Mrs. Overstreet stressed this often to us: Your education is the one thing they can’t take away from you. I was in World History class at Sprayberry High School — I enjoyed the class although I couldn’t tell you one Pope from another. But to her credit, she did light a fire under me to learn more. She taught me that history rhymes. Look, I know I’ll never be the smartest person in the room but I’ll be the most curious. That’s one of the reasons I love interviewing people. Learning what makes them tick is a graduate-school class in excellence.
There has been some talk about getting rid of humanities classes. I guess the statewide elected official who is pushing it on the platform formerly known as Twitter is mimicking what is going on in West Virginia. But it seems to be a particularly foolish idea — especially considering what the arts means to Mississippi. But also, even if you are training to be an accountant or an engineer, some idea of history, language or the arts helps in this incredibly fast changing world we live in. Employers, the ones we are trying to lure to towns without hospitals, need employees who can think on their feet. Who understand context. And who can adapt.
I think about Robin Williams’ John Keating from the movie Dead Poet’s Society when I read about people who want to rid the world of “unnecessary humanities classes.”
John Keating: We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Yes, the world needs plumbers and mechanics (I am living proof of that). But we need a curious population who understand the context of history as we stumble through these trying times. My dad, who chased his dream when he stopped being a traveling salesman and bought a car garage, always had either a wrench or a book in his hand. He is my hero and a reminder that: Knowledge is power ; Understanding context is king.
Eleven years ago, I wrote and published a book called Banjo’s Dream. It sold over 5,000 copies and became a favorite for a whole generation of kids. During the pandemic, I brought Banjo back with some of his friends. Now I’m writing their origin story — and how families come in all shapes and sizes. The story, which is written, is an action-adventure story. But it also is a reminder that community matters. Here’s the first couple of illustrations.
Apple has a new television ad that features a meteor hitting the Earth. The meteor is forged by heat into metal and then turned into a phone.
For the record, I did not run out and upgrade my IPhone 12.
I did, however, feel a slight tinge in my neck and back. That’s where I have several titanium screws and bracket in my body. Yes, I am a modern day Six-Million-Dollar Man thanks to years of pounding, sitting and then hitting my head into a door jam. We can repair him. We can make him better than before.
(Oscar Golding sends his regards.)
The last two years have beat the living crap out of me. But I am still standing and I am stronger than I was before. Like the meteor, I’ve been forged after taking a pretty big blow.
We all have.
Recently I was talking to a friend. He’s a teacher and leads a large group of kids in a school-sponsored club. He was talking about how there less seniors engaged in anything this year. They dropped out when the pandemic hit and never came back. Two things can be true: We needed to protect ourselves and others from the awful deaths caused by COVID and we also we also need to realize that there were costs associated with it, too. It’s not just kids. We all are walking around with unpacked trauma.
How do we unpack it? I’m not a clinical psychologist nor have I slept in an Holiday Inn last night. But thinking about what my teacher friend said, we really need to rebuild and stress healthy communities. Whether it is joining service clubs, attending church, volunteering, or getting to know our neighbors, we need each other. We need to be around those who are different than we are but have things in common. Like the titanium in my spine, that’s what will help us heal as we recover.
I’ve always thought having a gratitude list sounded like Oprah vomiting her dinner. But honestly, being grateful is one of the most powerful tonics you can take when life starts to overwhelm you. It’s the attitude to gain altitude over the storm.
My dream job was to be an editorial cartoonist. It’s a dream I’m still (partially) living today. But in 2010, my dream received a rather rude wake-up call when I was informed my job was being turned into a part-time job. I had, in the time for ink to dry, lost my benefits and half my pay — for the same amount of work!
It wasn’t fair. But you know what? Me thinking “It’s not fair!” didn’t feed my family or keep my house.
I had to learn to surf. And for the past 13 years, I have been trying to catch the wave of change. Has it been perfect? No. I’ve made a gazillion mistakes and have struggled with my attitude. I’ve wrestled with hurt, disappointment, and anger — all which did not serve me well at all.
It has been wonderful education. Look, I don’t know who made the decision to cut me. But if I ever find out, I’ll thank them. They did me a huge favor.
Since Michael Oher is in the news, let me tell you a story you probably don’t know about him. On Sept. 18, 2016, while playing against the 49’ers, he took a vicious hit that gave him a concussion. The concussion protocol was not followed; he played the next week. He had started and played 122 games, including one Super Bowl victory; September 25, 2016 was his last.
He soon suffered from headaches, blurred vision and was incapacitated. The very brain that had given remarkable drive as a kid, now was turning against him. Doctors prescribed him a smorgasbord of drugs and a fog slowly blanketed his life.
He retreated into a dark room.
Two years later, he saw a crack of light in the darkness. His weight had ballooned to 400 lbs. His head was killing him. He didn’t want to leave the room. But he followed that light to Granny White Park in Brentwood, TN and walked about 15 yards. The next day, he walked 16 yards. Over and over he got up, went out and pushed against a brain that was lying to him.
