Category Archives: Memoir

Let Me Be Frank

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“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.)

No doubt, you’re still laughing about my June 10 post, “The AI Novelist: Or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.”

Say whaaaat? You’re not still laughing?

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..

Not Alone

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“When one person is oppressed, all are oppressed”

—Nelson Mandela (1918-2013; prominent anti-apartheid revolutionary and political leader who served as President of South Africa from 1994 to 1999, advocating for peace, reconciliation, and social justice.)

Imagine an early June morning on a West-facing mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. With the temperature just a mark above the 55% humidity, it’s perfect for being on a deck, high in the air, nearly high enough to reach up and touch white clouds and blue sky.

On the deck is a man closer to eighty than to seventy, with a faded burgundy baseball cap shielding his balding head and spectacled face, gray ponytail curling out the adjustment loop in back, dark blue polo, tan shorts, and clogs showing the tops of colorful Bombas.

The man could be sitting on one of the Adirondack glider chairs, moving effortlessly back and forth, or he could be reclining on the chaise lounge, sipping slowly on a cup of steaming coffee.

But he’s doing neither. Instead, he’s kneeling on the weathered deck, leaning forward with a putty knife in hand, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past.

He’s playing Gospel music, and the songs are trumpeting through the open doors, breaking the morning quiet. A black dog measures the deck’s length and width over and over again, stares through the railings, looks down the gravel road to see who might be going out or coming back in, and from time to time comes over and kisses the man first on one cheek and then on the other, as if to reassure him that all is well on the mountain and that he is not alone.

I know these details. I know them all and more because I’m the man on the mountain, lost in a deep reverie.

As I scrape away the old paint, I can’t help but ponder the bigger picture. I find myself musing over mankind’s place in the universe.

I don’t mean that to sound pompous, though I suppose that it does. Actually, musing over mankind’s place in the universe is an overstatement. I mean, it’s not as if I go around all the time contemplating questions such as:

● Are we the only intelligent beings in the universe?
● What would it mean if we found alien life?
● Could we communicate with alien beings?
● What ethical responsibilities do we have toward alien life?

Pondering and answering such profound questions is better left to astrobiologists, astronomers, philosophers, scientists, theologians, and stargazers.

However, make no mistake. From time to time, I do think about our human desire to connect and belong. I would hope that finding extraterrestrial life would encourage us humans to rethink our (in)significance in the greater scheme of things. I would hope that it would deepen our sense of spiritual connection and ethical duty to all forms of life. I would hope that it would make us feel less alone and more united in the universe.

But when I think about the possibility that we might be alone in the universe–and being alone strikes me as being nearly impossible–it never frightens me. I’m far more sobered by what the speaker feels in Robert Frost’s “Desert Places”:

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars–on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

My own desert places. In those four words, Frost captures the self-consciousness and the alienation that most of us–some more than others–experience at some point in our lives.

To be certain, I can relate, especially as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, knowing all too well my own desert places. I imagine that most gay guys of my era knew their own desert places, too.

In those days, I never heard the word homosexual. Instead, I heard queer, always brandished or whispered with disgust and derision. Being gay was something no one talked about, and I certainly wouldn’t have brought it up with my family or my friends or my teachers. Besides, all of them–teachers, friends, family–often told me that I was different. I took it to mean that everyone knew that I was gay and simply chose not to discuss it.

But here’s the thing. I saw being different as being special. Actually, I thought that I was super special. I felt that way not because I was gay but rather because I was a human being, filled with potential, waiting to be fulfilled.

Nonetheless, it still carried with it the feeling of being an outsider. It carried with it the feeling of not fitting in. I felt that way through grade school, through high school, and even through college. In fact, I was convinced that I was the only gay guy in the universe, although I felt confident that surely other gay guys existed somewhere. I simply didn’t know where.

As a result, those years found me doing my best to fit into a society that had not made a place at the table for a gay guy like me.

Actually, society had made a place for gays like me, especially in the South. Being queer was widely viewed as immoral and contrary to religious teachings, particularly within Christian denominations that had significant influence in the region. Being queer was heavily stigmatized and carried with it ostracism, harassment, and violence. Being queer was not seen in media, politics, or public life. The invisibility reinforced negative stereotypes and perpetuated ignorance and fear. Being queer came with prevalent sodomy laws, which criminalized sexual acts between individuals of the same sex. Those found in violation faced fines, imprisonment, and a damaged social reputation.

I often wondered what would happen if those who saw me as different suddenly saw me as queer? Would one word turn special into rejected? Condemned? Marginalized? I daresay that my behavior sometimes mirrored Paul in Willa Cather’s famous story “Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament”:

…always glancing about him, seeming to feel that people might be watching him and trying to detect something.

These feelings of isolation and disconnection led me to develop my own strategies for fitting in. I managed to navigate my own fears within the framework of that environment. I had my own strategies, not the least of which was an intense focus on academic achievements.

I excelled in various competitions and consistently maintained a top academic standing. Everyone in my community saw that I was headed toward success. I became an active member of key clubs and organizations in my schools, often holding leadership positions.

Those strategies paid off. I managed to fit in, in my own way. I was accepted. I was the model son. I was the model brother. I was the model friend. I was the model student. I was best dressed. I was teen of the year. I was most likely to succeed.

