thewritingprofessor55

Hello from Cracker Barrel,

I am trying to remember the first time I went to a Cracker Barrel. I think it was when I lived in the Detroit area, and perhaps I was on a short vacation to the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. While this might be a surprise, that particular National Park is the most visited in the country. What I appreciate about Cracker Barrel is breakfast (and yes, the Country Store). I am a breakfast person, which I think is because the memory of breakfast is such an important aspect of my pre-school years. Two softly poached eggs, a piece of fresh bakery toast with homemade jam, and a half of pink grapefruit will always be my comfort food of choice. My grandmother would fix that many mornings for both my sister and me. Memory and the recollection of things are such a significant part of identity, but I believe it is the emotions connected to those memories, those reoccurring events, that make them the most powerful.

And connected with those emotions are the additional senses that only add to the pathos that is such an important part of myself – the place and my visual recollections, the smells, including the heating that travelled through the floor vents, the kitchen and food always prepared with a significant dash of care, and the sounds of her in the kitchen, pots, pans, a tea kettle. It is quite amazing how all of it coalesces into an emotional experience that provides such hope. I am unsure of just what it is that causes an unexpected flash, a seeming millisecond, that synapse that brings something from the recesses of our memory, making it as clear as if it were yesterday. And yet, the moments occur, sending ourselves, our emotions, back to that moment, perhaps like a backwards Deja vu, and seemingly experiential familiarity with something. However, such moments are substantive, reminding me of those people, those events, those places that are central to my identity. Additionally, much like the connecting of data points in our rapidly evolving AI world, I am able to make the connections and understand my actions or emotions much more accurately.

As I seeming fly through the last year here at the university, my thoughts pan over the last thirty years of teaching. If I consider my own trajectory, I would like to believe I am a much better professor than I was in that first teaching position. While I liked being in the classroom, I remember calling my undergraduate advisor the first time I assigned a failing grade to a student’s semester. I was devastated. I felt as if I had failed, and probably to some degree, I had. I still feel that today when someone fails my course. I wonder what I could have done differently, what I should have done differently. Of course, I am keenly away they have a role in it also. More importantly, as I move toward next summer, I find myself wondering about past students, where they are; how they are; what has become of them. I am fortunate enough to be in contact with students from my very first year until even last year. While I do not know how many students have been in my classrooms over the past three decades, I do know that some of those students are now middle-aged. That is stunning to me, because there are moments I want to believe I am still middle-aged – I guess not so much, or I would not be retiring. While I could write about dozen of them, there are a handful that seem worth noting in this post. In my first year at Suomi College, there was a group of students who welcomed me and one whom I believed from the outset would eventually be a pastor. For me, not surprisingly. that happened. In fact, he would attend Dana, where I took him to visit. He and his family were beyond gracious to me. The RA of the floor that year now works where I would return to graduate school and has a significantly important administrative position. In fact, I met with him when I took my current colleague’s son to Michigan Tech and the three of us had coffee together. There are others who have been gracious even to this day noting that that campus pastor and instructor were important to them. During my time at Michigan Tech, where I was a graduate teaching instructor, what I find interesting is the relationships that have endured where more with the staff or faculty, though some of those students are still in contact with me also. In fact, one, who has traveled the world, and is now back in the Keweenaw, chatted in passing just yesterday.

Moving into my first tenure track position was a shock to me, in spite of my being an older first year professor, I do not think I was any more prepared than most, and I think my age ended up as more of a liability than an asset. If it were not for a colleague, who is still my colleague 20 years later, I am not sure I would be teaching. There were two students that first year who had a profound influence on my trying to navigate being a professor, whatever that would mean. Ironically both of them had small children and were trying to manage being a single mother and completing their degree. I am still in touch with one, and was in touch with the other until politics and a 2020 election broke that (which is still a painful thing). It is hard to imagine these students are almost forty years old. There are two more students, one who hoped to go to medical school and one who is now an art teacher, both are mothers and fabulous at what they do. They were dedicated, intelligent, and that shows through yet. They are a blessing in my life in ways too numerous to count. There were also faculty colleagues who worked with me during that six years, individuals who to this day bless me by their support and care. One is the most incredible artist/photographer/talented person I have ever met. Ironically, we began our academic journey there together, but it is since I left I have really gotten to know them. Another, who has since passed helped me move on from there and supported me as I left. Without his care and counsel that year, I am quite sure my life would have taken a very different path. The third, continues to be colleague in my present position. Their influence on my life both inside and outside of the academy cannot be measured. In them I have an incredible colleague, a best friend, and a brilliant and insightful person unlike anyone I have ever met. There are no words adequate to explain what they did and continue to do for me.

It was in coming back to Pennsylvania that I finally understood what being an effective professor/mentor/advocate really required. It was through the mentoring of colleagues here, seeing a culture that allowed academic discussion, and participating in the spirited conversations about both scholarship and pedagogy that I finally learned what being in the academy meant. Much like understanding how systematics had relevance to the parish, I learned how scholarship, which might seem esoteric, established a foundation for what I did in my daily class. I am as grateful to a former passing colleague (I assisted them in getting a position in my old department, but they were coming as I was leaving) as they have noted they are to me. They turned me on to a scholarly article titled “Claiming an Education.” I have continued to use that article ever since. One of the most significant phrases in the article speaks about “fostering intellectual curiosity.” Make yourself question. Require your mind to struggle with what lies beyond the obvious. Since the first fall of teaching college students, thirty years ago, I have been blessed by some incredibly talented people, students who are now successful as managers, supervisors, mentors as well as amazing parents, community members, and some who own their own companies. Some work for Fortune 500 or even 100 Companies. If the changes from freshmen to seniors was profound, what they do and who they are now is sometimes even beyond their wildest dreams, but they did it. How, sometimes by hard work and grinding away, sometimes by being in the right place at the right time, and yes sometimes unexpectedly, but through taking a change. The claiming of an education does not stop when they graduate; instead it is the beginning of a new education or a more continuous process through which they evolve. Additionally, there are the roles outside the classroom, from advising to being a faculty advisor for student groups. There are working to help students develop as they debate, travel abroad, or supervising internships. There is the reaching out to students when they are struggling or life is collapsing around them. All things that my former life as a parish pastor taught has served me well.

