation. However, there have been some choices made. A few more significant choices were in response to health, which I will assert are both necessary and common sense. Health is not about convenience; it’s about necessity. The reality of health insurance and geography are both consequential and, to some degree non-negotiable. However, most of them have been managed. That is a choice. There are times we might wish to avoid those decisions, but seldom is that wise. Health is almost never about convenience; it is about living optimally. Additionally, those choices affected other decisions like where will I live or how will I live. Fortunately, I had options, and I also had the graciousness of others.

From the time I returned late last September to now, the consistency has been location, and that has developed into the conscious decision to learn about my life as a retiree from the nomadic existence that I had planned to the living in a more systematic and sustainable manner that, while less mobile is more intentionally simple. Simplicity has its place, and at least it seems its benefits. The stepping back from some things, the no longer being required to participate. or even being included, offers that possibility of streamlining, of a reimagining of life. Perhaps what I have realized is my decision to pack my life to too much was a choice I made. It was more times than not ill-advised, but I believed it was necessary, required, expected. None of that was true; instead it was my response to what I heard or believed about myself. While I believe my father’s admonishment to be better than average was quite safe, I took that remonstrance to a level that was unrealistic, often unhealthy. Again, the reasons for such a response from me are both understood and simultaneously complex. My entire life has been spent trying to prove myself worthy enough, capable enough, smart enough, and while I can see how and why, there would never be enough. If I was told either specifically or by implication I was not going to achieve something that was a license to prove them wrong. Certainly some good came from that motivation, but moderating the effort was not an option. And yet, regardless the impetus, how I responded was still a choice. Life is a series of choices, even when we are placed in a situation where we seem to be little more than a victim. There are times we are placed in untenable circumstances. The power, the agency, we still have is how we respond. That is our choice in that less than ideal juncture.

The last almost two years since I officially retired has been a cavalcade of both planned (although not as well as thought) and unplanned (learning experiences) that taught me a lot, both experientially as well as emotionally. As I am back in the space I’ve lived the longest since high school, two phrases seem to be my focus: to be gracious toward others first, and to be grateful for each day I have and the possibilities that are offered. To live that way is also a choice. Recently, I wrote about my grandmother. Those words describe her. Perhaps emulating her is the most precious thing I can do.

Thanks as always for reading,

Michael

Unending Love; Amazing Grace

Grandma and Grandpa, and so much more

Hello from Cape Charles,

Seldom does a week pass that I do not have moments where something reminds me of my grandmother. And certainly memories of her, her being my mother the early years of my life, my employer in high school, and my protector of sorts until she passed illustrates how much influence she had upon me. There is no specific thing that prompts my mind to thoughts of her. At times it might be driving and a song (“Nights in White Satin” will do it every time) comes on the radio. It might be the smell of something. If I see the Eastern Star emblem, immediately I think of her. Sitting in the Little Bakery, as recently noted. Smell is a powerful invoker of memory. When I decorated my home on the Acre, though often subconsciously, there were specific items, particular decorating touches that I did that were comfortable because it returned me to my grandparent’s home from the time was I two to four years old. Even the physical space of the property seemed to compel both physical and emotional recollection. The point is simple: my grandmother is my grounding point for most everything I have, how I act, and what I believe is good and appropriate. Certainly, there are people in my life who’ve had important influence since, and I believe they have helped me develop the positives she first gave me.

Stating unequivocally how an individual can make such an impact is profound, and while I’ve always been aware of her importance on me, I am sure the significance, and subsequent admiration, has only grown as I’ve aged. I think that is, in part, because I understand both her actions and her advice much more clearly, maybe more accurately now. She was a profoundly gracious person, and while she could get angry, even then she exhibited extreme restraint. I do not remember her ever raising her voice in my entire life. She might use a tone that demonstrated her displeasure, but that was about the extent of it. As I have often noted, the worst thing she could have said to me was that she was disappointed. What I realize now, with an incredible sadness, was I probably her hurt her feelings and disappointed her more than once, particularly when I did not take the time to see her as often as I should have or when I failed to follow through on a commitment I probably made. I have noted more than once she had been my mother before u entered elementary school, and the summer between my junior and senior year of high school. When my father begged me to come home that fall of 1972, I knew in my heart that any choice I made would hurt someone, and when I returned to the Martin home, I am sure she cried, though I did not see it. Not long after I returned home to the Martin house, my mother had told me, yet again, to get out. I was leaving as my father got home from work, and I told him I was kicked out again. I drove to my grandmother’s bakery and told her I needed to come to her home again. I was shocked when she told me no, she could not allow me to be there again, and I cried and ran to my car. She followed me out to the parking lot trying to explain, but I got into my car and drove away crying. I think now how terrible that must of been for her.

I went to my brother’s and sister-in-law’s apartment that night, and they allowed me to stay there for the night. There are do distinct memories from that next 24 hours or so. First, my brother lit up a joint that night and handed it to me. I told him mom would kill me, and he said, “Shut up and smoke, you’re not going home tonight.” So I did. The next day at school, I was called to the counselor’s office. When I arrived, the counselor, whom I believe was named Mr. Mendenhall, told me they received a phone call from my mother telling me I was to come home after school. Then he asked me if there were any problems. What I know now is I should have probably told them everything, but all I said was “no” and asked if I could go back to class. Somehow, and I am not sure what happened, everything returned to the Martin normal, and what I believe to this day is my father probably put his foot down to some extent, and my mother was mandated to ask me to return to our house.

