Category Archives: Observances

A “native” Holiday, From a Native Point of View

22 Thursday Nov 2012

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It’s the kind of question that we throw out frequently around this time of year.  It seems harmless enough, and more often than not, we know what the answers will be.

Question: “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Possible Answers:  “I’m having dinner at my place for [pick a number] people.”  “I’m going to [pick a family member]’s house for dinner.”  “My friends and I are going out to eat at [pick a restaurant].  Throw in a little football or a newly released movie, and you would describe the ritual for a lot of us.

Now, it seems, we have a new option: shopping.  As major retailers [you know who they are] announce that they will open they overstuffed doors on Thanksgiving Day instead of the day after, media commentators debate the significance of this shift.  For instance, Katrina Trinko argues that we have gone too far, while her USA Today colleague, Matthew Shay, counters that we are only getting what we asked for.

Lost in the fog of food and bargain-shopping is the designation of November as Native American Heritage Month.  On November 1, 2012, President Obama signed a proclamation that officially recognized this month.  In the call-to-action, the proclamation does not whitewash the difficult histories of Native peoples in the Americas.  Instead, it says that ,“In paying tribute to Native American achievements, we must also acknowledge the parts of our shared history that have been marred by violence and tragic mistreatment. “

My friend and colleague, John Sanchez, brought this home to me one year when I asked him about his Thanksgiving Day plans.  Although he is based in Pennsylvania and I in Oklahoma, we worked together for three years to produce a book, American Indians and the Mass Media.

My book, published this year by the University of Oklahoma (OU) Press

Our book breaks ground with a singular focus on the involvement of Native/American Indians in all aspects of the media, from newspapers to online media; from stereotypical marketing portrayals to independent film images; from strategic public relations efforts to media law challenges.  After a particularly intense work session on one phase of this project, I longed for the upcoming holiday breaks.  I asked John “the question.”  After a pause, he said he didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and explained the many reasons way.  Ironically, I already knew intellectually the reasons why he wouldn’t want to celebrate Thanksgiving in the national tradition, but this knowledge was disconnected from the human, and often emotional, impact of our Thanksgiving myths.

We all know the iconic stories about noble Indians joining weary Puritans for a grand meal in 1621 to celebrate new friendships and partnerships.  Along the way, Indians are said to have taught these English settlers key farming and food techniques that saved the newcomers’ lives and communities.  To celebrate these ideas, we have decorations, plays and art, such as this famous painting by artist Jean Leon Jerome Ferris, named The First Thanksgiving.

Myth becomes art in this iconic painting, The First Thanksgiving.

This romanticized 20th century painting, according to the book, History of the Portrait Collection, Independence National Historical Park, has factual errors that nevertheless have become fixed in American cultural memory because of the powerful influence of this art,

But as this renowned Native writer and scholar explains in this blog post, the Thanksgiving observances heap injury upon insult upon the true and complicated stories of Indians in the Americas.  And our public schools can be the worst offenders, creating plays and pageantry encouraging children to embrace stereotypes and false information.

Photograph by Robert C. Lautman

Thankfully, places like the National Museum of the American Indian exist, as stewards of honest interpretations of native history, culture and contemporary life.  And while Thanksgiving festivities may not be part of all American Indian family traditions, there is Native support for this month, and one day especially, designed to call attention to Native American heritage.  In a poignant coincidence, the winner of the National Book Award, announced this month, was Indian author Louise Erdrich, for her latest novel, The Round House.  Harvard Scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr. does a fascinating interview with Erdrich about her background that I often use in training workshops and classes about the multiple dimensions of race and identity.

It seems to me that there can be plenty of good reasons to set aside a time during the year to be thankful for the blessings in our lives.  Thanksgiving is as good a time as any.  But we can make it all the more meaningful by pausing to learn something that is true, inspiring, and factual about American Indians, and there are plenty of resources to do so.  If we must shop, it might not hurt to observe the small business shopping day initiative by seeking out Indian-owned businesses, too.

Be blessed, and Happy Native American heritage month to you!

Getting into the spirit of things

11 Sunday Nov 2012

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Recently, we were all immersed in the sights, sounds and tastes of Halloween.  It’s a rite of passage that really signals the presence of fall, and kicks off the inevitable start of the holiday [spending] season. I ran out of time and creativity to come up with a costume this year, but I have a terrific idea for one next year.

But right on the heels of this festive, mostly child- oriented activity, another observance seems to be gaining momentum in the United States. El Día de la Muertos or the Day of the Dead is usually celebrated on November 1, although observances continue through November 2, or even later.