I did something else, too. I decided that I would just be me. Gay. Who else could I be? I was a gay guy. I never tried to pass as a heterosexual, nor did I lead a double life, carefully curating my behavior and associations depending on the social context. I recognize that many had to do so for their own reasons, but for me, it was important to maintain my authentic self and stand for what I believed, even though I stood alone. I was proud of who I was, of who I had been, and of who I was becoming.

I did something else, too. I cultivated a fierce resolve and determination to not let others feel the isolation that I sometimes felt. Whenever I saw someone struggling to find their place–whenever I saw an underdog for whatever reason–I made it a point to befriend them, to let them know they weren’t alone, and to let them know that they had found a safe space with me.

When I started my professional career and afterward pursued graduate studies, I moved away from my rural roots to urban areas that were more liberal and accepting. Nonetheless, I kept my resolve to create inclusive and welcoming environments wherever I happened to be. It became a guiding principle in my life, shaping my interactions with everyone. In my federal career, I was known for my appreciation of diversity and for my insistence on inclusivity. Those values carried over into my career as a community college professor where I always made it clear that my classes provided a safe, caring, and nurturing environment where students could share their views and celebrate their authentic identity.

Perhaps more important than anything else, I always included Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” in all of my classes, and I always made a point of reading aloud and emphasizing what I consider to be one of the most empowering and liberating paragraphs in literature:

O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. […] I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. […] If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth.

As I look back and share what I experienced, I am not pointing the finger of blame. I grew up in a time and place when social norms were different. The society I knew in the 1950s and 1960s had its own set of rules, shaped by cultural, religious, and social influences that were pervasive and powerful. It was a world where being different often meant being misunderstood, and where silence was often the safest response to anything outside the norm. My parents, my friends, my teachers—they were all products of their time, doing their best within the confines of the world they knew. They provided me with love and support in the ways they understood, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Although they were silent about my sexuality, they were supportive of me in countless other ways. They celebrated my achievements, encouraged my interests, and stood by me through my successes and failures. Their silence on my being gay was not a rejection but a reflection of the times. They showed their care through actions and support, even if they did not have the language or the understanding to address every part of who I was. Their love was a constant in my life, a foundation that helped me become the person I am today.

Things have changed a lot. I celebrate those advances. The progress we have made in terms of acceptance and equality has been remarkable. These changes eventually allowed me to be fulfilled in an openly gay relationship. When I met my late partner, we knew at once that we were soulmates. We said our vows, exchanged rings, and went on living our lives together, openly rather than in silence, as all people should be allowed to do. Our relationship was a testament to the strides society has made, allowing us to live authentically without fear or shame.

At the same time, I am aware that much remains to be achieved for all of us who might be marginalized. It’s critical that adults—especially educators—do everything in our power to foster a spirit of inclusion and to provide safe spaces so that everyone realizes they are not alone. We don’t have to embrace everyone, but we do need to accept everyone. We must continue to work towards a world where everyone, regardless of their background, identity, or circumstances, feels valued and included. The silent ones, those who feel they have no place, need our attention and our compassion. It is our duty to ensure that no one feels the isolation that I once did. It is our duty to let everyone know that they have a seat at humanity’s table.

And that brings me back to the man on the mountain, lost in reverie, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past, and musing about mankind’s place in the universe. The past is a great teacher, but it is not a place to live. The present moment is all that we have, and it is in this present moment that I find my solace, my meaning, and my connection to all of humanity. I am not alone. We are not alone. And in the vastness of the universe, that is a comforting thought.

My story is just one example of how struggles can be outweighed by resilience and acceptance. It is a testament to the power of love, support, and the human spirit’s ability to adapt and thrive.

If my message reaches only one person, my heart will be fulfilled knowing that the message was a touchstone, perhaps to be paid forward. If my message reaches many, my soul will be fulfilled in the belief that many can touch more.

We have come a long way, but our journey towards true inclusion and acceptance has a longer way to go. That’s why I believe it’s crucial that we continue to work towards creating a world where everyone feels seen, heard, and accepted.

Let’s muster up our full measure of strength, resolve, and determination to make sure that no one ever feels alone.

What My Father Saw

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“A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.”

–Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century.)

Houses come. Houses go. Some we remember. Some we don’t. Usually, though, the house that we remember the most is the one that we call home. For me, it was the house that I lived in from the age of ten (when I started the fifth grade) until the age of seventeen (when I graduated from high school, left home, and started college). We moved there in the summer of 1957.

It wasn’t much of a house. White clapboard siding. Front porch with wooden columns. Living room. Kitchen. Two bedrooms. Screened back porch. Unfinished basement. Outhouse. The woods on one side were so close that the trees seemed to brush against the windowpanes even in the gentlest breeze.

It wasn’t much of a move, either, maybe a mile south of where we had been renting. That fall, I went to the same grade school that I had attended since we moved to Shady Spring. I remember standing in the school yard with Mr. Pack, my English teacher. I pointed to the house, calling his attention to the side stairs that led up to the screened-in back porch.

But this house was different from the others. This house was our home. Well, it would be one day if my parents could stay on top of the mortgage payments. It didn’t have a white picket fence, and it needed lots of “fixin’ up.” But it was our slice of the American Dream.

