“Teachers are those who use themselves as bridges, over which they invite their students to cross; then, having facilitated their crossing, joyfully collapse, encouraging them to create bridges of their own.”
—Nikos Kazantzakis (1883–1957), Greek novelist and philosopher, best known for ZorbatheGreek.
Whenever I think of Labor Day—not just today, the official day of celebration, but at any time of the year—I hear Walt Whitman’s poem, “I Hear America Singing.”
In spirit, it remains one of the most comprehensive and inclusive celebrations of labor I know. Whitman exalts the varied carols of America: mechanics, carpenters, boatmen, masons, shoemakers, wood-cutters, mothers, wives, girls, fellows—
“Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else.”
Even though Whitman’s intent was to celebrate all labor, I’ve often wished he had stretched his litany further: to nurses and caregivers, to social workers and librarians, to the quiet hands who stock shelves at dawn or clean buildings long after everyone else has gone home. So many vital songs go unsung. And yet, by inference, perhaps he did include them—since he was singing America itself, and since his deepest wish was to be the poet of Democracy, the poet of the people, all people.
I especially wish–maybe with a touch of occupational selfishness–that he had included educators—those whose labor shapes every other voice in the chorus. Educators labor not with saw or chisel, but with patience, persistence, and vision—tools just as demanding as Whitman’s mechanics and masons. Their labor is not confined to the classroom or the clock. For many—certainly for me—it was twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I went to bed thinking about my students and woke up thinking about them again. Lessons, endless papers, worries, hopes—and encouragement, too—followed me everywhere. Teaching was never a job; it was a calling that claimed my whole self. Like countless other educators, I gave my students my all—and then more.
Educators also give second chances, ignite new beginnings, and shape futures that might otherwise have been lost.
A day never passes that I don’t think about one or more of the bridge builders who taught me—my third-grade teacher who handed me Robert Frost’s poems and lit a lifelong love of language, or my high school biology teacher who welcomed us to his desk day after day, giving us not just knowledge but his time, his presence, himself. My college and university professors, too, showed me that education was not a finish line but a lifelong pursuit. Their labor was quiet, personal, and lasting.
I know this firsthand. I walked the bridge that educators built for me, and in time I became a builder myself—pouring my own labor into students, carrying them forward just as others once carried me.
And when I needed a bridge of my own, the Virginia Community College System gave me not just one opportunity, but two. In 1998 after I left the Library of Congress, it opened the door for me to finally live my childhood dream of teaching English. And years later, through the Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship Program, it offered me something even rarer—a second chance to complete research I had set aside nearly forty years earlier. That truth has reshaped how I see education itself. It’s not only about beginnings. It’s also about returnings. Sometimes, opportunity does knock twice. The Virginia Community College System gave me mine.
It gave me that second chance with Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina. What began as a graduate paper in 1973—sparked by the encouragement of mentors like Calhoun Winton and J. A. Leo Lemay—has at last found its full voice. The forgotten essays of colonial Charleston have their rightful place in American literary tradition, and I have had the rare privilege of finishing the work I once left behind.
That’s why I dedicated Unmasking The Humourist to the Virginia Community College System and its educators:
―For the Virginia Community College System― ─────────────── Dedicated to transforming lives and expanding possibilities throughout its 23 colleges, proving that education is not just about learning, but about unlocking potential, shaping futures, and ensuring that no great idea goes unfinished.
And because words alone weren’t enough, I decided to act on that dedication. I have never forgotten the benefactors—sometimes unseen, sometimes unknown—who helped carry me across my own bridge: from a coal camp childhood to a college classroom, to a professor’s life I once only dreamed of. Their quiet generosity made my journey possible.
All proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to The Virginia Foundation for Community College Education
On this Labor Day, I hear Whitman’s chorus again. It grows stronger, more complete, when we hear the steady song of educators—singing what belongs to them, and to none else. Their song is the bridge that carries not just students, but all of us, forward.
“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”
—A. A. Milne (1882–1956), English author best known for creating Winnie-the-Pooh and stories that continue to shape how we remember childhood, love, and the quiet power of small things.
It was a portable Remington Rand typewriter in a gray box lined with green felt. In 1956, my parents went to Lilly Office Supply and bought it for my sister Arlene, who was taking high school typing. After graduation, she “went away”—not far, but far enough to feel exotic to my boyhood mind—to become a medical technologist in a residential hospital program.
She returned home often, always bringing—unbeknownst to her and to me—pieces of my future.
One of the first that impressed my ten-year-old spirit was her interest in tropical fish, no fancier than fan-tail guppies but fancy enough to ignite in me a lifelong love. My one-hundred-gallon tropical aquarium speaks to a piece of my future that settled in and endured.
I’m not sure, but next up might have been some of the exotic recipes she cooked when she came back on visits. I remember one dish in particular. Arlene called it pepper steak, but it wasn’t French aupoivre or Chinese stir-fry. This was hers—flank steak pounded thin, rolled up tight, and packed with cracked black pepper. Lots and lots of pepper. She baked it low and slow until the whole kitchen smelled like heat and adventure.
I was hell-bent on loving it. It was different, and Arlene made it. That alone made it holy. My mother, no stranger to bold flavors from coal camp kitchens, loved it too. She said Arlene had a touch. That dish lit a fuse. It was the first truly “foreign” flavor I fell for—and from that bite forward, I was hungry for worldwide cuisine. It was a piece of my future that still lingers on my adventuresome culinary palate.
What else? Once, Arlene brought home one of her Mahalia Jackson albums—a 12-inch LP—titled In the Upper Room. I remember the cover, but even more, I remember the sound: Mahalia’s voice rising from the vinyl like a sermon on wings, wide-mouthed and full-throated, her vowels rich and trembling with conviction. That mouth—large, commanding, joyful—seemed to carry an entire congregation inside it. You didn’t just hear her sing. You stood up straighter, somewhere deep in your bones. Her singing resonated naturally with me. I had fallen in love with Black Gospel in my early coal camp years, and even though we had moved away, now I could enjoy Black Gospel on my own record player. Notes and chords from that piece of my future still rattle my rafters every morning as my soul feeds on Black Gospel fire while I bike indoors or garden in the sun.
Arlene brought many other pieces of my future back home when she visited, all held tightly together by my realization that she was living the good life, maybe because she had “gone away” but definitely because her education had opened doors. As a medical technologist, she could go anywhere in the world. Bluefield (WV) was nearby yet far away. Richlands (VA)–just across a mountain or two–was ever further away. Richmond, which in my young mind was further than the stretch of my imagination, was clean across Virginia.
When she came back home, she arrived in style.
How well I remember her 1959 BMW 507 Roadster, white as a wedding glove, low-slung and impossibly sleek. The chrome trim shimmered like polished silverware, and the twin kidney grilles gave it a kind of sly, knowing smile. With its long, sculpted hood and tucked-in waistline, it didn’t sit on the dirt road in front of our home—it posed. And yet—for all its glamour—it was so feather-light, I once watched my brother Stanley and my brother-in-law Lemuel lift it off the road and set it gently in the yard, as if it were a city toy that had wandered into a grown-up mountain world by mistake.
Sometimes, instead of driving home, Arlene would fly. I can still see her coming down the steps of the plane, with a look on her face fiercely defying the engine’s turbulence to disturb her sculpted bouffant—a chin-length hairstyle with smooth volume at the crown, gently curled ends, and a sleek, side-swept part. It was polished but not overdone, and it framed her face with effortless elegance, just as it did her heroine Jackie Kennedy, who made the hairstyle fashionable.
Arlene had exquisite taste in clothing, too—expensive, yes, but timeless. She didn’t follow fashion; she curated it. Her closet was a study in fine fabrics: tailored wool skirts, cashmere sweaters so soft they seemed to hold their own breath, and coats that whispered elegance with every movement. She favored deep, dramatic colors—navy, charcoal, forest green, black—tones my mother thought too somber for a woman her young age.
But Arlene wore them with such composure that you’d never question it. Even in our modest home, she had the poise of someone just back from Paris or somewhere so far away it sounded like it should be whispered.
In my young mind, she had arrived, not only with all the quiet showings of her success but also with the equally quiet sharing of her largesse. She was religious in sending money to my parents—especially as my dad began his retirement from the coal mines—and later to me when I started college.
In all of those ways, I saw in her life pieces of my own future.
But when Arlene “went away,” she left behind one piece that might have had an impact on me—equal to if not greater than—the other pieces of my future that she brought back home with every visit.
Her Remington Rand typewriter in a gray box lined with green felt.
My sister Judy used it when she took typing. And if you guessed that it was passed on to me, you guessed right. Starting with my typing classes and stretching far into the future, Arlene’s Remington Rand began a remarkable journey—one that may be unmatched in the annals of typewriter chronicles.
When I went to Alderson-Broaddus University in 1965, it went with me. I typed all of my papers, including my Honors Thesis, on that Remington.
When I graduated in 1969, it went with me to Washington, DC, where I started my career at the Library of Congress. I typed a proposal for a concordance to Robert Frost’s poetry on that Remington.
Three years later, when I started my doctoral program at the University of South Carolina (USC), it went with me to Columbia, where I wrote all of my graduate papers on that Remington.
One was more important than any of the others. In preparing it, I found myself in Richmond for a week, staying with Arlene and her husband Clyde, a police officer. She was surprised that I still had her Remington and that I was using it even in graduate school.
I put it to phenomenal use that week. Looking back, I wonder what trajectory my life might’ve taken had it not been for that turning-point.
Lean in a little closer and let me explain.
It was my first semester at USC, and I was taking a survey course in 19th-century American Literature. One of the stories that we read was Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s “A Humble Romance.” I had never heard of the writer before, but I was so smitten by her story that I read another one and then another one and many, many more. Aside from thinking that they were extraordinary stories, I was captivated by a pattern of strong-willed women who inevitably never married. I was equally captivated when I discovered that Freeman herself did not marry until she was nearly fifty.
It was a minor aha moment. I had a perfect research paper topic: “Single Women and Gender Identity in Selected Stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.” My professor approved, suggesting that I explore Freeman’s letters for supporting biographical evidence.
To my initial horror, I discovered that Freeman’s letters had never been published. But to my immediate delight, I discovered that Clifton Waller Barrett Library at the University of Virginia had a small collection of her letters. In a flash, I had an action plan. I would stay with Arlene and Clyde in Richmond, make the daily one-hour drive to Charlottesville, spend the day in Barrett Library, and return at the end of each day.
The typewriter went with me on those daily research trips, and during that week, I prepared a transcript of the Freeman letters at the Barrett Library, systematically and methodically using that Remington.
I returned to Columbia the next week and continued working on my Freeman paper and on papers in my other courses, all typed on that Remington.