On our campus, for instance, the Hispanic American Student Association sponsored the first such festival on campus and, according to our student newspaper, it seemed to be a success.

What exactly is the Day of the Dead about?  Well, the Smithsonian Institution’s Latino Center has an excellent site explaining the origins of this holiday—including instructional resources for teachers.  A Latin American tradition, this celebration involves the entire family in paying tribute to loved ones who have died.  These tributes include photos of departed family members, special foods, music and masks.

Now, what is fascinating is how these type of festivals are spreading across the United States, according to reports on network television,  a leading business magazine, and local newspapers in such cities as Baltimore and Detroit.

This trend reflects more than, simply, new evidence of the growing presence of Latino communities in the United States.  The fact that such celebrations are spreading outside of the hidden pockets of  Hispanic homes means that cultural transformation is happening.

Some might criticize these celebrations as some form of ancestor worship, or worse.  I look at it as way to turn grief into something that affirms the continuity of life and love.  If you have lost a loved one, you know that Death rarely comes pretty, or conveniently.  I rather like the idea of participating in a celebration of life, instead of staying captive to the circumstances of someone’s death.

So, next year watch out for my really cool Halloween costume.  And if you hang around, you just might see me getting into the spirit of something new.

2012 Olympics and Aprés Post-Colonialism

28 Saturday Jul 2012

Posted by in History, Literature, Observances

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I don’t know about you but I love the Olympics, especially the summer games.  Thanks to technological advances, my family and I have choices about how to keep up with this mega-event, including recording the whole thing so we can pick and choose how to watch what we want from it.  So, when the night was quiet, I gazed at the much-anticipated opening ceremonies for the 2012 competitions—every minute of it.  I even watched most of the commercials, which collectively broke records in the amounts of money being spent.  I noted the ad for The Dark Knight Rises movie, and was relieved at the short, tasteful version I saw in the wake of the recent tragedy in Aurora, CO.

Over the hours of the broadcast as I was captivated by the opening pageantry, I was duly impressed by the colors, lights, activity, music, comedy and drama of it all.  The character of “James Bond,” played by Daniel Craig and a body double for the Queen jumping out of a plane?  The comic antics of “Mr. Bean,” played by Rowan Atkinson, against the musical background of a classic masterpiece?  And, then there was the recurring and moving inclusion of young people of all ages, through choirs, dancing numbers, including a particularly captivating segment paying homage to literature and fantasy.  All of it and more presented a visual feast for viewers, and some of these pictures from the London-based Daily Mail newspaper can attest:

However, after a while, I began to think of the writings of Franz Fanon.  Fanon (1925-1961), a brilliant psychologist and scholar who was born in Algeria and educated in France, wrote incisively about the colonial European and Anglo legacies that brought both prosperity to their nations but turmoil to those they conquered.  England, the core of the once ubiquitous British Empire, showcased part of that history in its multiethnic performances throughout the night.

Even the parade of nations, that traditional processional of participating nations, highlighted this past as former colonies—Canada, Australia, Ghana, India, Nigeria, the United States and countless more English-speaking countries—participated as sovereign nations in their own right.

So, it was interesting to see how the “narrative” of England’s historical past played out in 2012.  The arc of the story moved from showing English roots in an agrarian society, progressing through an Industrial revolution and arriving at a very 21st –century peak of technological achievement.  In this story, Sir Timothy Berners-Lee, the inventor of the World Wide Web, reigned like a rock star (encouragement for nerds everywhere).

But omitted was the legacy of African slavery and the military-driven occupation of nations literally across the globe that fueled the prosperity contributing to the Industrial Revolution, upon which so much of the good fortunes of Western civilizations depend.  Fanon wrote searingly about this legacy and for the first time, gave voice to psychological and social scars left upon the colonized through this experience.  A foundation in his honor has established a Fanon Foundation website, and one page in English gives good insight into the complexity of his life and work, although some parts of this site are under construction still.

Should the Olympics have put a spotlight on these complex issues? Absolutely not!  Should we ourselves know and remember these issues even during a highly entertaining event?  Absolutely!

But in this “after” post-colonial era, we need to know that the multiculturalism we benefit from, and sometimes celebrate, did not happen accidentally, but through the pain and sacrifice of our often contentious ancestors.  We need to resist the temptation to paint our shared history with a happy tableau of diversity without being attuned to how our varied selves have come together. 