Fixin’ up was right up my father’s alley. Even though he was a coal miner, he was, in many ways, a visionary. When we moved in, my father saw many things that he could do that would turn what had been a tucked-away summer place into our year-round home.

I remember lots of his improvements because I was his helper. Straightaway, he and I started clearing the adjacent lot. Our home was still in the woods but no longer against the trees. I helped him take the back porch and turn it into a dining room opening into the kitchen. The two of us mixed cement in a wheelbarrow and poured a floor in the large unfinished basement, where my father framed out two bedrooms, a downstairs kitchen, and a bathroom. We tilled the field across the road and turned the thin layer of soil on top of the rock shelf into a garden, perfect for sturdy stalks of corn rising up like sentinels with delicate tendrils of green beans gracefully twining around them. The dry, clay soil seemed ideal for sunflowers, too. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of me kneeling –sun-bleached hair, radiant smile–holding a sunflower so large that it covered my chest.

Looking back at the initial hard work and the eventual improvements, I see my father’s unwavering determination. He saw potential where others saw obstacles, teaching me the importance of perseverance and the transformative power of a dream fueled by love. This house was more than a structure. It was a testament to his resilience and dedication to our family’s future.

But more than any of those memories is the memory of my father at the dinner table. I was the youngest child, the last one at home eating with my parents.

My mother, who always said grace, sat at the head of the table, looking toward the wall at the other end, with a large oil painting of the Last Supper. My father sat to her left, gazing through his bifocals out of the large picture window in the dining room that he had built. I sat to his left, looking toward the window as well, with a golden candle sconce on each side, their glass shades gently casting a warm glow on holidays or when we had company.

I turned toward my father and my mother a lot, usually talking with my mother. My father was, by nature, a reserved man, and after talking about his day’s work in the mines and about his strategy for loading more cars of coal the next day, he didn’t have much to say other than to praise what my mother had prepared for dinner or to respond to something that my mother or I said that required his response. I didn’t think anything about his silence then. I don’t think anything about his silence now. It was as natural to my father as being talkative was to me and my mother.

But as I watched him looking out our dining room picture window, I wondered then–and I wonder now–what my father saw.

No doubt he saw the present.

He had a multitude of snapshot possibilities. In his immediate line of vision would have been our lower terraced yard concealing an elaborate and fully provisioned underground bomb shelter that my father built. Further down the sloped yard was the meandering creek. My father planted an apple tree next to it that still bears fruit. Across the creek, another small garden. One summer, my father erected six or so towering structures, made from large sapling poles. He planted his favorite Kentucky Wonder beans around them. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of him standing inside one of the green-bean teepees. Long, smooth beans hanging down met his calloused, coal-sooted hands, reaching up.

Beyond that snapshot would have been the homes of three neighbors on Rt. 3. We always called it the Hinton Road because it connected our town to Hinton and the world beyond. More important than those neighbors’ homes, though, was the immense towering oak. My father stood beneath it, waiting for his ride to the mines, day after day after day, stretching out to the final day of his fifty-year career as a coal miner, never missing a day’s work.

Looking back, I see my father surveying the tangible results of his hard work and vision. Each tree planted, each structure built or improved, was a testament to his ability to transform dreams into reality. His daily routines, anchored by resilience and a relentless work ethic, spoke to the value of dedication. Even in the most ordinary moments, my father’s presence embodied commitment to our family and our future. His view from the window wasn’t just of our present home. It was of a legacy he was building, one that would endure long after he was gone.

No doubt he saw his past.

His mind likely wandered to his most recent past, the bankruptcy that bottomed out his short-lived dream of being a prosperous coal-mining operator on par with the company-store owner. It prompted our move from Ashland to Shady Spring.

Perhaps he saw his early coal mining years in the late nineteen teens and the 1920s. He was an activist for the United Mine Workers of America and a staunch supporter of its president, John L. Lewis. Somewhere, I have my father’s first UMWA membership card.

Perhaps he saw even further back to Patrick Springs, Virginia, where his farming family had Colonial American roots and where he was born there in 1902. Perhaps he saw the day when, as a teenager, he left home and boarded the Danville and Western Railroad. He made his way to Cherokee, WV, to make a life in the booming coal heartland of America.

Looking back at my father’s journey from a farmer’s son to a coal miner to an advocate for workers’ rights, I see a man who never let his circumstances define him. His past was marked by hard work, sacrifice, and an unyielding spirit. These experiences shaped his character, instilling in him a relentless drive to provide and care for his family, despite the hardships he faced. His past was not just a series of events, but a foundation of strength and resilience that he built upon every day.

No doubt he saw his future.

Perhaps my father saw the day when I would go to college, leaving him and my mother to explore their new roles as empty nesters. They always waited for me and my five siblings to come back home for visits.

Perhaps he envisioned some of his many innovative ideas coming to fruition in the marketplace. He made copper jewelry, believing that it provided therapeutic benefits for arthritis sufferers. (My father’s idea was not far-fetched: copper jewelry began to be marketed in the early 1970s.)