By semester’s end, I had an epiphany. For my doctoral dissertation, I could locate and edit Freeman’s letters. My advisor loved the idea, as did my committee, but knowing more fully than I the rigor involved in such a project, they urged me to limit my scope to selected letters. I prevailed with my initial proposal. Ten years of research later–with trips to more than fifty libraries across the country, always armed with Arlene’s Remington Rand–I finished my dissertation and was awarded my Ph.D. In 1985, the fruit of my scholarly labors was published: The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. It remains, as The Journal of Modern Literature noted in its review, “the most complete record to date of Freeman’s life as writer and woman.”
But wait, wait. Don’t go. I need to share a few more details so that you’ll understand even more fully how Arlene’s Remington Rand typewriter and her quiet support during that week in her home all came together, and a life of research dedicated to Freeman found its rhythm—click by click, page by page.
The five decades since have witnessed me not only digging up the past in all the towns where Freeman lived, wrote, and made the rest of the world sit up and take notice but also returning there as frequent keynote speaker, sharing with the towns’ citizens all of my findings, never before shared. Those same towns helped launch the publication of my landmark The Infant Sphinx as well as my watershed edition of Freeman’s Green Mountain Stories (2023), the intended title of her first collection of adult stories, A Humble Romance and Other Stories (1887).
These days, I’m working on Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Vol I: The New England Years (1852-1901). Vol. II: The New Jersey Years(1902-1930). I have no doubt that three towns will welcome me back when Dolly is published. Randolph (MA), where she was born. Brattleboro (VT), where she launched her literary career. Metuchen (NJ), where she died.
But let’s move past all that Freeman stuff.
For now, let’s keep the spotlight on the woman who went away when I was a boy, returning home with a passion for tropical fish and gospel records, pepper steak and black wool coats, fast cars and high-flying planes, and all the other things that the good life had to offer–giving me something far more. The dreams. The belief. The typewriter.
For now, let’s keep the spotlight on my sister Arlene, who always brought home—unbeknownst to her and to me—pieces of my enduring future.
“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.”
–Carl Sagan (1934–1996; astronomer and science communicator who inspired millions through his work on Cosmos and popular science writing.)
Tell me to do something, and I probably won’t do it. It smacks too much of being ordered around. No, thank you. Most of the time–though not always–I prefer to do the bossing.
On the other hand, suggest that I do something–maybe even challenge me to do something–and I’ll probably do it. Yes, thank you. I thrive on encouragement.
That’s exactly how today’s post began. One of my followers–my Linden Correspondent (LC)–suggested that the world at large might be revved and ready to know how my wired blog began! I thought LC’s suggestion was splendid, especially since my blog just celebrated its 12th anniversary. What better time than now to share the electrifying backstory.
With a growing readership of 13,782 (and counting!), I like to think my blog has found its niche. My readers value my blog for what it is today: a succession of riveting and captivating creative nonfiction essays that appear magically every Monday morning just in time for that first cup of coffee–that is for early risers who get their brew going early. That’s why I make a point of posting before 7am. While I sip on my coffee and savor what I wrote, I like to think that the entire world is doing the same thing.
Every Monday morning, you’ll find me in my reading chair with Ruby—my 60-pound lapdog—perusing my post while she peruses me. Sometimes, I smile and say aloud for her amusement:
“Wow, Kendrick! That’s a remarkable sentence. If you keep cranking out little gems like that, maybe one day you’ll end up somewhere as someone’s endnote.”
Yep. An endnote. Ironically, I guess that’s where we all end up: Someone’s endnote.
That’s not such a bad thing, you know. An endnote here. An endnote there. It seems to me that achieving a memorable, perhaps quotable phrase here and there is probably far wiser than having the entire canon of my work ricocheting around the world.
Stop and think about it for a minute or three. Look, for example, at what Benjamin Franklin achieved as a writer. Let’s focus on his Poor Richard’s Almanack, published annually from 1732 to 1758—nearly a quarter of a century of wit and wisdom.
Most people today can recall only a handful of Franklin’s most famous sayings, like:
● “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” ● “A penny saved is a penny earned.” ● “No gains without pains.”
Please tell me, Dear Reader, that you know those sayings, for if you don’t, you surely won’t know these:
● “Well done is better than well said.” ● “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” ● “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth writing.”
Indeed, Franklin managed to do both: he wrote things worth reading and did things worth writing. And, as I like to say:
“Endnoted.”
But let me take you back to where I began: the beginning of this blog.
I am so sorely tempted to say:
“It was a dark and stormy night …”
And that’s exactly what I would say, but if I said that I would have to note that Edward Bulwer-Lytton opened his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford with those words. As much as I hate to say it, because I am a stickler on documentation, I have grown weary of all the endnoting that I keep noting. Let us then move on to something that requires no noting.
Whew! I don’t know about you, but I feel notably relieved already.
LC must be relieved, too, to see that, at last, I’m getting around to sharing with the world the story behind the birth of my blog. But, as they say, every blog has its story, and mine is no exception.
Here’s what’s fascinating. Today, I am known around the world for my weekly memoir blog posts talking about anything from Aging to Zippers and about everything in between.
But when the idea for my blog came to me in 2012, I had a sharp, narrow, scholarly focus. I was working on my application for the VCCS Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship Program. At the heart of my application was the scholarly research that I wanted to do with a remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements published pseudonymously under the name of “The Humourist” in the South Carolina Gazette during 1753-1754. The unique essays had never been reprinted, so they remained “hidden” and “undiscovered,” so to speak, in that newspaper. Further, no one knew who wrote the essays. Well, I was 99% certain that I knew, but I needed to do additional research and analysis to confirm my suspicions. In that sense, my project was a literary “whodunit” involving three things.
First, I planned to prepare a critical, annotated edition of the essays.
Second, I planned to develop a convincing case for authorial attribution based on a preponderance of internal evidence as well as on stylometrics.
Third, throughout the process of preparing the critical, annotated edition and developing a case for authorial attribution, I planned to give the essays a “close reading.” I was reminded of a quote by Robert Frost:
“We go to college to be given one more chance to learn to read in case we haven’t learned in high school. Once we have learned to read, the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”
I always shared that wisdom with my students. Learning to read—really read—gets to the heart of what we want our students to do, not just in English classes but across the board. When students slow down and give a text a close reading, critical thinking and intellectual discovery follow.
As Frost knew so well, that is what “learning to read” is all about. Further, when students learn how to really read, they can construct their own intellectual inquiries: “the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”
I always shared that belief—and approach—with my students without fail. I showed them how to learn to read, class after class, reading assignment after reading assignment, as I gave whatever literary selection we were reading my own close reading and as I made my own discoveries about a text. They were intrigued not only by my process but also by the discoveries that I made simply because of my dogged determination to give a text—any text—a close reading.
In my application, that’s precisely what I proposed to do with “The Humourist” essays. I wanted the opportunity to give the essays such a close reading that I would be able not only to establish a scholarly, annotated edition but also to identify the author.
I was really happy with that part of my application, but I knew that I needed something more. I needed a way to share my scholarly work on a regular basis with my colleagues and my students so that they could benefit, too.
I needed an idea. As I sat there on that January 8th evening, well into the third or fourth or maybe even fifth revision of my application, I started thinking about Daniel Boorstin (1975-1987), twelfth Librarian of Congress. A champion of accessibility, he worked to open the library to the public in symbolic and practical ways. He placed picnic tables and benches on Neptune Plaza, transforming it into a space for community gatherings. He initiated mid-day concerts and famously removed the chains from the majestic bronze doors at the first-floor west entrance leading to the Great Hall of the Jefferson Building. When told it would create a draft, he replied, “Great—that’s just what we need.” In a bold move, he even stopped the practice of searching visitors.
At that time, I worked at the Library of Congress as an editor of the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints, and I well remember the occasion when the bronze doors were opened. If I am not mistaken, it was on this occasion that I heard Dr. Boorstin say:
“You never know when an idea is about to be born.“
His comment lingered, and since hearing it, I made a point to keep track of when my own ideas were born.
So it came to be. While thinking about Boorstin, ideas, and my project, I exclaimed to myself:
“Blog it!”
I knew that a blog would allow me to share with the entire world my challenges, discoveries, and joys of research.
I knew that a blog would allow me to share with others this remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements. The Encyclopedia of the Essay (ed. Tracy Chevalier, 1997) placed “The Humourist” essays in the tradition of Samuel Johnson’s Rambler essays and observed that they are the only “full-fledged literary” works to have appeared in the South Carolina Gazette. Years earlier, J. A. Leo Lemay (du Pont Winterthur Professor of English at the University of Delaware) had noted in A Bibliographical Guide to the Study of Southern Literature (1969) that the essays should be edited, published, and the author identified.
This was hot! I knew that I could make “stuffy” literary research come alive in a blog. Colleagues and students and scholars and the world at large would love it. I knew they would because who wouldn’t love essays on par with Benjamin Franklin’s “Silence Dogood Letters”? Get this, too. Franklin had direct ties to the South Carolina Gazette and possibly to the author of “The Humourist” essays.
I knew, too, that aside from being in the essay tradition itself, a blog would allow me to share my project with faculty and students throughout the Virginia Community College System (VCCS), from the beginning of my work and every step of the way through completion. I realized that a blog would allow me to capture my personal experiences on a regular and ongoing basis: my work, my methods, my discoveries, my challenges and frustrations, and my joys.
I knew that a blog would allow me to do in the virtual world—using a heretofore unstudied literary work—exactly what I did in my classroom with literary works that appear in our textbooks: turn my blog followers on to the beauty of giving a text a close reading and turn them my on to “learning how to read,” showing them that once they learned how to read all else would be given to them.
That same evening, I came up with a working title: TheWiredResearcher. I Googled it and was delighted to discoverthatnosuchblog existed.
As I often do, I emailed a former student—a lover of language and words and ideas—to get her take on my blog idea.
She responded immediately:
The word “wired” will catch the attention of …The Young. They’ll think you are “hip.”
You’ll need a logo. You’ll need T-shirts with the logo on them. You need pens that say, “The Wired Researcher.” “Sold in libraries everywhere.” “Guaranteed to make study more exciting.” Oh, boy, I see tie-ins!
Clearly my former student was as wired as I was—perhaps that’s why I valued her opinions as highly as I did—but her email response gave affirmation to the title of the blog that had been born.
Here’s where the birth of the blog starts to get really sweet. I was awarded the Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship (2012-2014).
My first announcement appeared on October 19, 2012. It was short!
“Welcome to The Wired Researcher! Blog posts will begin on November 26, 2012.”
True to my promise, on November 26, I published “Opportunity Knocks Twice in the Virginia Community College System.” That post included the first of the historical essays that served as the nucleus for my project: “The Humourist” (November 26, 1753). Yep. Choosing to launch my blog on November 26, the same day that the Humourist launched his essays, was deliberate, and if I must say so myself, I think it was a stroke of genius!