There are times I have asked them to come back and present, and I am both astounded and pleased by the professionalism they exhibit. I think of one student who ended up working in the area of health communication, and it was not what they hoped to do. In fact, they actively tried to change, but their innate ability to be effective and successful kept them in that area. I believe they are still there. I have watched students meet others, fall in and out of love with another. I have observed their profiles and see how they grow and flourish. It is always gratifying to see them transform from that questioning and somewhat overwhelmed 18 year old to a pharmacists, attorneys, teachers, managers, and some even eventually a professor. I could write a book just about students, but undoubtedly, I would leave something important out, a person would be overlooked. Each time I sit down, another person, another story comes to the fore. What I know now, the opportunity to be in a college classroom has been as profound a gift, albeit in different ways as being a parish pastor was. The change to make a difference is always there, and many times, the awareness that it occurred is not so apparent. And yet, the inquiry, the questioning, the imagining that occurs everyday has been something that keeps me going. To each and every student, thank you for blessing me over these many years.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Hello from my office.

I am not sure what has me pouring my thoughts into words to the degree that seems to be occurring over the last weeks, but some of it is the consequence of my returning home for the reunion last summer, of that I am sure. While I have gone back to Sioux City from time to time in the half century since I graduated from high school, seldom did I imagine it possible I would want to return there as a sort of prodigal. Ironically, the trip back to my Northwestern Iowa roots last summer did that very thing. As I drove from my hotel in a profoundly different South Dakota side of town across town, either by Military Road, West 19th, or I-29, I was surprised by how differently the town seemed. While I was there, I returned to three different cemeteries, visiting the resting places of those family members who have preceded my time in Riverside and beyond in that meat-packing, big-city of the local region in the Tri-state area. I think there is so much about that hometown that has continued to evolve, and while both Omaha and Sioux Falls have seemed to outdistance our population, what impressed me with what I saw “back home” was a sense of welcoming, an atmosphere of authenticity that I have not felt in past visits. Perhaps the change is on my part; perhaps I am more gracious in my attitudes toward that place I once called home. While I have been generally proud to be an Iowan, that was more a state thing than a specific location thing. Why is that? What gives us a sense of place, a sense of belonging somewhere? This is something I have often pondered, and even began to write about from a scholarly perspective, but never finished . . . perhaps I need to return to that idea.

As I walked the summer lawns of Graceland Park, of Calvary, or of Floyd cemeteries, I found myself reflecting upon the people who are nothing more than markers to those unacquainted. And yet the same is true in any cemetery: each marker is so much more than merely a cold monument or polished stone, a obelisk that has been worn by the weather, the seasons and the years since their passing. As I examined the stones that remember 5 generations of my family, I was stunned by how that weathering of their physical artifacts seemed to belie the amazing individuals they were. Even stones from this century were less than ideal in there appearances. And while, I am fortunate to have a cousin who takes the time to visit and leave appropriate remembrances yearly, the reality of Iowa’s four seasons has taken its toll. While I remember both standing and officiating at some of those services (I actually sang during the funeral and officiated the committal service for my father), there was one year that was particularly difficult for me (1977). I was 21 during the first of those services and 22 during the second. As noted in other blogs, my older brother, who graduated from Riverside in 1969, was injured in a construction accident and died about 5 weeks later, leaving a wife, a four-year old, a three-year old, and a five month old. He was 26 years old. That was my first experience with death, and it was stunning to me. I was in Ames at the time, trying half-heartedly at being a student and failing miserably. I began that next fall not in school at all, working both as server at a restaurant called Aunt Maude’s and a bartender at club called Reflections. Meanwhile, I also worked as a server at a sorority. That was quite the job . . . oh my goodness. I thought I had my fall figured out until I got the unexpected phone call, informing me that my grandmother, my mother when I was pre-school aged, my employer through high school, my protector when I was frightened and afraid, and the one person I believed loved me unconditionally, was gone. She was only 64 years old, and she was not a sickly person. I was beyond stunned, I was shocked and paralyzed because the foundation, the person I trusted more than anyone, the woman who taught be more about life than anyone, was gone.

While her older sister, my Great-aunt Helen, also provided important support, including love and care, my Grandmother Louise was beyond supportive in every sense of what that could mean. I was a lost 22 year-old barely out of the service, failing out of college, and doing more stupid stuff than anyone would want to admit. Coming back to Sioux City for that funeral was a life-altering event. It was the first time I felt abandoned. It was the first time I did not know where to turn. It was the beginning of a period that would either break me or purify me like the necessary flames needed when one hopes to change something into some more valuable, more beautiful. That purification began as I wept uncontrollably in that cemetery, the actual place I stood this past summer almost 46 years later. Sometimes it takes time for one to face the fire, and that was certainly the case for me. I would come back to Sioux City at that time, but lost, overwhelmed and directionless. I would find another job bartending (in the middle of that disco era) at a club called After the Gold Rush. It was a job, and it allowed me to be around all kinds of people my age, but I had a different perspective, and not necessarily a healthier one. I was able to smoke way too much pot, play pool all afternoon and get to work that evening. I was capable of working and consuming a fifth of Jack a night. It all went well until someone I knew well pulled a gun on me and ended up being shot. That was the turning point. What could have ended with my incarceration altered my direction significantly. I realized that the path I was on was the proverbial dead end, with profound consequence.