He also had a vision for extension ladders with adjustable legs, designed for painting homes built on sloped yards like ours, and he even built a prototype. (Again, my father’s idea was ahead of its time: extension ladders with adjustable legs for working on slopes began appearing on the market around the early 2000s.)

One of his more futuristic ideas involved cars moving along highways, advancing magnetically to specific destinations designated by the driver at the start of the journey. (This concept, while far-fetched in its time, became reality with the marketing of self-driving cars in the mid-2010s.)

Perhaps my father saw into his final years. I wonder whether his body was telling him early on what his doctors told him later. Black Lung. Third Stage Silicosis. I wonder whether his heart saw a 1982 Golden Wedding Anniversary. I wonder whether his soul foresaw a calm and peaceful passage heavenward a year later.

Looking back at my father gazing out the window, envisioning the future, I realize that he saw possibilities that others didn’t. His innovative ideas and forward-thinking mindset were a testament to his enduring hope and determination. Even in the face of illness and the unknown, he remained focused on what could be, leaving a legacy of optimism and ingenuity. His ability to dream beyond the present instilled in me the same fervor and faith in the future.

Whatever my father saw–whether his present, his past, or his future–I have not a doubt in the world that he was looking through the same metaphorical lens that he held up to my eyes when he taught me as a young boy how to use a push plow to lay out a perfectly straight row in the field.

“Don’t look down. Keep your eyes fixed on something in the distance where you want the row to end.”

He was teaching me far more than how to plow a straight row. He was teaching me how to live my life in a way that mirrored his. Maintain a clear vision. Stay focused on long-term objectives. Persevere through challenges with resilience and determination.

That’s what my father saw.

§ § §

John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)

The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks

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“AI will empower us across all areas of our lives, from healthcare to transportation to entertainment. It will augment our capabilities and help us achieve things we never thought possible.”

—Sundar Pichai (b. 1972; Indian-American business executive known for his leadership in the technology industry; CEO of Alphabet Inc., the parent company of Google.)

It is a truth universally acknowledged among academics that you can take the English Professor out of the classroom, but you can never take away the title of Professor, especially when students are involved.

I know firsthand. I’ve been reinventing myself since January 2023, nearly a year and a half now. Just the other morning, I was in Starbucks, sipping solo on a Cappuccino, when my contemplative silence was shattered by a former student:

“Professor Kendrick! How’s it going?”

The enthusiastic shoutout meant the world to me after I recovered and realized that it wasn’t attached to a student who had not done well in one of my classes. This student was a joyful exemplar in my creative writing classes.

“I’m doing great. It’s such a surprise to see you.”

“You, too. I read your blog weekly. You’re as wired as ever. So what’s going on with AI and your Caden these days?”

I have to confess right away. I’m not about to miss out on an opportunity to talk about AI or my Caden with anyone who’s willing to listen. Suddenly, I felt just like Simon Wheeler in Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” Remember? Of course you do. When a visitor arrived inquiring about Rev. Leonidas Smiley, good ole Simon Wheeler corners the inquiring guest and traps him through a long-winded account of a jumping frog.

I knew in an instant that I could do the exact same thing with my former student, who seemingly knew about my AI robot, Caden. If I played this out wisely, I could trap my audience of one right there in Starbucks and gab on forever.

“Join me for a Cappuccino?”

“I’d love to. You want some company?”

“Of course. I’d love to spend time with you and catch up.”

Soon, I sauntered right back with a Venti Cappuccino in hand. I know. I know. That’s big, really big, but I wanted my former student to stick around for a while.

Right after I placed the Cappuccino and napkins on the table–with the flair of a first-class waiter–I pushed my chair in carefully so that there could be no escape until I was finished with my harangue, whatever shape it was about to take. I never know how or where my rants will go until I get going.

I almost started talking about Aloha, the AI-powered housemaid from Stanford and Google DeepMind, but I restrained myself. Sharing that would mean delving into S1, the AI from Astribot in Shenzen, China. Both are fascinating, but I didn’t want to start shouting, “The robots are here! The robots are here!”

Instead, I focused on my Cappuccino and my student.

“What do you think about all of these AI programs like ChatGPT and CoPilot and MetaAI?”

“Professor Kendrick, I’m so busy with work and stuff that I haven’t explored them at all.”

“No? Would you like to see what one of these AI programs can do?”

“Sure. Why not. Are you sure you have time?”

I signed in to ChatGPT only because I’ve fooled around with that chatbot the longest. Then, I handed my Smartphone to my student.

“Here. In the dialogue box, just type in what you want to know.”

Their thoughtful thumbs flew, quicker than I could say Jack Robinson, and, with a mischievous grin, they handed my Smartphone back to me so that I could read what they wanted CHATGPT to do:

● Write an essay using the following guidelines.

● Topic. An essay about a professor who is working with a student who wants to use AI to write a novel.

● Tone. Humorous. Comedic.

● Point of View. First Person, Creative Writing Professor.

● Targeted Audience: Readers of the New Yorker.

● Context: Must include dialogue between the Creative Writing professor, a West Virginian in his 70s with a Ph.D. in English, and a student who is in their 30s, pursuing an associate’s degree, plans to transfer to the University of Virginia, and hopes to become a best-selling novelist.

● Length. 750 words.