And, we need to look at current events, such as the Syrian rebellion and other “Arab Spring” movements partly through the lens of post-colonialism, because we will not understand anything completely without this measuring stick.  To do this, we all have to support education at every level in our schools that venture to bring difficult truths to our students.  We have to allow this without castigating such discussions as unpatriotic, communistic, or erroneous.

In the meantime, I will continue to follow the Olympics through the comprehensive coverage NBC and others will offer.  I will celebrate, as we all should, this exceptional time and space the Olympics provides when we can both root for country, yet celebrate the achievements of our global neighbors.  I think the symbolism of the torch’s lighting before the parade of nations showed it best.  Seven athletes with individual torches ignited seven more, which artfully spread through an array of over 50 more combustible lamps on the floor.  Then, on some invisible cue, they all rose in the air, and together formed one flaming ball.

We all come from different places, but together, we are one world. One planet. One destiny.

Fathers and Walls

17 Sunday Jun 2012

Posted by in Film, Literature, Observances

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It was the middle of December 2010, but sweaty hot in Lagos, Ghana.  My friend and university colleague, Loretta Bass, and I were trying to navigate dust and sidewalk in a compact industrial and residential area looking for one man.

He was the sole contact for a Ghana-based site connected to the Opportunities Industrialization Center,or O.I.C.  This innovative job training program has a long and illustrious story, but I only wanted to know about one topic at that moment—my Dad, John J. Carstarphen Sr.

Dad during one of his work trips in Ghana for O.I.C.

I left that short visit to go on to finish the university business that had sent me to Africa without finding anything that I thought I needed to know about Dad.  So, I was stunned to open my email a short time later to find that this tenuous meet-and-greet with a man I didn’t know produced something precious to me about a man I did know.  There was attached a picture of a group of people, including my Dad, who went to Africa four decades ago to help expand the O.I.C. success to Africa.

If you look at this picture on the back row, on the right, you will see a man in a white shirt mostly hidden and almost absorbed into the background.  That was Dad.  There wasn’t a lot of fanfare about him and he wasn’t famous.  He worked hard and tried to make a difference for people in his sphere of influence.

As kids growing up, my brothers and I knew, vaguely, that Dad traveled sometimes for work and would be gone for a long time.  This picture put an important layer of reality to his job, and life for me.

Today we honor fathers and the meaning of “fathering,” and indeed we should.  Yet, I bet for many of us, we honor mysteries and hidden lives.  We grow up seeing the outer shape of a man doing what we expect dads to do, but often we have no real idea of what they experience as men, trying to find their places in this world.

Dad and I enjoying a tour of the Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta.

Two literary geniuses of our modern times tried to reveal this world to us.  One was the playwright Arthur Miller.   He wrote Death of A Salesman and is frequently remembered as one of actor Marilyn Monroe’s husbands.  But in this play, Miller wrote one of the most piercing insights into the life of an ordinary working man and a father to be written.  On June 10, this drama one a 2012 Tony Award for the “Best Revival” with performances that apparently impressed judges and critics, as have previous versions starring actors Lee J. Cobb and Dustin Hoffman.  As we see the main character, Willie Loman, pummeled by life and in conflict with his sons, we hear him cling to the vision of himself where he is someone special.  I am not a dime a dozen, he says.  I am Willie Loman.

Another dramatic masterpiece of equal power is August Wilson’s Fences.  Recognized as one of our country’s greatest playwrights, August Wilson wrote from the context of the African American experience.  In Fences, the main protagonist is Troy Maxson, who gives insight into his complex worldview after a contentious exchange with his son.  Explaining why he doesn’t have to “like” his son to provide for him, Troy finishes a punishing exchange by giving his son a life lesson: Don’t worry if someone likes you; just make sure they do right by you.

These plays feature two ordinary mean, with two different worldviews but a shared emotional core.  Both believe that they are more valuable than what the world has known of them.  One strives vainly for this recognition, while another burns slowly under the weight of knowing that he will never achieve it.  Yet, as Miller wrote in his play, “attention must be paid” to men like Willie, to men like Troy, and all of the vast numbers of men who are not named.  Have you wondered—is your dad a Willie or a Troy?

Today, and throughout the year, let’s pay attention.  We should attend to the men who are fathers not just because they have biological bragging rights, but because they go to work every day and come home.  They may be the step-parents, grand-parents, god-parents or “spiritual” dads to children of all ages.  They may be the husbands of some father’s daughter.  Whoever they are, they are the foundations of what we know and what we think we know, because they showed up, and kept showing up when they didn’t have to.