Much like Louise, my now vanished protector, had at one point made a decision to change course, I needed to do the same. And for many of the same reasons. Alcohol would consume and destroy me if I did not make a change. While she went to AA, and never drank again, I knew I needed to change my surroundings, my habits, and my practices. With a bit of a kick from my sister-in-law, the widow of my older brother, as well as some timely care from a cousin, who to this day is a special person, the requisite changes were made. So how might it be that someone who was gone from my earthly existence had so much influence? What I know now (and I was reminded this summer from a classmate), was my grandmother was unparalleled in her kindness and love, and she made a difference to so many people, often behind the scenes. My classmate noted that she was always looking out for her employees. I know she did the same with her colleagues in Eastern Star. What I realize now, as I am older than she lived to be, was her compassion and love were boundless. In spite of the hurt she had endured, she was never bitter. In spite of the loneliness she must have felt, with the long hours and being required to allow the two children she loved deeply to be adopted and, to some degree, taken from her, she was never one to feel sorry for herself. She worked all the more to make her life an exemplar of care and elegance. As I have noted at other times, the thing I worried about the most was disappointing her. I am sure I managed to do that when I was struggling to make sense of my life. I imagine she understood that path too well, but she was never one to tell me what to do. She would only tell me she loved me no matter what. What a miraculous gift she offered. Love is so powerful, especially when it is seemingly undeserved. She loved first and asked questions later. Perhaps what makes this all the more remarkable is she was singular in that gift in my life. It was never done with fanfare or in a manner that others would notice; she merely went about it as she did with every part of her life. It was a matter-of-fact daily occurrence. It was a calling for her, and it was what she did for her grandchildren. All these years later, I am still in awe of the person she was, but as importantly in the profound influence she had on so many others, most of all me. Quite a journey for a South Dakota farm girl, who began college but returned to the farm because she was needed. She would exceed perhaps even her own expectations, not because of ability, but rather because of her humility. How blessed I was, and am, that she was my grandmother. She is still my hero.

Grandma, I still love you with all my being, and to everyone else, thank you for reading.

Michael

Hello on a late Sunday morning,

The last 24-36 hours have been a commenting/grading marathon, and while I am no where close to being completed, I needed to get away from the screen for a bit. So squash soup at Panera and beginning another blog. I have spent time in two places the last couple weeks: my offices (home or school) and in classrooms. As a break at home I have sat and watched a couple of movies. I tend to go through phases where I watch the same genre a bit and then onto a different genre. Somehow, perhaps as November connects me to my service roots, I find myself watching military-based films. Perhaps it is because our world seems to be on fire presently between the Ukraine’s and Russia‘s ongoing war, and the explosive nature of the last two weeks in Israel and Gaza (and beyond). As I listen to the words of opposing sides, I find it a struggle to determine my personal view on the Middle East. I spoke about some of in my previous post. It is much easier to determine my position on the Eastern European conflict, but I also know I have a former student and family who matter deeply, and they currently live in Moscow. I still believe my visit to Moscow the summer of 2019 was one of my most memorable travel experiences.

Over the past few weeks conversations with students have reminded me of how differently they seem to perceive their college experience than I did, and this pertains to everything from why they might come to college to what they expect to receive from or give to this thing that will require 10s of thousands of dollars and generally at least four years of their time. The cost is exponentially higher than a generation ago, and as a consequence more and more students work outside the classroom at positions that require a significant number of hours, and hours that have a profound effect both on their body and mind. They, too often, see another shift as a necessity if they are to pay an outstanding bill or have the resources to come back next semester. They are running from class to the parking lot to get to their next shift. If they work on campus, there is convenience, but it requires more hours or a second job because they still have a deficit, unable to pay for an apartment, for food, for books, or a car or cell phone. Many are not working for spending money. Most are working to survive. And thus, their assignments are missed or turned in late; the quality of their work suffers because they have neither the time nor energy to put requisite time into the things that are primary to being successful as a student. When we, as professors expect they will spend adequate, appropriate, necessary time, we are told we are being unreasonable or that we expect too much, particularly if it is an intro or general education course.

That has happened in our academic world is the tuition-driven, business model of college is untenable. The possibility of gaining a credential is not only expensive, but it has become precisely that, a piece of paper that becomes a be-all, the end to a means. In spite of our best intentions to create a system that makes a degree possible (e.g. the reason for land grant universities to begin with or the implementation of the GI Bill), the reality of it being an economic burden to the states or the federal government, and by extension to society itself, cannot, and should not be ignored. Consider this: my first year of college (as an instate student) cost about $800.00 for room, board, and tuition. If you multiply that by 4, I would pay less than $4,000.00 for that Bachelors. Today, and where I teach is considered one of the more affordable universities in the system, that same Bachelors (which is more common, and then perhaps by extension less valuable) will cost approximately $100,000.00, or a 2,400% increase. Think about that . . . in less than 50 years. By extension, the cost of house and the cost of food, two of our most fundamental needs have also increased, and dramatically, in terms of percentage of total income it is something quite different. While housing’s percentage is up, the increase is modest, which surprised me; however, on the other hand food costs have actually decreased. Education, and particularly higher education, which is generally considered more necessary if one is to create a more economically sustainable, successful life, is burdening the current generation with an inversely unsustainable debt. By making college a business-based, tuition-driven model, we have forced this generation to see education as a credential, a degree or piece of paper that furthers their perception that general education, including writing or mathematics, are necessary evils to survive. As people who see each class as a financial exchange they believe they are customers first, and student gets pushed on down the line.

As my customer, I hear comments like “I think general education is a waste of my time and money. I don’t need to waste my time on this.” Of course such a comment assumes that the average 21 year old knows what they will need. I receive a response when telling a student that engaging in class, doing more than sitting in their seat might be a better strategy than coming to class without their books, sitting with their AirPods in their ears, or more asleep than awake, “Some days I just don’t want to be bothered.” Or when telling a student, after they have failed an assignment, which had an example in their Content Management System (LMS), that coming in person rather than Zooming was probably a good idea, their response was “coming to campus in person was a waste of their time.” It is difficult to not feel both offended as well as somewhere we have done something terribly wrong. All of this is just in the past week.