And so, The Wired Researcher was born—not just as a blog, but as a way for me to share my love of research with a world eager to learn about my discoveries.
Now you have the inside scoop. If you want to know more, simply go back to the beginning and read all the posts from the start. But whatever you do, please make certain that you read “Colonial Charleston’s Biggest Literary Mystery Is Solved!” Yep. I solved the literary whodunit that captured me in the first place. Then you have to read “Three Special Shout-Outs!” because behind every success story are lots of people who deserve praise and thanks!
Wait! Wait! Don’t go yet. I have one or two more things to share.
When my blog started, I had around 1,750 views a year, representing 33 countries. So far this year, it has soared to an impressive 13,782 views from 152 countries! I must be writing something right!
To each and every one of you, My Dear Readers–then, now, and all along the way–a special shout-out!
To my Linden Correspondent (LC), who tossed out the idea that I share the story behind the blog, I extend asupercalifragilisticexpialidociousthank-you! (As Mary Poppins would say, nothing else captures the exuberance quite right!)
I look forward to a future of Mondays, inspired by the joy of discovery and by the connections that I’m making with all of you.
“Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.”
—WilliamShakespeare (1564–1616; an English playwright, poet, and actor, widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language. The quote is Prospero reflecting on the fleeting nature of life, The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1.)
Raindrops had been falling steadily all day, but I was determined to get a better glimpse. I pulled safely off the road and parked in a grassy area, hoping to turn my drive-by impressions into something more tangible.
Right across from me stood the nearly remodeled house at the corner of Gateway Lane. Its fresh gray siding gleamed against the misty afternoon, and the neat white trim on the roofline and windows gave it a crisp, modern edge. This clean contrast seemed to soften against the backdrop of the old, towering trees surrounding it. A small front porch, still under construction, wrapped around to the side, its bare framework waiting to cradle the entryway that would soon welcome visitors. The simplicity of the single-story structure was anchored by the earthy lawn and the gentle curve of the road, reflecting a quiet transformation. Even the steady rain couldn’t dampen the renewal unfolding before me.
But this remodeling was more than just a surface change. It had been going on for over a year, maybe longer. The house wasn’t just getting a facelift; it was being rebuilt from its very foundation. This wasn’t simply a matter of adding a porch or changing the siding from white to gray. The work was deep and structural, and that’s what had taken so long.
I remember when it all started. The house was suddenly surrounded by the relentless growl of a backhoe, its sharp metal teeth tearing into the earth around the foundation. Day by day, the trench grew deeper and wider, as if the house itself were being uprooted, its very stability pulled into question. Dirt piled high, and the house seemed to brace itself for the transformation ahead.
Then came the cinderblocks, stacked in neat, heavy rows, patiently waiting to reshape and fortify the foundation. The windows—the house’s eyes to the outside world—were ripped out, leaving dark, hollow spaces. They were hastily covered in sheets of plastic, which flapped and snapped against the wind on gusty days, as if the house were drawing deep, ragged breaths during its lengthy transformation.
Through it all, the house endured quietly, as if preparing for a rebirth beneath the dust and debris. The process dragged on, perhaps because the crew was never more than one or two people at a time. Sometimes, I wondered: Why not tear it down and build anew? Other times, I thought: Were the owners tied to the house by more than just bricks and mortar? Were they new buyers, envisioning profit from this modest fixer-upper?
Now, on this misty afternoon, as I admired the nearly completed house from my Jeep, I knew that soon—perhaps by Thanksgiving or maybe before the joy-filled month of December—someone would move into their new home. Someone had a dream, and now it was realized, born not just from superficial changes, but from all that’s required to make dreams come true.
As I became transfixed by the modest transformation in front of me, my mind’s eye gradually faded into a sharp focus of me, myself, chasing my own lifetime of dreams.
My dreams have been few in number but big in size. They’ve been big because I see dreams as different from the gazillion goals that I’ve set for myself down through the years, the things that I knew I could achieve in a day, a week, a month, a year, or even longer.
For me, dreams go far beyond goals. They overarch all else. They serve as a life-compass. They keep me oriented and aligned with my true North, my own authentic self.
From as early as five years old, I started dreaming on clouds, and my first cloud dream was bigger than my home, bigger than my coal camp, bigger than West Virginia, bigger than anything that I knew or could comprehend. I knew then something about myself that would shape my entire life: I was drawn to men, though I didn’t fully understand the depth of that attraction. Growing up in the late 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s in the Bible Belt South, with a fundamentalist minister for a mother, I quickly recognized that this truth about myself would be a challenge to navigate. In a world where the church preached that men like me were sinful, and where societal norms pressed in from every side, my dream was simple: to move forward, to stay true to who I was as a person, and one day, to live an openly gay life, free from ridicule and condemnation.
Back then, the idea of living openly wasn’t even something I could articulate fully. Yet the desire to live authentically, without having to hide a core part of who I was, remained my compass. I was too young to understand the full scope of what it meant to be gay, but I already knew that the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. All around me was the conflict of sin and salvation. Even as a child, I had a hope, a dream, that someday, the world, however big it might be, might allow me to live openly as myself, without fear.
That was my first big dream. One day, it came true. One day, though it was decades in coming, I was able to live openly as a gay man. One day, when I met my late partner, I discovered the power that two people experience when they surrender fully to true love. One day, Allen and I said our vows, exchanged our rings, and went on living our lives together, openly, as all people should be allowed to do. Through it all, my dream empowered me to maintain my authenticity.
My second cloud dream wasn’t as big as the first, but it was bigger than my home and bigger than my family. Influenced by my mother, the minister, I fell in love with language as a preschooler. Her sermons were magical, and I came to believe that her words held great power. Her Biblical research also fascinated me, as I watched her thumb through multiple Biblical commentaries, especially her treasured Matthew Henry Commentary onthe Whole Bible, originally written in 1706. Her quiet, unseen research brought informed clarity to her interpretations, helping her with her sermons and helping her help others navigate their own spiritual journeys through the Bible. Without knowing it, her unpretentious research revealed to me the joy of discovery and exploring comparative meanings in a text. By the time I reached third grade, I had a dream not only that I would become an English professor but also that I would earn my Ph.D., become a published scholar, and make learning my lifelong companion.
Today, that’s not an unusual dream, but for me, the son of a coal miner and the first in his family to go to college, it was extraordinary. Even so, extraordinary dreams come true. One day, I earned my Ph.D. One day, I became a college professor. One day, I became a published author, not only of scholarly works but also of creative nonfiction essays. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to fulfill all of those things and, in addition, have a distinguished career at the Library of Congress? But it did. For a kid who grew up in a home with just a handful of books and in a town with no library, it was beyond imaginable that I would spend a quarter of a century working in an institution with “all the books” and giving human resources advice to two Librarians of Congress. Who would have dreamt that nearing eighty, my dream would still be propelling me toward learning? But it does. I’m as turned on now by learning as I was turned on by words when I was a child, but these days I’m hyped by Artificial Intelligence (AI) and my belief that we can harness its power to make us better than we are. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to taste “the good life” without ever making it a priority? But it did. The material comforts, joyful and meaningful career engagements, loving relationships, physical and spiritual well-being, and belonging to rich and diverse communities fell into place.
My third dream was bigger and billowier than the first two. Although I never made a conscious effort to live “the good life,” I did resolve from childhood that I would live “a good life.” I’ve always taken the moral high ground, based on justice and goodness rather than personal gain or self-interest. I’ve always stood up for the underdog, knowing that I’m standing up for everyone because somewhere along our journeys, we’re all underdogs. I’ve always shared my plenty with those whose want brings pain and suffering not only to them but also to me. I’ve always accepted people for who they are and where they are, believing that their blood pulses through my veins and mine through theirs. I’ve always been grateful for what I have, celebrating that my meager mite, regardless of its manifestation, is my lot. I’ve always tried to make amends by the end of the day for words harsh-spoken and feelings ill-harbored, knowing the wisdom of my mother’s teaching:
“Never let the sun go down on your wrath.”
I’ve always seen every day as a brand-new day, giving me one more chance to “get it right,” whatever the “it” might be. I’ve always tried to live every day so that at the end of each day, even if it should be the end of my life, I am at peace with myself and with my soul, being able to slip into slumber, sighing the words of that great gospel song:
“It is well with my soul.”
As I reflect on the three dreams that shaped my life, I know now what I never knew as a youngster starting out on my journey. It’s clear to me that without even knowing what I was doing, my dreams aligned with key stages of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, illustrating how my pursuit of a fulfilled and meaningful life followed a path of human development that is universal. We all pursue our physiological needs of food and water. We all pursue our need for safety of person, employment, family, and resources. We all pursue our need for love, belonging, and sexual intimacy. We all pursue our need for self-esteem gained through achievements as well as through respecting others and being respected by others. We all pursue the most important pursuit of all, our need for self-actualization, of discovering, developing, and celebrating our own authentic self.
And you? What about you and the life dreams that you are chasing? Whatever they might be and wherever you might be in seeing them through to fulfillment, let me offer a few words of encouragement based on where I’ve been and what I’ve experienced on my journey.
● Above all else, dream. Dream big, bigger than the bounds of your imagination, and perhaps even bigger than what you think possible. The greater the strive, the more likely the achievement.
● Wake up every day to your dream, letting its brightness surround you and lead you throughout your day. The more beaming the vision, the closer the reality.
● Work tirelessly and endlessly toward achieving your dream. The greater your grit, the more triumphant your victory.
● Expect setbacks, reminding yourself that life often leads us two steps forward only to thrust us one step back. Turn every setback into a comeback.
● Keep an eye open for naysayers, realizing that you yourself may be the chiefest among them. Transform traitors of dooming doubt into warriors of powerful prayer.
● Surround yourself with supporters, those who believe in you and your dream. The stronger your circle, the more robust your resolve.
● Validate yourself, but never forget to validate others, knowing that each of us is enough. The more you uplift others, the more we rise together.
In the end, what matters most is not the size of our dreams, but the dreams themselves and the heart and grit that we pour into them. In the end, we need to be ever mindful that we are all such stuff as dreams are made on, constantly rebuilding our foundations, striving toward fulfillment, and learning that the journey itself is the real victory. Dreams are not just distant destinations; they are the roadmaps guiding us toward our authentic selves. Whether we stumble or soar, each step along the way is a testament to our perseverance and our determination to not let go of what we hold most dear.
Whatever dream you are chasing, know that it is not the finish line that defines you—it is the striving, the growing, and the becoming that shape who you are. Keep dreaming. Keep reaching. Keep believing that every effort, every setback, and every triumph will bring you one step closer to your truest and most authentic self.