My dad was a mystery in many ways to us kids.  He went to Africa and other places for work, but he always came back.   Now, my brother is working on an ambitious film project that will help shed light on what he was coming back to, and what so many other men of his generation had to face.  This documentary is called The Wall, and it is stunning so far.  John is still a way from completing it as he works on acquiring more investments [hint, hint] for this amazing project.

Let me know what you think.

Sybrina Fulton and Trayvon Martin: About Raising Children On the Cusp of Fear and Hope

13 Sunday May 2012

Posted by in Observances, Women's Words

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The first time I got an inkling that Mother’s Day could be something other than joyful was when I watched my mother grieve the loss of her own mom,  my grandmother Patsy.  I remember how we were in the wood-paneled basement of our three-story Philadelphia home when she got the call.  I can still her cradling the beige telephone handset on her chest with closed eyes after the sad news came from Louisiana.  Decades later, I struggled with my own grief (and still do) when Mother’s Day rolls around.  Although I was in the room with my mom and held her hand as she breathed her last, I have to fight to turn my thoughts from grief and longing, to gratitude and joyful memory for having had her in my life.

So, I think of these things today as I write this tribute in honor of Sybrina Fulton whose video message to all mothers is something everyone should view.  If this name is familiar, it should be.  Sybrina Fulton is the poised, but grieving mother of slain teenage Trayvon Martin, whose tragic death in Florida has sparked news coverage nationally and beyond.  Today, on her Twitter account, Sybrina sent a post that begins:

“As I send you this message, my heart hurts and my eyes are full of tears for my beloved son Trayvon.”

There is no way that anyone can attempt to interpret her grief and I certainly won’t try to here.  I do know that today is only one of the many bumps in the road she will face on the road to closure and peace about her son’s loss.  She has courageously transferred her grief into action, with the formation of the Justice for Trayvon Martin Foundation designed to address what she believes were underlying issues contributing to her son’s untimely death.  The second-degree murder trial of her son’s self-confessed killer, George Zimmerman is likely not to occur until October 2013 or later, prolonging her anxiety.  Still, Sybrina must be heartened by the generous donations of leave time by her co-workers in the Miami-Dade County, where she has worked for 23 years.  Their gifts will allow her to take eight months off and retain a salary while she waits, watches and prays.

Raising a child in any day and age is a challenge.  As parents, we want to protect our children from harm and yet propel them to navigate their own way through a future we cannot know.  African American mothers often struggle with raising their children through a contradictory message of fear and hope.  Our children, like all children, must know how to walk boldly in this world in order to claim all that it has to offer.  Yet as parents and elders we know that there are unseen terrors, unspoken threats and invisible enemies lurking.  How do we voice these without shutting down our children’s desire to go confidently into their unseen futures?

I call this mindset constructive paranoia.  To explain it, consider the definition of paranoia.  It is when you think people are out to get you.  But…. what if there are some people who really are out to get you?  Then, you learn to be guarded around people who might be threats in broad ways in order to be protected against the narrow chances when that caution might be justified.  In the wake of Tayvon Martin’s murder, some commentators have referred to this as “the talk” and explicated how some of the elements of this bittersweet conversation between parents and their children.

Look around.  If you can, observe children from different ethnic backgrounds in the presence of their parents, and watch the African American kids.  Do they seem more restrained on the playground?  Are they less vocal in public gatherings? Are they far less likely to, for instance, wander up and down the aisles of a supermarket unattended without some adult sternly pulling them back into view?  Or, when some children boldly verbally challenge adults, or break into the front of a line without apology, watch whose parents are nonchalant and whose are agitated.  Because one child’s “cute” behavior is another child’s accidental slip into danger.

Sybrina Fulton’s grief is no doubt compounded by this familiar dilemma.  She tried to raise her son for freedom, describing him as a typical teen in many a media account.  Trayvon got to play video games, travel to New York City, and imagine a career in aviation. And yet he died after being shot on a visit to his father just yards away from the townhome where he slept.  Does she wonder, in the irrational way that grieving hearts can do, if there was something else she could have warned her son about that could have saved his life.

Raising children on the cusp of fear and hope is an all too-familiar place for many parents with African American children.  It is a space created by the social condition of racial stereotyping and distrust, and it is something we all must battle.  Because when a Trayvon Martin dies, and a George Zimmerman kills him, we all lose, and the hearts of two mothers break in unfixable ways.