And yet let me offer this, and perhaps surprisingly, most of them are basically good people. About two weeks ago, on a beautiful late fall morning and early afternoon, I asked my freshman to tell me what emotion they were feeling. Going around the room in two sections, I simply said, “State the emotion that most describes you at this moment.” After almost 50 students responded, at the end of the midterm period in the semester, three emotions were, far and away, the most stated: stressed, overwhelmed, and anxious. Not s promising list. Then I said, we are going to go outside to the quad, and I want you to sit and write about why that is for the next 40 minutes. I want you to look at the beauty of the colors, enjoy the outside, and simply write about what you are thinking and feeling, and it is an extra credit assignment. As long as you turn it in, it can only help you. If a student was absent, and it was a Friday so that is pretty much a guarantee, they missed out on that extra credit possibility. The exercise offered to additional things. They had to think and write on the spot, which is a needed skill, and they got to do something that focused on them and it was done in a slightly different setting. I was asked the normal questions: how much must I write? What about editing, proofreading? I assured them as long as they wrote for 40 minutes and handed something in, it would be accepted. While they sat outside composing I walked around, greeting each student individually and thanking them for their work thus far in the semester and trying to encourage them to keep going. Over the past two days, as I’ve read their responses, one thought continually emerges . . . they are indeed overwhelmed. They feel underprepared and inadequate because the demands of college are exponentially higher than what they expected. They feel torn between trying to manage what it happening in their classrooms and responding to the messages they hear or receive from home because they are calling or texting multiple times a day. They are pulled in so many directions because they have a balance on their accounts for the current semester that must be paid before they register for the next, they could not afford their books, and on top of that they are embarrassed because they feel foolish or like they are the only one who must be facing this dilemma. And yet, for my students be it an any of the three campuses of Commonwealth University of Pennsylvania, this is the norm. They are like a flock of ducks, seemingly calm on the surface and paddling like crazy just out of sight, trying to stay afloat.

What have we done in making education a business? We have hollowed out the real purpose of creating citizens, making it less achievable it seems. We have taken away majors from philosophy to physics believing that even we as the educated know what makes someone marketable. That very belief furthers the notion that our only job is to create students for jobs. As a history and humanities major all those years ago, I was compelled to think and analyze. I was mentored by incredible professors and humans who modeled the very thing I have aspired to become, a person whose commitment to teaching others to think and analyze, to not merely silo knowledge, hopefully creates thoughtful and successful humans. Being a life-long student is not what I do, it is who I am. It is when I am learning myself that the best professing can occur. My father’s words still ring in my ears. I did not go to college merely to get a credential, I went to college because I hoped to change the lives around me as well as my own. I wanted to go beyond average, which is what he had admonished me to do. It became the foundation of my life. If I could make the lives of others more meaningful, I would make my own life more meaningful. That is education. It is the win/win. Those humanities and history classes did so much more than give a credential. Thank you to my advisors from Dana to Michigan Tech to pushed me when I needed it, who supported me when I did not realize how much I needed it; and who modeled what being a professor was and is. I am beyond blessed to be where I am.

Thanks for reading as always,

Dr. Martin

Hello from the Fog and Fame Coffee Shop,

It is Saturday; it is homecoming weekend for the university (and the high school); and it is raining steadily for the 6th straight weekend. I am sad about the continuing weekend washouts because it makes two-wheeled journeys to an area diner for breakfast impossible. It does make staying in to grade more reasonable, and the dozens of extra students this semester require productive weekends; so perhaps this is divine intervention saying me from my lack of discipline, something that does plague me from time to time.

As our world is one week into the latest tragic outbreak of violence, declared war, the forced evacuation of Northern Gaza, and yet another profound humanitarian crisis, I find myself struggling to understand where I stand. I imagine I am like many in my generation, taught about the right Israel had to exist. Likewise my visits to Auschwitz, Dachau, and Buchenwald influence my perspective. Sitting in the classes of Dr. Annamarie Orla-Bulowska, one of foremost brilliant scholars of Jewish life, taught me about tue complexity of the Jewish identity in ways I never imagined. Even my own work on Dietrich Bonhoeffer and his push against Hitler and his pogram have influenced my perspective. And yet at what cost? Most simply in a way that had caused my knowledge to be quite one-sided.

Certainly, as is common, my perception is strongly influenced by the position of our (my) government. While I remember the Camp David accord under President Carter, and I am aware of the Oslo Accord, I had little idea until I took the time to read about them over the past week. And as much as I have considered Israel’s action to be self-preserving, I too often over-simplify the complexity of the Palestinian peoples, and too often buy into the perception that all Muslim (and I use this term intentionally) actions are against Israel. I, too often, lump all Middle Eastern people into the same large basket. How foolish! How contrary to everything I supposedly teach in my classes. The last week has created a crisis for my soul, for my brain, and for my emotions. While I realize Hamas is the controlling body of Gaza, I have no clear sense of how many people there have a supportive perspective of the militant group. When I see the control that Israel has over the area, I find myself questioning how different Gaza is from the Ghettos the Jewish people were confined to through history. Maybe I am naïve, but if so, please help me understand.

It seems there is a generational divide among Americans about the situation in Gaza also. There are questions about the idea of lex talionis in the current Israeli response. While I want to believe that Hamas is as barbaric as told, I cannot believe the majority of 2.3 million people in Gaza support those actions. So is the response of the IDF appropriate? Again, I ask this because of my lack of knowledge and perspective. And still I read about what happened when at the music festival or hearing yesterday, that Hamas is executing a hostage an hour (I think this was on NPR). I try to find a reasonable position between believing most Palestinian people want to live their lives reasonably and as such, no differently than Israelis. And yet the history of war, the statements of annihilation, the military occupation makes it so difficult to see the life of the typical family, from either side. Needing safe rooms in one’s home, or the bombing of a hospital (and there are statements from both sides blaming the other) are beyond the pale in terms of the inhumanity, the atrocity, or yes, even the criminality of such actions. And I sit in the safety and comfort of my home writing about it all. What can I do differently to cause, to advocate change? It is that very question that tears at the pit of my stomach, that has me awake at 2:00 a.m..