“Just as electricity transformed almost everything 100 years ago, today I actually have a hard time thinking of an industry that I don’t think AI will transform in the next several years.”
–Andrew Ng (b. 1976; computer scientist and entrepreneur known for his work in artificial intelligence and machine learning; co-founder of Google Brain; Chief Scientist at Baidu; significant contributor to deep learning research and online education through Coursera.)
The other day, I found myself reflecting on some of the major technological advances that I’ve witnessed since the late 1940s when I was born. I’m thrilled by how far we’ve come.
● TVs that brought the rest of the world into our living rooms. ● Major vaccines that protected the public from polio, diphtheria, and smallpox. ● Machine Readable Cataloging (MARC) that led to worldwide automated cataloging. ● Landing on the Moon that showed a modern twist on human ingenuity and the relentless quest for knowledge. ● Personal calculators and digital watches that made everyday tasks a bit easier and added a touch of futuristic flair to our lives. ● CTscans thatallowed doctors to see inside the human body with incredible precision. ● The rise of the Internet and personal computers that gave us the ability to interact with the world at any time. ● Smartphones thathave enabled us to stay connected, informed, and entertained no matter where we are. ● Recent space advances with missions to Mars and the proliferation of private space travel that continue to push the boundaries.
Okay, let me pause right here, right now. I hear what some of you might be saying.
You might be saying that what I’ve witnessed during the Modern/Contemporary Era doesn’t begin to compare with the Renaissance (c. 1450-1526). Leonardo da Vinci. Michelangelo. Shakespeare. Copernicus. European exploration of the Americas, Africa, and Asia. And let’s not forget, Gutenberg’s printing press.
Or maybe you’re saying that what I’ve witnessed doesn’t compare with the Industrial Revolution (c. 1760-1836). The spinning jenny. The steam engine. The power loom. Transformations in manufacturing, factories, and mass production. Railways and steamships. Rapid urbanization. And new economic theories.
But what I’m talking about goes beyond the Industrial Revolution and even the Renaissance. Here’s why. The kingpin to the technological advances that I’ve witnessed is Artificial Intelligence (AI). AI is what grabbed hold of me and made me start reflecting on the technological advances of my lifetime in the first place. Simply put, I am blown away not only by the speed with which AI is advancing but also the speed with which it is being incorporated into our lives.
Let me explain. I was smitten by AI, specifically generative language platforms like ChatGPT, from the start, so much so that in 2023, I published 10 posts about AI. The first one “Cutting Edge Technologies: Promise or Peril?” (January 24) ended with a caustic warning:
It seems to me that the perils being voiced by AI skeptics aren’t too different from those sounded by other skeptics down through the ages about other cutting-edge technologies. The Printing Press. Online Cataloging. The Internet. Online Learning. Open Education Resources.
But here’s what we have to accept. Whether we like it or not–whether we feel threatened by it or not–AI is here. It has started. It will not stop. It is the future.
Promise or Peril? I have to decide where I stand. You have to decide where you stand. We all have to decide where we stand.
We can’t ignore AI.
Sadly, we can, but only if we want to be among the left behind.
In the crucible of this moment, we must choose whether to embrace AI’s potential or turn away from it. The history of civilization is a testament to humanity’s willingness to embrace change and innovation. The road to a better world requires boldness, foresight, and the audacity to dream beyond our limitations. We’re standing on the brink of a future where we can develop and use AI’s extraordinary potential. I have a fervent hope and a deep-down desire that we will remember the lessons of our past and seize the AI opportunities that can propel us forward toward greatness.
Then, a few months later in my November 27 post “I Want a Robot,” I didn’t feel a need for a plea or for a warning. I just wanted to fool around with ChatGPT to see how far we could get with designing my very own robot named Caden, with fully operational arms, legs, and articulate facial features along with human gestures, expressions as well as a sense of sarcasm and humor.
It was a marvelous post exploring a possibility that excited me so much I even threatened to sell my coveted Rubicon Jeep Gladiator in order to have Caden in my home. But ChatGPT cautioned me that I might be getting a little carried away with my idea:
Brent: I hear you. If you had to guess how many years from now Humanoid robots like Caden might be available, what would you guess? Be bold: guess.
ChatGPT: Making predictions about the timeline for the development of humanoid robots like Caden involves a high degree of uncertainty. Technological advancements can be rapid, but predicting specific breakthroughs is challenging. If I were to make a bold guess, I’d say it could potentially be within the next 20 to 30 years, considering the current trajectory of AI and robotics research. However, this is purely speculative, and various factors, including ethical considerations, regulatory hurdles, and technological challenges, could influence the timeline. It’s always exciting to follow developments in these fields and see how they unfold over time.
Brent: We’ll see. Just for the record–yours, mine, my readers, and posterity–I’m going to guess within 10 years. Again, it’s just a guess on my part.
And my prediction was far closer than ChatGPT’s! The speed is astonishing!
The dawn of complex humanoid robots is here, less than a year after ChatGPT and I had our conversation. In fact, when I started this post, I had planned to call it “The AI Times They Are A-Changin’.” But as I tapped away on my Smartphone, I had a realization. The AI times are not changing. They have changed already.
Right now, 22 humanoid prototypes are out there, ready to get to work. They’re already making waves in logistics, manufacturing, healthcare, and hospitality, though their use is still a bit limited due to the high costs of development.
But things are looking up! The market for humanoid robots was worth $1.8 billion in 2023, and get this: in the next five years, it’s expected to skyrocket to over $13 billion! That’s a staggering growth rate of over 600%, which shows just how fast this technology is advancing and how much potential it has to change our lives.
I’ve got my eye on my very own Caden, of course, but I’m fascinated by several others, too. Meet, for example, Aloha, a housekeeping humanoid that can cook and clean! I’ll do the cooking. Aloha can do the cleaning!
Or what about Pepper, a humanoid robot developed by SoftBank Robotics. Known for their friendly demeanor and ability to interact with humans through voice and touch, Pepper “stands out from the crowd.” Designed to assist in various environments, from retail and hospitality to education and healthcare, Pepper showcases advancements in AI and robotics aimed at enhancing human-robot interactions.
Then we also have Sophia, created by Hanson Robotics. Sophia gained fame for their human-like appearance and advanced AI capabilities. They can hold conversations, recognize faces, and express emotions, making them suitable for applications in customer service, education, and research.
And let’s not forget Atlas. Known for their impressive agility and bipedal movement, Atlas is a humanoid robot developed by Boston Dynamics. They’re designed for tasks in environments that are challenging for humans, such as search and rescue missions or construction sites.
What can I say? Dayumn! Shazam!
Aside from these major advances in such a short time, I take heart in something else, too! AI is finding its way fast and faster into the halls of academe and that is exactly where it belongs. Take a look at these headlines. Better still, click on the links and read the articles yourself. Stay informed.
It thrills me to see educators involved in AI. Educators play a crucial role in shaping how humanoid robots and other AI technologies are perceived and utilized in society.
● We are responsible for preparing students to navigate a world increasingly influenced by AI and robotics. This includes teaching them about the capabilities, ethical implications, and potential impacts of these technologies.
● We can foster discussions around the ethical and social implications of AI and humanoid robots. We can encourage critical thinking and help students develop a nuanced understanding of the benefits and challenges associated with these technologies.
● We can familiarize students with these technologies from an early age. This hands-on experience can demystify robotics and AI, making them less intimidating and more understandable.
● We can help students develop skills that will be valuable in a future where AI and automation play prominent roles. This includes skills in programming, problem-solving, collaboration, and adaptability.
● We can advocate for policies and practices that ensure AI and humanoid robots are used responsibly and ethically and that, in turn, can influence educational institutions, policymakers, and the broader community.
And if you’re an educator working in a system that has yet to embrace these tools, I urge you to advocate for their inclusion, collaborate with colleagues, and seek out resources and training to effectively incorporate AI education into your teaching.
As educators navigating AI, remember this. AI is not a choice. AI is not an option. It is your responsibility to help students navigate the new AI world.
For students eager to embrace AI education and its potential, there are actionable steps you can take to encourage your educators and school systems. Start by expressing your interest and curiosity about AI technology in classroom discussions and projects. Seek out extracurricular activities or clubs focused on technology and innovation where you can explore AI concepts further. Advocate for AI literacy within your school by organizing student-led initiatives, such as petitions or presentations to school boards and administrators, highlighting the importance of integrating AI education into the curriculum. Engage with teachers and mentors to share resources and ideas on how AI can be effectively taught and learned. By actively demonstrating your enthusiasm and commitment to learning about AI, you can play a pivotal role in shaping a forward-thinking education system that prepares students for the challenges and opportunities of tomorrow’s world.
As students navigating AI, remember this. AI is not a choice. AI is not an option. It is your responsibility to learn everything that you can learn about AI so that you can navigate our brand-new world and make it the world of our most hopeful dreams.
So, here we are, Dear Readers! The AI revolution is no longer a distant forecast, but a reality that’s already transforming our world in ways we never thought possible. In less than one year, my message has changed from warning to plea to invitation. We’re at a crossroads, and it’s up to us to decide how we want to harness the power of AI. Let’s choose to use it to enhance our humanity rather than diminish it. Let’s educate ourselves, our children, and future generations to navigate this brave new world. And let’s create a future where technology and humanity converge in harmony. The AI times have changed, and I invite you to embrace the AI potential and change with the times!
“The real problem is not whether machines think but whether men do.”
–B. F. Skinner (American psychologist, behaviorist, author, and social philosopher, best known for his work in exploring how behavior is influenced by rewards and punishments.)
Of course not. You weren’t duped the way that I was. Well, let me remind you of what happened to me. As I was enjoying my Cappuccino in Starbucks, a former student walked in, and I invited them to join me. Hot damn! I had somebody who might be interested in talking about recent AI advances. The student feigned ignorance because work had kept them too busy to fool around much online. I decided to turn the encounter into a learning moment, so I opened up ChatGPT and handed my Smartphone to them:
“Here. In the dialogue box, just type in what you want to know.”
Talk about flying thumbs! The next thing I knew, my student had given ChatGPT extensive guidelines for an essay to appear in The New Yorker. What a hoot! Then, they held on to my Smartphone and proceeded to read the essay aloud to me, just as I often did when they were in my classes. I realized that I had been cornered and tricked, just like the narrator in Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”
After being so surprisingly duped, I managed to chuckle a little on my way back up my mountain. At the same time, I was tempted to just forget all about the Starbucks encounter, and I suppose I would have done just that if not for comments from several of my faithful followers.
One of them, in a rare stroke of six-word brilliance, elevated me to the level of “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” by dubbing me “The Celebrated Professor of Shenandoah County.” (Thank you, Jenni. Move over, Mark Twain. There’s a new kid on the riverboat.)