My grandmother and I never spoke of that day, but I believe it must have been torture for her because she loved me so deeply. I would understand that more fully a bit both less bad into more than a year later when she wrote to me in Marine Corps Boot Camp and into my first duty stations. She wrote me the most supportive and kind letters, and she revealed to me how much she regretted that she had not been able to keep Kris and me, and that she understood and realized the abuse we had endured. She felt profoundly bully, and to some degree, I believe that was why we always spent a good part of our Christmas vacations staying with her. It is why she pulled out all the stops for birthdays and Christmases. She actually bared her soul in her letters, and I had them more some time after I came home from the service. She made me promise to dispose of them so my mother would never find them. I kept that promise, and to some degree, I wish I hadn’t done so because I would give anything to read them now.

As I have noted in other posts, my grandmother is my hero. She was my protector because her love provided such incredible comfort and safety. Her consistent care and her willingness to listen and offer support and compassion was unlike anything I had ever received, both from anyone else and at any point in my life up to today. What I know now is she illustrated as perfectly as I believe anyone could what was require to love another. Now, after being single for more than a quarter century, and after my own failing, what I realize what is required in successfully loving another. Neither disappointment nor pain from being hurt could stop her from loving me with every ounce of her being. When my brother died, it was her presence at their house in South Allan Street that kept me from completely losing it. I still remember her holding me on their back porch as I cried, my head on her shoulder. A few months later, when I was back in Sioux City, I promised to see her before I returned to Ames. Again, I failed to do so. Somehow, perhaps divine intervention, I pulled my motorcycle over at a phone booth on Highway 71, by a Hardee’s, and I called her. First, I apologized for not seeing her, and I promised the next time I was home we would spend time. We had a wonderful conversation and ended our call telling the other how much we loved them. I remember being disappointed in myself for not making time to see her, and yet, finding some solace in stopping to call her. She was as gracious and loving as always. That occurred the end of July.

As the fall began, I had stopped attending classes at Iowa State University, and I was working two jobs. On a Sunday in September I received a call informing me Grandma had died the night before. She was attending an Eastern Star event with her close friend, Bonnie Martin (no relation) in Storm Lake. My grandmother just laid her head in Bonnie’s lap, had said nothing, and was gone. That quickly. She was only 64 year old. Her elder sister, Helen, who was also incredibly important as I grew up managed everything. There was no autopsy, and she managed the estate. While my sister was not pleased with that, I simply trusted that she did the right thing. I remember the day of her funeral was a warm sunny day, but I sobbed uncontrollably as I stood there in Graceland Park. It was barely six months since I stood only 100 yards away at my brother’s funeral. Just recently, as noted in a recent blog, I visited all the family there. I sat on the ground for some time, and I spoke to more than one of them. What I wish I should share with them now. I love you Grandma does not begin to adequately express how you have blessed me, how you influenced me, how to made me into the person I am today. Indeed, your unending love, Amazing Grace.

Thank you as always for reading,

Michael

Begin with One True Sentence

Hello as I wait for my seating,

It’s a Monday midsummer, and it’s a warm one. It reminds me of summer days when as a child I would lay on the bed in the front screened-in porch of my parent’s house and read a book. I was fortunate that the neighborhood Public Library was only about two blocks away (and they were short blocks). Often I walked down, checking out as many books as my little arms could carry, and I read vociferously. While I did not realize how much all that reading helped me, I think it provided me hours of solitude, as well as a degree of safety, and additionally, it contented my mother because she knew where I was. To be fair to her, I was not aware of the fear she had, concerned that my biological parents might show up and steal us. Inadvertently, at least in my awareness, all that reading did was teach me about language. As I often told my students, reading models writing, you intuitively begin to understand what sounds correct. Language, and I must thank a former linguistics colleague for impressing this upon me, is dynamic. It does change, and it evolves both in terms of written language, which is much more difficult for us to accept, as well as how we speak. An example of a subtle change in our written language is there is no longer a requirement to double-space after a period. The reason for the change is technological, but most people beyond 35 are not pleased with this change. Likewise, in our spoken language, my grandparents would have never inquired if I wanted to “do lunch.” The point of all of this is what makes something correct or right, standard or non-standard? Or by extension, what makes a sentence “a true sentence”? The concept of writing a true sentence comes from the well-known author, Ernest Hemingway. When asked about what helped him overcome writer’s block, his response was to begin with a sentence that is true.

