Is Frailty a Gift?

Hello from the front tables at La Malbec,

This a somewhat quiet Saturday evening (with the exception of wannabe Fast and Furious cars or Harleys that need to prove they have customized their exhaust), and I am sitting almost exactly in the same place I first experienced La Malbec. It is only me alone rather than about 10 other people, but I am certainly glad that Roxana’s hope and concept for an upscale dining option in Bloomsburg has thrived. Certainly, there have been moments, but her vision for what might work here in Bloomsburg and beyond was accurate.

I sit here, both inside and out, at times with my computer, working while I dine, enjoy a beverage, or simply a snack (of sorts). I will always remember that first night colleagues, an incredible doctor, who later did some surgery on me, and my meeting of the owner and her husband and how the evening progressed. It was the beginning of what has become a gift in my life, both because of my appreciation for food and wine, but more significantly because of the incredible goodness of two people and extended family. What an expected gift. As noted, I sometimes find family outside of family. That does not make my own family less important, as demonstrated by my choices over the next months. However, I have been blessed beyond measure by the incredible people and cultures that have crossed my path since I first left my NW Iowa upbringing. As reflection seems central to my daily existence, surely prompted by retirement, I find myself appreciating small things that can often be overlooked, often unappreciated for their importance.

When I arrived in Bloomsburg mid-August of 2009, I was struggling more than many believed. I was leaving behind a woman in her 80s I had promised to care for. I had an incredible person living in the carriage house who meant more to me than I could figure out, and I had just experienced a failure of sorts as I hope to become a tenured professor. My former and now present colleague (and eventual chair and younger brother of sorts) would shepherd me through my new position, and his collegiality and friendship are paramount to where I am today. He is also never hesitant to tell me that he encouraged my application because it was a professionally helpful thing for the department. I actually admire that from him. As I move rapidly toward the completion of my professional life, I believe the thing that has changed is my willingness to be honest about my weaknesses. I actually told Dr. Daniel Riordan that was the most important thing I learned at Stout. I had learned to be comfortable with those aspects of myself that were not so wonderful, so capable, so admirable. It is not something I could have imagined earlier in life, which is the consequence of experiences, expectations, and my own frailty.

Weakness is something exploited, something perceived as a flaw, something to be hidden from view. I believe much of our current world discord occurs for this very reason. We all know the clichés that prop of these very practices. However, at what cost? The cost is honesty; the cost is opportunity; the cost creates a lack of possibility. If we are not allowed to have weaknesses, we inadvertently argue for perfection, which is unattainable. Too often we find others, or we even do it to ourselves, asking why something is not better. I remember not being satisfied with an A, but asking why it was not a better A. The number of times students ask what do I need to do to get that A means that the only thing that really counts is the grade. What about the learning that occurs. Education is not about letters it is about knowledge; it is about achieving, but doing something to the best of one’s ability. But even that is not a static thing, as what one does on a given day is dependent on a number of external factors that go way beyond how someone prepared. As importantly as realizing that we have become perfection-driven, it is as significant to understand how we got here. Perfectionism can paralyze someone . . . but from where does it originate? Some of it is mental, but some is experiential. Shaming is one of the main contributors to our desire for this unattainable standard. Consider this carefully. how many of us have been afraid to admit a grade, a score, the result of an interview or an interaction of some kind because we are ashamed? The inadequacy that we experience is a combination of both self esteem and what our experience has taught us. Being goal oriented, having a plan and self-expectation is not wrong, and there are a number of positive consequences of being such, but when does it go too far? This actually returns to my recent conversation about balance.

I have noted throughout the years of this blog how the expectation of a parent was many times detrimental to me. The words that told me I was not worthy of being in their house as an adopted person, that I would not amount to anything, the belittling that was a common occurrence affected my schooling throughout my growing up, it affected how I saw myself among my peers and classmates, and now, looking back, I believe it has affected how I understand intimacy and relationships, particularly with partners, throughout my life. In all of that, I realize how frail I am in certain ways. Some tell me that I am too honest or revealing at times in this blog, but the reason I write is two-fold. When I write about an issue I begin to understand and manage it more effectively. And just perhaps I have something someone else my find helpful. That might be the more important part of this platform, this space I have created over the past decade plus. Certainly it is not what I expected when I first wrote a post. In fact, I am working on some additional possibilities because of responses from many readers, and that has required, in part that I go back through what I have written (which is at times disconcerting) and ponder how to organize some of it. The frailty reality continues to plague me from time to time. I do believe I have made progress overall, that is for certain, but I know, for instance, when my chair sends an email asking me to call, my immediate reaction is what did I do?

And yet can this over-concern be a gift? I think there is another aspect to experiencing frailty, and then admitting it. It pushes away any need to be perfect, and additionally, it encourages compassion and empathy. Compassion and empathy seem to be something our current world is lacking. The discord, the lack of decorum, the unwillingness to imagine the possibility of the other removes the chance that we can find common ground. This is something that happens across the gamut of our human interactions, one on one to what underlies the incredible deadly situations in both Central Europe or Israel and Gaza. As I have noted, having written a dissertation on Bonhoeffer as well as experiencing Dachau, Buchenwald, and Auschwitz, I am well acquainted with why Israel has developed what they have to ensure their existence. And again, to be honest, while I have some basic understanding of the Palestinian issues, from self determination to a two-state solution, the various militant groups and their existence in Gaza, Lebanon, Jordan, Syria, and beyond, I cannot find a way that justifies the number of civilian casualties in Rafah or Gaza in general. A lack of compassion and empathy for the other seems to be a principle part of this issue. Total destruction of the other is not logical. IT has not worked in the past, and I do not think it will in our current situation.

Our human frailty and its reality have been apparent to me on another level this past week. One of my undergraduate classmates lost her sister, and the loss of a sibling is always stunning. It is difficult when someone you have known every minute of your life leaves this world. I remember when my older brother passed at 26. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry, and I was in my twenties. That was a life-altering moment for me. And then a student I had in classes at UW-Stout, a friend on FB, but not one I am regularly in touch with, in spite of a significant closeness at one point, would be approaching the end of a decade, one of those I am ____ for the fifth time birthdays. So I thought it would be great to reach out. His wife, who I know, but have not met, wrote back to me on FB messenger. He had passed away in January in his late 30s of esophageal cancer. In the 12+ hours since I spoke with her, I cannot get this out of my head. We had ridden motorcycles together. He had done an internship at Harley at one point, and I had given them suggestions for their honeymoon in Ireland. What a gut-punch. We simply go on, and there are so many things that are happening to those who we once crossed paths with, those we saw on a daily basis, but then we move, we change, and we lose track. There is that perfectionism rearing its head. While I can realize I do not keep up with 9,000+ students, nor can I, moments like last evening are heart-wrenching. And yet, his wife was gracious and we had a chance to catch up and there will be more conversations. I am feeling a bit frail this morning, but that frailty is about care and compassion. I am glad I have those qualities.

Thank you as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Giving Thanks

Hello from Panera,

I am sitting with some hot tea and waiting for my colleague and friend to arrive. I first met him on a Kraków corner with two Bloomsburg students and more extensively on a bus riding with a group of students to Auschwitz (Oświęcim). This somewhat slight and soft-spoken professor, Mykola, with Eastern/Central heritage, would become one of my most treasured colleagues and friend in my time here in Bloomsburg. He is also one of the most brilliant individuals I’ve ever met. Perhaps the most accomplished polyglot I know, he was a medical doctor before he left Europe. However, those are the basics, his understanding of pretty much every thing will boggle your mind because it rolls out of him in such an understated manner that you often fail to recognize how profound he is. Additionally his wry sense of humor, his ability to mystify everyone, and his unflappability make him all the more interesting. He is one of the people, one of the colleagues, I will miss the most. I probably have a better chance of finding him in Europe than I will in his office.

As I sit here writing, I am waiting on two papers in my 400 level course. Once I complete their evaluation, submitting that course to Banner will complete my last academic semester as a professor in PASSHE, our state system. As many know, I have pondered when I should retire for a couple years, but last summer I knew it was time to make that move, and so the last lap of a complete semester, while as busy as ever, had a different feeling to it. I did not suffer from the academic version of senioritis, but I did find myself thinking about how graciousness might serve all more effectively. Even in our post-COVID world, the day-to-day experience in academe has changed from pre-2020, and some of those changes are dramatic, consequential. What lockdown did to course delivery, social interaction, expectations from all view points, to daily practice is not the college campus experienced even 5 years ago. The vibrancy of mornings, seeing students in the quad or streaming out of classrooms in my building is no longer the norm. Seeing departmental office with faculty sitting at their desks or standing at the printer is a thing of the past. Too many times the hallways, the classrooms, and sidewalks seem like a scene from a movie where survivors have returned after some apocalyptic event. It has been sad to experience that change, not only for my colleagues, but also for current students. All of these changes make it easier to believe it is time to move to the next chapter, the new path, of an unparalleled, a certainly unexpected, time in the academy. It has been a world of learning, not just for my students, but for me. I perhaps learned much more than I could ever teach or offer. This past week someone asked if I had any idea how many students I have had in my classes? That would take some calculating. But let me try to offer some possible (with some degree of accuracy) number. Because writing classes do not have the high course caps of other classes, my numbers are low compared to my gen ed, lecture-leading colleagues. I think, running some estimates, I have probably had between 9,000-10,000 students over three decades, and while that number is not enormous, managing writing is a very different task, and one that is enormously labor intensive, and can be incredibly satisfying. Writing requires critical thought and analysis; it is an art ( not unlike Aristotle’s argument about rhetoric, in spite of his disdain for writing) that instills process. It is the thing that most often instantiates possibility or orchestrates happenstance, changing it into reality for me.