As I write this, the President is either in route or has landed in the Middle East, our Secretary of State has been there for days, and our Defense Department has dispatched two carrier groups to the Eastern Mediterranean. Meanwhile, we have a non-functioning House of Representatives, a failed vote for Speaker last evening, and the attempted strong-arming of members by their own caucus (they can only afford four negative votes, and there were 20). The war in Ukraine is headed into another winter, which slows down all process in terms of large-scale advances; there are more provocations in the Straits of Taiwan than we often hear of; and elections in Ecuador and Poland will change the landscape of both countries and in the latter case, Central/Eastern Europe and the EU. And as I am overwhelmed with grading cover letters, resumes, and memoirs, my daily life sees little change. My life, in spite of student needs, seems mundane in the midst of such global turmoil. I find myself exclaiming, “¡¡Mierda!! ¿Que sigue?” And while I know I need to go about my daily life, my soul aches for a troubled world. Is there a collective way we might go about making our world more equitable, more thoughtful, more committed to genuine peace? What can I do when I genuinely do not want to merely throw up hands up in despair? I find myself wondering what the world must have felt as Hitler invaded Poland, plunging the globe into WWII? I know as a country we attempted to stay out of that as long as possible. Pearl Harbor would change that all. Some four score later, we involve ourselves to the tune of 75 billion to Ukraine (I am not saying we should not, for the record). However, it is the first time since the Truman Administration the most money we have spent on foreign aid was to a European country. The aid during Truman was as part of the Marshall Plan to rebuild Europe. And yet numerous times I have read stories about the concerns we cannot manufacture munitions quickly enough. What does this say about our world?

I see a parallel between the acrimonious atmosphere in our government to the mordant actions or reactions in our world politic. Is it merely idealism on my part to wish for something better? Is it naïveté on my part to believe we can be better? When I listen to, read about, or bear witness the incivility that seems more the norm than the exception, I find myself exclaiming like the Psalmist’s lament, “How long O Lord?” It might be easy to hang my head and want, like Jeremiah, to say I do not know how to speak or I do not know what I can do. And yet I believe we are called to stand up and cry out against the hate, the fear, and the inequity that seems so prevalent. I know most of what I question here is complex, but difficulty should never stop the questions. Struggle is endemic to our humanity. Questioning injustice or arguing the inappropriate use of power is not only necessary, it is fundamental if we are to have hope for a future that values life.

It is about 5 days since I began this blog, and each day, as I go about my daily life, living in the comfort of my privileged life in North-central Pennsylvania, I cannot help of feel the guilt of my privilege. I cannot help but wonder if all the flying of diplomats and Presidents will result in a Middle East where both Jews and Palestinians might be equally valued and given a chance to live without fear? I wonder if an autocratic Russian President could ever change course, realizing that the Soviet Union of the 20th Century will not be resurrected in the Europe of today? I also realize these questions are from my comfortable room in my safe home, a very different safe place than many other places in our world. I wonder and imagine what we have done as I lay awake, writing to clear out my brain for at least a few minutes or a couple of hours. It matters for my soul because much of this goes back to the three mono-theistic faiths in our world and each group’s conviction of their own assurance that somehow, should you believe in such a being, their God ordains their actions. For me, it seems my soul at moments does not cry out, it only cries.

Thank you as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Hello on a cool, autumn-ish, Sunday morning,

As seems to be typical of my sleeping habits, particularly when it is still cool and dark when my alarm awakens me, I do not want to get up. This morning I gave in to my sleepier inclinations, rolling over, laying comfortably, and falling back asleep. Now I am running a necessary errand, buying 9-volt batteries after both a smoke and CO detector decided it was time for new batteries. Before I proceed much further in this post, I must give my former, and initial department chair, Dr. Susan Thurin, credit for my blog title; it is borrowed from her published book, which considers the reality of retiring from the role as an person in higher education. It is a thoughtful, witty, and enjoyable read as she reflects on her life after leaving a life of full-time academe.

As I have put in an official notice of retirement, I think I need to re-read her thoughtful words, seeing if the reality perspective, this new set of VR googles, if you will, reveals something I perhaps missed on my first read. I find myself re-evaluating almost everything I do, everything I imagine, everything I hear, read, or remember. There are moments all of this seems exciting and yet frightening. There are times I feel the need to embrace every possibility and also paralyzed by the multitude of options. As the morning temperatures reveal the actuality of a changing season, the colors and the wind serve as a harbinger of what will be here before I am ready. The same can be said for what occurs next August. As the Fall midterm is already upon us, some have asked if I have created a countdown calendar yet. I have not, nor am I inclined to do so . . . And yet, a quick calculation does offer the number of weeks. What I do find myself doing, however, is trying to make sure my proverbial ducks are in a row. This means careful consideration of economics, health care, vehicles, insurance, and even belongings. The need to simplify is front and center.

There are three points in my life where I started over, began life in a new place with minimal stuff. The first time was when I left college and a first year of seminary. Susan, who was my wife, and I were just married, and we lived in Omaha Village, the married student apartments at Dana college. I remember working at Pizza Hut two nights a week because that money covered our groceries for the week. I remember making a small personal-pan pizza because that would feed me for the evening, and it was one less meal to fix or purchase. And it was much the same when I left that marriage, I had moved to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for my first teaching position, and I was living again in a dorm room. Eventually I had a three room apartment. I had little, but what I remember is I had what I needed. I would be married a second time, and when that marriage ended everything I owned (and there had been two houses owned at the same time, with all the things that went into a new home) fit into a pickup truck, and as I note, I did not own the truck. I moved back to Michigan to finish a doctoral degree, sublet a furnished two bedroom cabin that had a small kitchen/living room area and a bathroom. I had my computer, my books, a few dishes, a ’93 Dodge Shadow ES, a computer, and my clothes. In many ways life was simple . . . sometimes strapped, but again, I was able to make do.