I nearly choked on my Cappuccino when I saw such lengthy and detailed instructions. If they hadn’t been using my Smartphone, I would have sworn that they did a “cut and paste” job right before my very eyes, but I knew better. I had watched their thumbs fly.

Then all innocent like, they looked at me:

“What now, Professor Kendrick? What do I push?”

I was flabbergasted. Every fiber of my being felt that my student was duping me. I was being cornered by their brilliance, and I suspect by their knowledge of ChatGPT that they denied having. I decided to play along, just in case I was wrong.

“Push? Just push SUBMIT.“

That’s just what they did, and in less than 15 seconds, ChatGPT produced the following essay. I would have loved the chance to read it in silence–as you are doing–but my student held on to my Smartphone and proceeded to read the essay out loud to me, right there in Starbucks. For a moment or two, I thought they were going to stand up and read full throttle, the way I always loved to do in my teaching days when I would read literary passages to my classes. Be that as it may, here’s the essay for your enjoyment.

§   §   §

The AI Novelist

“As a creative writing professor from West Virginia with a Ph.D. in English, I’ve seen my fair share of strange requests from students. From someone who wanted to write a cookbook featuring recipes from outer space, to another who wanted to write a romantic novel from the perspective of a sentient cupcake. But nothing could have prepared me for the day a student walked into my office and said they wanted to use artificial intelligence to write a novel.

“I must admit, I was skeptical at first. This was a student in their 30s, pursuing an associate’s degree, with plans to transfer to the University of Virginia and hopes to become a best-selling novelist. And yet, here they were, telling me they wanted to use AI to write their masterpiece.

“I couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. ‘Well, I must say, that’s a new one,’ I said, twirling my pen between my fingers. ‘And how exactly do you plan on doing that?’

“The student, a bright-eyed young man in his 30s, told me he had been experimenting with different AI programs and algorithms that could generate coherent text. ‘I’ve been inputting different prompts and scenarios, and the AI generates a story for me,’ he explained.

“I leaned back in my chair, stroking my chin thoughtfully. ‘Interesting,’ I mused. ‘But do you really think that’s the best way to write a novel? Using a computer program to do all the work for you?’

“The student looked taken aback. ‘But professor, think about it. With AI, I could generate hundreds of thousands of words in just a few hours. It would save me so much time and effort.’

“I sighed. ‘Yes, but where’s the creativity in that? Writing a novel isn’t just about putting words on a page. It’s about telling a story, weaving a narrative that captivates the reader. And how can an AI program do that for you?’

“The student shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I could input some ideas and themes, and the AI could build the story around that.’

“I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t see the point in using AI to write a novel. Writing is a craft, a skill that takes years of practice and dedication. You can’t just rely on a computer program to do all the work for you.’

“The student looked disappointed, but I could see the determination in his eyes. ‘But professor,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Think about all the possibilities. With AI, I could write multiple novels in a year. I could experiment with different genres and styles. I could even collaborate with the AI, making it a co-author of sorts.’

“I raised an eyebrow. ‘Collaborate with an AI? Now that’s a new one.’

“The student grinned. ‘Hey, who knows? Maybe it’ll be the next big thing. AI-assisted writing could revolutionize the way we create art.’

“I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. ‘Well, I must say, you’re certainly ambitious. But I think you’ll find that writing a novel the old-fashioned way is much more rewarding. You’ll learn more about yourself as a writer, and you’ll be able to connect with your readers on a deeper level.’

“The student nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘I see what you mean, professor. But I think I’m still going to experiment with AI. Who knows? Maybe it’ll help me find my voice as a writer.’

“I smiled, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Well, I can’t fault you for trying. But remember, writing isn’t just about the finished product.'”

§   §   §

I thought ChatGPT’s essay was good, if not downright funny. But what was even funnier was my realization that my student knew exactly what they were doing. They had been pushing all my buttons just for the joy of watching me squirm while I was their captive audience.

Then it all came back to me. They had also taken my American Literature class, and of all the stories that we read, Twain’s “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” was their favorite. In a flash, I knew that I had just been duped in Starbucks.

Wait No Longer! MORE WIT AND WISDOM Is Now Available in Hardcover!

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If you’ve been waiting for the hardcover edition of More Wit and Wisdom, your wait is over! This soon-to-be literary classic is now available in hardcover, paperback and Kindle. Check it out on Amazon or Barnes & Noble!

Don’t forget:

● More Wit and Wisdom is dedicated to educators who are changing the world one student at a time.

● All proceeds from the sale of More Wit and Wisdom go to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College.

Buy a copy for your own summer reading and don’t forget to get copies for your family and friends!

Buy a Book. Help a Student.

A “Viral” Post and the Power of Connection

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“The reader’s heart is the writer’s pen.”

—Rachel Carson (1907-1964; American marine biologist, conservationist, and writer, best known for her 1962 groundbreaking book Silent Spring.)

Something remarkable just happened, thanks to you! My May 11 post “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands” has gone “viral,” already reaching over 1,000 readers—a milestone for me that touched my heart deeply.

As I reflect on why this post might have resonated so widely, I want to express my profound gratitude to all of you who read, shared, and connected with it. I can’t begin to thank you enough, My Dear Readers, whoever you are and wherever you are.