All of that is of significance, but the impetus for this post is to offer a profound thank you to individuals too numerous to count for their important contributions to my teaching career. if I go all the way back to Suomi, one of my first students would eventually go to Dana, my Alma Mater, and then to Luther Seminary. He did more to help me realize both my strengths and weaknesses than he will ever know. Another, who was an RA would eventually go to receive a Master’s and work with me years later at MTU. There were numerous others who taught me more significant lessons that would serve me well, some times things that I needed to do much differently. When I would return to work on a second Master’s and PhD, both grad school colleagues and students would help me begin to understand what becoming a professor would mean. That is not as simple as one might believe. Managing course material barely scratches the surface. During that period, I lost a sister, a father, a marriage, and almost my schooling at one point. Ironically, my work outside the university as a server did as much to keep a balance as all my work at the university did. Emergency surgery and a class of international engineers that semester revealed the important give and take from instructor to student as much as any class ever would. To this day I am in touch with two from that class. One of them, who lives in Spain, will always have significance in my life.

When I arrived in Wisconsin, the first year there had me wondering if I had made the right decision to become a scholar, an academic. At the end of a brutal first semester, students wrote evaluations that were stunningly brutal and hurtful, and they minced no words. Fortunately, there was a single student, also a single mother, who trusted I had her best interests at heart. Now 20 years later, she is still in my life as a now married mother of three. She did more to support this struggling academic wannabe than words will ever express. I love her to this day for that support. Then there was a student, who hid away in the back of a freshman composition course, having transferred from one of the flagship institutions of the Wisconsin system, she was a brilliant writer, better than 95% of my other students. In fact, I told her she would have to push herself and I would do so on her papers, but that she might find the class a bit mundane. Today, she is one of the closest things to a daughter I would ever hope to have. While I could give a lengthy list of important students, one has little idea of how he affected me emotionally, when he gave me a thank you note my last semester at Stout, comparing to Dr. Larch in Irving’s book, Cider House Rules. I cried when I read that note. Another person, one whose father had taught at Stout, returned to get his degree while serving in the military. He would help me move to Bloomsburg and would care for Lydia after I left. In fact, he, his family, and I tag-teamed her, and he was with her when she passed away. Another student, who will always have an important place in my heart, stayed in my little house when I first moved. The significance she held in my life had been unspoken, but there are no words to adequately express her importance. She is probably one of the most talented and beautiful people I have ever been blessed to know.

Then there is Bloomsburg (now Commonwealth). It is the place I learned to really become a professor. Again, fortunately, two classes that first semester set the stage for what would come. As much as the first semester at Stout would bury me, the first semester (and year) at Bloomsburg would ground me on a successful trajectory. My Bible as Literature class and my first small class of Writing in the Professions had students I am still in touch with as I retire. One student would show up in class my second semester, she earned the minor, was an honors students, and by the time she finished her degree, 1/4 of her undergrad was in my classes. She and a second student, also in another class that semester as well as both worked in the writing center, are both married, have two children, and both remain important in my life. They were members of the first group of students who paralleled my first four years, During the decade and a half here, I could focus on the various students who have lived with me during summers, during academic years, from the states and overseas. Each of those students changed my life. They were there as I struggled with my health, as I remodeled and renovated the Acre. They know who they are, and each individual helped me understand so much more about myself. The first filled in the pot holes for those who would follow. She pushed me to learn about myself in ways beyond anything I could imagine, and I spoke with her this week. The last just received her Master’s, and ironically, they have both humbled me by asking that I officiate their weddings. Two others, one who was a foreign exchange student and another who came to me in tears the first day of class, and who have the same first name, continue to bless me with their presence in my life. Some are mother’s now and her father blessed me by saying I was as much a father as he was. Quite a change from the first time I met him. Another brilliant, but quiet, student got up early to drive to class, taking a nap before class. She would not finish and is now a mother of three and a half (yes, another on the way). She is one of the most amazingly good people I have ever met. Now the entire family is a blessing.

Certainly, it is dangerous to list anyone for fear of missing or offending another, but that is not the intent. What I am noting are a few in the confines of this small space. As importantly, in the 9,000+, each one is part of the amazing tapestry that has been a wonderfully complex, but simultaneously rewarding three decades. I have been blessed beyond words. A student once asked me if I ever disliked a student. In three decades, only one. Perhaps on the most profoundly capable and talented students I ever taught, but not a good person. It was for that reason I did not like them. One in 30+ years means I am fortunate beyond works. And indeed, for that and so many other reasons, I give thanks. The calling of the academy was not something I heard early, and in many ways it had been as important a calling as my time as a pastor. It is for that reason I share this piece I have used before. It was sung at my ordination, and I believe it would be appropriate at my funeral.

Thank you for reading,

Dr. Martin

Artificial Intelligence

Hello from breakfast on a Monday morning,

I am sitting in Cracker Barrel waiting on my breakfast. The weekend was consumed by reading, commenting, grading, and is generally the case, there was some moaning, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, with some of that now occurring on the other side of the blank stare. My class semester was dominated by research level writing, something that requires critical thought, significant research, and individual effort, whether it is a group endeavor or single authorship. It also requires consistency because of the scaffolded nature of the writing process. Consistency is not magic; it is being disciplined. Discipline is not something we, in our humanity, appreciate, and it is not something that occurs naturally for most. I know this personally. Looking back, I have always had elements or parts of my life that required discipline, but that does not mean I enjoyed it, and, at least, earlier in my life that discipline was imposed, not necessarily something to which I gravitated. For example, practicing my trumpet daily as a third or fourth grader was not pleasurable, but my parents paid for private music lessons, so it was something I did. When I added piano, it was the same. I think the first time I did something voluntarily, managing such discipline was when I worked on learning to play guitar. Of course, by then I was a Marine veteran, and I had a bit more experience at being disciplined.

Discipline is an important part of success or achievement in general. It is not something that comes naturally to most. I have noted, and somewhat recently, how my most significant issue in high school was a lack of focus and discipline. And in spite of all I learned in the Marine Corps, there are still moments in my post-Devil Dawg world I did not employ that skill nearly as well as I could or should have. One of the main reasons my students do not achieve to their potential is a lack of discipline; and it is sometimes because they have never had to use it, practice it consistently. Three times in the last week I was informed that I am “old school.” My usual response to this moniker is simple. Yes, because I am old. More accurately, it is because I am not a jump-through-the-hoop person. I am not a memorization-regurgitation person. The degree to which students want a rubric for everything is frightening. “Just tell me what to do.”

Currently, the biggest fear among my colleagues is the reality of what Artificial Intelligence (AI) is doing to our classrooms. If a student uses it, the great majority of them say unequivocally, “You fail.” I disagree in some cases with that response, but like with any tool, thoughtful engagement is required if it is to be honestly helpful. I actually required my freshmen to use it on a first essay last fall, and then we workshopped what happened. However, before I venture down this new educational hotspot, I want to assert something else. If our classes become only rubrics, that develops or fosters a much more insidious artificial intelligence, and one more harmful than this new reality of generative AI. During this final semester I did more teaching of scholarly research writing than any semester in the 15 years I have been here in Pennsylvania. It has been eye-opening to say the least. In 14 group or individual papers, the initial complete drafts submitted were the Tale of Two Cities, on steroids. There was one that could be considered truly scholarly. That is not to say there were no positive elements in every single submission, but from structure to development, from placing the paper within the scholarly discussion to using the sources in their field, every individual or group paper needed really significant rethinking. This was shocking to all involved. I thought scaffolding the development of the semester would efficaciously facilitate their process. Not so much. This was disconcerting, but it also pushed me to examine the idea of writing yet again.

Once again, as recently asserted, we spend too little time in our current curriculum on writing. I know many in administration will disagree, but both the credits and what I see in my classes illustrate this reality clearly. I know my colleagues preach the importance of using sources and citation. I also know unless there is blatant plagiarism in a paper many of my non-English faculty do little. They consider content, but mostly lament the other deficiencies. I am not sure I could get many of my own colleagues to argue what I have always asserted: every class is an English class. There is that “old school” rearing its unpopular head. Has our willingness to accept mediocrity created a different artificial intelligence? Lately, I have students, even my better students, performing their own jeremiad as they note how hard they worked, regardless the quality of their work. What I see is I have an incredibly diverse group of nice people. And yet, the world does not really care (and I am not dissing being a good person.). It is more about the quality of one’s work. Hard work has value, but one must ask their self, “If that is my best work, and it was not deemed good enough, what does that say? I think it is a seriously critical indictment of what we allow in our classrooms. Sometime ago our university changed the deadline for dropping a course. Now students have up until 4:00 p.m. the last day of class to withdraw. The primary argument was trying to keep Fs off their transcripts. So much for accountability. I argued vehemently against that change at the time, but I think there were only two or maybe three who voted against that change.