We collect stuff, and I am as bad, and perhaps worse than some, but what I have learned is it is exactly that – stuff. It is perhaps possible that the experiences of losing almost everything were positive for me. Those moments taught me what has real value. Most certainly, we can put a price tag on most any material thing, and those who know me are well aware of my love for Christmas things, for decorating my space, and for tech gadgets, but they are all things. I spoke recently with an auctioning company about selling it all, and that plan is in the works, telling them that if it does not fit into a suitcase, it needs to go. I will be doling some things out this fall to various people, and even this past weekend, I gave away some things to a former student and her significant other. It feels good to gift things. I think there will be a great deal more of that occurring in the weeks and months ahead. Pondering stuff compels me to consider what is of importance, as well as what deems it important. There are pictures, dishes, and even clothes that carry sentimental value. Those things become heirlooms, things we bequeath to others, or as I am attempting to do, give them to the appropriate people ahead of time. Then there can be no squabbles after my demise. Not trying to be morbid, but having experienced families at those times when I was a parish pastor, I remember clearly how tense things could become over stuff. I have a sweater that is one of the things I will probably keep until the end. It is a sweater I purchased for my father only weeks before he passed away. I remember crying as I folded it and took it with me after his funeral. There are dishes or small glasses that are more than a century old that my niece will aappreciate, but most would not see them in the same light. So . . . indeed there is stuff.

When I was a parish pastor, I remember the advice of both my seminary professors as well as one of the senior pastors who served a parish in the conference I was in. They both sagely noted, “Take care of the young people and the old people, and let the rest take care of themselves.” The wisdom of their words escaped me as a newly ordained pastor, but I would soon learn the truth in their advice. There is a profound difference in giving care to someone and taking care of someone. If you must take care of the other it is because they are incapable. If you give care, you assist, but you do not control their actions or dictate the outcome. It is a practice that has served me well in the academy also. A few years ago a well-meaning, but struggling student told me rather emphatically that he did not need to experience anything. He did not want to have to think about what he might do. He said, “I just want the professor to tell me what to do.” I remember being aghast at such a response. I remember struggling to find appropriate words to offer, particularly when I was rather angry that a student would find such a path reasonable. How do we offer insight into our world without giving all the answers? How do we provide a direction without completely clearing the pathway for those we are asked to mentor or educate?

But what can we leave of ourselves? What words, actions, experiences might we offer that leave a very different impression after we have moved on, be in merely from a professional situation or eventually from life itself? These are the things I believe matter for others in a more profound manner. In two of my classes, I regularly require my students to create a Google map/memoir, asking them to create a personal Google map that offers insight to their future 18 year old children about who they are as 18 year olds. Through people, places, and events, I have asked them to offer some glimpse into the person they are now, the world as they see it, and then to imagine the world of their future children. It is an assignment that has evolved, and it is something that I have created for my nephews, nieces, great- and even great-great . . . that is stunning to me that I can have three generations behind me. That reality makes me feel older than I am, at least for the moment. Imagine if your parents would have written you a letter then they were 18 and gave it to you when you were 18. What would you want it to say? What would you hope to learn? In someways, that is what this blog does for anyone who reads it. It offers a glimpse, a snapshot, into how I understand the world as I see it with the experience and view of someone who has been blessed to experience so many things. While I am moving toward retirement, my mind will do anything but that, or at least that is the plan. I hope to find new things, new places, new adventures, and yes, new ways to learn and grow. I hope it is through my words and actions I leave the most important things for my students, my relatives, and my friends. I hope it is through the way I treat others that people will establish the most insightful understanding of the person I am. All the stuff in the world will fade away, but I do not plan to do anything of the sort, whether I am retired from work or life. A few years ago, working with the idea of image and understanding ourselves, I used the groundbreaking series Glee in my first year writing class. The video below was the last song of the series that served as a wrap for their amazing splash into America culture. It has been almost 10 years since the show completed, but there are still things we could learn.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Hello early in the morning,

Fear is something each person experiences. It is that emotion that an embarrass us, haunt us, humble us . . . and it is powerful perhaps accomplishing all of these things simultaneously. It is something we are led to believe we should overcome, something we can set aside, and yet, when the fear or object of our fear is so great we hope to avoid it at almost any cost, we refer to it as a phobia – fear of dogs, fear of snakes, fear of heights, fear of spiders or bugs and we even have Latin names for these phobias. And yet, from where do these so-called maladies originate, from where in our brain do they originate? And as importantly, can a fear ever be a positive thing?

We do categorize them as rational or irrational, so there can be some certainty that there had been significant study on the phenomenon of fear, and I have no doubt, no fear, that both my psychology or philosophy colleagues could point me in a number of directions to offer answers to my musings about this human trait. And yet, fear is not unique to our species. I have had people tell me, all well-intending that a snake is more afraid of me than I am of it. I can say categorically that I doubt that is possible, but again, it addresses the reality of how incredibly powerful fear can be. As some know, at least I am painfully aware of from where that fear originates. And is it the degree by or to which someone fears something that makes it therefore irrational? It is indeed true that there are healthy fears (even the phrase sounds oxymoronic to me)? And I can see in my own life that fears evolve, develop or dissipate as we age. They are added, or perhaps appear over time, sometimes without expectation or without any sense of origination. And sometimes things that previously created no specific response have become more problematic, more fear-producing. We are such incredible creatures, and more stunningly, our brains are so profoundly complex.