Like Academy-Award winning director Sarah Polley, who was in bed for three and half years due to her own horrific concussion, he pushed into symptoms and overcame them. He lost the weight and is now helping kids like he was helped along the way.
He did the work.
I’ve seen a lot of opinions about Mike in the comments section. I got to spend an hour-and-a-half with him yesterday — and while that’s not long enough to really get to know someone, my BS detector did not go off (and I have been dealing with politicians for over 30 years — I have a well-honed BS detector). One of the things that really hurts him about The Blindside is that it made him look like he was helpless and dumb. When you meet him, you quickly realize he’s far from either.
His new book “When Your Back’s Against The Wall” is a good read. I read it after having my spinal surgery in two years. As I quickly recover (PTL), I think about him walking in Granny White Park. Healing, whether in the heart, mind, or soul, happens one step at a time.
Thinning air burned the hiker’s lungs. Ache cut through his shoulders, his knees, and his heart like a dull scalpel. The early morning darkness hid the path ahead. Gary Campbell, blinked his eyes, paused and looked at the watch on his wrist. Its illuminated face flashed 6:45 a.m. “Sunrise would be soon,” he thought. He picked up the pace and felt his chest struggling because of the altitude. A sound rustled next to him in the rhododendrons. It could be a deer or a bear. A deer would be a much better choice.
Pain ate at his soul. But he was no stranger to it — he had dealt with it his whole life. It was caused by the trauma of his childhood and then the damage his life’s wake left behind. That pain had caused him to try just about every form of self-medication known to man — and all stopped working somewhere along the way. To quote his son, he was a “F-up.” Those words left a scar that burned whenever he thought of it. The boy loved his mama. Hell, he did, too — even if he wasn’t particularly good at showing it.
The dawn began to win the battle with the darkness. Therapy had taught him that he needed to quit running from his pain. The wounded child in him had to stand firm and face the fear that had crippled him for so long. That’s what this trip was all about. His headlight cut through Alum Cave Trail’s darkness. The wide trail lay before him. The men from the CCC camps during the Great Depression had created a super highway of a trail of was one of his favorites. They didn’t make men like that anymore. At least that’s what his mother told him when he was little. She was pretty good at making him feel worthless.
Hurt people hurt people.
The inky darkness of the night began to give way to the dawn. Light started to reveal the mountains’ faces. Pain burned his legs now; he cherished it. “Bring it on, God. Bring on more pain!” He yelled. God didn’t respond but a small fawn ran next to him, startling him. Gary had talked to God regularly since the virus hit. His world had fallen apart because of that little bastard. First he lost his job — his ego’s balm. Then there was the machines, the sounds, the isolation. The fear. The loss. He looked forward on the trail. Myrtle Point wasn’t too far ahead.
Dead firs stood like sentinels as the sun began to rise. He had met Sally on a hike up Mt. LeConte when they were students at the University of Tennessee. Three years later, they were married in a small church in Louisville, Tennessee. They soon moved to Chicago as he chased his dreams. Little did he know, his real dream was the woman he left alone to raise their son. Building a life on an ego is like building on a sand bar, always shifting, never stable. And the home he built on that sand soon crumbled.
First came the pain. Than the self-medicating. That led to the fights. And then the illness hit out of nowhere.
He couldn’t even be with her as the virus filled her lungs.
She died alone, isolated in the COVID ward of the hospital.
Their son Ryan blamed him — for everything, actually. But he took the death of his mother particularly hard. “You probably are glad to get her out of your hair,” he spat at his father that night in the hospital. Those words hurt deeply. And they were the last ones Ryan had said to him.
Gary wiped his eyes as he took a deep breath. Altitude and a lack of oxygen made him feel weak. Or it was the thought of Sally dying alone in the ICU. Or maybe it was losing his son.
His legs felt weak as he headed toward the cliffs of Myrtle Point.
Giant boulders jutted out of the peak of Mount LeConte. Usually, there was a small crowd waiting for the sunrise. But not this morning. The cold temperatures had kept the faint of heart safely (and warmly) in their beds. Gary saw his breath, put down his pack, and dug around for what he was looking for. First, he found a Clif Bar (the irony) and his water bottle. He took a swig and then dug around for the small container. He laid his hand on it and took another deep breath. A voice started him.
“It’s about time you got here old man.”
Out from the darkness, emerged a tall figure — one that Gary recognized immediately .
It was his son.
“You have Mom?”
“Yes,” Gary said coolly.
“Good. I heard you were coming up here. I knew you were fulfilling her wish.”
Both men stood and stared at each other. The boy stuck out his hand. Gary grabbed it and pulled him in for a hug.
“She would have wanted us to do this together.”
They grabbed the small box and began to spread Sally’s ashes. This was Heaven to her. Her journey was now complete thanks to the two men she loved.
As the sun rose over the mountains, pride faded into the dying night. Orange filled the morning sky as love healed the scars of anger.
Thanks to a miracle on Mount LeConte, Heaven received another angel. And on that cold January morning, two men’s souls were saved.