Another follower pumped me up even more, and I quote verbatim: “Your storytelling is second to none.” (Thank you, Dave. Like I said, move over Mark.)
Both of those comments actually made me grateful that I had been duped in Starbucks.
The third comment spurred me on even more because my good friend and faithful follower Frank thought that he would have the last laugh by duping me once more. Can you imagine a friend doing that? Let me tell you what he did. He asked ChatGPT to write a response to my post, and then what did he do? What did Frank do? He posted it, all innocent-like as a comment under his own name! His own name! He’s got some nerve, if I must say so, but I’ve known Frank and his pranks for decades, so his spoof did not take me by surprise, nor did I fall for his pluck!
After all, I am a master at foolin’ around with words–in and out of bed–and as soon as I read his comments, I knew immediately that he was not the author.
Someone just screeched:
How did you know?
Here’s the short answer. I’m familiar with Frank’s writing style. The comment that he posted was not in the same style as comments that he’s made down through the years about my blog posts. It had nuances that just didn’t sound like Frank.
With Frank’s permission, I’m giving his entire comment below in bold. I’ll intersperse my observations in italics.
§ § §
“Dear Brent,
No way! There’s just no way that Frank would start his comments about my blog with a salutation. Nope. No way. Imposter.
“I thoroughly enjoyed reading your latest blog post, ‘The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.’ Your narrative was both engaging and thought-provoking, capturing the essence of an academic’s ever-evolving relationship with technology. The way you seamlessly blended your personal experience with insightful commentary on AI’s role in creative writing was masterful.”
This paragraph shows a lack of understanding, and I know fully well that Frank understood my post. However, when he uploaded it to ChatGPT, ChatGPT made the mistake of identifying me with the fictional professor in the essay that my student had AI generate. Frank is too savvy to make such a mistake. Nope. No way. Imposter.
“Your encounter at Starbucks not only highlighted the cleverness of your former student but also underscored a significant theme: the intersection of traditional craftsmanship and modern technology. As someone who has been exploring the potentials of AI in various domains, I found your skepticism and eventual amusement towards AI-generated content particularly relatable. It’s fascinating to witness how AI, like ChatGPT, can generate coherent and even humorous narratives, yet still lack the human touch that makes storytelling deeply personal and impactful.”
Frank knows fully well that I have never been skeptical of AI. I have embraced it from the get-go. Once again, ChatGPT made the mistake of identifying me with the fictional professor in the essay that my student had AI generate. Nope. No way. Imposter.
“Your reflections on the creative process were poignant. While AI can certainly aid in generating content, the true art of writing lies in the human ability to weave emotions, experiences, and unique perspectives into a narrative. This reminded me of a quote by Isaac Asimov: “I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them.” Your post beautifully illustrates that while AI can enhance our capabilities, it is our human creativity and critical thinking that ultimately define our work.”
Frank often includes quotes in his comments, but they’re usually song lyrics. Asimov? Not hardly. Nope. No way. Imposter.
“Thank you for sharing this delightful and insightful story. It left me pondering the future of writing and the balance between embracing technological advancements and preserving the essence of human creativity. I look forward to reading more of your posts and perhaps even discussing these topics over a cup of coffee someday.”
Frank and I meet regularly for lunch, and we usually have oysters on the halfshell and a Gin and Tonic. Coffee? Never! Nope. No way. Imposter.
“Warm regards,”
Geez! Frank has never, ever used “Warm regards” as a closing for any of his comments. Never. Nope. No way. Imposter.
§ § §
Aside from the above observations, one more thing made me aware that Frank was not the author: the length. Frank is a man of few words. He simply would not write such lengthy comments. Nope. No way. Imposter.
I was on to what Frank had done as soon as I read his comments. In my response, I added something that I thought would let him know that I knew:
“Coffee? You bet! Gin and Tonic with Oysters on the halfshell would be great, too! 😃”
One more thing, just for the record. I asked ChatGPT to take Frank’s AI comments and to rewrite them in a way more consistent with the Frank I know.
Here’s what ChatGPT provided:
Hey Brent,
I got a kick out of your latest blog post, “The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.” Your storytelling was as sharp and engaging as always, blending your personal experience with a clever commentary on AI’s role in creative writing. You really captured the essence of an academic’s evolving relationship with technology.
The Starbucks encounter was a hoot, highlighting your student’s cleverness and the broader theme of blending traditional craftsmanship with modern tech. I’ve been delving into AI myself, and it was fun to see your take on how these tools can generate content that’s coherent and even amusing, though they still miss that personal touch that makes storytelling special.
Thanks for sharing such a delightful and thought-provoking story. It got me thinking about the future of writing and how we can balance embracing tech advancements while keeping the heart of human creativity. Looking forward to more of your posts, and maybe we can chat about this over lunch soon.
Catch you later,
Frank
Yep. That’s a lot closer to the Frank I know, but it’s still far too long. Unlike me, Frank knows that he’s not being paid by the word!
But, hey! Listen up! Guilt got the better of Frank. He called me one evening to confess! So, there you have it, and you heard it first right here.
Frankly, here’s the beautiful part of this long, drawn-out Twainesque post: humanity triumphed twice. First, Frank’s writing style has nuances that AI can’t mirror. Yet. Second, Frank’s conscience wouldn’t let him rest until the truth surfaced. AI can’t rise to that level. Yet.
Hopefully, this playful saga will remind us of the authenticity and complexity that define our interactions, whether through pranks or profound reflections. It’s in these moments that we find the essence of human connection and the enduring joy of shared stories and shared learning experiences..
“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.”
—Carl Jung (1875-1961; a Swiss psychiatrist and psychoanalyst who founded analytical psychology; explored the human psyche, emphasizing the importance of integrating the conscious and unconscious aspects of the self.)
The air is sweet with success all around the world as another academic year draws to a close. A rightful sense of accomplishment and pride abounds as graduates, their families and friends, educators who guided them, and communities that supported them come together to celebrate this momentous occasion. It’s a milestone that marks the culmination of years of hard work, dedication, and perseverance, as graduates have demonstrated their commitment to excellence in various forms.
As I reflect on my own academic celebrations down through the years as an educator and as a student, one stands taller than the rest: Alderson-Broaddus University’s Honors Convocation on April 5, 1997. Held in Wilcox Chapel, it was the university’s forty-fourth annual convocation, and I was the speaker. I can’t begin to express how honored I was to be returning to my alma mater to speak on such an important occasion. What made it even more special was the fact that the invitation came from a former classmate, Dr. Kenneth Yount. Ken and I were both 1969 A-B grads, and as seniors, he was President of Student Government, and I was Vice-President. Ken went on to become A-B’s Provost/Vice-President for Academic Affairs, and, when he invited me to come back home to our mountaintop campus, I was serving as the Training Coordinator, United States Copyright Office, the Library of Congress.
In delivering my remarks, I had one goal: ignite a spark of introspection and perseverance among those being honored and those in attendance. I believe that my remarks achieved that goal, and I believe that what I had to say then is equally relevant to graduates today whenever they might be on their journey to tomorrow.
I am honored to share my remarks today with readers all around the world.
“Winning from Within”
Dr. Yount, President Markwood, Faculty, Honored Students, Parents, Guests: thank you for such a warm welcome.
When Dr. Yount invited me here today, he asked that I do three things. First, he asked me to sprinkle my remarks with humor. Second, he asked that I speak from the heart about what Alderson-Broaddus has meant to me. Third, he asked that I talk about academic excellence. As an aside, he noted that I had to do all this–make you laugh, make you cry, and make you think–in no more than 15 minutes. What a challenge. In fact, I confess that it makes me feel rather like a mosquito in a nudist colony. I know exactly what I’m supposed to do. I just don’t know quite where to begin.
Thank you for your laughter. You prove that I can be humorous. Believing brevity to be the soul of wit, now let me speak from the heart, from the heart about my experience here at A-B, from the heart about excellence, and from the heart about winning from within.
I do so willingly. I spent four wonderful years on this mountaintop. They were so good, in fact, that I would live them again, and never once say, “If I knew then what I know now.” That’s no small concession, considering that I will turn fifty later this year. But I would live those four years again, because I am able to say–and do say, day after day–that A-B touched my life in ways that made lasting differences.
Let me explain. I grew up in a small town, the sixth child of a West Virginia coal miner. My mom and dad always provided well for us, but in reality, they lived rather anxiously from coal-strike to coal-strike, from pay-check to pay-check. But they rose above those financial challenges and instilled in my brothers and sisters and me a work ethic, the likes of which I have never seen. They made us know that there is nobility in work, that there is honor in work, that there is dignity in work, and that there is love in work. My dad labored for fifty years in the coal mines, but neither he nor my mother ever said to me, “You can’t grow up to be a coal miner.” Instead, they taught me this, and it stands as my earliest lesson, my greatest tribute to them:
If a job is once begun, Never leave until it’s done. Be its labor great or small, Do it well, or not at all.
That quote has governed my life–shaped my life–in ways that probably only a psychiatrist could unravel. But at least one part of it is woven in a continuous thread that requires no untwisting. As early as the fourth grade, I fell in love with words and how words relate to one another and how they serve as building blocks for ideas. I fell in love with the eight parts of speech. I fell in love with diagraming sentences. I took my parents’ guidance at face value and applied it to my love of English.
My classmates, of course, had no idea of how possessed I was by my love of the language. They had an even more feeble understanding of how driven I was by the work ethic that my parents had instilled in me. But I was possessed by my love of words. And I was driven by my work of putting words together. And if my classmates did not quite understand it then, they soon came to realize that they had better step out of my way whenever it came to moving to the front of the class in spelling bees, in parsing, in diagraming sentences, in writing assignments, and in essay competitions. Those honors and all those related to English were mine exclusively. I had claimed them. I knew the subject. I loved the subject. And I had no fear of hard work.
I can reflect smugly on my childhood accomplishments now. They were not easy accomplishments then. Every trip to the front of the class was characterized by no small degree of fear and trepidation. After all, I was only nine years old. But I believed my parents and never once questioned their guidance. I studied hard, worked hard, and played hard at what I loved to do. I knew from the start that my life’s labor would center around English, teaching English, whatever that might have meant to a fourth grader. I thought then that it meant, somehow, making the world a better place by helping others understand the parts of speech and helping them diagram sentences so that they could express their ideas clearly and, obviously, in a grammatically correct manner. Much later in school, I learned what the study of the English language really entailed, but in my nine-year-old world, it was quite sufficient for me to believe that studying English was a great labor, to know that my accomplishments in the field outdistanced my classmates. and to know that I would not leave my pursuit until it was done.
Looking back, I am not too surprised by this turn of events in my life. Remember. I grew up in a small coal mining town. We had no library. Now let me tell you this. We had only two books in our house: the King James version of the Bible and Webster’s dictionary. My mother dog-eared the pages of the Bible and preached and prayed it to the rest of us. Though always mindful of–and let me add influenced by–her spiritual travels, I dog-eared Webster and pursued my own adventures with the English language.