2011: A Personal Christmas Story

25 Sunday Dec 2011

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Christmas fell on a Sunday this year, and this juncture presented an eloquent coincidence.  A day of rest merged with a day of celebration, and I enjoyed the chance to experience Christmas in a way that surprised me in many ways.

Probably like most of us in the United States, I typically face the approaching Christmas season with anticipation and dread.  I look forward to the absence of a work schedule, the presence of special family and friends and the joy of unexpected gifts.

On the other hand, I chafe at the increasing commercial pressure that comes our way to “buy” into the Christmas season.  Halloween costumes are barely off the shelf before green, red and white decorations spill out from the shelves, punctuated by glistening tinsel and shiny bulbs.  Then, the relentless sales messages bombard us, promising an array of bargains and sales that we become convinced we cannot live without.  This season, “black Friday” sales reached a new level of intensity and debate as retailers pushed the opening hours to a new early hour—the midnight of Thanksgiving Day.  In fact, employees for Target Corporation sent thousands of written protests objecting to the first-time store policy requiring stores to open at midnight, and employees to cut short their own Thanksgiving celebrations in order to be ready for work.

In 2011, we saw a rising number of increasingly popular public demonstrations to “occupy” financial centers and outdoor venues to call attention to stark social and economic inequalities among us.  Time Magazine even named its “Person of the Year” for the ubiquitous protester as appearing in nations, cities and towns around the globe.

What a challenging time to think about celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ, who belief tells us was born of poor parents and in the most humble of circumstances.  I tried to imagine, from time to time, what it might be like to conceive of a baby born today who might have potential to change the world in profound ways, only we wouldn’t know it.  It was a challenge a lot of times to contemplate a spiritual message in the midst of Santa-driven messages.  Maybe, Santa has the more aggressive public relations publicist than Jesus.

In our home, Christmas was especially meaningful, and challenging.  Eight weeks ago, we welcomed two girls, ages 12 and 14, into our home as our adoptive daughters.  So the time leading up to the holidays was tinged with an extra layer of frenzy and anticipation.

I would love to say that this time has been marked by a seamless transition in which two strangers to us walked into our home and we all instantly blended into the iconic family image that artist Norman Rockwell captured so famously in his many paintings and prints.  But truthfully, the time so far has been marked by episodes of great joy punctuated by tension and disagreements.  And one our most intense disagreements came the night before Christmas Eve.

Our Christmas Tree touched the ceiling and was loaded with presents underneath.

We worked through it, and the experience taught us a lot about each other, parents and siblings, as we continue to work on becoming the family we know we can become.  I don’t mind admitting that, as I walked past our Christmas tree packed with a ridiculous amount of packages and stuffed stockings for the family, that I thought, “maybe we should dial this back” so we wouldn’t appear to reward bad behavior.

But when Christmas day came, our three children (including our grown son) were at church with us and after the early services, reveled in the multiple gifts and surprises my husband and I had planned.  And then it hit me.  Christmas giving is not about Santa’s “naughty or nice” formula, but about the unmerited grace of God.  We cannot possibly try to earn our blessings, but we do have the daily opportunities to bless someone else, just because we can.

I hope that your Christmas was all that you wished for. Please share if you can.  If not, remember we always have tomorrow to live the message of Christmas, regardless of the date on our calendar.

Scenes From a 9/11 Journey — 10 Years Later

18 Sunday Sep 2011

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During the weekend of September 11, 2011, my husband and I traveled from Oklahoma to the Philadelphia area on family business, in the midst of intense media coverage and public observances about the terrorist attacks that changed our nation.

Act 1

I love the Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City.  It is a easy to navigate, designed with brightly-lit interiors, and provides about the most trauma-free experience through airport security that I have so far experienced.

Right past the security screening, bright hallways guide passengers to their destinations in the Will Rogers World Airport.

On Saturday, September 10, I arrived at 5:45 a.m., expecting a modest trickle of fellow travelers.  Instead, we found a virtual avalanche,  with rolling streams of people moving with bags through the large terminal spaces.  Lines approaching the security checkpoints were long and inching along.  More than one person around us complained about how “slow” we were moving.  I couldn’t help myself.  I caught the eye of a fellow traveler and said is slight exasperation, “We have chosen to travel on the weekend of 9/11.  Why are we surprised that things are taking longer?”.  He nodded in agreement, and said that he was going to New York and fully expected even more scrutiny when he arrived there.  It’s the way it is, we agreed.  Now.