Fear is about comfort and understanding our comfort zones is not a static thing. However, regardless the circumstances that create this fearful response, it is a place for growth. It is a situation that offers an opportunity to learn, both about ourselves and our surroundings. Asking reflectively what we did and what we perhaps might have done is a really helpful thing. It reminds me of the summer I did my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) working as a chaplain in a hospital (I actually noted some of this in a recent blog). We had to write something called “Verbatims” after a visit. We needed to the best of our ability write down the complete conversation as close to word-for-word as possible. Then we had to sit with our supervisor and discuss them. This allowed for reflection and opportunity to see if we could have provided care for effectively. I think at times even a similar thing for understanding our fear might be helpful. I know that it is often through writing something down I see it most clearly. While I am pretty sure my fear of serpents is not going away anytime soon, and my pretty serious discomfort with significant heights will always cause me pause, it is the newer sort of fears or discomforts that precipitated this blog.

It seems the older I become, the more overwhelmed I am in crowded places. I am not sure it is some sense of claustrophobia, but rather it is the over-stimulation that seems to happen when there are too many conversations; there are too many possibilities for interaction; there are too many things vying for some attention or interaction. I can manage it for a bit, but then I find myself feeling in the middle of a circus of sorts. It is not the people themselves, because one-on-one, I can speak with them. and they are actually significant in my life. I have been trying to figure it out, and I think it is an issue of noise (the multitude of conversations, bustling about, or my feeling of never knowing where I fit in, which perhaps sounds surprising). Some of it has to do with volume, but it is not some shocking in-front-of-a-concert-speaker thing, but rather maybe the continuous nature of it. It is sometimes I feel like the infamous third-wheel, the spare that should remain in the trunk. And it is not because of the others, it is my own personal struggle. It is such a different space I seem to occupy than when I was in my 20s and 30s. And yet, as noted recently, when I was growing up, I was perceived as a shy person. It seems I am reverting back to that. It is perhaps I am more shy in the midst of the larger spaces with numbers of people. In my current Google map, which I first started to write almost a decade ago, I refer to myself as the lonely-in-the-middle-of-the-crowd person. I am not sure how becoming that person transpired, but when I consider some of the things I have written, I see a connecting thread. Why might it be I am uncomfortable or feel inadequate in those spaces, which one might believe to be much safer than when I am teaching, when I am speaking about wines at a former dinner situation, when I am called upon to make some remarks, or even when I was a parish pastor and was placed in highly stressful situations? This is a conundrum for me. And yet I am blessed to be included, and I realize that.

I find myself craving the solitude I have at times, and simultaneously pondering if it is helpful or detrimental. I love being in my classes and working with my students. I love when I can connect with a student and help them come to terms with some aspect of their education, which seems to be vexing them. I love when I can work through a problem with students in a way they can walk away feeling better about themselves. I am humbled when someone reaches out years later and something all those years ago made a difference. This past summer, my classmates and I spoke with both incredible respect and love for our history teacher, Mr. Larry Flom. It is 50 years later and he passed away before the turn of the century, and we are still speaking about him. It is those kind of teachers who inspire me to do better, to go further, hoping that something offered will make a life-long difference. Undoubtedly, there is an idealism in that hope, but it is that same idealism that probably helped me achieve getting to this point in the first place. There is an interesting dichotomy in what I do because there is a solitude in it. When I was a pastor, when I was a server, when I am teaching, there is no where to hide. It is all on me, and the strengths or weaknesses are there in front of everyone. And yet that does not cause me fear. Why is that? From where does that strength or ability come? I have also wondered if COVID has something to do with it. It seems that COVID gets blamed for most everything. I remember initially believing that the online teaching was a way to be more efficient and more focused, and I believe it did that, but it did not make it easier for students. That is certainly the experience I had during those COVID semesters.

It is easy to see fear negatively, particularly when the memories or the emotions connected to that fearful issue are so intense. And yet fear is necessary . . . it is the foundation of our instinct for survival. It is the basis for knowing when to continue or when to stop or change course. And yet, how do we know in the midst of it that there is something efficacious? When does the decision to run or remain as a thoughtful fear provide a more beneficial outcome? Perhaps it is previous experience; perhaps it is more critical thought and careful analysis in advance. As I begin to chart a new course for the years ahead, I hope that some of the things I have learned along the way will offer a more productive and perhaps even more successful future. While there are certainly some things that I could have done without, each of those experiences did something to create the person I am as I consider what to do after I empty an office, sell-off belongings, or make some additional decisions about what next. Yet, there is lot to do before that time, but it is evident already that it will come more quickly than anticipated. And there is some fear to that also. What next with no concrete plan is not the way I generally go about things. I do plan, and I need to have some sense of what will happen. Perhaps there will be new fears, which is always the case with the unknown. Perhaps there will be less fears with less responsibility. Most of those who have retired before me see to be very content with their new found freedom. They settle in and what happens has consequence, but not the sense of dread or worry about the ifs. We’ll see what happens next. Will I find new fears or face the same ones that are such a part of my limited perspective. I remember my Great-aunt Helen telling me I was a brave person before I went into a surgery at Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, AZ many years ago. I faced that time with a determination that it was a hurdle to jump and I would. I realized that my life was in someone else’s hand. And so it is now. I can only do what is possible, and I believe facing whatever comes is the best way forward. Sometimes it is hard being just one person, but there is something good in it also. I remember a song from my high school days, and a band that was popular for many 45s at that time. Here is an appropriate song from the group Three Dog Night. I smile when I see the fashion and the hair . . . I resembled that more than I knew.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Hello from the back deck of La Malbec,

I am the only one here at the moment, and it is a bit warm, but the fans are blowing, the music is playing quietly, and I have a moment to reflect on the first week of classes. It was an incredibly busy, but for the first time it feels like we are, to some extent, back to a normal excitement of a typical fall semester. Of course, managing 6 sections of writing will keep me hopping, but the students seem to be more engaged, and the COVID hangover that typified last year is nice to see. We’ll see where we are in Week Four.