Imagine my parents’ surprise when I declared, again, as a fourth grader, that I was not only going to college but also that I was going to complete a doctoral degree in English. I had not the foggiest idea of how I, in a coal-strike to coal- strike, pay-check to pay-check household, would ever get there. But I believed fully that if I followed by parents’ guidance, stuck with what I loved, worked hard at it, somehow, the door would be opened. I went forward with blind faith, declaring finally in my senior year that I was going to West Virginia University or to the University of Richmond. I applied to both. Then I met Tom Bee, the Admissions Counselor here at A-B, when he visited my high school. I had no idea that his visit would redefine my life. But it did. He encouraged me to apply to A-B. I did and was accepted here as well as at my other two choices.
Thank God, Alderson-Broaddus saw my needs. It saw my needs financially. Remember my dad, the coal miner. It saw my needs spiritually. Remember my mother, the prayer warrior. It saw my needs intellectually. Remember my dream of becoming an English teacher.
How well I remember the summer of 1965 when I visited this campus for the first time. I had no decision to make. I knew from the start, in the inner recesses of my soul, that I was home, not in the Robert Frost sense that “Home is the place that when you have to go there, they have to take you in” but rather in his sense of the word that “Home is something you somehow haven’t to deserve.” I am not certain I deserved the home that Alderson-Broaddus made for me when it took me in, in 1965. And I am even less certain that I deserve to be invited back on an occasion of this importance. But it’s good to be home again, and I thank you heartily.
I use as the springboard for my remarks today an oft-told story about an event that took place in Thailand. The year, 1957. The city, Bangkok. The players, a group of monks and a group of construction workers. The situation, a new highway that was to run smack dab in the middle of the temple. The monks had to move a 10 ½ foot tall clay Buddha from their temple to make room for progress. When the crane began to lift the giant idol, the weight of it was so tremendous that it began to crack. The head monk–the abbot–aside from being concerned about the immediate damage, became even more alarmed as rain began to fall. He ordered that the statue be lowered to the ground and that it be covered with a large canvas tarp to protect it from the rain.
Later that night, the abbot went to check on the Buddha. He shined his flashlight under the tarp to see if it was staying dry. As the light reached the crack, he noticed a gleam shining back. He looked closer at the gleam of light, believing that there was something underneath the clay. He fetched a hammer and chisel and began to chip away at the clay. As he knocked off shards of clay, the gleam grew brighter and brighter, and by morning, the abbot stood face to face with an extraordinary solid gold Buddha, weighing more than 5 tons.
Historians believe that several hundred years earlier, monks had covered the Buddha with an outer covering of clay to keep their treasure from being looted by an invading Burmese army. Unfortunately, they slaughtered all the monks, and their golden Buddha remained a secret until that fateful date in 1957 when the abbot recognized the gleam beneath the surface and dared to chip away at the clay, to find the real gold within.
What a splendid discovery. Finding real gold, solid gold, within. In many ways, we are all like that Buddha, pure gold inside but covered with a hard outer shell that hides our “golden essence,” “our inner self,” “our real self.” Much like the abbot with the hammer and chisel, our challenge is to break through the surface to find our true essence, to find our pure gold, to win from within.
Today’s Honors Convocation confirms that you have been hard at work with your own hammers and chisels. You have chipped away across academic classes and across academic disciplines. I am more than gratified to see that excellence in writing is being recognized in several fields. I am heartened to see an emphasis on Greek academic excellence. I am encouraged and touched and saddened–all at the same time–by the growing number of memorial awards. At the risk of singling out any, lest they be given a prominence equally deserved by all the others, I cannot help but note the awards being given in memory of Dr. Ruth Shearer and Dr. Louise Callison, two of my own English professors.
I salute you. You have broken through your own hard outer shell. Your own true excellence shows. Your own true gold shines. I salute Alderson- Broaddus as well, for its role in guiding you throughout this time of personal discovery and growth. Today is a shared celebration. As an institution and as individuals, you should feel rightfully proud of your accomplishments.
As I stand here, though, I cannot help but ask myself, “Why aren’t all your classmates being honored?” Wouldn’t that be wonderful? To have so many students recognized today that Wilcox Chapel would be filled in a celebration of collective institutional excellence.
In case I have not made my point clearly enough already, let me hammer it home one more time: we are all solid gold. We are all capable of achieving excellence. Just as I have never met an ugly person–and I have not–so have I never had a student who is not gold, not capable of excellence. Never forget that point for one moment. If you do forget it, now or later on in your life, your competition will do you in. Ounce for ounce, your classmates in the world are just as much solid gold as you and just as capable of distinguishing themselves as you. They, too, can achieve excellence. And to varying degrees, they are. Like you, they have begun chipping away at their outer clay. But unlike you, they haven’t broken fully through the surface, yet, to see what’s inside. That’s what an undergraduate education is all about: taking the time to look within, to do self-exploration, to bring out self-awareness, and to find out who you are. At no time in your life, even when you pursue graduate studies–and I hope that many of you will–at no time in your life will you ever again have the luxury of focusing, twenty four hours a day, on winning from within–on finding yourself–and of being sheltered all the while from the cares of a 9 to 5 work-a-day world by an institution like Alderson-Broaddus, of being nurtured by such caring and dedicated and learned faculty as are assembled with us today. But I believe that you, unlike your classmates, have chipped away more broadly and more deeply. You have taken your pursuit of excellence to a deeper level. You have engaged yourselves in a more spiritual kind of search, a more personal search that has helped you become knowledge navigators in the academic fields you love best.
But, looking ahead, what do you do? It’s simple.
● It has but three words. Stick with it.
● It has but two words. Chip away.
● It has but one word. Persevere.
If you don’t stick with it, chip away, and persevere, your honor today will be short-lived. Here’s why. If you don’t continue to remain engaged in a spiritual search to find more and more of your real gold, more and more of your inner essence, if you don’t continue to develop your talents to the fullest, you will soon get side-tracked. You will soon start looking for self-love in all the wrong places, and you will ignore your own deep-rooted needs. You will get caught up in the busy-ness of life, of trying to demonstrate your self-worth through external sources, through achieving a material worth that will be obvious to others–that they will notice, that they will validate, and that they will appreciate. That approach may well bring you pleasure, accomplishments, a coveted job, big bucks, status, and even success. Just keep in mind, though, that the world is filled with people who have spent their entire lives validating themselves through external sources. All too often, their stories end on the sad note of personal regret and profound unhappiness.
Don’t wait for others to approve you. Respect who you are. Accept yourself. Approve yourself. Continue to tend to your soul, to develop the real you that lies beneath the surface, and to go for your own gold. Doing what you love should govern not just how you spend your time now, not just how you pursue college, but how you pursue your life.
Find what you love. Then do it with dedication, with determination, with daring, with ceaseless work, and with dogged perseverance. If you do, just as you have distinguished yourselves today, so too will you lead lives of distinction that will bring honor to you, to your families, and to Alderson-Broaddus.
Again, I salute all of you on your accomplishments, and, again, I thank you for including me in your celebration.
“We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.”
–Winston Churchill (1874–1965; British statesman, army officer, and writer, best known for his leadership as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom during World War II.)
Yesterday, I unveiled the dedication of More Wit and Wisdom: My Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed to educators worldwide, recognizing their transformative impact on our lives through education.
Today, I’m thrilled to disclose the second surprise close to my heart: all proceeds from the book’s sales will directly benefit students at an institution that holds immense significance for me.
As a first-generation college graduate, supporting others’ educational pursuits resonates deeply with me. Throughout my journey, I’ve been profoundly grateful for the support extended to me by others who believed in paying it forward.
From high school to my undergraduate years and beyond, benefactors stepped in to bridge financial gaps–for textbooks and tuition–and make my dreams possible. Their generosity propelled me forward.
However, aside from needing help with tuition and textbooks, sometimes students face other financial barriers that prevent them from persisting and completing their educational endeavors. With those financial obstacles in mind, I’ve chosen to donate all proceeds from More Wit and Wisdom to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College, where I proudly served as Professor of English for 23 years.
It brings me immense joy to contribute, knowing that even a small gesture can make a significant difference in the lives of students facing similar challenges. This act of giving back is a heartfelt expression of gratitude for the support I’ve received throughout my journey.
“Computers are incredibly fast, accurate, and stupid. Human beings are incredibly slow, inaccurate, and brilliant. Together they are powerful beyond imagination.”
–Slightly Modified Quotation by Albert Einstein (1879-1955; known for His monumental contributions to physics and our understanding of the universe with his theory of relativity, E=mc², and numerous other discoveries.)
Those who know me well–and even those who know me, but not well–know that I always gift myself on my birthday. I purchase my gifts in advance, I have them wrapped in over-the-top paper with ribbons and bows beyond glitzy, and, without fail, I include a note reminding myself of how special I am. Well, I am. If I don’t celebrate me, others won’t celebrate me either. Right? Right. (You’re special, too. Gift yourself when your birthday rolls around.)
I’ve written at least one essay about a gift that I gave myself for my birthday. Who amongst us does not remember last year’s “Celebrating the Gateway to Who I Am”? In that blog post, I shared with you my 75th birthday gift: my decision to not let others diminish my identity by calling me Sweetie, Dearie, or Honey, instead of calling me by my name. I shared with you what I planned to do whenever those well-intentioned terms of endearment grated my ears and pierced my being. Simply put, I decided to rise up to the full height of my politest best and do my utmost to turn those ageist comments into learning moments.
I am pleased to report that I have done just that for the last year, and it has brought positive results, particularly in my doctor’s office and at my local pharmacy. I’m now “Brent.” My name. My God. My name. Who would have believed that one word could be so symphonic?
I thought that last year’s birthday gift might have been my best, ever.
Maybe so. But this year’s gift might be even better. Once again, it will be a blog post–today’s actually–made up of ideas lounging lazily midst glamorous and glitzy spaces.
But only the ideas will matter. Nothing else ever matters, really. Only ideas.
The idea that I want to explore as my 76th birthday gift is simply this. How can it be that I am hyped beyond hype about Artificial Intelligence (AI) and its potential? I am, and candidly, it might just be the greatest technological thrill of my entire life. I’ve written about its potential in “What If We Use Artificial Intelligence (AI) to Become Even Better than We Are?”
But here’s what I’m trying to figure out. How can it be that I am so turned on by AI? After all, I’m the guy whose entire being screams, “Humanities!” It strikes me as rather strange, so much so that I’m beginning to think of myself as an oddity, peculiar even to myself.
Doesn’t it strike you as strange, too, especially when I tell you that in all the standardized tests that I’ve taken down through the years, I have always scored substantially higher in math and science than in English?