I understand the power of a GPA; with the number of years I had post-secondary, I fretted about GPAs as much as the next person, but I also knew, through my own experience with failure, that failure was the result of my actions not the professor or a classmate. I also learned that often the grade did not demonstrate how much I might have learned or achieved in class. When I think about the professorial responses that most affected me, one comes from Dr. Don Juel. When responding to my Galatians paper when I was a middler, he wrote, “It it my sincere hope that Michael learned more in this class than is exhibited in this paper.” And the grade assigned was not a passing grade in graduate school. I was shocked, but I also wanted to understand. While I was keenly aware of room for improvement, the sternness and unabashed honesty of that critique was a turning point for me. Ironically, the first person to introduce me to rhetoric in his class called me out on some level as sophistic. I did not know it at the time, and the conversation in his office that day was significant. Dr. Juel helped me more at that moment than either of us probably realized. Being honest with students is not always a popular thing to do, and because it is unpopular, it can also be difficult, but it is necessary. Grace is an interesting concept, and as a Lutheran, and a former Lutheran pastor, one might believe I should be well-versed in the concept. It is not a difficult concept, but it is difficult to manage and employ. Luther spoke about the participatory nature of justification. We are not justified in our absence, but in our presence. We must believe that there is both a freedom and a responsibility in the graciousness of, the incredible giftedness of the Spirit. When I move this into the realm of this blog, there is nothing artificial about it. There is an inter-relational aspect that goes beyond our comprehension. Graciousness is generally not most clearly explained in a grade, to return to the beginning of the paragraph, but too often we see that as the visible confirmation.

This week as I am reading, commenting, and evaluating, (and I am sure teachers and professors at every level can empathize), it is always stunning how students finally find their way to office hours, to the office in general, or now send an email, wondering what they might do to ameliorate the last 14 weeks of behavior. Most of them are good people, but as a colleague reminded me earlier today, sometimes it is gracious to fail them. That is a difficult thing, but they are correct. Most of our lives we work to avoid accountability. College, and perhaps education in general, is one of the few places where there is systematic evaluation of what one does. I remember all the way back to 7th grade when Ms. Coacher, my geography teacher gave me a midterm grade of a C, and then as she wrote it, she said, “There is no good reason for you to only have a C in my class. You need to work up to your potential.” I remember being embarrassed at the time. What I should have been was grateful. She was probably the first person to ever tell me I was capable or intelligent. It is perhaps ironic that it took another two decades before someone who tell me that again, and this time in a way that I really understood.

There is little that is artificial about honest intelligence. Certainly AI is about to overtake our world in ways, and through possibilities for which we are not prepared. That does not mean we need to be frightened or paralyzed, but rather we need to be participatory, much in the same way that Luther speaks about the Grace of God. We need to understand our role, grasp it, and do something thoughtful and impactful with it. I am just one person, and to say that my algorithmic skills are not particularly amazing would be a serious understatement, but I hope I can figure out what to do with the consequences of our incredible and powerful new possibilities. As I finish this last semester of full-time teaching, I realize I move toward a different sort of solitariness, and yet one that I choose to embrace and see where it will lead. There are so many things I still want to do. Earlier today as I walked on the quad to clear my head, I hear this song by Styx, and it seems to speak to me. It was written as I was getting out of the service, and that was a difficult time. The song here as so many elements to it as has my life. Such a journey . . . and more paths to explore. It took a week or so to finish this, so it is not Monday, but it is still a weekday.

Thank you always for reading.

Dr. Martin

The Consequence of Life

Thought for the Day

Hello from my seat on another Flight,

At various moments, and even when traveling, I have been known to spend my time by writing, and often my writing occurs when I am puzzled, when I am concerned, or perhaps, when I am frustrated by something or someone. The choice to write is how I attempt to make sense of the non-sensical, and one need look no farther (or further) than reading the daily headlines, listening to the talking heads, or hoping to figure out what compels students to do what they do, to realize the non-sensical is the norm rather than the exception.

When people learn that I have been in a college classroom for three decades, the first question I am often asked is “Are students different than when you first began teaching?” And of course, their interrogative tone assumes I will answer yes, and that my thoughts about differences are pejorative in nature. The question itself is problematic because it is so vague and open ended, and yet, I believe, in spite of their hope I will confirm their suspicions about Gen-Whatever, the question still has some validity. As I think about possible responses to this, I decided to consider specific moments in the time period my career covers. Even when considering specific students, there is always a cultural, contextual, and historical element to my evaluation. Additionally, there are the societal expectations of the reality the great majority of students grew up believing they should attend college. In spite of my role, or perhaps because of my role, as a college professor, I do not believe college is the best choice, the one-size-fits-all, for every 18 year old. More importantly, my rationale for such a statement is complex, but it does include issues of maturity, finance, and intelligence.

And yet, going back to the Fall of 1992, I found myself, albeit unexpectedly, in a role as a campus pastor and instructor at a junior college. I have noted in earlier posts that the position was a complex one, and yet many of my struggles with the overlapping aspects of that job were of my own making. However, I had some incredibly capable students there. There was also a breadth beyond what I ever imagined in how they came into their first year as students, in their understanding of what was expected of them, or how they conducted themselves in their first foray into independence. Having completed my own undergraduate studies at a liberal arts college, I thought I understood what I would face, but I was wrong. I had little idea of how to straddle the role of campus pastor, instructor, church relations, and someone going through a divorce. I made significant errors in judgment, and yet, I was blessed with some really good people, and by the grace of God, I think some positive results occurred. I can say that with some certainty because I am still in contact with some of them.

What I remember is there was an incredible sort of divide between traditionally aged students and those who were working on their AARN, those who came back, hoping to create a more successful life for themselves. The needs of the two groups of students was profoundly different, and I experienced because of my role as the campus pastor. I would leave that position, and soon found myself back in the role of graduate student again, and also trying to figure out who I was. Single, supply preaching, on my own in a profoundly different way, I was much like the proverbial fish-out-of-water. My counselor at the time (and he would be so for 6 years) was well aware of my struggles, and he once stated, “You are quite good at managing your professional life, but your personal life is quite the mess.” He was both insightful and honest. Being a graduate teaching instructor was quite a change from being the campus pastor, and weekends in the pulpit and weekdays in a composition or technical writing classroom had me feeling a bit divided, to say the least. To make sense of it all, I returned to things I understood, playing my guitar and doing Friday and Saturday gigs, and waiting tables to support the poor graduate student I was. Of course, there were other things that complicated life, another relationship, a bishop, and a lifestyle (for those who work food and beverage this is no surprise) that was injurious to my liver and my self-respect.

I would work my way through a loss of a parent, the loss of an ordination, and the failure of another marriage. I would lose a house, all my retirement savings, and find myself back in Houghton with yet another opportunity to finish my PhD a second time. And yet, in spite of my basic intelligence, my common sense was often on vacation. Still once again, by God’s grace and some supportive mentors and friends, some bosses, their spouses, and even some fellow students, I persevered, kept it together well enough to complete my studies. The students at Michigan Technological University were incredibly capable students, and at moments, I believe it was their desire for excellence that spurred me, raising the bar for me, both in the classroom and in my own studies. The reality of my own health and its frailty was also something that forced me to make better choices. I realize that as I look back.

Perhaps the greatest difficult of that period was the constant juxtaposition I found in myself. I was a 40-something in a world of 20-somethings, I had graduate degrees, but was working on another. I was lonely, but did not know how to manage it, and I was still trying to determine where it would all go. There have been numerous times where I have surmised that many of my struggles were because of a simple (or at least a singular) issue. While the reasons for it were complex, the fact was the various parts of me never seemed to be in the same chronological place. One part of me was still the 4 year old wishing to feel safe. Another was that adolescent who always felt smaller, younger, less capable than my classmates or friends. Yet another wished I had gone through life the normal way (whatever that is) and that I had completed college on time, that the person I had married out of college would have stayed married, had a family, and yes, lived the happily ever after. Perhaps that had me in my 20s or 30s. Again, somehow, I was behind, underdeveloped, underprepared, and less capable. And yet, I was still blessed by others and my sense of resiliency maintained.

I would find myself in Wisconsin in a first tenure-track position. I have written about some of this recently in a posting about a colleague there who had recently passed away. As I got there I thought things would fall into place, but again, my idealism would soon be dashed. My need to fit in, my desire to find those whom I could trust, and yet again, even my foolishness would undermine me. And yet, my time in Menomonie did more than perhaps anytime in my life to close all the gaps that life had created. The chronological disjointedness, the non-sensical choices that too often sabotaged my progress, would finally begin to be replaced. In spite of a Dean, one determined in McConnell sort of a way to make me a one-term individual, there were those who supported me. In my first year, a single mother for whom I retrieved a cookie for her daughter trusted my intentions to support her academic journey. A young incredibly brilliant and talented art student, one who would eventually live in my little carriage house, taught me so much about goodness. A third, who is now 40 and dear to me beyond words, blessed me in ways too many to count. Even those students I failed to work with successfully were important.

And that is only the beginning. Colleagues (one who mentored me beyond Stout into my position in Pennsylvania), dear next-door-on-the-circle colleagues who helped me realize a move might be the best thing ever, and the one who is now the most trusted friend I could ever hope to have, the one who supported and created the possibility for me to leap, contributed to where I am. Restaurateurs, individuals in my church, and others helped me manage those Wisconsin years and welcomed me as I returned to assist the person who probably single-handedly changed my life. And in terms of welcoming me back, a colleague one who began their tenure at Stout when I did became a friend as I was leaving; now 15 years, she and her husband are some of the dearest friends I have. I am often stunned by the seeming reoccurrence the connectedness of people and places. And this is more than the Six Degrees of Separation. It is much more about realizing what you have done, what you have said, or what you experienced can always come around later in life. Consequences have the ability to be timeless, and sometimes that is problematic, and it can be painful.