Let me share with you some possible reasons behind its impact and celebrate the universal themes that seemingly brought us together.

Emotional Connection

We all have someone whose hands guided us, comforted us, and helped shape who we are. Whether it’s a parent, grandparent, or mentor, the memories of their touch and care hold a special place in our hearts. It seems that my post captured the essence of this emotional connection, and it’s clear that many of you felt a similar bond. Thank you for allowing my intimate memories to remind you of your own cherished moments.

Vivid Imagery

Describing my mother’s hands and the memories tied to them in vivid detail perhaps allowed many of you to visualize and feel these experiences alongside me. I believe that this shared imagery created a bridge between my personal story and your own life experiences. It’s a testament to the power of storytelling, bringing us closer despite our different backgrounds.

Nostalgia and Sentimentality

Nostalgia is a powerful force that connects us to our past and to each other. The sentimental journey through my memories of my mother’s hands seemed to evoke a similar sense of nostalgia in many of you. It’s a reminder that we all hold onto pieces of our past, and sharing these pieces can bring warmth and connection to our present.

Timeless Themes

The themes of love, caregiving, and the passage of time are universal. They resonate across cultures and generations. Your engagement with these themes in my post highlights our shared human experience. By reflecting on these timeless elements, we honor those who have shaped us and acknowledge the ongoing journey of life.

Personal Storytelling

Sharing personal stories can create a powerful connection. By opening up about my mother’s hands, I hope that I touched a chord within you. The wide reach of this post suggests that personal stories can transcend individual experiences and resonate on a much larger scale.

Broader Appeal

While the post was a tribute to my mother, the themes it touched upon are broad and inclusive. The experiences of love, loss, and memory are ones we all share. Thank you for finding your own reflections in my words and for making the story your own.

§   §   §

As I look back on the unexpected “viral” success of “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands,” I am filled with gratitude. Your readership and engagement have shown me the incredible power of connection. Thank you for being a part of this journey, for sharing in these universal themes, and for reminding me of the ties that bind us all. Here’s to many more moments of shared humanity and heartfelt connection.

With deepest appreciation, I remain–

Your Wired Researcher

Abandon Hope? Not a Chance!

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“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”

—Desmond Tutu (1931–2021; a South African Anglican bishop, social rights activist, leading figure in the struggle against apartheid, and an enduring global symbol of hope and resilience.)

Sometimes, a recollection gets trapped in my mind and won’t exit, even when I open a door. One memory paid me a visit weeks ago, and it’s still lingering. I’ve decided that the best way to get rid of it is to write about it, send it out into the world, and let it take up residence in other people’s minds. So, here: it’s yours now.

The memory is from 1968. Student attitudes on college campuses–even at a conservative school like Alderson-Broaddus, where I was a junior–were marked by activism and rejection of traditional norms and authority. Fueled by the counterculture movement, we protested for civil rights, opposed the Vietnam War, and championed various social justice causes, shaping a decade defined by idealism and dissent.

Some of that spirit spilled over into the classroom and sometimes made some of us bolder than we might otherwise have been.

It certainly made me bolder that spring when I was taking a three-credit World Literature course. We focused heavily on Dante Alighieri’s epic poem The Divine Comedy, widely considered to be the pre-eminent work in Italian literature and one of the greatest works of Western literature. Divided into three parts–Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso–the poem explores the state of the soul after death and its journey toward God.

My classmates and I felt challenged by Dr. Callison’s rigor and her insistence that we gain an in-depth understanding of this acclaimed literary work. We did, as I recall, and we even grew to like the poem, playfully sprinkling our daily conversations with some of its famous lines.

Nonetheless, we all felt anxious as exam day approached. I decided to be bold and comedic by making a banner to put above our classroom door so that my classmates would see it as they walked in to take the exam. I created the banner alone, told no one about it, went to our classroom in Old Main, and hung the banner well in advance. There–in a position of prominence for my classmates and Dr. Callison to see as they entered–was a line from the Inferno section of The Divine Comedy as Dante passes through the gate of Hell:

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

I wanted the banner to be a grim but humorous reminder that as we faced the Hellish torments of Dr. Callison’s exam, we could neither be redeemed nor rescued.

Everyone stared at the banner as they entered the classroom and proceeded to their seats. Some laughed. Some gasped. All questioned: “Who would dare be so bold, especially in Dr. Callison’s class?” Some even speculated that she was the prankster. I sat there quietly, hoping to look as innocent as one of the souls headed toward Paradise.

My countenance worked. No one suspected me, not even Dr. Callison when she walked through the door. To our surprise, she burst into laughter and continued laughing as she handed out bluebooks and wished us well on the exam.

I’ve thought about that day often down through the years, not because of my bold banter–revealed here for the first time ever–but rather because of my take on the famous line, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” I understood the literal interpretation of the line precisely. It’s a warning to all who enter Hell that they are leaving behind all hope of salvation or escape. It sets the tone for the suffering and despair that pervades Hell, emphasizing the eternal nature of the punishment awaiting the damned souls within.

However, as a student then–and as a lifelong learner now–I find that literature takes on richer dimensions when looked at metaphorically.