Writing is not difficult, but writing well is. When I ponder various writing projects, assignments, from blogs to reading responses, from edited chapters to my dissertation, each of them were a chore. There are more times than I wish to admit when I have felt incapable. There was a period of time when I was finishing my dissertation that I had a total of 24 hours of sleep in 12 days, mostly 45 minute to an hour and 15 minute power nap. If I was going strong at 2:00 a.m,, I kept writing. If I was brain dead at 2:00 p.m., I would sleep. I was cloistered away in Lydia’s basement bedroom, and with the exception of bathroom breaks, I did not leave. Lydia graciously made me PB&J sandwiches. The idea of writing something truthful or honest has consequence for me and my outlook on daily life. I do believe that one of my greatest attributes is my ability to be genuine. I have learned that my life has been extraordinary, and the opportunities have been blessed with have allowed me to do things, go places, and live a full life because of incredible experiences. I have traveled extensively, met wonderful people around the world, and lived with possibilities I could have never imagined from the beginnings I had. However, none of that gives me anything that makes me better or more special than any other person. In fact, I believe it places enormous responsibility upon me in how I share that with others.

The opportunity to see life as continuous learning is something I continue to enjoy and something I feel obligated to do. I am humbled by the fact that Benjamin Franklin did not go to school beyond the age of ten, but learned on his own terms if you will, in his own manner or by his self-decided process. Thomas Jefferson, the well-known writer, was also a paleontologist, an architect and agriculturalist. He became President, and yes, also a slave owner, which is repugnant to me, managed six languages and was a linguist. I would imagine meeting him could be quite intimidating. Most research says he was reserved and polite, and yet highly political. He is one of those people of history I would love to meet. I’m honestly not sure how I became such an inquisitive person, an incessantly pondering individual, even as a young person. The difference between when I was small until today was what I did with those questions. As a small boy, I seldom asked because I knew my constant interrogatives would not please my mother. So I was left to my own thoughts, mulling over almost everything that occurred, and learning to observe and store away what intrigued me. Of course, being a somewhat typical teenager, the questioning occurred even when it was probably not prudent, but hormones got in the way of discipline, and my earlier suspicions proved incredibly accurate. So while the introspection continued, the e er-present reflective questions were either held inside or asked of others.

What I seemed to realize early on was that much of the world falls into a grey zone, and looking back, I now believe my mother saw most of the world dichotomously; it was either/or, and her precocious (and even more profoundly adopted) kid lived his life as a “but what if?” This was both not enjoyable for her as well as it was perceived as disrespectful. However, that contemplative, overly excogitative, or ruminative propensity of mine would eventually serve me well. I often assert that being educated requires three traits: thinking critically, analyzing thoroughly, and synthesizing intentionally. I think it was the learning to see the connections and being able to synthesize that would be the piece that served me the best in my education, and continues to serve me yet today.

So where does it all leave me as I am retired, but as questioning of life as ever? Much like when I was in my last years of teaching, and I found myself awake in the middle of the night, some of my more creative and intricate assignments would find their way into my brain. In fact, when I told my students that, they offered to purchase sleeping aids for me. And yet, I have been told that some of the same assignments were some of their most influential or memorable. What I believe happened in those moments were when I was able to think about what allowed a student to understand both who they were as well as why they were that person. It encouraged a sense of reflection that helped them perceive more accurately what they needed to do to succeed. To put it another way, it compelled them to work more diligently, while understanding and developing both their thinking and their skills. It allowed them to begin with their own one true sentence. It allowed both them and me to be more genuine and supportive of creating a culture where opinions were valued, thinking was encouraged, and a community was built. For some it began and ended with the semester, but for others, who had my classes for multiple semesters over multiple years, I worked constantly to help them claim their education. It was an article and address by Adrienne Rich. It became the foundation of my teaching philosophy. When you make something yourself, it becomes part of you. It is you, and in that you become genuine. It is how you begin to create that true sentence.

Thank you for reading as always.

Michael

Nostalgia: More Blessing or Curse?

Hello on a Friday afternoon,

The week back from my travels back to Sioux City and other previous places of residence or visiting has been busy, but quite productive. While I was born in Texas, I was away from the Lone Star state early as Kris, my younger sister, but only barely over a year younger was born in California. Furthermore, before I was back in Sioux City, living with grandparents before I was barely two (this was confirmed as I grew up by my grandmother’s elder sister, there was a brief time in Omaha. While I do have half siblings who still live in Texas, and I have visited there in my 20s and briefly resided there in my early 40s, I would no consider myself a Texan by any stretch of the imagination. Indeed, I am an Iowan. All my memories from barely two until I graduated from high school are located in that NW Iowa meat packing, once known as little Chicago, city located at the confluence of the Big Sioux, Floyd, and Missouri Rivers. In fact, many of the significant events in Sioux City are related to floods of those rivers or the celebration of living next to them, something we called the River Cade.

In the few years more than half century since I left that town of then 100K, the combined time I have lived there totals perhaps three years. And the majority of that was within about a 5 year period after I graduated and came home from the service. I did attend college and graduate schools mostly in the Midwest, so going home was available, but the last two times I spent any significant time in Sioux City was the summer of 1984, when I was on medical leave from seminary and the summer and early fall of 1999, when I was separated. I would not even come back for more than a visit to NW Iowa until the fall I retired (2024). To say the neighborhood I grew up in had changed is a profound understatement, though the two houses I lived in, located in that small far Western suburb look much the same.