As I move toward the next phase of my life, I find that I have many more things to be grateful for than I have to regret. I know that is most certainly a blessing. Even as I am in the last days of a last academic year, I continue to learn about the realities of our present world. It could be easy to be disillusioned as yet another experience with students has illustrated their self-centeredness, but more importantly, it provides an opportunity to be gracious. I will serve them and myself better if I choose kindness. Earlier today, I meet a colleague from another department, another college, someone I have never met before, but incredibly brilliant and well versed in our world. We had a wonderful chat about Europe and languages, about travel and other cultures. And as importantly, I have another connection in Europe, and to places I have hoped to travel. As we fly toward the end of the semester, the reality of life, the reality of consequence, and the reality of its all process are in focus. As I sit on the back deck of La Malbec, the sun warms my face and arms, but as importantly, it warms my soul. And with such a day, I am again aware of how much there is to do, both in the immediate (yet today or tomorrow), the near (the next month or two) and beyond (next fall). As I flew home this week, I watch the movie, Children of a Lesser God. My working with ASL students this semester has opened my eyes in ways I could have ever imagined, and yes, ironically, opened my ears to sounds and ideas never known.

Thank you as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Amazed by the Changes

Hello from Placerville, CA.,

It’s the first time I have been back to Hang Town, as it is called, the County Seat of El Dorado County since a somewhat ill-fated trip on December of 2021. My first visit to this little boutique town was in the fall of 2005, when I drove up from San Francisco while attending a CPTSP Conference, and I was in awe of the town and the wineries and vineyards nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The beauty and ruggedness of the cliffs and canyons, the smell of the coming crush that would occur from the acres and acres under vine, and the hospitality of both my distant cousin and her husband as well as their winemaker, and others associated with the budding winery, Miraflores, began a relationship that has now endured for almost two decades.

That next summer I would return to live in the little quarters on the amazing land and work with the winery to create content, both through a news letter and a website. Additionally, I worked with the winery doing daily labor and learning an incredible amount about viticulture, fermenting, racking, bottling, and all that occurs from the harvest to the sale. And yet I know there is so little I really understand, the chemistry, the amazing interaction between grapes, skins, yeast, time, and the list could go on. Each time I listen to Marco I learn something new about this ancient tradition, and the first recorded Biblical miracle. Even now, after attending Peter D’Souza’s Wines and Spirits class (twice), through participating in my own focused reading, and continuing to work to match food and wine, there is so much to know. Indeed, as Albert Finney, who acted brilliantly in A Good Year, noted, “this brilliant nectar is incapable of lying.” I am continually amazed by how a day difference in heat or moisture can change the profile of a block of grapes, all tended in the same manner, significantly. If you ever have the opportunity for a vertical tasting, do it. You will be amazed by the change.

The first summer I stayed in the wine country of the Sierra Nevada foothills, I learned so much, but now, and importantly so, I realize how blessed I was to meet such an unparalleled person in Marco Cappelli. He, as I think I noted in a previous blog, is truly a Renaissance person. Brilliant and skilled in his craft only scratches the surface. He is intelligent, inquisitive, and probing, while simultaneously gentle, kind, and beyond gracious. That same summer I met Belinda, also capable beyond most people I have met in ways too numerous to count. She is an astute and successful businesswoman, a thoughtful and stunningly intuitive decorator, and elegant with no attempt to be so. Together, as I have watched their marriage and partnership is a thing of beauty. They compliment each other in most every way, and as I observe their two exquisite creations, their parenting is what I believe everyone might hope to do. Their daughter and son are individuals with personality, with intelligence, with a sense of love and decency, and beautiful or handsome in every sense of the words. It is so enjoyable to see the young people they have become, as well as to imagine who they might someday be.

The gift they (now the four of them) are in my life goes far beyond what I might hope or deserve. Each time I find my way back to Placerville, they amaze me in unexpected ways, with possible outcomes unanticipated, and always with a kindness that humbles me. I love observing them and watching them in situations from puzzle making to tromping around in the snow outside of Ascoli Piceno. In the last almost 14 years I have watched the boundless love two people had only show ever greater possibilities toward their children. I saw both offspring as toddlers or smaller, and I continually marvel at how they develop and change. They give me a sense of hope, both individually and collectively. I cannot stop smiling both inside and out as I watch them. Gia and Carlo are such a joy to behold, and each of them offer a goodness that is so necessary in our crazy world. One of the things I have always observed in Marco and Belinda is how together they create a beautiful atmosphere, an aura of you will, which cannot help but create an environment in which others can thrive. I experienced that the first summer I was at Miraflores. They are both capable beyond words and have high expectations of others, and yet they are never demanding of those around them. They exemplify what you might hope and raise the bar in such a way you are glad to work toward it. I see this in the way they support their employees, their children, and even me as a friend.

One of the most amazing things, regardless the period of time since last visit, they make me feel welcome as if I never left (perhaps it is because I do go away :)). Since I was here the last time they have made substantial changes: a new home, a new business, a profoundly more grown up son and daughter, and yet the basics – all the things noted above – are still alive and well. And just perhaps they are more content than I have ever witnessed in the past. In conversations over the past day and a half, I hear a contentment, and while the irons in the fire are still many, it seems they are happy with their changes; they have a unified direction, which I believe has always been true, but that direction is now more within their control. The changes made were done not out of necessity, but with a sense of purpose, with a plan in mind.

Too often I believe we are the victim of change rather than the instigator. Too often we are the tail-wagging-the-dog. As I move into the last weeks of work, I am increasingly aware of my own perspective changes, and each week I try to accomplish something that has a long term consequence, something that will make this coming fall and beyond more manageable. Over the past month to six weeks, I have found myself living in multiple worlds, trying to figure out work, retirement, personal life, and more. It has been a bit overwhelming, and there are pieces of it I have not managed, but I am working to get there. While some of that has been by escaping to Cleveland, to California, all while working, commenting, grading, advising, meeting with students, and more, I have felt a bit like the whirling dervish. Perhaps, I too am feeling like the victim of change versus managing it, but I am hoping that will change soon. I know the next few weeks will be busy. I have two graduate commencements to attend, concerts, recitals, and more, but simply sitting down and scheduling it all will be start. Change is cliche at times, and our thoughts about it even more so, but it is what life does. That has been illustrated in profound, but clear terms as I have returned to Placerville. As I walked down Main Street today, I thought about that summer of 2006 when I met some amazing people at the local Starbucks, a group of individuals that I was quite amazed by. I wonder where they are now. I remember a restaurant that I would frequent and enjoyed. I remember meeting at other times with other winery employees through the years. I remember times in between when I have visited and stayed at the Crush Pad. I remember coming here with Melissa and Jordan about 10 years ago. There are so many memories and still even more changes. Life was so different when I came here that first time. I lived in Wisconsin. Lydia was alive. Tara and Melissa were significant parts of my life. I remember coming when I was first interviewing for my present position, and it was during the Christmas holidays. There was a time I visited and laid in bed at the Crush Pad, burning with fever the entire time, isolated so I did not get anyone else ill. I remember New Year’s Eves at a dinner party at a restaurant or another time kayaking with Matricia. There are more memories than one could ever begin to recount, but Placerville, the Fairplay Appellation, visits from internship students from Lake Tahoe, barrel tasting, going away parties, it’s all part of the tapestry that is the last two decades of coming to this northern California County.

I am reminded of yet another movie, one that have given me my nickname from another former student. She calls me Norman, from the beloved movie, On Golden Pond. At the moment when Chelsea, played by Jane Fonda is lamenting her relationship with her father, actually played by her real-life father, Henry Fonda, her mother, played by the incredible Katherine Hepburn, says, “Life marches by, Chels. I suggest you get on with it” (On Golden Pond, 1981). It is one of the more truthful statements. Too often we live with a sense of regret for what might have been, what we should have done, or what we missed. That is an incredibly sad way to live. I did it in the past, and in some ways perhaps that is what I still wonder, but I am pretty sure that learning from the past is not about regret. Perhaps it is embracing the change. Over the past few months, conversations and interactions with an incredible human being pushed me to ponder, imagine, and realize both where I am as well as who I am. Not all of that has been easy, but it has been necessary. I am still trying to come to terms with what I think or believe. i am still trying to understand what it all means, and in spite of my ability to put words to screen, I have no clear words to articulate what I understand or feel. It was certainly about the possibility of change, and then my fear of it. It is there was too many possibilities? Was it that such a change on top of the other impending changes was more than I could fathom? Was it I am more content with some aspects of life than I realize? Amazed by it all is certainly accurate. Blessed by the opportunity to imagine more than I perhaps understand. Life is changing quickly, and I am both excited and terrified. In the meanwhile, I have two more days here in Placerville with Marco, Belinda, Gia, and Carlo. Again, yet another blessing . . . I will hopefully see Matricia and Victor, spend some more time on Main Street, and still get work done. It is much the same as it was that summer so many years ago. This video from the movie, On Golden Pond, was one of the most significant of the entire movie because of the relationship between Henry Fonda and his daughter. Their actual relationship in life was mirrored by this scene in the movie. Much has been written about the filming of this scene and what it did for them. It is poignant.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Examining a Changing Academy

Good-bye, Oh Captain My Captain

Hello from my upstairs office,

As I move into my last month of teaching during the academic year, and there is an additional four week summer course to manage, I find myself stepping back to reflect on what being involved in some kind of teaching since 1992 has shown. When I took that first position at Suomi College, a Finnish Lutheran Junior College in Hancock, Michigan, I was naive believing that being a professor, or even an instructor as I was, was valued and respected. What I learned then was I had incredibly talented and brilliant colleagues, ones woefully under-compensated for the amazing things they did in their classrooms. I remember going toe-to-toe with a President at a meeting when I argued that bringing woefully underprepared students to the Upper Peninsula for two years or less and then sending them home for their academic failure was exploitation because the college had received full financial aid, and the students left with thousands of dollars of debt. Needless to say, the President did not appreciate my opinion, and he screamed his displeasure with me. That was three decades ago, and unfortunately, I see this same thing still occurring today. There has been a lot written about this, and while I am certainly supportive of providing opportunity to a wide range of first generation students. Merely bringing them to campus, putting them in a room, giving them a schedule, and feeding them does not create a successful environment. I am also aware of the supportive programs, the early alerts, the recent practice of sending alerts to a web of individuals will somehow remedy their under-preparedness, believing we have done what is necessary seems to be falling short on multiple levels. What have we done by pushing the practice that college is necessary for all to succeed?