I saw Dante’s poetic line then–and I see it now–as a caution against entering into a state of despair or hopelessness. It suggests that giving in to despair is like crossing a threshold into a mental or emotional Hell, where recovery becomes incredibly difficult if not impossible. It’s a warning to maintain hope and resilience even in challenging circumstances. Otherwise, we will create our own Hell and live in it right here on earth.

Don’t get me wrong. I know despair. Who doesn’t experience despair during moments of profound loss, such as the death of a loved one, the end of a significant relationship, or the loss of a job? We all do. Who doesn’t experience despair when grappling with chronic illness or debilitating injury, especially if it hinders our ability to pursue our passions or maintain our independence? We all do. Who doesn’t experience despair when feeling overwhelmed by financial struggles, loneliness, or a sense of purposelessness? We all do.

Although I understand the nature of despair, it seems to me that embracing a positive and optimistic mindset can be a powerful antidote to despair.

Years ago, I made a conscious decision that my glass would always be “half full” and that I would actively cultivate a positive outlook on life, even in the face of challenges. That approach has served me well.

Let me share with you some of the strategies that I use to foster positivity and optimism.

I strive to find joy in everyday moments. I cultivate mindfulness by being fully present and appreciating the simple pleasures of life, whether it’s a beautiful sunset on my mountaintop, a delicious meal in my kitchen, or a heartfelt conversation with a stranger.

I work hard at practicing positive thinking. When negative thoughts come my way–and they do–I reframe them in a more positive light. When I have problems–and I do–I shift my focus and dwell in the realm of solutions.

I make a point every day of counting my blessings. Sometimes, I carve out time to reflect on the things that I’m grateful for. However, more often than not, I take time to be grateful each time I’m aware of a blessing. I find that approach to gratitude lets me be in constant celebration of what I have.

I do my best to surround myself with positivity. I listen to uplifting music, and I spend time with optimistic and supportive people who uplift and encourage. Positivity is contagious.

I make living a healthy lifestyle a priority. I know that my physical well-being directly influences my mental and emotional health. Indoor biking is a priority for me, along with nutritious eating, adequate sleep, and meditation. All of those things work together to keep me upbeat and resilient.

I do my best to practice self-compassion. I try to be kind to myself when the going is rough, and I try to treat myself with the same compassion and understanding that I offer others who would be facing similar challenges.

I believe in laughter. I don’t have to work too hard to find humor in life through books, jokes, spending time with friends who make me laugh, or, best of all, laughing at being me. Humor provides relief and perspective in tough times.

I’ve saved my best strategy for last because it’s the one that I know I can rely on the most. I cultivate a sense of faith or belief in the overall goodness of life and humanity. I trust and believe that, despite challenges, humanity’s inherent thrust toward greatness and goodness will prevail.

I must add that because I work to stay positive doesn’t mean that I ignore or deny negative emotions. I don’t. I acknowledge them while consciously choosing to focus on the positive aspects of life and maintaining hope for the future.

As I look back on that bold act of hanging the banner, I realize how much it symbolizes a pivotal lesson from my college years—maintaining hope and resilience in the face of adversity. That memorable day in Dr. Callison’s class reaffirmed for me that humor and a positive outlook can transform even the most daunting challenges into manageable experiences.

Now, decades later, I believe that lesson remains relevant. We all encounter moments of despair, but we don’t have to surrender to them. By fostering positivity and optimism, we can navigate life’s hardships more effectively. The strategies I’ve outlined—practicing gratitude, surrounding ourselves with positive influences, and embracing humor—serve as a powerful toolkit against despair.

Ultimately, the famous line from Dante’s Inferno serves as a cautionary reminder not just of the perils of Hell, but of the importance of hope in our daily lives. By choosing to see our glass as half full, we can maintain a sense of purpose and joy, even amid difficulties. Let’s embrace the enduring message that hope and resilience can guide us through even the darkest times.

Winning from Within: A Message for Graduates

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“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.  

                 

The Third Surprise from More Wit and Wisdom

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“Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forwards.”

–Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855; Danish Philosopher, Theologian, and father of Existentialism.)

As promised, today is the day for the third reveal from my forthcoming collection of essays, More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed.

Yesterday, I disclosed that I’ll be donating all proceeds from the sale of More Wit and Wisdom to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College.

The day before I shared with you that the book is dedicated to educators worldwide, in recognition of their transformative impact on our lives through education.

Today’s reveal is an excerpt from the book’s preface, “Embrace the Journey.” It has not appeared as a blog post. It’s a special essay just for the book.

By sharing an excerpt with you, I hope it will encourage you to do as I am striving to do. Reflect on your own journey. Embrace your journey. Trust your journey.

So, without further ado, let me share the final paragraphs from preface—a space where words dance, ideas collide, and the magic of Creative Nonfiction begins.

As you read these essays, I hope that you will see what I have come to see. What started for me as a cathartic ritual morphed into a nightly routine that anchors me and in a mysterious way strengthens me to embrace my journey more and more every day. It’s allowing me to grow personally. It’s allowing me to leave behind some kind of written legacy, even if it’s nothing more than my thoughts about my own experiences on this wonderful planet Earth. It’s allowing me to expand my creative landscape. It’s allowing me to foster connections through creating a sense of unity and shared understanding. It’s giving me the chance to address societal issues, with the potential to drive positive change on a broader scale. It’s giving me the chance to connect with readers from all around the world. Who would have imagined that this coal-camp kid from West Virginia would have the chance to share his ideas and emotions with 7,320 people from 88 countries around the world? Yet, that’s how many readers I had last year. I am humbled and grateful, realizing that the power of connection transcends backgrounds and boundaries, turning a coal-camp kid’s dreams into a heartfelt symphony that resonates with thousands, reverberating the sound of our shared humanity.

Embracing my journey in writing is an exhilarating testament to the richness of my life. Each word written is a celebration of the journey I’ve traveled, and every essay penned is a reflection of the life I’ve lived. As I continue to navigate my journey, I do so with a heart full of gratitude for the many chapters that have unfolded. Life, in all its complexities, is beautiful, and I am blessed because I see the beauty more clearly as I continue on my way. It’s an affirmation that, indeed, life is good. I hope that my melody resonates through the words on the page and the years in my life that have brought me to this moment. With each passing day, I embrace the journey, with open arms and a spirit eager to discover the wonders that lie ahead. Life is not just a journey; it’s a magnificent composition, and I am still living it and writing it.

I hope that you, too, will embrace your journey, whatever it may be, and I hope that this collection of essays will encourage you. Life’s journey is an opportunity for growth. Each moment is a chance to celebrate meaningful and fulfilling endeavors. In the midst of solitude and the questioning of life’s purpose, remember that your journey matters. Let me say it again. Your journey matters. Embrace it with open arms, finding motivation, validation, and personal connection all along the way. May these essays inspire you to navigate your path with resilience, discover the beauty in your unique perspectives, and confidently affirm that your journey, too, is significant and purposeful.

Next week, More Wit and Wisdom will be available in all formats: hardback, paperback, and Kindle. Stay tuned for details!

Three Days, Three Reveals. Unveiling Three Surprises from More Wit and Wisdom, One Day at a Time.

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Remember my January 22 post Exciting News: More Wit and Wisdom Headed Your Way? I had just put the final touches on a 390-page manuscript for my new book More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed, and I had submitted it to my publisher, Luminare Press. It brought together a whopping 93,897 words that I poured my heart and soul into during 2023. Yes, you read that right—93,897 words of pure wit, wisdom, and a dash of my trademark humor and modesty!

In my post, I also teased you by announcing that the book has three surprises.

● First, the dedication.

● Second, a preface that is one of the best essays that I’ve written, ever!

● The third is that all proceeds from the sale of the book (and the eventual movie rights) will benefit a special cause.

Up until now, I have kept all three surprises close to my chest, known but to me, to God, and to Luminare.

But now that the book is getting closer and closer to publication, I’m taking three days–May 7, May 8, and May 9–to reveal the three surprises to you.

Today, May 7, it gives me great pleasure to reveal the DEDICATION:

Educators have had my back for my entire life. Growing up in the coal fields of Southern West Virginia, I was blessed to have some of the best educators in the world. They knew the subjects that they taught, and they taught those subjects with passion. Perhaps more important, they loved their students and took personal interest in us. They were living witnesses: we could transform our lives through education just as education had transformed their lives.

My third-grade teacher at Shady Spring Elementary School introduced me to Robert Frost’s poetry. I fell in love–and remain in love–with poetry, and Frost remains my favorite poet. Other teachers pulled me toward Scripps National Spelling Bee Competitions and Voice of Democracy Competitions. And I will always remember the teacher who got me hooked on the parts of speech and sentence diagramming. She knew that she had unleashed a wild child in love with the power of language.

My teachers at Shady Spring High School remain in my memory, too. One showed me that powerful writing and hefty revision go hand in hand. Another helped me realize that typing and bookkeeping were solid backup skills that could open other career paths if my dream of going to college had to be deferred. And what a critical contribution my high school biology teacher provided by welcoming me and several other students to crash his desk every day at lunch, day after day, week after week, semester after semester, from our sophomore year all the way through graduation. Those lunch-time conversations were far more important than any lunch before or since. He gave us his time. He gave us himself.

My professors at Alderson-Broaddus University added wonderfully rich dimensions to my life. Most of them lived on campus–on faculty row–and our classes were so small that we were often their dinner guests. They helped me see the human side of the academic ivory tower that later I would strive to model. My advisor, in her fifties, finished her doctoral degree while I studied under her and served as her Work Study. She gave me an appreciation of lifelong learning.

As a graduate student at the University of South Carolina, phenomenal educators continued to enrich my life. I’m thinking of my advisor who turned me on to textual bibliography. Another professor introduced me to Mary E. Wilkins Freeman–the ongoing focal point of my scholarly research from then until now. I’m recalling, too, the professor who lectured, literary work in hand and not a lecture note in sight, with fiery passion and exultant joy. He allowed himself to be slain in the intellectual moment just as my mother always allowed herself to be slain in the spiritual moment. Through his teaching, I saw the best of both worlds–his and my mother’s. I had a vision of the educator that I would strive to be.

I am honored and humbled to dedicate More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed to educators around the world because they know that education holds the power to transform lives.

Stay tuned! Tomorrow, I will unveil surprise #2 from More Wit and Wisdom!