Education for Education’s Sake

I have what some would call one of the most outdated degrees available today: news journalism, formerly called print journalism. We were groomed to work for newspapers.

I’m gueNews text on typewriterssing current journalism majors get a good dousing of social media education as well, but the reality is, by the time today’s graduates with any sort of journalism degree are my age, their degree will also be outdated.

Which leads to this question: why do we go to college if everything we learn, all the knowledge we gain, becomes yesterday’s news in light of greater innovation, broader (or narrower) thinking, changes in what the workplace values?

Because education in and of itself has value.
book and background Graduation
I went to college twice. The first time I dropped out before graduating, something, quite frankly, I’ve never really regretted. I got what I wanted out of that experience, and if I had graduated, I never would have gone back and completed my education in a field for which I was far better suited.

It wasn’t easy, however, to go back, and when I dropped out, I had to explain my decision to several people in my life who knew that would be the case. Some understood, some did not. One friend was more upset than most, and when I told him I simply couldn’t pursue a degree in something I had no interest in vocationally, he asked me this: “what about education for the sake of education?”

The fact was, it wasn’t a well rounded learning experience at that college to start with, at least, not for me. Turns out that’s true at many colleges and universities. But he was right about the inherent value of education.

Today I no longer work in any field remotely related to my degree, yet having an education is an essential part of my success. You can tell the college graduates from the rest. Even those self-taught individuals, those who know lots of facts and can win any game of Trivial Pursuit, don’t have the polish that comes from the college experience. It is education; it is the process of learning, of deeper thinking, of using logic and research to reach your own conclusions that changes you.

Education for education’s sake.


Newspaper


Photo Credits: (typewriter) © GraphicStock; (Graduation Day) © carballo — Fotolia

If Only By Example

One of the legacies that has carried from my great-grandparents to me was a respect for all people. All people.

My mom’s cousin, my great-aunt’s son, was as white as I am, a heritage that traces back, some of it, to New York in the 1790s, and from there we aren’t sure which European country our ancestors emigrated from in their search for a new life.

Anyway, he was raised without prejudice, meaning, it didn’t exist in his world.

Chestnut-headed Bee-eaterThen he married a Hawaiian woman. By this point, Hawaii was a state in our nation, and had been for more than a decade. She was as American as he was. But they weren’t allowed in some restaurants because she was Hawaiian. That was how they worded it, even. Now I don’t know anything more specific about her ethnic background; I’m guessing it may have been Filipino. I was a little young, so to me, she was Lena, she crocheted beautiful purple vests for me and my sister, and she served us 7-Up when we visited.

It was a shock to my mom’s cousin to see his wife treated in such a humiliating manner. He was an intelligent, educated man, not generally naive, but this was foreign to him. I’m proud to be related to someone for whom prejudice was that unknown, and I hope the heart of that nature can be found in me.

I know the people who follow my blog by and large are people who respect others, who empathize with anyone in pain, and who ache for the hurt of those who are persecuted, even in our country, by those who should know better. So I’m preaching to the choir and saying thank you at the same time.

I don’t know what it’s like to be black, Mexican or Muslim, or any of the other minorities treated so poorly by so many these days. I stumble and fumble in my efforts to understand the humiliation and anger, and every once in awhile something gets through.

A few years ago I was listening to a woman speak at a conference for those who worked with people with disabilities, as I did at the time. She has disabilities herself, is black, and was a prominent figure in Washington D.C. some time back. I apologize I don’t remember her name. At the end of her speech, I was surprised to hear her say when she’s asked how she wants to be identified, as an African-American, a woman, or a person with disabilities,  it’s African-American first.

It put something into perspective for me. When you’re white, you don’t identify yourself by race. It isn’t an issue. When you’re black, it’s an issue every single day. Of course race is first. I’m embarrassed now it surprised me then.

young swallows sitting on a branchA friend of mine, who’s black, bought a very nice camera, and was struggling to get the settings right so he could take decent pictures of his family. Why? The default settings are for caucasian skin. It says that right in the manual.

I live in an apartment complex with a large Hispanic population, and many of my neighbors speak little English. For my part, I speak little Spanish, but I do know these two words: los gatos. The cats. One of my neighbor ladies was delighted at my response when I caught her once speaking, in Spanish, to my two cats as they sat in the windowsill. Embarrassed, she stopped, but I said, “It’s okay. Los gatos hablamos espanol.” I have no idea if that’s grammatically correct Spanish, but she understood me.

She’s probably my age, maybe a little older, and who knows when she moved to this country. Likely it was as an adult, and likely she’ll never know a lot of English. I had ancestors like that who came over from Poland, and they faced their share of prejudice. Even my dad experienced the mockery and disdainful attitudes a notable amount, and I grew up hearing Poles and Italians were invariably less intelligent. You’ve all heard that sort of thing before, and you get my point.

To my black friends, Hispanic friends, Indian, Middle Eastern, Asian, and any ethnic group I’m forgetting friends, I see your race, religion, ethnicity, and anything else that clearly identifies you as you. I don’t always know what it means. I don’t live it. But I respect it as part of you, and I will do what I can to teach others to do so as well. If only by example.

three titmouse birds in winter

 

Photo Credits:  bee-eaters © : panuruangjan — Fotolia; young swallows sitting on a branch © nataba — Fotolia; three titmouse birds in winter © Vera Kuttelvaserova — Fotolia

 

It’s Late, and I’m Worried

I’m up late, way too late. I have to go to work early tomorrow…make that later this morning. But my mom is in the hospital 700 miles away with a blood clot in her lung, and I don’t know if she’s going to be okay.

jerry me beth julie morgan
My stepdad Jerry, me, my sister Beth, her friend Julie, Julie’s son Morgan. c 1987

Nearly 30 years ago my stepdad died after heart surgery when a blood clot traveled from his leg to his heart and stopped his heart in the middle of the night. I remember getting that call, making the call to his ex-wife so she could tell his children, my mom in shock, unable to talk to anybody. I remember Jerry’s niece Rita calling. She couldn’t talk, she could only cry. Rita lost her husband on their honeymoon later that summer, and she herself died only a few years after that.