This is a difficult question, and it is something that has been decades in the making. The great majority of students I meet have grown up believing they are required to attend college. 529 Accounts, the continued growth of endowments and university foundations have worked diligently to make it fiscally feasible, and yet those often it falls woefully short as the average undergraduate debt in the states is now $37,000 (as of 2023). And that is just the financial piece of the puzzle. The move toward STEM above all else has had consequences also. And I mean no lack of appreciation for my colleagues in the College of Science and Technology or the College of Health Professions, but without an understanding of the world as a complex culture, which requires the Arts and the Humanities, we are little more than the individuals George Orwell predicted in his dystopian novel. And while I appreciate the importance of the Professional U office at our university, and even more so the staff who works tirelessly to prepare students to take what they learn and put it into practice, too often this becomes one more box to check, continuing what seems to be a recipe card to a diploma versus encouraging those in our classes to think, analyze, and synthesize what they are doing in their classes. As I have noted in previous blogs, it was a first trip to Europe during a January interim that I learned how to learn. I was 25 years old, and I had been through the Marine Corps, but I had little idea how do to more than memorize and regurgitate. It was as I walked the streets of Rome, Florence, Munich, Copenhagen, Lübeck, or Aachen that I began to realize learning was experiencing and pondering. Education was absorbing and discussing the experience with someone who offered insight, walking with someone who saw the complexity of the world, but could explain it to a somewhat worldly, and yet simple Midwestern young man in a way that made a difference. It was being that sponge and not realizing what all happened, and often for years. It was connecting the words of Ernest Hemingway and Thomas Mann to the places they wrote of, and for me it was the first experience of what would become a life-long struggle with health that had me depart on my own, attempting to get back to the states (which did not happen), only to find my way around Germany on my own until I was reunited with my classmates to fly back together. Auguries of Loneliness was the title of that interim, and I lived it in a way unanticipated.

What I see and what I hear today is more about just completing the pieces to the requirement puzzle, checking off the boxes and finishing the 120. One of the colleges worked intentionally, and intently, to keep their students from needing anything outside their college, believing such a narrow focus would prepare someone for our increasingly complex world. I think there has been some reversal, but the academic arrogance of that stunned many. And yet, I think there is more of the canary-in-the-coalmine reality to this example than most want to admit. I have noted my appreciation for aspects of STEM education than some of my liberal arts colleagues, but as I watch what is happening throughout the system, I see a sort of vocational reality permeating higher education. And yet in spite of the movement toward the vocationalism of higher education, studies show that a degree in the liberal arts will pay more by the age of 40, the ability think critically will far outweigh the skills someone learns, and the questions of how are you going to get a job is not actual as English and foreign language majors are statistically more likely to be employed, less likely to be underemployed, than they natural science colleagues (43 and 41 compared to 51-47% for sciences and business) (Humanities Works). I am that liberal arts graduate with an undergraduate degree in History and Humanities and minors in German and Religion. When I graduated from Dana, I had a opportunity to go to law school, to seminary, or even to do graduate work in history. Certainly there was more that needed to happen, but I was not looking at being unemployed or underemployed. When I arrived at Bloomsburg for my in person interview, my late colleague Dr. Terry Riley asked me to come into his office and chat. One of the things I will always remember about his conversation was his specific note that in spite of being a professional writing person, which to this day most literature people under-appreciate or misunderstand, I had a liberal arts background. I believe to this day that was the deciding factor that moved me into my position.

During this last semester of teaching I have connected my areas of professional writing, rhetoric, and composition in a manner never before attempted. It has been revealing. Through scaffolding assignments, and working with a writing process, working to help my students develop their writing, the general lack of any sense of process, the struggle to write thoughtful and usable introductions, the overwhelmed feelings they have when I ask them to create a storyboard and integrate sources is both incredible and sad. And yet it is not something that can be laid at their feet in totality. As I have noted with some of them, we speak regularly about the importance of writing of communicating, but we do little to foster or develop it. Think about this: Students are required to earn 120 hours for their bachelors degree, and yet only 6 of them are considered writing specific or intensive or 5%. There is no consistent intentionality about writing, citation, or grammar from most of my colleagues. They look at content, and generally lament the rest, while blaming me that I did not fix them in my 14 week Foundations course. This is not hyperbole. I remember times at ad hoc lunches with colleagues from other departments, and their questioning what I taught in my classes. There is so much to offer here, but it would take a book. As I noted a recent blog, one of my Stout colleagues simply admitted he did not know how to manage the grammatical issues of a paper, and that was more than proofreading and editing. I do not think there is much different now, and perhaps it is even more difficult. Working with writing and deciding what to focus upon has long been up for discussion, debate, and often contentious. The likes of Peter Elbow, Andrea Lunsford, Linda Flower, Patricia Bizzell, or James Berlin all offer something about how we should teach in a classroom, and what I have found as both a process composition theorist, a rhetorician, and someone who believes in connecting culture to the rhetorical situation, grammar still matters. That is both a rhetorical move for me as well as my firm believe in the connection of thought to practice, and practice to genre expectation. I remember as a first year student at Dana being required to compose two essays on the fly for readers. We had three chances to pass two. It was required to move beyond freshman composition. When I offer that remembrance to my students they get the glazed look of “walking uphill to school both ways.” Writing is central to our humanity. It is one of those places we take what we think and attempt to quantify and qualify it. It is where we connect thought to communication. It has significance for identity, for our ability to think and reflect, for our ability to succeed in our world. Certainly technology has affected it, and AI will affect it. There is so much angst among my colleagues. I see students already using technology in a variety of ways that are attempts to circumvent the art of writing. When this is the intent, I too will reject it, but if it done by asking more thoughtful, careful, analytical questions to see what happens, I find the possibilities something worthwhile. Perhaps what I find myself doing is deconstructing the idea of writing. While I find some helpfulness in the idea of post-modernism from time to time, it seems I have more traditionalism in me. As such, I am not post-structuralist, and I am certainly not post-process. I am perhaps more process driven than ever before. I need to consider why that is. Some of it is comfortability; some of it is efficaciousness; but more often most of it is the response of students. They find a way to move forward in a meaningful manner. They approach writing with less trepidation, less disenchantment, and perhaps more importantly, they begin to believe they can write.

That is what education is. It is creating a sense of belief in one’s ability to think, to analyze, and to put that thought and analysis into practice, into communicative practices that help them navigate a rapidly changing world. As I move rapidly toward the end of my daily work in the academy, I am both disenchanted at moments and hopeful at others. As I consider the role of writing, of the importance of the humanities in our world, I know there will continue to be changes, but the basics remain. Critical thought and the ability to articulate that to compose about those thoughts will never lose their importance. Certainly technology will change its form. Certainly AI will offer new and yet unrealized possibilities. To Dr. Richard Jorgensen, my first composition professor (yes, he taught it the fall of 1979), to Dr. John Mark Nielsen and the late Dr. Donald Juel, both who pushed me to improve my writing through their honest critique, and to my mentors, Drs. Diana George, Marilyn Cooper, and Elizabeth Flynn, my composition theorists at MTU, thank you for all you taught me to succeed in the classroom. To all of my students who pushed me to improve my pedagogy, I am grateful. I feel like there is still so much to learn, but I will keep doing it on the other side too. I hope my verse, which has often been a sentence without rhyme, but with punctuation and signs, with thought and reason created a verse that is memorable.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Tragic Brilliance

Hello from my morning office hours,

When I first arrived at the University of Wisconsin-Stout, I was excited by the opportunity to take what I learned about technology and writing, to use what I had experienced as a technical writer and trainer for both Chrysler Corporation and Gateway Computers, and to apply both theory and practice to the college classroom. I was not prepared for what a major in Technical Communication located in an English and Philosophy (wait, how are they together?) Department, which was primarily a service department, might create. Being a late Spring hire, and having only applied to for one tenure track position, I was simply feeling blessed that I had been given an opportunity to move beyond the graduate school life, even though I was ABD. Looking back, I really had little idea what the next couple years would do to the long-term trajectory of a middle-class, blue collar, Iowa kid who found himself back in his ancestral state of Wisconsin.

As I arrived in Menomonie, I was much more naive and idealistic than a 40-something should be, but nonetheless, I put my head down, and I taught with hard work all would be quite reasonable. I was sadly mistaken, but it was certainly a learning time for me. My chair was on sabbatical, but I remember him stopping by my office one day to check in. In his sort of heavy-sigh manner, which was both literal and figurative (in fact, he would verbalize ‘heavy sigh’), he noted shortly into our conversation, “You know people are not going to like you here.?” (and there is a period and a question mark intentionally because the statement cut both ways) – I stared at him somewhat aghast, and he continued, it is because you are part of the Technical Communication major in the department. Immediately, I was given a crash course on departmental politics, and soon it was clear that the three of us who were tasked with growing a program were not appreciated. The other two were not popular because the major got things at the expense of the rest, and the actions of the program director had alienated many of his departmental colleagues. Again looking back, the other, who served as a mentor to me and about whom I have written at other times, was caught in the middle of it all, and he did all he could to foster growth both with the students and with the university. He had been the department chair and as a driving force behind the development of the program, he was not going to be given much leeway.