Yet, there is something that calls me back. Many of the visits back during the period of the late 1980s into the 21st century were helped by my wonderful cousins, who served as surrogate parents to me, Jim and Joanne Wiggs (because I was adopted by a couple old enough to be my grandparents, most of my cousins would have been a generation before me and my second cousins are more like cousins). The memories of holidays and events with some are still etched in my minds. Most of my cousins (some actual cousins and some second) were often at gatherings in South Sioux City, which is where most of my mother’s siblings lived (she was the youngest of 10). The cousins (all second) on my father’s side of the family (the Wiggs) were not in my life until after high school, but they began significant part of my life for many years. None of them live in Sioux City now, though a number are still in Iowa and Eastern Nebraska.

As I have been recently back in Sioux City, the memories and the sense of nostalgia for the past has so permeated my consciousness, I found myself thinking about (and emoting over) that place and the events surrounding most of my life. And by extension, wondering how memory and nostalgia work to connect us to our former self, or perhaps how they establish our identity and relationship to our past. The dual nature of consciousness, which is connected to memory, and the emotional power of those memories, which is more attuned to the idea of nostalgia is fascinating. As I have done lately, I have inquired of others, asking their opinion about the differences or overlap. One of my morning friends offered the what seems the best way to consider the connection between memory and nostalgia. He states memory is what we remember and nostalgia is what we wish we remembered, and then he followed it up by pondering if nostalgia had room for the negative in something. My own research contends the difference is much about the cognitive and the emotional, but I wonder if there is such a strict demarcation between the two. Certainly, we do prefer the “rose-colored glasses” version of our past, but is that a conscious decision or something we do from the depth of our being to protect ourselves? I do remember the difficult aspects of some of my upbringing to be sure, but when I returned to my neighborhood a little more than two weeks ago, I both recognized the changes, but that feeling of familiarity, of being back on the street I grew up on overshadowed any other feeling. When I went to see Chief War Eagle’s and Theophile Bruguier’s resting places, I had a much greater sense of admiration than I did as a child, but the memories of those people as a child influenced that emotion. Meeting with a group of people, some I’ve known since I was 5 years old, held profound importance, and while I certainly felt a multitude of things, the conversation with one person in particular was of incredible importance. We were not only in school together, but also church, and again, Riverside was a small area, tight-knit and supportive. Not perfect, as we somehow were painfully reminded, but that is an example of the other side of nostalgia. The emotional toll of our memories is a complex reality. What I have found most often in my own reminiscing with childhood friends is a sense of solace, noting that some of the more difficult aspects of childhood were there, and not merely perception. On the other hand, it has also helped me to understand them as well as move beyond them.

My trip back through most of my educational journey (and all of it to some extent when I had the opportunity to speak with one of my most influential mentors during my PhD) was also something of a mixed bag. Where I attended grade school, the building no longer exists. It is a block of houses. Dana College, where I received most of my undergraduate education, closed more than a decade ago. Luther Seminary, while still serving students is selling most of its physical facilities because of the change in both course delivery and a dwindling student body. My visit to the campus in the past month was both troubling and sad. However, breakfast with a treasured classmate at a former breakfast haunt brought back the fondest of memories and he brought pictures from our time as students that simply brought things somewhat full-circle. While I did not make it back to Houghton, I did consider that detour. And not surprisingly, when I look at the department’s website, there are very few names I recognize in terms of faculty (and few is literal in this case). And yet each place is nostalgic. The experiences, the people, the classes, and how I grew during those times are all something I revere, things I cherish.

I think perhaps that is the importance is nostalgia, it provides an emotional connection to something that would merely be a group of images in our memory. Without nostalgia, there would be little reason to ponder or reminisce. There were be no real connection to our past in a meaningful manner. This is not meant to ignore those moments, those memories that are more difficult. Because, as I was recently reminded, without the less than desirable moments, we can never adequately appreciate those times that bless us, connect us in a way that helps us understand not only who we are, as well as provide hope for what might still may be.

Thank you for reading and may you be blessed with a sense of nostalgia that brings a smile.

Michael

What’s the Difference between Bravery and Courage?

Hello on a post 4th weekend, the semiquincentennial 4th,

To say there had been a lot of energy and importance, excitement and pomp placed on this 4th would be a gargantuan understatement, but indeed though only 250 years, which is an incredibly short period of time in the history of human annals, it’s been an important spans for a multitude of reasons. As a Marine veteran, I have a profound sense of patriotism toward both the Corps and the country. Likewise, my extensive travel experience has helped me understand how important those countries with multi-millennium histories have been influential and important to what we are as well as how we understand ourselves. From my memories of saying the Pledge of Allegiance every morning in grade school to standing for the national anthem, from having the 12th and 22nd of February as holidays (for Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays) to Memorial Day and Veterans Day parades, the importance of and reverence toward the country were a basic element of growing up in the 1950s and 1960s. Much of my life I associated this sort of attention towards our country as a sort of patriotism, a respect for the heritage of those who stood up for what my elementary brain believed to be a desire for fairness, equality, and decency.