During my August travels through Iowa, I stopped in Newton, IA, the city that created the Maytag Man from those childhood commercials. My initial experience with Newton occurred in early June of 1978. I was a member of a regional Lutheran Youth Encounter (LYE) Team named Daybreak. The five of us would travel almost 48,000 miles in the year we represented LYE, focusing our travel in the Midwest, but we spent two weeks in churches in Iowa before we moved on to Carol Joy Holling Bible Camp in the Omaha area. However, our first church in Newton provided my introduction to the most incredible host family I would experience that entire year. A couple, who were in their late thirties with two young children, became the most gracious hosts for my team leader, John, and me. Lee, a former high school math teacher, had moved into the business world, working for an engineering company, and Judy, a woman who would put Julia Childs to shame, made every meal or snack a creation. The interior ambiance of their home was like walking into a magazine, and the barn-board lower level we occupied with our own restroom and incredible down pillows and comforter were stunning. It was like being in a 4 Star accommodation. However, that was just the beginning. Their son and daughter, who are now am architect in Paris and a professor in North Carolina, were adorable, respectful, and as gracious as their parents. Each day we spent in Newton, we were treated as special guests in this little Iowa town by everyone we met, and it was evident should we ever return we would be welcomed with open arms. At the end of the week, because our transportation for the year was being used by another group, our host families met our next destination (which was slightly more than 100 miles) hosts to accommodate and simplify our travel needs.

What I did not know at the time was a conversation at breakfast one morning with Lee and Judy would refocus my life. We sat at the table, and Judy, as she can do so thoughtfully, so directly, and yet so kindly, asked, “Michael, what do you want to do after this year?” I answered quite assuredly, “I want to go to cosmetology school and learn to be a hair dresser.” I am sure most of you are just shaking your heads, but that is what I thought at the time. She looked at me wisely and compassionately across the table, and said something along the lines of, “That is not a bad thing to do, but you should think a bit more because I think you could do something more significant.” This is a paraphrase of her words, but the spirit is accurate. At the time, I merely took it as she wanted the best for me, but did not think much more about it. Now decades of life later, I know that this specific moment, along with a conversation with my sister-in-law, which probably prompted me to apply for the LYE team to begin with, are two moments, seemingly innocuous, which changed the trajectory of my life.

Before the Lutheran Youth Encounter year would end, Daybreak would be back in Newton two more times, and I would be there with the Swensons another time on my own when they loaned me a car to drive to Minneapolis, where I was presenting at a conference. At one point, I needed winter boots and as I was living on a dollar a day, they purchased boots for me. Lee and Judy became like hybrid parents/older siblings to me. They came to my graduation from college. Whenever, to this day, I find myself traveling across Interstate 80, up until this last time, I stopped at my home-away-from-home at 721 W 11th Street S. They cared for me after one of my surgeries, and I have spent a 4th of July and even other holidays each time graced by their unparalleled and never-ending generosity. Throughout the years, there are two constants: they welcome me at any moment, and as we have aged our conversations have turned to bigger things than my hope of becoming a tonsorialist. Judy continued to own her own business and manage it for decades, but her ability to host, cater, and create unmatched living experiences in the confines of their beautiful home was as constant as the proverbial Timex watch.

Over the years, I watched as they added on, remodeled, and updated their home. They never ceased to amaze me with the ability to envision and establish yet a new level of inviting character. Every detail from floorplan to wall covering, from furniture to the minutest of accoutrements were considered, but never in an ostentatious manner. You were simply welcomed. And then there were Lee’s vehicles or the other things he loved to manage. To this day he has a convertible, and over the years there have been a string of classic vehicles hid away, brought out for special occasions. He seemed to always find the just perfect auto that offered a glimpse into this somewhat understated personality that hides behind his twinkling eyes and ever-present smile. He is as gracious as Judy is, but they compliment so well. Over the years, regardless my situation, where I was living, if they were home, their open door policy was a welcome respite from whatever was happening in my life. I knew I would get insightful conversation, incredible food, amazing hospitality, and an attitude adjustment that put me in a better place than when I arrived at the Swenson residence. They are both the products of Iowa farms and that work ethic that underpins all they do is there, but it never seems to be obligatory. It is just done without fuss, and with perfection.

What I realized over the years is they became a trusted, admired, and adopted-by-me, but perhaps to their chagrin, older siblings. There is so much I admire about them, from their parenting, their business acumen, their philosophical perspectives, and yet, that is the only beginning. As I have watched their children grow into adults, the parenting that occurred only cemented my belief in how wonderful they were both professionally and personally. Their children have gone off on their own, choosing and managing very different paths, though both with an international flair. I remember visiting once while attending a 4th of July celebration in town. Their daughter, who was a beginning teen ager at the time, asked me how old I was and when I told her thirty, she exclaimed loud enough to drown up the music, “30!!!” Oh my goodness, I remember being a bit mortified. I remember Lee and Judy coming to visit me here in Pennsylvania, and we made a snowy trip to Jim Thorpe. While I did not completely white-knuckle that trip, it was a memorable journey over the 93 mountain. While that is not all that long ago, there is the reality of time. If I am almost three times as old as when I met them, they too have aged, though generally quite gracefully. As I visited them in Newton during my summer travels, they have moved from the home I have considered a haven for all these decades. However, not surprisingly, even their new space, with many of the same accoutrements I knew at 721, one is welcomed into their new space with the same wonderful charm I have always known. And yet, there are differences . . . age will do that, and even though I was 23 when I first arrived in Newton, there is a sort of immortality (there is that word again) to my elder adopted-siblings. They have been there to guide me more than they will ever realize. Their exemplar as two incredible humans has offered a steady and thoughtful beacon that has shown throughout life since my first visit. One of the things more apparent to me as I have grown older is how we continually encounter people or situations, ones which have significant consequence on our life. Lee and Judy have been two such people, and to say they have blessed my life, enriched my life, and helped me become a better person is a profound understatement. I hope I might bless someone someday they way they have blessed me.

Thanks for reading.

Dr. Martin