Along with my arrival the fall of 2003, I had two other colleagues join the department at the same time. One was an American Literature scholar from “the” Ohio State University, and the second, who began her studies at Stout, two masters, and eventually a dual PhD from Emory University, were also first-year, tenure-track. They were both talented and brilliant individuals. Yet, both because of my role in the Technical Communication Program as well as some of my own struggles as an ABD with colleagues who had completed their degrees, we did not always manage a productive relationship. In fact, there were times I felt terrifically abandoned, on an island by myself. Fortunately, by the time I left Stout, the relationship with the more volatile of the two was remedied, mostly throughout a similarly shared experience within our department. Dr. Jean Marie Dauplaise, a Wisconsin native, and the one with the doctorate from Emory University, was beyond talented in so many areas. She was spirited and passionate and seldom at a loss for words. She could change the atmosphere of an entire room by her mere presence, and students in her classes seldom realized just how insightful she was. She could be simultaneously demanding and empathetic, stunningly funny and serious, and seldom would one forget an encounter with her. From most any kind of art to literature, from politics to film, Jean Marie knew something and had some level of expertise. Seldom have I met a person who could command such a breadth of responses from those who encountered her.

She was quick witted and sometimes acerbic (I remember her ability to use Drill Instructor language more frequently than me), but she also genuinely cared about many things, and she was fervent in her expressiveness about the people she loved. She had an inner beauty that could be lost or overlooked because of her physicality, which was also stunning; however, she wanted to be known for her intellectualism and certainly deserved such recognition. Then were there the times she did things that would belie that intellectual strength through her own actions. She was profoundly human. Yet, I remember one particular conversation with her when we chatted about a variety of topics as we sat in Zanzibar. That night was of importance because it created an appreciation for each other, which up to that time was missing. It was also a very night I would end up with yet another difficulty when I left Zanzibar because of my own health issues. And she would be the one to let my chair in on that encounter, much to my chagrin. To be honest, neither of us knew what to do with the other, and we were both too stubborn to step back. We managed that stubbornness with entirely different styles, but the consequence was the same. For too long we were tenaciously distant from the other for the first half of my time at Stout. Fortunately, that would change. As I left Stout, she would reach out that next year for advice.

The last time I saw Jean Marie in person, I drove to Superior to have dinner with her. We had chatted, and she asked if we could get together. As I was back in Wisconsin to work on things with Lydia, it was possible, so I made the two-hour drive, and we had a lovely dinner. We spoke earnestly and thoughtfully about what she was struggling with at that time, and we developed even more of a rapport. We apologized for the things we had done to make the other’s life less than stellar at times, and as importantly, we addressed the reality that we had both moved on from UW-Stout. Our lives had taken some profoundly different turns. That is the truth about life in general. Choices have consequences, and sometimes we do not always consider those consequences as carefully or thoughtfully as we might. Again, another of those learning lessons. And yet, we are the individuals we are or become for a reason (again, we seldom understand or fathom the complexity of it all).

As I look back at my last encounter with Jean Marie, even then, there was an insight and brilliance, and her ability to articulate things that were complex shown through. This time she exhibited a kind of vulnerability that did not often find the surface. I reflected on that visit as I drove back to Menomonie with both a sense of relief, but also a significant level of sadness. Since that time, our messages and conversations were not frequent, but they were always kind and appreciative. In many ways, I think Jean Marie was perhaps too brilliant for her own good . . . and I sometimes wondered if she were born too late or too early. There was a sort of 60s vibe to her, and I think she would have fit into the Haight-Ashbury scene quite well. Her societal attitudes and acumen would have been interesting to observe in that San Francisco neighborhood. And yet, she had this incredible oxymoronic combination of feminine mystique and a feminist activism that many who are questioning the behavior of male counterparts. And yet, one could never put Jean Marie into a simply defined space. She would have none of that. In fact, I think she rejoiced when people were unsure what to do with her.

And yet perhaps it is that same brilliance that can be one’s undoing. I believe Jean Marie saw things differently, and I wonder if that difference caused some of the isolation I know she felt from time to time. It was from this place she and I found a genuine appreciation for the other. I remember as we sat at dinner that night I worked to reinforce the goodness and ability I saw in her. I remember speaking to her about a particular film, one she had used in class, and one I have since used, Mona Lisa Smile. It was some of that conversation that I still use when I think about the film. And in some ways, there is little doubt that there was some of Jean Marie in Katherine Watson and vice versa. In both there was an independence, a free-spiritedness, and an intelligence that fought against the status quo. Too often, those who are brilliant are misinterpreted by those around them, but additionally, there is a struggle to manage the brilliance in a manner that makes sense to others, that fits within the system or the expectation of the larger. I know there have been moments where I believed that standing upon principle would create a positive outcome. Part of the reason I am in Pennsylvania was that misguided notion. It was one of the numerous things that I needed to learn to get to where I am now.

As I opened Facebook or as I looked at my messages earlier this week (it is a couple days later), I found an obituary for Jean Marie. It was a shock to find that my former colleague had finished her journey, and then it is not as much a shock as perhaps I wish it could be. And yet it is another reminder that life is not about fairness; it is not about predictability. Life simply is. It is a gift that often fails to feel all that much like any gift at all. That is what I believe in this moment. Too often it is the timing of something that affects how we understand the other, how we respond to the other, how we encounter the other. As I wrote in another blog almost 10 years ago, when I wonder what I feel, and I know that I do feel, the loss of such a wonderfully talented, intelligent, and deeply giving woman is a profound loss, not only to her family, her nephews, and those who were now some part of Jean Marie’s life now, but for those of us who were gifted to encounter her in times earlier in our lives. The memories of her, and there are many: from a first afternoon gathering of the three of us who began our tenure track careers that fall of 2003, from her asking that I buy something for her the summer I went to Sturgis, from her shaking my hand and addressing me as Dr. Martin when I had defended my dissertation to her once telling me that she would have kicked my ass if I had spoken to our acting chair when I had a disagreement with her (and I had not). The memories of her are more than I have fingers (and perhaps toes). I am sorry there are no longer options to reach out to you. Jean Marie, I hope you know how much so many admired you and the amazing talent you were. I hope you have peace and you will be missed.

Thank you as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Beyond March Madness

Hello from the corner of my living room,

The calendar says Spring; it says it is time for our annual focus on college basketball, even for those who are not sports junkies. And for those with a connection to Iowa, as I both grew up there and attended the University of Iowa for part of my undergraduate degree, the phenomenon that is Iowa Women’s Basketball, even beyond the generational talent of #22, will provide an exciting week or two. However, back to my first sentence, it does not feel spring-like at all. Between snow flurries, nights in the 20s, and winds that seem to permeate even my warmest winter coat, there is an environmental madness that is not all that unusual for North Central Pennsylvania.

Things for the academic year are zooming along, both literally (not something I could once say) and figuratively, and the reality of 6 weeks left is going to register for most very soon. I need to get a couple of very productive days in this week to keep the remainder of the semester manageable. Some of that is dependent on others, and that can complicate matters, but this is where I need to remember what I have control of and what I don’t. There will be group and individual meets this week if the remainder of the semester is to be successful (and I do believe student success is necessary if I am to feel successful). Even then I only have so much I can do. I’ve been reminded of that again in a couple specific cases this semester.

Pushing (while attempting to support) students to reach or stretch beyond what they normally do is the epitome of the double-edged sword. First, because each instance is unique. This is both because of the student, but also because of what is going on in their semester. This semester, both because of the asynchronous online aspect as well as the teach-out requirements, I have, for all practical purposes 14 independent studies, which involve about 35 students. There are 6 groups in a 300 level course and 8 (which are a combination of groups and individuals) in a 400 level course. It is both exciting to see what they do as well as daunting to manage (and not micro-manage) all of it. The next 10 days will be significant, and I need to do some serious work today to support them.

Returning to the uncooperative weather aspect of my initial comments, my furnace, which has been problematic more than once before, is no more cooperative than the weather. However, fortunately people have been kind and attentive in trying to manage it. Today it is 60 and while the sun was out earlier, it is overcast now. I did get some things, which have been on the to-do this for some time, accomplished today, and I have to say I was surprised when Apple actually did some work on my 6 year-old MacBook Pro gratis. Yay!!

One of the things I struggle to understand is how differently the world seems to be daily, the profound and unexpected changes compared to what I remember when I was the age of my current students. It is really not that different, but rather we are simply more instantaneously notified or aware? It is that people, and not just here in the States but globally, are honestly less tolerant of the other? It is that I simply see things from a very different perspective because of age, travel, or my own changing views? Whatever the case, there seems to be a great deal more unexpected, unpredictable, and even unavoidable. However, this madness is not limited to just the month of March. Even in the past three weeks since I began to consider this blog, I am continually astounded by what has become commonplace in terms of dialogue (or lack thereof), in terms of appropriateness (again, or lack thereof) in terms of the give-and-take between individuals from our national conversations from the halls of Congress to the halls of my own building here on campus, and then even in the courtrooms of our country. And I do see a link between what happens on social media, while not being against its usage, and how we seem to believe what we can say there without repercussion has now permeated all aspects of our communal interaction. Professors John Jones and Michael Trice, of the Ohio State University, note that while social media provided a “voice to the voiceless,” it has increasingly become a platform for “disruptive voices, messages, or ideologies” (Social Media Effects: 27Feb2020). Certainly, the need for those who have another voice need to be heard, and that is part of our first amendment protections, but what are the limits, and how is such a limit decided? But certainly without a thoughtful, reasonable dialog, there is a consequence for democracy, and I believe that is clearly evident in what is happening in our country (and beyond).