Some of those beliefs contributed to my enlistment in the Marine Corps, and even today, decades later, and with a much deeper appreciation for, as well as understanding about, the complexities of our American experiment, I find myself asking what compelled those early founders to take the incredible chance they did? And we most certainly have our perceptions of their choices, especially when we are celebrating this particular 4th. Likewise, I wonder if our present understanding of patriotism is the same? Are we compelled by the same desire today, the same perception, a similar discernment for what freedom offers, for a belief in a country that thrives upon goodness and equipoise. Currently, I participate in three different social groups, one is a group of older men, characters I have written about previously, who meet each morning at Burger King. They have taught me more about Bloomsburg than any other group of people or experiences could. A second group meets at the local public library and the gathering is titled Civil Conversations for Common Good. We meet weekly and discuss topics decided each week. The third group is a group of veterans (I am new to this group) is a group of mostly Vietnam veterans though there are a couple Korean and even a WWII veteran(s). What I understand is the group was begun by WWII veterans who wanted to teach school youth about service to the community. The reason I mention them is I have asked them what they believe the difference between bravery and courage is for them. Not surprisingly, the interchangeable nature of the words, seeing them perhaps more synonymous than is true was the standard.

While I instinctively knew there was something related, but also unique. Bravery is more instantaneous, spur of the moment with little consideration of consequence or danger. Perhaps an example is when someone tackles someone with a gun to stop that person. It is the military person who runs toward the enemy to protect an injured colleague, with no regard for their own safety. It is not an absence of fear, but it generally disregards it. Courage, on the other hand, is something that is intentionally considered. The reality of fear, the realization of a less than desirable consequence, or the understanding that the decision made is because of principle. Maya Angelou called courage the most important of all virtues. Courage is about goodness of purpose. It is intentional.

This has caused me to ponder my own actions and wonder when I have been brave or might I have been courageous? One of the things I have learned about myself as I aged, and something I believe I am much more capable of is admitting my mistakes and faults. I think that is, in part, because I am both more attuned to my weaknesses as well as comfortable with them. Additionally, as noted in other posts, there are three things I cannot abide: dishonesty, disrespect, and abuse of power. Those points are important because those moments in my life are probably when I was most courageous. What I know about my own times of dishonesty when I was younger is they occurred when either I was afraid or embarrassed. In terms of disrespect, I was perhaps disrespectful when I was mistreated or abused. And there are probably 5 times I have stood up against what I believed to be abuse of power, which, for me, is also disrespectful. One of the most important things I have changed from earlier in life is how I manage anger. Anger, which was often the consequence of hurt, was not something I could regulate well for probably the first half of my life. I either stuffed it or exploded; neither served me well. Abuse has been part of my life and recently I spoke with a high school classmate about the consequences of that, for both my sister and me. It was a thoughtful and helpful conversation.

The times in my life where I believe I exhibited courage were when I stood up against power, understanding the results of my actions could be drastic, and while I was fearful, I felt compelled to speak out, regardless the outcome. Once I lost an ordination; once someone threatened to beat me with a hockey stick; and once it forced me to leave my home and look for a new job. Each of those instances caused dramatic changes, unspeakable hurt, not only for myself, but others, and it required incredible introspection and reconsideration. And yet even now, while some of the circumstances that led to those moments were due to my own failings, the decision to finally stand up for what I believed fair or right is not something I regret. I believe in each case I exhibited courage. I think there is only a couple times I have been brave, and what I believe now is bravery, while good at some level, can end up tremendously poor in terms of results. When I was in my first teaching position, where I was also the campus pastor, a person, who was not even a student, threatened to shoot me because I spoke to the young lady he was abusing, at the request of her parents. After he threatened me I backed him up against the wall, and long-story-short we had a chat. I impressed upon him that bringing a gun would not go well. Honestly, he could have mopped the floor with me, but I was not going to backdown from his threat. Fortunately, nothing happened. The other act of “bravery” occurred in the Marines. I was told by a chaplain it was patriotic. To this day, I believe it was self-preservation, and I do not equate that with bravery.

What I find now is I believe the world requires both, and while they might overlap, they are not the same. I believe brave people will always make a difference, but so will courageous people. Perhaps we need both and we always have.

Thanks as always for reading,

Michael

Grace, Virginia, Greenlawn, and Ridgelawn

Hello from the resting places of my heritage,

When I grew up, there were things my father did like clockwork, from the time we went to bed and the time he rose to Saturday afternoons or evenings to how we prepared for or celebrated holidays. He was a focused, but nonetheless seemed laid back; he was optimistic and always smiling though I now realize he was always concerned about the bigger picture of things; and he was pragmatic about everything he did or dealt with. And perhaps most importantly, at least to him, he was punctual. He epitomized the adage of you were not 15 minutes early, you were late. To offer some specifics about the above mentioned traits: he went to bed at 10:23 p.m., immediately at the conclusion of the late news, and he was asleep within two or three minutes (you knew this because you could hear him). Each morning he arose to his own internal alarm clock, even after retirement, though the time was now a bit later. On Saturday afternoons, weather-dependent, he washed both cars in our yard, vacuumed them, and had them presentable for church on Sunday. Dinner (supper) was promptly at 5:00, and after dinner, it was my responsibility to polish our Sunday church shoes, using the shining box I had built in wood shop class. Saturday evening and night was special because we were allowed to remain up until 10:00, watching Gunsmoke and enjoying our own bowl of buttered popcorn. The title of this post is about another yearly ritual my father believed necessary. Every year the weekend before Memorial Day, he loaded the car with buckets, brushes, hoses, weed shears, rakes, and towels. We went to both Graceland Park and Floyd Cemeteries to wash, polish, trim and rake around each grave of the extended family of his in Graceland and my mother’s immediate family in Floyd. The following weekend (immediately before that Monday), the graves were decorated with flowers. This was something done years as religiously going to church every Sunday morning. I never really thought about the fact there were other living relatives in the Sioux City area. It was somehow what the Harry Martin household did. I do believe my sister did continue this to some degree, and my living most of my adult life sans Sioux City, I was not as involved.

And yet, as I have come back over the years, visiting the graves, particularly in Graceland, has been a regular part of my return. Some of the graves have been there from the 1950s. On my mother’s side of the family, there are gravestones from the 1910s-20s. I am not sure when the Grandparents bought the plot, but they purchased 9 or 10 lots. Currently, along with my grandparents, an aunt, and a daughter of my adopted parents, the two siblings I grew up with and my adopted parents are all buried there. There is one lot remaining, and it is where I will someday be. However, that is not what is so incredible about Graceland. The Martin family plot is in the Ridgelawn section. Immediately across the street and a little to the left, in the Virginia section (perhaps 50 yards away), you will find the graves of my actual paternal grandfather, grandmother, and my maternal great-grandparents. This is where the connection between my adopted parents and my actual grandparents becomes both interesting (and for some confusing). My grandmother, Louise Lynam, about whom I have written often, describing her as my hero, was a Hannestad. Her father, who is also buried there is named Eilert Hannestad, born in 1871, and the mother of my adopted father, Harry Martin, whose name is Anne Hannestad Martin are buried within that 50 or so yards. She was born in 1876. Eilert and Anne are brother and sister. So this means that my adopting father was also a distant cousin. My sister and I were therefore, though adopted still in the family. From my actual grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ graves, if I walk to the left and up the small hill and across into the Grace section of the cemetery, you will find the graves of Evan and Martha Hannestad. Evan was born in 1869, and he is the brother of Anne and Eilert. Their graves are perhaps within 100 yards of the other plots (Martin and Lyman). This means siblings, while married into three different family units, would be buried with about a 100 yard radius. If you walk back toward the main entrance of the cemetery across the street to the Greenlawn section, about 75 yards or so, on the left side of this somewhat narrower section, you will find my adopted father’s eldest sister Gladys and her husband, Clare, whose family name was Swaby. He was born in 1896, and I believe Gladys was born around 1905 or so.

So what is important is there are four generations of my family within about a 200 yard area. The earliest born is 1866, and currently, the last buried, my sister, Kris, 14 months younger than me, was both the last born and buried ( 1956 and 2008). While I hope it is sometime before I am laid to rest there. If I live into the 2030s, that would be a 170 year span. That is significant, particularly when the earliest born (1866) is only a year after the Civil War. As I write this it is less than two hours before the 250th celebration of the country. I am looking at family graves that cover almost 70% of our nation’s existence in that space. I do have a cousin who has researched the Martins and she notes there are Martin ancestors back to the revolution, so it is likely (in IN and OH) there are graves that go back even farther. Certainly, the importance of a quarter millennium is of note, particularly when we ponder the profound role the United States has had, and while the celebration has been more politicized than I wish, I still feel an important level of patriotism as I imagine the Fourth of July tomorrow. What I will be doing is driving back to Pennsylvania, and I am sure there will be fireworks and other things I might observe if I am still driving after dark. I will drive a good amount of distance across the country, and its vastness will astound me once again. The significance of my family history and the reality that some of those graves I visited again recently belong to people who were born in another country (Norway). Some of the graves in Indiana or Ohio, places I’ve not gone to explore the heritage, were born in England or Ireland. It’s often easy to look at the granite or polished stones, markers, and larger family headstones and brush over the incredible history, the stories they offer, but last Saturday, a week ago as I write this, I walked slowly among the markers and pondered each of my relatives, those who lived in Sioux City before I did. And though a good majority of my life was experienced beyond the Northwest Iowa town I still claim as home, it is where my final resting place will be. I will be the last of my generation to be laid there; no other lots remain. And while my life has been blessed to travel and explore an incredible amount of the world, I will be blessed to be laid to rest at home. And Jennifer, I hope you find this both helpful and informative. I love you.

Thank you for reading,

Michael

When Decisions are Difficult . . .

Hello from Pennsylvania, the state that seems to hold on to me,

I have noted that moving into the era of retirement is not what I expected, but the multiple levels that this statement has rung true is beyond anything I could have ever imagined. It’s taken the better part of 18 months to feel like claiming I am retired feels acceptable. What a strange thing to say, to consider, to ponder. Retirement, we are taught is something to look forward to, to anticipate with a sense of happiness, sort of in the words of “well done good and faithful servant,” a phrase too often only offered after someone has passed from this life. It’s taken me a bit to get back to this post, and now as I write I am back in the Midwest, where the past few days have been a serious, and multifaceted trip through some various periods of my life.

This morning was an absolute joy when I shared breakfast with Karsten Nelson, one of my dear seminary classmates at the original Keys (a host of restaurants in the Twin Cities). While the restaurant has changed to some degree, something to be expected in 40 years, merely sitting in that space and looking at some photos he brought from our time there and sharing a meal and conversation was a great gift. Before I went to see him, I had driven across the cities to get to St. Paul, I stopped by 2481 Como Avenue. Anyone who took classes on sight at LNTS or now Luther, knows that address. What I witnessed and experienced there was somewhat shattering to me. The summer I experienced Summer Greek, living in Stub Hall, eating in the Commons in the Refectory in the Northwestern Building, and what the fall would bring when the normal academic year began as I resided in Bockman were so important to who I would become. Certainly the changes in the role of faith in our society have been extreme since I graduated from the seminary in the late 1980s. Likewise, having spent the last almost three decades in higher education, I am painfully aware of how delivery of class material has been transformed by technology, which was also affected by COVID. The days of meeting together in a space for class, sitting in a coffee shop between classes, eating together in a commons or refectory are something from the past.

While I think I was at least vaguely aware that higher education was a business, that realization did not go much beyond my paying my tuition and buying my textbooks. Needless to say, once I was on the other side of the blank stare, as a program director or sitting in departmental meetings or in front of my dean, my understanding of tuition-driven budgets, state appropriations, and the connection between “butts-in-seats” and what is possible changed drastically. Most of the debt I incurred through my academics occurred in seminary. My congregation did not have money to pay my tuition like some of my classmates had; I was newly married and my wife did not make a ton of money working in a pre-5 Daycare. She did get another more lucrative job later, but nothing that would take care of costs. So student loans were the order of the day.

When I attended LNTS it was the largest Lutheran seminary in the country. The fall I began seminary there were almost 850 students. Currently, there are barely over 400, and only 35% of them are on campus full-time (Luther Seminary Website). This means only about 140 students are on campus. The budget for an on-campus student is a little over 41,000 dollars a year. That is a significant amount, particularly when the typical starting salary package for a first year pastor is a little more than 50,000.00 a year. To say a person must have a serious sense of call is a bit of an understatement. If you crunch numbers, it is not difficult to see how some of the decisions in the past decade-plus have occurred. The selling of buildings, apartment complexes, to the most recent decision to close the Campus Center, which was built when I was a student, while stunning, is about financial reality.

And yet what are the non-monetary costs. One of the most important elements of faith is community. Bonhoeffer noted that “Christian community is like the Christian’s sanctification. It is a gift of God we cannot claim” (Life Together). From my summer Greek colleagues to my Formulation of Faith cohort, from the people I shared a hallway with in Bockman to those I played intramural sports with, the building of a community called into service of Christ and the church was personified by those I met daily. Those who returned from that third year of internship to complete our studies became integral to helping me understand my sense of call, from our preaching classes to our Constructive Theology class. I know from teaching post-COVID, zoom classes do not replicate the community formed when you are in class together, reflecting and responding, questioning and sharing insights about scripture, systematics, or dogma. In the day since I posted pictures of the campus, I have spoken to and corresponded with classmates who were there when I was and it seems our feelings are pretty consistent. It is a heartfelt and thorough sense of sadness and loss. I remember a sermon in chapel, given by the then President of the seminary, the Rev. Dr. Lloyd Svendsbye preached about how you have a funeral for a small rural congregation that is closing its doors. Having supplied at some small rural two- or three-point congregations, I remember clearly how they were profoundly faithful to their history, but perhaps keenly aware of their fragility as a community. Much of the decisions were based on two issues: an aging demographic and the reality of finances.

The truism about death and taxes seems apropos. Even the seminary must pay its share to Caesar, it’s the world in which the church lives, and in spite of some tax breaks it might have, the costs of infrastructure continue to rise. The unforgiving truth is cost is fatal. The taxes of this world seem to have put the seminary as I knew it on life support. Regardless how the sale of buildings, of land and other assets have put the seminary on stable ground at the moment, 2481 Como Avenue is not the place I remember. The generations of pastors who spent four years taking classes in Biblical Studies, Church History, Systematics and Pastoral Care, sitting at the feet of incredible Biblical scholars and devout pastors are no longer. I am not questioning the veracity of those called today, but I am sad they are not able to experience the community I did. And yet, as I used to tell my students in my Bible as Literature class, often God works in spite of us. And as my confessions professor noted, when we pray “Come Lord Jesus.” we can hope he comes today.

Thank you as always for reading, and bless those called.

Michael

Che Guevara and Luigi Mangione

Good morning from the coffee klatch,

While driving to get blood work done this morning, I was listening to NPR, and the story airing was about Luigi Mangioni, the young man charged with the killing of Brian Young, the late CEO of United Healthcare. What an interesting story about the national response to this young man who is finally headed to trail for his alleged killing of a 50 year old. The reason I often listen to NPR, contrary to the morning group I was headed to meet, is not because of my more liberal leaning, but rather because they seem to find stories that go beyond merely the headlines and they also are more inquisitive in their approach. The morning group, a group where I am one of the younger members, is such an important part of my last almost decade here in Bloomsburg. The great majority of them were born here, more than half of them are veterans, and the great majority of them have political leanings that are different than me. And yet, it has taught me so much; I did write a blog about them a couple years ago and I am very blessed to be part of their community of men, gentlemen who know this area.