Funny the thoughts that go through your head when you’re feeling helpless.

Will I be making the long drive to see my mom again, or will she be able to take care of herself? She should have been taking aspirin after her surgery. Aspirin is a blood thinner. I don’t know if she was.

She called the doctor’s office because of what she described as a “knot” in her back, and they told her to go to the emergency room. She called me and said, “well, I don’t have a ride.” I told her to call 911. She said “okay, but I have to get to the bank first. I have a ride to the bank.” I told her to promise me she’d call 911. She promised.

Fifteen minutes later she called me and said the ambulance was on the way.

mom thom
My mom and my brother in 1999

I called my brother. He’s taking over the phone calls in the morning. I’m grateful. I called him right after I talked to my mom, and we didn’t hear from her again for four hours.

He lives on yet another side of the country, so he can’t get there quickly either, plus he has a family.

I called him after my mom called me, and my niece, who’s 16, answered. I told her, “Grandma’s in the hospital,” and she gasped. I forgot, she’s just a kid. I quickly reassured her it was just for observation, downplayed any seriousness. My brother said she was okay. The kids lost their other grandma a few years ago and it was really hard for them. They don’t want to lose my mom, too.

Neither do I.

Our (less than) Perfect Stories

(c) kaalimies DollarPhotoClub

In one of my favorite episodes of the television classic, “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” neighbors Millie & Jerry are puzzling over why Rob (Dick Van Dyke) and Laura (Mary Tyler Moore) ruined their party.

“Sure they have their faults,” Millie says at one point. “Everybody does. People would be pretty dull without them.”

I like that thought. It’s forgiving and human. Yet it implies perfection of character is dull, and I challenge that. Of course to challenge it properly I’d have to define perfection and I’m not sure I can do that adequately.

I speak here of the everyday interactions of most people, not the extreme behavior of the handful who destroy without remorse. When it comes to truly evil behavior, I think we all can agree a little more perfection is desperately needed.

The devout will tell you perfection is our nature without sin, but when it comes right down to it, is sin black & white or does it come in shades of gray? Forget it, I’m not having that conversation.

To others being perfect means fitting a standard of beauty, intellect, achievement or the like, but that doesn’t address character. Something to consider if your definition includes being measured on a scale.

Still others will say being perfect is being complete, having the sum parts required for the whole. That’s a hard concept to grab hold of and make practical, and again, I’m not going there.

Here’s what this comes down to in day-to-day terms: Perfection seemingly wouldn’t create conflict, and conflict is needed for good storytelling. At their heart, most stories need to have a good guy and a bad guy. Some stories need a particularly fiendish bad guy.

We like our stories. It’s one way we know to distinguish and measure our lives against others. Therefore, we need our conflict, and in that way can grudgingly accept our imperfection.

How many of us have heard someone say, “I’d rather go to hell than to heaven; hell is going to be a lot more fun”?

I disagree. I don’t think perfection would be dull. I think it’s unknown.

All major religions seek God, seek perfection, yet at their heart recognize it won’t be found here on earth. So until we find that place where we are our perfect selves, I guess our faults are part of what make our story compelling.


This post is an updated version of a post originally published in May 2015.

Image credit: (dandelion) © kaalimies – DollarPhotoClub.com (background) © Amandee – Dreamstime.com

Feeling Grown-Up Ain’t What It Used To Be

I’m feeling like a grown-up today, and I don’t like it.

My mom had hip surgery last week, and I went to stay with her during her recovery. That’s a much shorter period of time these days, in part, thankfully, because of advancements in procedure. The surgery went beautifully, and she’s experienced only a moderate amount of pain.

christmas c 1965
Not sure what was going on here, but it was clearly important.

Until now, the day after I had to leave. Actually,  I didn’t have to leave, I planned to stay a day or two (or three) longer. But the weather was worsening, Mom was worried, and  she insisted I leave. So I did.

She also confessed that as long as I was there, she’d depend on me, and she couldn’t do that any longer. So I made the long drive home, normally one I somewhat enjoy, feeling guilty, even knowing I did what she wanted.

Or said she wanted.

It leaves me to muddle through from my home 700 miles away. She’s my mom, and I could never do enough for her. Yet I’m being called on to be responsible for at least part of her care, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m muddling with the help of others, but putting those pieces together weighs on me. Do I move to be closer to her? It’s what she wants, but is it what I want? Is what I want important here? Would I regret not moving after she’s gone? I have to make adult decisions and it’s hard.

Me & Mom Jan 2004 cropped
About ten years ago, on my birthday

Should I have insisted I stay longer? At what point, as the daughter, do I call the shots? Aside from this surgery, my mom is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She’s proven that, time and again.

What decisions lay ahead? Will she be able to live on her own until she dies? Family history says yes, but that isn’t a true predictor of her situation.

How could I move her out of her home? I couldn’t.

I’m feeling like an adult, and I don’t like it.