As a further consequence, I believe we have developed a suspicion that affects all generations, but the support of that suspicion varies by age group. While I am perhaps more idealistic than I should be, I believe that the initial intention of most social media is to develop networks of increased communication, of creating meaningful connections between families, colleagues, or other social groups, when platforms are hijacked for more nefarious purposes, the intention of creating connections across groups, generations, ethnicities, or geographies is lost. The focus changes and the platform becomes villainized. I believe what has happened to X, formerly Twitter, is a strong example of this. I find it hard to believe that Elon Musk can still believe his takeover of Twitter has helped him. Certainly, when you see the volume of information that is shared through social media platforms, there is little doubt there is a democratizing effective, but there is also no avoiding the lack of civility that seems to envelop daily discourse from every corner. The ability of Mr. Musk to decide who can stay or be removed from his platform demonstrates the incredible power that one person has on public discourse, and that should raise incredible concern.

In some of my recent reading, which is looking both at the consequence of social media on public discourse as well as considering what AI might contribute to this rapidly changing world, I came across the term “slacktivism.” What is it? It is an ability to believe you are making a difference with little honest social interaction or intent to interact. This concept is not surprising to me, as I have considered with some alarm the lack of critical thought or analysis I encounter on a daily basis. I have referred to it as “sound-byte” intellectualism. Much of what I read or hear too often is someone arguing something with little or no support for their contention. Because they heard it somewhere, because they read a headline somewhere, they believe it with no thought or analysis, and then it is shared post-haste. Again, the consequence is not always immediately apparent, but the siloing of opposing positions or opinions only becomes more profound.

I do not feel badly for the Zuckerbergs, the Musks, the Spiegels, or the Chews (and if you do not know a couple of the names, you should) because they use their users for their own profit. Let’s be honest about that. When Facebook was created, it was marketed as a social network, but it was not long afterwards that the term network was changed to utility. While many perhaps did not see that change, I remember speaking about it to my students. What this change in terminology was did was telegraph to the user, generally unbeknownst to most was in the way Facebook both believed their mission and marketing had evolved. Think about it. Utilities (remember Waterworks and Electric Company cards in Monopoly?) are something you need to manage your life. Without utilities, we would not have life as we know it. To claim the title of utility, you are positing that you are something people cannot do without. There is a certain madness in that claim, except we allowed it to happen. We bought into it to the tune of making Zuckerberg worth 171 Billion dollars as of March 2024 (Forbes). Meta as a company is worth 1.24 Trillion dollars as of the same time (Forbes). Now there is both an incredible example of creating wealth, and a complete madness of our complete buy-in to what social media does. When I ask my students where they get their news, almost without exception, it is from social media platforms.

Certainly the ability of apps and our phones to give us instant access to anything anywhere has its perks, but also its consequence. How critically do we read? How carefully do we reflect on not only what we read, but from where it comes? Much like what is happening with our turn to AI, a mentor of mine, with whom I am still fortunate to be in touch, and I have had discussions about the importance of AI. She notes that our use of Artificial Intelligence is only as strong as how critical our questions posed are. And she is correct. We need to learn how to use it, and if we are to harness the democratic ideals of social platforms we need to learn how to use them appropriately. Certainly, Congress has had tough questions for the CEOs, but too often their questions come from their own political bias versus what might be done to make sure the companies do the responsible thing. When I consider the power of media, that is nothing new. Certainly as early as the French Revolution, when the term the Fourth Estate became commonplace, there was recognition of the power. The principles of “liberty”, “equality” and “fraternity” which were written into the constitution in the 20th century were first used in the 17th century. One might argue that these terms were intended with the rise of social media. but perhaps much like the French did in their revolution, we have lost our way. As I finish my last weeks as a person in the classroom on a regular basis, I find myself reflecting on where we are headed. I am concerned about the sort of madness present in every direction. Certainly, we have access to more information that ever before, and I think AI will only create a more seismic explosion of that, but at what cost? As I tell my students, I am not against AI, and I believe it has incredible possibilities and provides outstanding opportunities for good. However, it what we have done with social media is any indication of where we are going, I am concerned. Our government is seldom ahead of the curve on anything, and therefore reactionary. The average person spends little time considering the consequences of what our technology does, we jump on the latest bandwagon, clicking on our acceptance of the terms without even a thought about what we have accepted. On one level, it is simply us doing what we have always done, on the other hand, perhaps we are all mad. I remember the first time I saw this video, I was astounded. I called it Little Red Riding Hood meets Care Bears. Now there is madness.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Unexpected Gift – Unexpected Time

Hello from my office in Bakeless,

As I said to a couple of people today, it has been a long week today, or perhaps a long month this week (and it is only Tuesday). I know there was a full-moon, a snow moon, over the weekend, but it seems that its shadow is messing with people even yet. You might wonder if I believe in the full-moon affecting people: well, I do. I learned that the summer I worked as a chaplain at St. Luke’s Medical Center in Sioux City, the summer of 1984. Some of the craziest events at the hospital occurred during those lunar moments. And certainly, the moon has been gorgeous the last couple nights as I have been out in the darkness. I remember when I lived in Houghton once walking in the winter snow under a cloudless night with the full-moon beaming down. I think the light was so brilliant it was like looking out at mid-day, and the beauty and glistening on the undisturbed snow was beyond anything imaginable to me. As I remember, I simply sat on a log of a fallen tree, looking out in amazement at all I saw. There was a gentle wind that you could hear in the pines, but as usual, the waters of Lake Superior moderated the temperature. So, while chilly, it was a manageable cold in the midst of winter. What an unexpected gift, what a needed gift at the moment.

I had come back to Houghton after being away for a couple of years. I have moved to Oakland County downstate to attempt to repair a marriage; I had given up a full-fellowship for my doctoral degree, not wanting to fail a second time at being married, but that still happened, and I found myself working for Gateway Computers at a Country Store in San Antonio, Texas. Through some conversations, and the willingness of a Graduate Studies director and another professor, within a 96 hour period, I left a job, packed a car, drove 1,600 miles, and re-enrolled back into the Rhetoric and Technical Communication program at Michigan Technological University. A phone conversation on a Thursday had me back in Houghton on late Sunday afternoon: another unexpected gift at an unexpected time. To this day, there is not enough gratitude I could ever express to Drs. Victoria Bergvall and Dale Sullivan for supporting my return to my studies. Within a couple days, I would find a small furnished cabin to sublet on the Portage, return to wait tables at a newly opening restaurant, and be back in my studies. That fall would create even more possibilities, ones I am still realizing 23 years later.

That fall would give me a different perspective on what I was doing as a doctoral student moving me from a more composition-focused assistantship to one which was more focused on technical writing. That all would re-introduce me to people who had helped me before, but to a completely different group of people also, reminding me of how much I really did love learning and working with food and beverage. And that work was to the consternation of my comprehensive exam chair who once questioned if my degree was in Rhetoric and Technical Communication or Restaurant Management. It was a difficult day, but it was an important one. I learned much more about the academy after I returned. I was able to focus my energies in ways that had not occurred my first foray into my doctoral work. It was during that first winter that the sitting in the brilliance of the full-moon occurred. Often, I have been asked, what is the most beautiful place I have been? – and more often than not, I think the Keweenaw Peninsula might still be that place. When I first came to Hancock late summer of 1992, that was not what I thought. I found it quaint perhaps, and I did find the Portage and Lake Superior quite beautiful, but I had little understanding of how pristine, how rustic, and how both formidable and inviting the U.P. could be. I remember my first drive to Copper Harbor in the snow, in my 1987 Toyota 4-Runner. That was a good vehicle to have. When I looked out from the shore of the Harbor Haus at Superior, the winter ice, the snow, and the sun were postcard perfect. Where had I come? It was again almost a decade later I would return, and in those next few years, I experienced the beauty of being in the Keweenaw in ways I could not imagine. Boat rides in the Portage and beyond the Walls out into the big lake, sailing into the evening and back down the Portage, sitting around a fire or waiting tables in Eagle River, the beauty of this home to many of the Finnish people in the country was (and is) something to behold.

There were so many unexpected moments there, but what perhaps amazes me to this day is how this somewhat minimally inhabited, somewhat out-of-bounds or verboten wilderness of the second part of Michigan can call one back again and again. This time last year, I drove with my colleague, and friend’s son, to help him check out Michigan Tech. We stayed at the Air BnB of a friend, who also lives on the Portage, and Max was convinced this is where he wanted to pursue his college degree. He has told me more than once how happy he is he made that choice. And I am happy for him, but it does not hurt me that I have yet another reason to return to that northern Paradise – another unexpected gift that occurred almost 30 years after I first went there. While MTU itself is the deciding factor, being able to show him around, drive him to experience things he might not have, and to introduce him to people I still have relationships with, did not hurt his decision-making process. As he has finished a first semester, begun a second, and obtained an internship, we are both realizing that my introduction to his parents 20 years ago had a consequence that would continue to bring unexpected possibilities. There is a thread to our lives that we often overlook or fail to cultivate. One of the things I am often told is that I maintain connections. I have written about this in other posts, but there is a reason I do so. It has to do with my own sense of place and belonging. What gives me a sense of place is not as much about a location, but understanding the thread, the connection, the significance of what that relationship has been. Too often we move beyond with little sense of reflection, losing out on the possibility of what we might be able to accomplish.