And yet that is somewhat a departure from where I was heading. Some might find the pairing of the socialist revolutionary from Argentina and the well-educated, upper class, man of Italian descent, who is on trail for the killing of Young together in the title as a stretch, but it is exactly what the NPR story did. And the reporting made the connection of the two both reasonable and thoughtful. What I find fascinating is how much the current atmosphere of healthcare in this country and the struggle against poverty in Latin America in post WWII can be seen as having profound parallels. I believe it is also connected to the theological roots in Liberation Theology. Hear me out.

Che Guevara was a brilliant person in his own right, and a medical student who was astounded by the abject poverty he experienced. Between his disdain for that poverty and his belief that American imperialism in Central America as well as CIA involvement resulted in much of the disengagement of indigenous peoples, likewise a meeting with both Fidel and Raúl Castro would inevitably lead to his integral role in the overthrow of Batista and his eventual elevation as the leader of guerrilla warfare movement in many third world nations. Between his writing and his actions, his position as the leader of anti colonialism and the quintessential voice against what he believe to be an imperialist capitalism that exploited the poor, he became a hero, and almost cultic. His image became synonymous with those who felt the inequity is capitalism needed to be challenged. There is, of course, those who argue his methods were also problematic, and after his capture by the CIA in Bolivia and his being summarily executed, his cult-like supporters added martyrdom to his accolades.

Luigi Mangioni, on the other hand, grew up in a privileged household and family, attending private schools, as well as doing well (as did Guevara student-wise) in both high school and college. He holds dual citizenship with his Italian heritage and did travel as a solo backpacker in Asia. He has a history of health issues, and he also had back surgery. His own posting reveals some significant concerns about the healthcare system in the country (most of my information comes from my own online research and has been verified.). While a number of theories or rationales for his actions have been posited, the inconsistencies from his statements against violence to the three words found on the shell casings are perhaps bereft of any possible explanation. What is perhaps more incredible is the response to the actions of Mangioni by not only Americans, but globally. Simply put, his alleged actions are tantamount to premeditated murder. The alleged killer walked up to Mr. Wilson, and shot him at almost point blank range. The words on the casings are the same words used in the health insurance field to supposedly work to avoid paying claims. That connection points to two very significant factors. First, the killer had to know who Brian Young was and what his position was. Second, the inscribing of the words on the casings points to premeditation.

While there is probably not a single person who reads this whose never been frustrated with their health insurance, and generally for good reason, the decision to shoot the CEO of your company is not something you would plan to do. Second, the growing frustration with our healthcare system, from scheduling appointments to paying copays, from coverage whether in system or out of system to getting prescriptions, as well as rising premiums or copays, from what a Medicare covers or doesn’t for those over 65, our system is a problem. And while he hear other countries also have issues, my own personal experiences overseas have been more than positive, and the cost’s unbelievably low. All of these issues (and let’s face it, when you genuinely need healthcare, there is a consequence to either not being able to afford it or not being able to obtain it. It is for those reasons in particular, or so it seems, that many (and I am saying 10s of thousands) see Mangioni as a hero, some comparing him to Robin Hood, versus a calculating cold-blooded murderer. Currently, there is a website that provides information about his legal defense, and literally thousands have donated. The site contains a message of thanks from Mr. Mangione himself. Street art, graffiti have appeared across the country and support the young man. There is a mural in Seattle. From hashtags to merchandise, the ways to support this vigilante killing demonstrate clearly the frustration that many Americans feel about healthcare.

The parallels between the 1960s socialist guerrilla hero and the 2020s wealthy, but probably disillusioned, computer programming, book reading Italian American seem quite distant, but the responses of the public are where the interesting parallels exist. Ché Guevara was handsome and brash and his 1960s photo became iconic. I remember seeing it on book covers, on wall posters, and T-shirts as I grow up. Likewise, Mr. Mangione is also quite handsome, and his face has also appeared much more easily in our social media saturated world. The Robin Hood-esque nature of the two points to something deeper in our human psyche, or so it seems. Often, regardless of how hard we work, and this is perhaps the case now more than ever, we feel the system is stacked against us – daily we hear how the rich get richer, the middle class get squeezed, and the poor are left to their lot. When push comes to shove, I doubt many people will condone the reality of Brian Young’s death. A 50-year-old person, married, with children, was gunned down walking down the street to a meeting. His family’s lives have been irrevocably changed. Likewise, the lives of the relatives of Luigi. Mangione are also irrevocably changed. The legal wranglings will continue and eventually he will stand trial. And that is what should happen. The brokenness of our health system, the seeming brutality with which decisions are made, and the cost, both financially and personally, is abhorrent. It is unconscionable, and yet fortunately, regardless the reasons, given or perceived, so is murder. Can something good come from this? I would like to believe so, but I’m not sure what.

Perhaps somewhere in the 60s we had some things figured out. Thanks for reading.

Michael