I mean, those test results would have had me marching right on down the STEM side of life, focusing on science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.
You certainly wouldn’t have expected me to sashay down the liberal arts aisle, having endless affairs with literature, philosophy, history, languages, and everything else that focuses on human culture, creativity, and critical thinking.
But that’s just what I did! I think my mother started it all. While I was still in her womb, she was reading a novel with a protagonist named Brentford. She fell in love with the name and decided that she would pass it on to me. I don’t think my mother read novels after that, no doubt because she was preaching and shouting the Gospel’s good news in the little Pilgrim Holiness Church that she pastored until I was five or so.
During that time, I fell in love with language, listening to my mother and watching others as they were slain in the Holy Spirit while she preached. I also saw that my mother valued the beauty of diversity. Even though it was not politically correct to do so at the time, everyone in our multiethnic coal camp came into our modest home through our front door and dined at our steel-framed, Formica-topped kitchen table. I saw my mother stand up time and time again for what she thought was right. She never compromised her convictions. She believed in forgiveness and taught us to never let the sun go down with an ought in our hearts. She embraced positive thinking: if you think you can, you can. She was the epitome of steadfast cheerfulness and optimism.
In addition to my mother’s influence was the impact of living in a multiethnic community made up not only of Blacks and Whites but also of Greeks, Hispanics, Hungarians, Italians, Jews, Poles, and Puerto Ricans, many of whom were first generation immigrants. I appreciated the rhythm of diverse languages, the symphony of cultures echoing through every corner of my little coal camp. I learned how to have conversations with passionate hand gestures and animated facial expressions. Black gospel music and spirited conversations in Italian became the backdrop of my days. The rich aroma of soulful collards and pintos, garlicky Greek beans, savory Italian pasta sauces, and Hungarian goulash wafted through our community. Our dinner tables were a melting pot of international flavors. Hands of varied textures united—Pole with Greek, Jew with Black—and danced the hard dance of shared labor and celebrated the simple things in life that forged our coal-camp community.
Such were the ordinary threads that made up the fabric of my early childhood, yet they were sufficient enough to help me understand how people think and feel and yearn, and they were ample enough to make me feel at home in my future educational pursuits that encompassed language and literature and philosophy and religion.
Little wonder that I’d go on to earn my bachelor’s degree in the humanities with a concentration in English and allied fields in philosophy, religion, and speech. I had the luxury of studying the parts of life that meant so much to me. Later, I would earn my doctoral degree in philosophy with specializations in American literature and British literature.
But here’s what’s remarkably beautiful and equally strange. An education–especially in the humanities–prepares and empowers us for many undertakings, ironically not always related directly to what we studied in college. To my surprise, after I earned my bachelor’s degree, I was hired as an editor at the Library of Congress (LOC). For someone who grew up in a home with three books, it was staggering for me to be working in the world’s premier library, the place with all the books.
It was in that position–going all the way back to 1969–that my love of the humanities started to intersect in silent and seamless ways with my love of computer technology and my current fascination with Artificial Intelligence (AI). Looking back, it’s clear to me that my first editorial job at the LOC allowed both hemispheres of my brain to work together and complement one another even if I was not aware of the tight interconnections.
In that editorial position, I worked under the leadership of Henriette Avram, a computer programmer and systems analyst who developed the MARC format (MAchine Readable Cataloging) that revolutionized cataloging and libraries. (Computer technology had begun in the late 1930s, but when I started working at the Library of Congress, computers were still referred to as machines.) As an editor, I identified the various bibliographic data fields on conventional 3 x 5 catalog cards, and those tags–signposts, if you will–allowed Library records to be converted into online catalogs. The MARC format became the standard for most computer programs and for cataloging books worldwide.
At the same time, the LOC launched its Retrospective Conversion (RECON) project to convert older cataloging records into machine-readable form. On January 1, 1981, the LOC stopped filing cards into its main card catalog: online cataloging of its collections officially began.
As I moved into other positions at the Library of Congress, my background in online cataloging was among my key assets. I would go on to serve as an editor of the Catalog of Copyright Entries, making final determinations for automated cataloging, editing, and publishing activities constituting the bibliographic and legal record of works registered for U.S. copyright protection.
After I left the Library of Congress and crossed over into academe, fulfilling my third-grade dream of becoming an English professor, my new career path provided other notable intersections that would integrate my knowledge of computer technology and my love of the humanities. When Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College) launched online learning and teaching in 2000, I was among the first faculty to embrace the initiative and to offer classes using Blackboard as the delivery platform. Years later when the college wanted faculty to use Open Education Resources (OER) to lower the textbook costs for students, I volunteered and within a year I had designed and developed my own OER courses in American Literature, College Composition, Creative Writing, and Leadership Development.
Now, we are at poised at another historic milestone as Artificial Intelligence (AI)–specifically ChatGPT–offers us new learning resources that will revolutionize classrooms and lives. As an educator and as a human being, I embrace these technological advances fully. For me, it’s perhaps the most exciting moment in my entire life.
In tracing my path from my coal-camp beginnings to the vast landscape of Artificial Intelligence, I am reminded that life’s narrative is a complex dance between the humanities and technology. As I reflect on the unexpected turns, from my early days influenced by my mother’s sermons to my involvement in pioneering work at the Library of Congress and now my fascination with the marvels of AI, I find a harmonious integration of seemingly disparate worlds.
Just as the humanities laid the foundation for my understanding of the human experience, technology provided the tools to amplify and share that understanding with others. My journey from machines to Artificial Intelligence mirrors my own evolution, from a coal-camp kid fascinated by language and diverse cultures to a lifelong learner who eagerly embraces the next chapter of technological marvels.
As I celebrate this milestone year, I am grateful for the intersections of the humanities and technology in my life. It’s a testament to the ever-expanding possibilities that come to fruition when we allow these disciplines to not only coexist but also enrich each other. With a heart brimming with gratitude and a mind ignited by curiosity, I step into the AI future, ready to explore the uncharted territories where the humanities and technology continue to move in a captivating rhythm.
I hope that sharing highlights of my journey from my birth year of 1947, marked by the invention of the transistor, to the present day of Artificial Intelligence, serves as a testament to the enduring power of embracing change, fostering innovation, and finding harmony in the symphony of human and technological progress. Today, I see a dazzling future where the humanities and technology intertwine, creating a narrative that transcends the boundaries of what we ever deemed possible.
“Laughter connects you with people. It’s almost impossible to maintain any kind of distance or any sense of social hierarchy when you’re just howling with laughter. Laughter is a force for democracy.”
–John Cleese (well-known English actor, comedian, and writer; a member of the comedy group Monty Python; played Basil Fawlty in the classic British sitcom “Fawlty Towers.”)
THE BACKSTORY.
My life has been punctuated by several major turning points. Two of them are inextricably linked. In the fall of 1998, I took an early retirement from the Library of Congress, sold my home on Capitol Hill, bought myself a Jeep Wrangler, and relocated to my weekend cabin in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. I was fifty and determined to fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a college professor. I believed fully that by fall 1999, I would be teaching in the hallowed halls of academe.
The key phrase, of course, is: “I believed.” Belief was all that I had. Hope was all that I could hang on to. When I left DC, I had no teaching offers lined up. I simply believed and hoped that a door would open.
I did my part, too, to open the door. I explored teaching opportunities at Shenanadoah University, James Madison University, and Bridgewater College. While I explored, I served as a consultant to the Librarian of Congress, driving back and forth from Edinburg to DC several days a week. One July day, as I returned home via I-66, I noticed a sign for Lord Fairfax Community College.
“Why not explore community college opportunities, too?”
In an instant, I agreed with myself:
“Great idea. I’ll do just that.”
I took the exit, found the small campus–less than a mile away–and within a magical nanosecond I was chatting about my career and my resume with Dr. Sissy Crowther who, at the time, was the dean of the Humanities Division.
“Teach two Technical Writing classes as an adjunct?”
Luckily, I think fast and negotiate even faster:
“Sure. I’d love to teach Technical Writing, but I’d love it even more if I could also teach American Literature.”
“You live in Edinburg?”
“Yes.”
“How about an American Lit from 7-10pm at our offsite Luray High School facility? That’s just over the mountain from you. And maybe you’d like a Saturday morning American Lit that we’re offering also offsite at Warren County High School in Front Royal?”
“Absolutely!”
To be sure, Dr. Crowther had just filled in some gaps in her Fall 1999 class schedule. What she did not know, however, was this. When she asked me to teach those classes at Lord Fairfax Community College, she opened the door that my third-grade dream walked through. Now was the time of fulfillment. I had arrived. I was home.
In the next nanosecond I was in my cabin, on my mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, United States of America, Planet Happiness and Dreams Come True. To this day, I do not believe–nor shall I ever believe–that my Jeep Wrangler took me there.
I did not know then that in the class schedule, under the instructor column, I would be listed as STAFF.
I did not know then that adjunct pay was low, pitifully low.
I did not know then that the American Lit classes I had agreed to teach so readily were the ones that full-time faculty had no desire to teach–at night, on Saturday, and in high-school buildings that didn’t feel like college.
Even if I had known, it would not have mattered.
All that mattered was that my childhood dream had come true.
All that mattered was that I felt at home.
All that mattered was that I was part of an academic family.
Now fast forward with me, past more than 7,000 students and more than 250 classes that anchored me morning and night during a 23-year teaching career that happened magically at a community college, right in my own back yard.
Now fast forward to January 1, 2023, when another turning point punctuated my life.
I decided to bring my teaching career to a close and to reinvent myself. Notice that I did NOT say that I retired. Retire and reinvent are two entirely different words and two entirely different worlds. Trust me: I mince no words about the difference. Trust me again: I respect both worlds. It’s simply that I am not ready to do that R-t-r- thing. All those who know me know that I keep it simple and call it the “R” thing.
Since then, I have been dynamically engaged in teaching a stellar class of one admiring student: me. Subjects? Research. Writing. Publishing. With two books to my credit in 2023 and with two more on the horizon for 2024, what can I say other than my Reinvention is all that I hoped it would be.
As you might imagine, I love talking with others about my journey, and I can be as serious or as silly as they would have me be.
Obviously, when Andy Gyurisin, Development Officer, Office of the Foundation, Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College) invited me to speak at the November 1, 2023, Retirees Brunch and Learn, I accepted immediately, especially after he told me that he wanted a light-hearted, humorous presentation.
I jokingly warned Andy from the start that I would be poking fun at me, at him, at the college, at my adjunct teaching days and more.
“Go for it. It will be fun.”
The beauty, of course, about poking fun at colleagues whom you love is knowing that the tight family bonds will make the humor all the brighter.
MY MOMENT AS AN UNPAID COMEDIAN.
Andy, thank you so much!