As I move into my last weeks of working full-time in the manner that has occupied half my life, I am not always sure where things are headed. There are moments that can be frightening. There are moments that can see like everything is a blank slate, with limitless possibilities, opportunities, or chances. And yet is the idea of chances that are sometimes most unexpected. When I consider the path of my life, most of it has been unexpected, and yet, as I have noted before, I am not sure I had expectations. My early life taught be to question everything, to believe little or nothing, and to hold on to everything I possibly could. Being told I did not belong; being told I had little value; and being told there was little chance I would amount to much did not bode well for a future. However, do not feel badly for me . . . it taught me resilience and pushed me to believe there was always a path forward. As I move toward the next step of my life, there are still more options, more unexpected gifts. Tomorrow I will meet a person who has found their way in and out of my life for over two decades. Through periodic interaction since I left Houghton some twenty years ago, the connection between two people has maintained. And yet, seldom did we know what to think of that connection. Time, events, and other circumstances often dictate what is possible. I think about that with the person I refer to as my sandbox buddy. When I traveled on a Lutheran Youth Encounter Team for a year, my first host family, with whom I still communicate, began elder siblings to me. Judy, who has always watched out for me in some manner, once told me, “Timing might be as important as anything when it comes to a relationship.” It seems her words ring true even now 45 years later.

One of my favorite movies, both in terms of what it says as well as it has Sean Connery as a principle actor is the coming-of-age movie titled, Finding Forrester. It is probably 25 years old, but it is a movie about a young black student, who is a brilliant student as well as a good athlete (basketball player). He is stereotyped by one of his preparatory professors and accused of plagiarism, so certainly the writing aspect of the movie does not go unnoticed. This particular title comes from that movie, but that is all that is I will say. You might want to watch the movie. It is a movie I often used in my summer ACT 101 classes because so many students doubted their adequacy for being in college. The imposter syndrome was alive and well. So much of our lives are unexpected, and I do not believe that will change in our crazy unpredictable world. And yet that which is unexpected is no reason to fear what might happen. This little Riversider, adopted child, smaller-than-most, struggling-to-understand adolescent never imagined he would enlist in the Marine Corps; he never anticipated going to college, let alone getting a doctoral degree. He could not have imagined himself as a parish pastor, as someone who has been blessed to travel the world. He never imagined becoming a foodie, an oenophile, and quite honestly, he had little idea of much of anything. I am not sure if that made me different than my friends or classmates when I grew up. What I know now is life has been a blessing. Experiences, both planned and unplanned have provided incredible opportunities to grow and meet others. Some of the most unexpected gifts and the most unexpected time have made me who I am. To all who have been there to support and gift me, there will never be enough thank yous. The clip below is from the movie aforementioned and shows more significantly than perhaps any part of the movie how the unexpected gift of friendship touched even a curmudgeonly old man. The idea of integrity, the reality of stereotyping, and the ability to find the unexpected are all reasons I find hope. I see this in my students sometimes when they do not see it in themselves. I push because I want them to achieve, and I believe they can. Often, it is not understood; more often it is not necessarily appreciated, but I believe in the resiliency of the individual because I know it. I know how it helped me achieve the unexpected, and yes, what a gift!

Thank you as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Imagining Possibilities

Hello from Iowa and a family ceremony,

Family is such an incredible reality and yet simultaneously a concept. Family has always been something I have pondered because my family, and my relationship with those individuals has never been what is considered typical. The reasons for that are varied and complex, but trying to understand where it all fits has been something I have attempted for most of my life. This past week as I did some searching in Ancestry, I found a picture of my biological mother shortly before I was born. It is the first time I have every found or saw a picture of her before she became a mother. I first met by mother as an adult when I was 23 years old. I met her again when I was 45, and that was the only two times I remember seeing her in person. I was never kept of knowing the reality of my adoption or that my sister and I had lived with grandparents the majority of my pre-school life.

While I know a number of facts about my early childhood, there is no real clear picture about how all that happened could have transpired as it did. Part of that struggle was my Grandmother did not tell us much, my adopted parents did as much as they could to make biological parents a non-issue, and when I was old enough to ask, the stories I heard were not really consistent. The most significant element of my childhood that is unclear to me is that I have a second full-sister for whom I know nothing more than a name. The story about this sister, who was the third and final of the union of my biological parents, was supposedly given away by my mother to someone in the Air Force. The reality for my mother was difficult. She became a mother at 15, and by the time she was 18, she had three children and a spouse who was in prison. That is an stunning thing to comprehend even for me, I cannot imagine what she was feeling. Perhaps some of that is because I am ready to retire, and I have never helped create a child. Perhaps it is even more stunning because of this newly discovered picture of my mother, realizing she was 15 and would birth me within three months of that marriage date. As shocking (though understandable), the similarity between my mother and Kris, the sister with whom I grew up is palpable. By the time I had met her, even in my early twenties, she was only 38-39, but she looked significantly more aged than that. Having six children, smoking to much, and drinking more than was healthy will do that to a person. She was a person who was small statured (barely over five feet tall and slender), but I doubt she was any kind of wallflower. I think she had learned to be hard, to be tough, out of necessity. When I was in San Antonio decades later, I had the occasion to be around her again, and again, she had aged significantly. My half-sister called her, asking if she would like to go to dinner with the two of us, and she responded, “No.” And as I remember that was not because of a scheduling conflict, but rather because she did not want to do so.

To be gracious, I imagine the thought of going to dinner with her first born, whom she had only met one other time, and I had asked some difficult questions, might have caused her some discomfort, but at the time, I only saw it as rejection. And even in my early forties, that was hurtful. We would eventually spend some time together, and that included a weekend where Vivian and I traveled to Brownsville/Harlingen to meet the mother’s side of the family, a maternal grandmother I had never met when I would have remembered. There were cousins, a half-brother and his family, and others. It was enjoyable to listen to the stories and see where many in my family called home. My mother’s second family of sorts all lived in the Valley as they called it, attending San Benito High School and frequenting South Padre Island, a place I only knew because of it being a Spring Break destination. I would met my mother again during that 5-6 months in Texas because my half-brother lived in Corpus Christi, where I was born, and with his own children, my mother had grandchildren there. It was evident that she loved her grandchildren, but I think she struggled with all that had happened to her as a teenager. As a mother at 15, even though it was the 1950s, that was awfully early to be a mother.

Perhaps some of my unawareness is because I have never been a parent to someone I helped create, someone I watched being birthed and realizing I had responsibility for that life. I am reminded of my life-long best friend’s (who has passed) statement when I asked him what it was like to watch his wife give birth. He said, “I am not sure I can put her through that again.” I try to imagine what my mother must have thought when she saw a baby who was quite premature, weighing only 17 ounces. And then being pregnant again within 4-5 months. That is a lot for a young girl to handle. While I was not around the three siblings my mother would have in a second marriage, I have met two of the three. They are hard working, but have a significantly different outlook on life than I do. I am not sure that any of them graduated from high school. They might have earned GEDs, and my half-brother has done quite well, but started his life early working as a rough-necker on oil rigs. That is not an easy life. The youngest of the three (I think) has worked jobs that paid too little and had no security. I do not even know if my mother got a GED, so their perception of education and mine were (and are) quite different. And yet, I am a first generation college student, and I did not expect to be where I am. What is important for me is not what they have or have not accomplished, but that I do have some connection to my roots.

My biological father’s side of the family, I do know more about because they were the grandparents who took my sister and me and cared for us after my mother and father left us with them and headed back to Texas. What I know is my mother was pregnant again, and my father would be imprisoned in Huntsville. My research into my father and his offspring is an eye-opening thing. Over the years, and there are numerous times, i have lamented some of the issues with my adoptive mother in particular. However, when I step back and look at the larger picture of my non-traditional upbringing, I am keenly aware how fortunate I was, and am. I also met my father in my early 20s, after my sister called telling me she had located him, ironically in our hometown. He was remarried and had three additional children (another one, named Michael, which is another story.). He was bilingual and, from what I can tell, incredibly intelligent, but he had his demons. It seems that too often he used his exceptional talent for things less than possible. The consequence was often less than ideal. Doing some intentional background investigation revealed a lot of difficulties. This shows up in a number of ways from stability in where he lived to relationships, from managing finances to managing his life in general. What it seems, and this is based on what little time I spent with him (over the course of a few months in the mid- to late-1970s, is he was capable, charismatic, and intelligent.

What I have realized as I ponder the possibilities is the phrase nature or nurture is a real thing. When I look at a picture of my sister, Kris, and the recently discovered 15 year old picture of our mother, it leaves little doubt of our biological relationship. I have not seen other earlier pictures of my mother and father, but I do have a half-brother who has similar stature, similar hair and beard structure, so I would have to assume there are some maternal traits in there somewhere. And then, unbeknownst to me until after his death, I found my father had also been in the Marine Corps. When I examine the recesses of my mind, I think I might have heard something about him, but, again, I somehow heard he was dishonorably discharged or something, but that cannot be true because he is buried in Fort Snelling. I also have heard, but have not found the specific proof that he attended college as an inmate. Rumor has it he majored in English and Spanish. If this is true, there is something in our mutual DNA that creates a propensity for the appreciation of language. I have said many times, if I could do it all over, I think I would study linguistics.

So . . . life is a continuous series of possibilities, some of which we realize, but too many times we do not. Last night I was speaking with someone and we were talking about choices, consequences, and all the things that affect what we do and who we understand ourselves to be. And yet, as I investigate my past, both biologically and adoptively, I see how so many things that occurred, sometimes without my knowledge, affected who I am and the person I have become. I do not offer that insight in some deterministic manner. Certainly, I have agency for my life. Most assuredly, I have made choices that also had consequence, but it is really surprising as I consider my own history how it all seems to have a connecting thread. Sometimes, it seems it is all a dream, dreams in the mist, and yet, it is my reality. It is my life. Sometimes, I realize there is so much that occurs in a sort of deterministic way. My Intro to Philosophy professor is smiling to see me write such a thing. One of my favorite songs about dreams, and one of the few songs where Nancy Wilson was the principle vocalist in all the amazing songs by Heart.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin