Tag Archives: Education

I Am Afraid

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We can be fearless in proclaiming that we are afraid—afraid of what is happening, afraid of what might come, afraid of becoming numb to it all.

It could be any morning up here on the mountain. Any season. The light spills over the valley like it’s been rehearsing for centuries, finding its way to the deck that I sanded and painted myself. Ruby’s already made her first round of the yard, nose to the wind, tail announcing that all is well in our little dominion—hers and mine and Gary’s.

From the outside, it might look like the middle of nowhere. But to us, it’s home. It’s our mountaintop oasis. It speaks peace. It speaks love. It knows both.

And yet—I am afraid.

I’m not afraid of dying.

I’m not afraid of the questions at my annual doctor’s visit—how’s the sleep, how’s the balance, any falls lately? I know the drill, know the tone. It’s the small talk we make with time itself.

I am afraid of more than that. Much more.

I am afraid of living.

I am afraid when I watch our nation take one step, then another, back and back and back toward what too many call the “Good Ole Days.” Days that weren’t always that good in reality—at least not for everyone. I’ve seen real progress during my seventy-seven years, hard-won and deeply felt. But now I know what it feels like to watch it slip away.

I am afraid when I see the National Guard deployed to American cities—unbidden, uninvited—storming in under the cloak of “security,” while local leaders protest and courts rule against the deployment as unconstitutional.

I am afraid when I see streams of homeless men, women, and children forcibly cleared from our Nation’s capital—not relocated, but shamed off the sidewalks, invisible again to the people who run the city.

I am afraid when masked men wearing ICE uniforms sweep through neighborhoods in unmarked vans—when people are grabbed at early hours, dragged from their routines, as children watch from windows.

I am afraid when I see our public health agencies bend—when the CDC overturns or ignores scientific consensus, issuing guidelines that feel political more than medical, eroding trust in what should be shields, not targets.

I am afraid when I see older Americans treated as burdens instead of blessings—when Social Security and food programs are cut under the banner of “efficiency,” when Medicare oversight is weakened and the sickest lose coverage, when senior housing programs vanish from federal budgets as if aging were a mistake. When growing old becomes a liability instead of an honor, a nation has lost its sense of inheritance.

I am afraid when I see poor and working families once again blamed for their poverty—when SNAP and WIC are gutted, when rent assistance dries up, when wages shrink while profits soar. Poverty is being rebranded as personal failure again, as though the system itself weren’t tilting the table.

I am afraid when I see classrooms and libraries turned into battlegrounds—when teachers are monitored, words are banned, and curiosity is treated as defiance. When education becomes indoctrination, the light that should guide us turns inward and burns.

I am afraid when I see our museums stripped of independence—when curators are told which histories to showcase and which to hide, when funding depends on keeping donors and politicians comfortable instead of keeping the record honest. When museums are told what stories to tell, history itself becomes propaganda.

I am afraid when I see the earth itself crying out—when wildfires, floods, and droughts speak the truth our leaders refuse to hear. When those in power in Washington call climate change a hoax, mock science, and dismantle what fragile protections remain—treating the planet not as inheritance but as inventory. The soil, the rivers, the air—they are not ours to own. They are the breath of every living thing that will come after us.

I am afraid when I see our history books rewritten—when the ugliness of our past is softened or omitted altogether, as if truth were a stain to be scrubbed away. I am afraid when textbooks trade context for comfort, when children are taught pride without responsibility. That’s not education. That’s amnesia dressed as virtue.

I am afraid when I see books banned from shelves—works of art, witness, and imagination stripped from students’ hands because someone decided fear should be the curriculum. A nation that fears its own words is a nation already forgetting how to think.

I am afraid when I see faith itself being rewritten—when those who hold the Bible high forget the heart of its message: love thy neighbor as thyself. When “the least of these” are ignored or condemned, when compassion is replaced with control, when the name of Christ is used not to comfort but to conquer.

I am afraid when I see the Department of Defense renamed the War Department—as if we’ve abandoned even the language of restraint, as if the goal were not defense but dominance. Words matter. Change the name, and you change the story. Change the story, and you change what we become.

I’ve lived long enough to see this nation inch closer to its promise, step by hard-won step. I watched the Civil Rights Movement force open doors that had been locked for centuries. I watched women claim the rights and respect they were long denied. I watched same-sex marriage move from silence to law, from whispers to weddings. I watched a Black man take the oath of office as President of the United States and felt, for the first time in my life, that maybe—just maybe—we were learning what equality really means.

And yet, I’m watching so much of that progress being undone in plain sight—rolled back by men who smile as they sign the papers. That’s what eats at me. We came so far. We proved we could change. And now I fear we’re proving how quickly we can forget.

I have one more fear—one that hits closer to home for me than any of the others, and yet it reaches out and encompasses them all.

I am afraid when I see LGBTQ freedoms stripped away in bill after state bill—protections withdrawn, rights revoked, marriages questioned, school policies reversed—while the rhetoric whispers “return to order,” but the victims are many.

It hits me hard, like a gut punch, because I know what it feels like to live quietly on the margins of acceptance. I had a place at the table—as long as I behaved. As long as I laughed at the right jokes. As long as I didn’t speak the truth of who I was. I was welcome, yes—but only in disguise. That was the unspoken bargain: conformity in exchange for belonging. A seat, but not a voice. Presence without personhood.

It took me years to understand that silence isn’t peace—it’s erasure wrapped in politeness. And acceptance that depends on pretending is not acceptance at all. So when I see hard-won freedoms for LGBTQ people being stripped away, I don’t see politics. I see people—people like me—being pushed back into the shadows we worked so long to escape.

I am afraid, too, of the silence that wears love’s disguise. Of families who say they accept us—so long as it’s private. Who love their gay brother or their trans child quietly, behind closed doors, but never speak that love out loud. Because public love takes courage, and private love costs nothing.

I am afraid that if the reckoning comes—and it may—some of us will look around and find that the people who said they loved us privately will deny us publicly.

And I am afraid that the ground is shifting for all of us—that what’s being erased is not just rights, but recognition of value.

I am afraid that we are being bombarded deliberately with so much chaos and confusion that we are forgetting what lies at the core of who we are—as Americans, yes, but more deeply, as human beings: the value of the individual.

The gay and the straight.
The trans and the cis.
The believer and the atheist.
The refugee and the citizen.
The imprisoned and the free.
The Black and the white.
The immigrant and the native-born.
The woman and the man.
The poor and the privileged.
The child and the elder.
The body that moves easily, and the one that cannot.
The mind that remembers, and the mind that forgets.
The one who speaks, and the one who has no voice.
The one who is seen, and the one who is invisible.

Each carries the same sacred value.
Each bears the image of us all.
Leave one behind, and the whole is diminished.
Forget one, and the soul of the people forgets itself.

I am afraid that this forgetting has already begun. It’s not just in Washington, though Washington leads the charge. It seeps into pulpits, classrooms, living rooms—into the quiet corners of our own decency. It’s in the news we scroll past, the cruelty we explain away, the silence we call “staying out of it.”

I am afraid because I see what happens when the faceless stay faceless—when the homeless become numbers, when the refugee becomes a threat, when the trans child becomes a talking point. I am afraid because I know what happens when we stop seeing each other as sacred.

And I am afraid because I’m not sure what I can do.

But I know I have to do something. We all do.

We can vote. We can write. We can reach out to those in power and to those who believe they hold it. But maybe more than any of those things, we can be fearless in proclaiming that we are afraid—afraid of what is happening, afraid of what might come, afraid of becoming numb to it all.

We can name it.
We can put a face to it.
We can be the moral engine of one—
each of us reaching further than comfort,
further than tribe or label—
to hold on to what makes us human,
to reclaim it before it slips away.

One human being girding up another.
One hand extended.
One voice saying, I see you.
That’s where resistance begins.

We can show, by the way we live, that each person matters—every single one. The forgotten, the dismissed, the weary, the silenced. Because the measure of a democracy—like the measure of a soul—is not how it treats the powerful, but how it protects the powerless.

So yes, I am afraid.
But fear, spoken aloud, can become light.
And light, once shared, can become strength.

Maybe that’s where our healing begins:
in the courage to care out loud,
to stand with the one beside us and say,
You are not forgotten.

Because the next person erased could be someone we love.
Or it could be us. You. Me.
But if we stand together—if we keep standing—
it will not be all of us.

⸻ ✦ ⸻ ⸻ ✦ ⸻ ⸻ ✦ ⸻

If this essay speaks to your heart, please like it. Please share it.
Let it travel further than fear—and bring us closer to hope.

I Hear Educators Singing: Paying It Forward

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“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 Zorba the Greek.

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.

The AI Times They Have Changed

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“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.
● CT scans that allowed 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 that have 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.

Later in the year, my warning had softened to a plea in my September 24 “What If We Use Artificial Intelligence (AI) to Become Even Better than We Are?” ending with:

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.

● AI Has Arrived in Higher Education. Now What?

● How AI Is Reshaping Higher Education

● The Impact of Artificial Intelligence on Higher Education

● Teaching and Learning in a Generative AI World…

● How UF Developed a Model for AI Across the Curriculum

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!

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!

Behind the Laughter: Fleeting Glimpses of an Unpaid Comedian

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“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.

“Hey, look ma! I made it.”

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.

In-Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around. Damn! Have I got nerve or what?

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!

Thank you so much. Be blessed!

Cutting-Edge Technologies: Promise or Peril?

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When … Fulton showed off his new invention, the steamboat, skeptics were crowded on the bank yelling, “It’ll never start, it’ll never start!” But it did. It got going with a lot of cranking and groaning, and as it made its way down the river, the skeptics were quiet for a brief moment. Then they started shouting, “It’ll never stop, it’ll never stop.”

“Grab an Oar and Row,” St. Louis Business Journal, November 9, 1997.

Live long enough and you will experience many cutting-edge technologies. That certainly will be the case if you live to be 75 as I have done.

Some of the technologies that I have seen were so short-lived that you may not be familiar with them at all. Boom boxes. Cassette tape recorders. Floppy discs. Portable televisions. Reel-to-reel tape recorders. Slide projectors. TV watches. Transistor radios. VHS video format. 

Others, however, remain part of the fabric of our lives. Barcodes. Birth control pills. Communication satellites. Coronary bypass surgery. DNA fingerprinting. DVDs. Fiber optics. GPS. Human Genome Project. Hybrid cars. Jet airliners. MRIs. Microwaves. Pacemakers. Polio vaccine. The list goes on.

Of all the cutting-edge technologies that I have experienced in my life–vintage and outdated as well as state-of-the-art and up-to-date–three are special to me because I was involved with them in the early stages of their development and saw in them promise rather than peril. Interestingly enough, all three relate to automation–specifically the role that computer technology has played–and continues to play–in advancing literacy and learning.

The first goes all the way back to 1969 and my first position at the Library of Congress as a MARC Editor. MARC stood for MAchine Readable Cataloging, a set of standards developed by the Library of Congress in the 1960s to enable electronic sharing of catalog records. Within the next few years, MARC became the cataloging standard, nationally and globally. A parallel RECON Project converted retrospective materials to MARC format. But imagine. Computers in those early days were referred to as machines, and one of the biggest challenges was keeping the mainframe from overheating. I dare say that I did not understand fully the magnitude and far-reaching ramifications of the work that I was doing, but I knew that I was contributing to cutting-edge technology.

Fast forward to the 1990s, when Blackboard started as an interactive learning network to help teachers and professors adapt to the new reality of being able to teach via the Internet. In the fall of 1999, I started teaching at Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College). The following spring, I was one of two faculty who opted to pilot Blackboard as our online learning platform. This time, I knew the magnitude and far-reaching ramifications of teaching online.

From that point forward, I continued to teach at least two–sometimes three–courses each semester online. American Literature. Appalachian Literature. College Composition. Creative Writing. Leadership Development. Southern Literature. Technical Writing. I made a point of challenging myself. For any class that I taught in a traditional classroom environment, I wanted to figure out how to revamp it–how to redesign it–for online delivery. I wanted to be a pioneer as my college moved forward with this cutting-edge technology.

Fast forward almost two decades, and I was pioneering again. This time I was embracing Open Education Resources (OER) in my classes. In 2018, I was the keynote speaker for a statewide professional development workshop sponsored by Laurel Ridge Community College, Lumen Learning, and the Achieving the Dream Foundation. I titled my keynote “OER: Open the Future of Education Today.” I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the magnitude and far-reaching ramifications of Open Education Resources.

Within two years, I was using OER for all of my classes. Mind you: I didn’t tap into existing OER course shells. Instead, I designed and developed my own from scratch so that I could honestly and proudly announce to my students: “FREE Open Education Resources, Personally Curated Just for You.”

It seemed to me then–and it seems to me now–that the power of four great cutting-edge technologies had come together in a powerful way beyond anyone’s wildest imagination: the Printing Press, the Internet, Online College Education, and Open Education Resources. Working together, they all revolutionized not only learning but also the way that we share and distribute information.

As with most innovations, those four met initially with varying degrees of skepticism and pushback.

Printing Press Skeptics: The monks will lose their work. Monks will become lazy. Paper isn’t as good as parchment. With only one typeface, books are really ugly.

Online Cataloging Skeptics: OMG. What will happen to the card catalog. It will die and then what?

Internet Skeptics: Just look at all the inappropriate materials poisoning the minds of our children. Staring at the screen will kill us. Thieves will steal my personal and financial information.

Online Education Skeptics: Online courses will never produce outcomes equal to in-person courses. Faculty-student interaction won’t be meaningful.

Open Education Resources Skeptics: Online resources are much more difficult to use. Who will guarantee quality? You just can’t do better than printed textbooks.

Now we’re all facing another cutting-edge technological moment. Its magnitude is beyond comprehension. Its ramification is beyond far-reaching.

AI. Artificial Intelligence.

We all have a general idea of what it is: a branch of computer science that simulates human intelligence–visual perception, speech recognition, decision-making, and translation between languages. AI can get better and better over time based on the information collected and processed.

AI, of course, has been around since the birth of computers in the 1950s. But major advances came in the 1990s. You may recall that the AI app “Deep Blue” defeated chess master Garry Kasparov. And NASA deployed its first robot, Sojourner, on the surface of Mars.

AI is in the news a lot. Below are some major headlines that surfaced during the last few days:

“The 5 Biggest Artificial Intelligence (AI) Trends In 2023”

“AI Infrastructure Market to Reach $309.4 Billion, Globally, by 2031”

“Artists Sue AI Company for Billions, Alleging ‘Parasite’ App Used Their Work for Free”

“‘It’s the Opposite of Art’: Why Illustrators Are Furious about AI”

“AI Tools Can Create New Images, but Who Is the Real Artist?”

“Publisher Halts AI Article Assembly Line after Probe”

“Can an AI ‘Angel’ Help Find Thousands in Mexico Who Were Forcibly Disappeared?”

“This Mind-Reading AI Can See What You’re Thinking – and Draw a Picture of It”

“ChatGPT Passed a Wharton MBA Exam and It’s still in Its infancy. One Professor is Sounding the Alarm”

As an educator and a writer, a more narrow cutting-edge AI technology demands my attention. I’m thinking about AI apps that are influencing the future of writing and authorship. ChatGPA, for example, can be used for text generation, text translation, text summarization, and even sentient analysis of a text to detect tone and emotion. It can even write poetry, and it can make ordinary prose sound like passages from the King James Bible.

It seems to me that all of us need to sit up and take serious notice of all that AI promises, all the while that we need to be aware of the perils that AI skeptics perceive and toss into the conversations.

Skeptics are convinced that AI will:

● change the perception of information

● take jobs away from humans

● rob us of our ability to make decisions independently

● take away our creativity

● make us lazy

● do away with our privacy

● control our behavior

● threaten copyright, authorship, and ethics

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.