Act 2

We are still migrating through airport security lines, edging closer to the conveyor belt of inspection.  I notice that the area is thick with Homeland Security personnel, not just participating in the screening, but as vigilant observers.  When it was finally my turn to stack belongings in the grey plastic tubs, I became lost in the ritual—laptop out, shoes off, purse on the side, jacket folder, hold on to the boarding pass…and then I heard a voice calling me by name.  I saw Michael S., one of the Resident Advisors we worked with during our stint of living as a family in Couch dorm, wearing a TSA uniform.  Only the moving conveyor belt between us kept me from grabbing him in a big hug.  Graduated and married, Mike said he was now working his way through graduate school.  I pelted him with as many questions as possible, feeling guilty for each distraction it posed from his work.  His fellow workers seemed forgiving of this lapse.  As we were chatting, another screener yelled out, “Rose Rock?”  I realized he was speaking to me.  I smiled back, and confirmed that the object he was screening wrapped in a small box was a bit of Oklahoma’s unique geology.  My bag made it through the process and I was finished.  I wished Michael well and reassembled myself for the long flight back East.

Act 3

I grew up in Philadelphia, and my memories are palpable. It was like scratching a familiar itch to see the span of the bridges, the length of the freeways, the city landscapes bumped up against some rolling country stretches.  The foliage radiated in intense shades of green, although some of the leaves were beginning to change into their Fall colors.  Not far from Philadelphia, the Flight 93 National Memorial for the passengers and crew members of  this United airlines flight was preparing itself for crowds and somber observances over the weekend.  This ground likened to the place were the Gettysburg War was fought, took its place as part of the iconic, sacred public sites the National Park Service manages for us all.  In nearby Bucks County, the official Pennsylvania state 9/11 Memorial was also open, with specific tributes to the Pennsylvanians who died during this terrible attack.

On morning of September 11, 2001, I was living in Texas preparing for work when the phone rang.  My mother said, “Turn on the TV.  Planes are flying into buildings!!”   Those of us in more removed parts of the country were trying to figure out what was happening to our country and why.  I think about the Flight 93 passengers and crew members who realized so much sooner than the rest of us the horrific intents of their hijackers, and they took action.  The enormity of their bravery still leaves gaps in my vocabulary to describe.

Act 4

Life goes on, with a hiccup.  We breeze through areas with cozy houses and children playing on the street, Italian restaurants with a variety that we miss, and posters for upcoming Oktoberfest celebrations, such as the big festival in Mifflinberg, PA, as well as much smaller galas in towns throughout the region.

We are passing through a mall, when suddenly, lights flash and the alarms sound.  Everyone is ushered quickly out of this huge shopping complex into the parking lot.  Within minutes, we are told we can go back in.

Moments after evacuation, visitors enjoy the food court at a popular mall outside Philladelphia, PA. Photo by: M.G. Carstarphen.

According to a passing security guard, smoke triggered the fire alarm and it was a false incident.  But since, it happened on September 11, 2011, we had to wonder, at first, if there was more to this coincidence.  Happily, there wasn’t.

Act 5

Homeward bound.  We are en-route to our flight, but first, we need to return our borrowed vehicle from Enterprise before boarding a shuttle back to the Philadelphia International Airport and the terminal for our flight.  While we wait, this Enterprise office provided boxes of free Philadelphia soft pretzels.  Even though they were served with without salt, without mustard and without the heat that only a warm over can provide, these soft, doughy surprises were as amazing as only the Philly brand of pretzel can make them.  It was a little taste of childhood that made the stresses of modern travel just a bit more bearable.

Finale

Hours later, in the night’s darkness, we are on the last push home, waiting in Dallas for the short commuter flight to Oklahoma City.  As we mill around waiting for the flight, another gate deplanes nearby, I spot another recently graduated student, Meredith,  busily pulling her luggage with a sense of purpose.  For some reason, I expected her to veer over to our waiting area for the same flight.  Instead, she bustled out of the security door, in the direction of baggage claim, ground transportation, and live outside the airport.   Then in hit me.  Students don’t stay in school forever.  Tragedy doesn’t have to paralyze a nation for eras without end.  And, as written in PS. 30:5, sorrow may linger for a while, but joy can return if we are patient.

Many fine editorials were published in the media that weekend, such as this New York Times commentary, that reminds us of the tug-and-pull we still continue to feel about the past and the future meaning of September 11, 2001.  I still remember the enlarged sense of community we all felt in those days when resilience won out over fear, and commonalities triumphed over alienation.  And, I still believe.