My goodness! What can I say! Isn’t it amazing how home always feel like home?
How many of you feel as if you’re home? That’s great!
As for me, all I can say is this. Based on how I look these days—especially when I get up in the morning and look in the mirror and all the hair that I don’t have is standing up all over my head, I say to myself:
“Good God. HOME. You belong in … a home.“
Actually, I started feeling at home as soon as Andy invited me to talk. I agreed immediately, without even asking about the speaker’s fee, that I was sure I wouldn’t be getting anyway.
But you know what they say:
“You get what you pay for.”
So, folks, you ain’t gettin’ much from me, not even good grammar. You can thank Andy!
§ § §
Damn! That felt good. Saying damn felt good, too.
What else might have felt good if I had had the nerve to say it on the first day of class—you know—back in the day when I was teaching, especially in my adjunct days?
How many of you started as an adjunct?
Remember the pay back then? Maybe you’ve been able to put it out of your mind. I haven’t. It was nightmarish.
So, let’s see. If I had had the nerve back then, maybe something like this would have flown out of my mouth when I walked into class that first day:
“Good morning, young scholars! You know the old saying, ‘You get what you pay for?'”
They’d just sit there and stare and not reply, not even nod. Then I’d shock them with:
“Well, I’m an adjunct. I’m not being paid much, so you’re not going to get much!”
(President Blosser, you might want to put your fingers in your ears. It gets worse. Like I said: I ain’t bein’ paid much!)
Or how about wanting to say this to your students. You know the situation. You walk into class, all hyped up to talk about Dynamical Systems & Differential Equations or The Single Theory of Gravity or The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire or, God forbid, something literary like the really good stuff that students love, like Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. And there you stand.
“Good morning, young scholars. Does anyone have any questions?”
“Professor, I have a question, but it’s probably a dumb one.”
You know what comes next. The fixed smile. The formulaic response.
“Thanks, Casey. There’s no such thing as a dumb question except the one that doesn’t get asked.”
Deep down inside, you’re dying to scream:
“Guess what? There are dumb questions. Why don’t you just keep your dumb question to yourself.”
Can you relate?
§ § §
But it’s not always about the money. We all know that! After all, we taught at a community college.
Sometimes it’s enough just to see your name in the lights or on an invitation.
I confess. I was hoping to see my name on the invitation to today’s brunch and learn—whatever the hell that is; you won’t be learning a thing from me—but I hoped to see my name on it anyway, just so I could add the event to the resume that I no longer need.
Sure, enough. I got my invitation. I opened it up with great anticipation. Yep. I was right. No speaker’s fee and no mention of my name.
Yep. Made me feel right at home.
§ § §
Actually, it took me back to 1999 when I started teaching here as an adjunct. I was so excited. It was the fulfillment of a childhood dream.
I could hardly wait for the class schedule to come out.
It did. I was thrilled.
I found all of my classes listed. You know, the ones at times of day that full-time faculty never want and never fight to get: 7-10 at night. And in places where full-time faculty are never thrilled to go in the dark. Luray High School. Warren County High School.
But it’s all good. I had landed myself a job teaching, and I was so eager to send that schedule to my folks back home in West Virginia so they could see that I had arrived.
And sure enough—just like the invitation—my name did NOT appear on the schedule. What do you think appeared in the Instructor Column for my classes? What do you think appeared?
Yep. You got it. STAFF.
Anyone else remember those days?
§ § §
But you know what I did when I saw STAFF on that schedule? You know what I did?
I did it just for the sake of consistency, nothing more. I certainly not do it to get even or anything like that.
If I’m STAFF on the schedule, well, hell! I’ll be Professor Staff on my syllabi, too.
It took my dean three years to notice what I was doing. What else is new?
(Morgan, don’t look so alarmed. You weren’t my dean then. Anyway, it took you five or six years to figure out my shenanigans.)
§ § §
OK. This is really funny! But it’s true. The other day when I was at Sheetz pumping gas—a whole dollar’s worth; got it? A dollar’s worth—that’s all that I can afford these days. Anyway, there I stood, head down, facing the pump, so no one would see me.
Lo and behold from three islands away, someone yelled:
“Hey, Professor Staff!“
§ § §
But here’s what I want to know? Have any of you—since you did that R thing—had to pump gas only to discover that you were down to your last dollar?
Come on: let me see hands. You’re pumping gas and only have a dollar to your name?
Just what I figured. I guess that I should have retired, too. But I decided to be different.
OK. What else is new? I’m always different.
So to be different this time, I decided to reinvent myself.
Obviously, you’re getting a better paycheck than I’m getting.
§ § §
But that’s okay. Reinvention has had some good sides to it.
For starters, I took $400 cash, instead of the rocking chair. I wonder. How many of you opted for the rocking chair?
That’s great! You all rock!
(President Blosser, I hope you noticed. Did you see all those hands that didn’t go up? It might be time to reconsider the rocking chair.)
As for me, I didn’t need to consider or reconsider.
I took my money and bought myself a gorgeous coral bracelet. Yep. That’s what I did. See. Take a gander. I think it rocks, too.
When I finish, you all can come up close to get a better look while you drool.
For those of you who took the rocking chair, I’ve got a sweet deal for you. Let me see your hands again.
Great. I’ll visit you at your home so that you can see my bracelet while you rock … and drool.
§ § §
I don’t know about what you’ve experienced since you retired, but since I started reinventing myself—got it? Reinventing. There’s a difference!–I’ve heard some really silly if not downright dumb retirement jokes.
I sure hope that you haven’t heard them. You’re going to hear them again.
Question: When is a retiree’s bedtime? Answer: Three hours after he falls asleep on the couch.
Question: How many retirees does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: Only one, but it might take all day.
Question: Why does a retiree often say he doesn’t miss work but misses the people he used to work with? Answer: He’s too polite to tell the whole truth.
§ § §
I also get asked some really dumb questions, far dumber than the ones my students never asked. I mean, really dumb.
Just the other day, my phone rang. It was a friend. Like you, they retired. They know, though, that I did NOT do that R thing. They know fully well fully well that I’m reinventing myself.
Dingaling. Dingaling. Dingaling.
Joy of all bored joys. Someone’s calling!
“Hey. How’s it going.”
“Good. Real good. I don’t imagine that I interrupted anything important did I?”
“Nope. I’m just lying on the couch, counting the ceiling tiles that I don’t have, just to pass the time.”
Idiot! They know fully well that I have a schedule just as rigid as the one that I didn’t have when I was teaching. These days I’m just doing a little research here and there and a little writing here and there. But you know, when you do those little things, your entire life is so loosey-goosey.
§ § §
Yep. Loosey-goosey. That’s how I managed to get two books published this year.
I need to see some hands. How many of you would have the nerve to write about foolin’ around in bed with whoever it is that you’re foolin’ around with?
Just what I thought. You did that R thing. You’re probably not foolin’ around with anybody. You should have reinvented yourself, like I did. Then you could have invited anybody and everybody to hop in bed with you, the way more than 7,000 people have hopped in bed with me since I got smart and reinvented myself.
I mean just look here. It’s a gorgeous book. Hard is really gorgeous. Feels good. Soft is gorgeous, too. It feels good, too, but hard feels lots better. If you want to feel it, buy your own dang copy!
§ § §
Then while I’m counting ceiling tiles that I don’t have—you know, just to pass away my idle days—I cranked out another book: Green Mountain Stories.
It’s a gorgeous book, too. It’s available in hard copy only. It feels so good. But again, if you want to feel it, buy it!
And I am not going to tell you what it’s about. If you want to know, buy it. And shame on you if you don’t. You need to get some learning and find out all about Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, especially you women who have probably never heard of her. Shame on you. Shame I say. Shame. Buy your own copy and get some smarts.
And while you’re buying those books, remember the gifting season is fast upon us. These books will be the perfect gift—an absolutely pluperfect gift—that you can give yourself, your family, your friends—and, perhaps, even your enemies, especially the ones who think folks like me have no busy sharing with the world the shenanigans that I’ve been carrying on in bed.
§ § §
Come on now. You can be as green about my two books as you want to be—and some of you are showing color already—but don’t be jealous. Please don’t. Let me tell you why.
When I taught Creative Writing, I always told my students—even the really superior ones that I never had:
“Don’t give up your day job. Got it? Don’t give up your day job.”
And what do you think I did? What do you think I did? Come on: give it up. What do you think I did?
I went and gave up my day job. Well, it wasn’t much of one anyway, and the pay was pitifully low. But the royalty payments I’m getting from these two books are lower. Actually, the payments are pathetic. Plumb pathetic. They weren’t too bad the first month or two. $370. $276. $180. $85. Then those payments went from little to less to almost nothing. I got a check yesterday—yes, a check, a paper check; I didn’t know they even existed anymore—a whopping $1.85.
Yep. I should have listened to the advice that I gave: Don’t give up your day job!
§ § §
All right. I’m about to wrap things up. I realize that I’ll be ending far short of the three hours that Andy said I couldn’t have, but remember: you get what you pay for and …
I wish that I had time to talk about some of the really fun essays in my book In Bed. Truthfully, they’re all funny. They are! Want proof? Fine. I’ll give you some.
One reviewer said: “The essays are most philosophical, but what I’m drawn to most often is the humor.”
Here’s another: “Engaging, poignant, humorous, heart-felt. A must read.” Did you get that? “A must read.” (Thank you, Dr. Cheryl.)
Here’s another: “Universal appeal and connectivity. Souls gathered around a complex and intriguing thought or proposition. Whimsical observations turned into moments of community meaning.” (Thank you, Morgan.)
How’s this for a final review comment. There are lots more, of course, but I’m running out of time: But how’s this: “Reminds me of Dave Berry and his dry sarcasm and satire.” OMG. I think I died and went to Heaven.
§ § §
Sadly, I won’t get to amuse you with any of the things that I hadn’t planned to amuse you with. Like …
1. How I’m keeping my house clean…by having imaginary guests.
2. How I’m staying fit as a fiddle…the inefficient way
3. How I’m enjoying living with a writer … me.
I wish that I could talk about those and more, but I can’t. Andy was as cheap with my time as he was with my speaker’s fee.
Anyway, you’ll find all those topics and more In Bed. So, go buy your own dang copy! And when you do, I hope that you’ll read all 55 essays in bed, which is exactly where I wrote them, night after night.
§ § §
Andy, thank you so much for inviting me to speak.
Colleagues, thank you all so much for coming out.
It really is great to be home despite all of my banter. Laurel Ridge will always hold a special place in my heart. It opened its doors to me way back in 1999 in ye olden Lord Fairfax Community College days. When those doors opened, my childhood dream of becoming a college professor came true.
Whatever you’re doing since you did that R thing, I hope that you are having as much fun as I’m having with my own reinvention!
The Wired Researcher 