Sign-Holding As Therapy

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Everyone once in awhile, a reader enlightens me. This especially poignant example is from Richie, who I had the privilege of teaching and playing noon basketball with in Greensboro, NC back in the day. If Richie was just a little taller he would’ve been an NBA point guard instead of a distinguished social scientist/author.

“I have gone to the big protests (Hands Off, No Kings, with casts of thousands), and now for many months I have been spending Tuesdays, from 12-1, with a group of 20-30 protesters, at an intersection in Friendly Shopping Center, outside Senator Thom Tillis’ Greensboro office.  We all hold signs, some of which are easily read as people drive by, especially when they have to stop for the light, and some of which may not be so easy to read depending on how much text there is, and how fast the car or truck is going.    On a typical day,  many drivers honk their horns in support, many give thumbs up, and some roll down their windows and thank us for being there.  For every 20-25 such indications of support, there will be one person who gives us the finger, or thumbs  down, or yells at us to “get a life” (at which point I usually remark to whoever is standing near me that they used to yell ” get a haircut”j.

     Some of my fellow protesters — mostly but not all, older, mostly white — go to another protest on Thursdays, on Wendover, on a bridge over the road,  where it is probably harder to read the signs, and no one stops to converse.

     I doubt that the weekly protests, or even the big Hands Off or No Kings protests, change people’s minds.  Rather I think they remind people,  including politicians, that many Americans (and, today, people attending the Olympics)  are outraged by what is going on.  They remind people who do not like what is happening that they are not alone, even in the reddest of states.  For me personally, I rarely think I am changing anyone’s mind.  Mainly I consider it a form of therapy.  It.makes me feel better, that I am not just phoning our awful Senators and congresspeople (which I sometimes do), or giving money to causes that I support, but doing something that might in a small way contribute to the extensive evidence that people are horrified at who we have become.”

Maybe We’re All Sign-Holders

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What do you think when you pass under political, sign-holding people on freeway overpasses? Of either variety, bright red or dark blue?

My internal dialogue. “Apart from posting on Facebook, I don’t think anyone could choose a less effective form of political persuasion. Has anyone ever, in world history, said, ‘You know, I was driving south on the I-5 when I looked up and saw an outstretched sign that said ‘X’. Until that moment, I really believed ‘Y’. But now, I realize how misguided I have been and I’ve completely come around to ‘X’.”

At 65 mph, the outstretched sign advert might last 1-2 seconds. That’s not even subliminal.

The sign holders are careful to keep a safe distance from their opponents they’re hoping to somehow convert. Their method is a metaphor for our modern age. We’re all steadily improving at keeping a safe distance from one another. Getting better and better at reducing the inconvenience and unpredictability of direct, interpersonal contact.

Abrupt shift. You may be wondering how I’m doing. Lots of people appreciated the “rawness” with which I described Lynn’s final chapter. Now though, I feel like the humble blog is completely inadequate for telling my story. Of how I’m doing.

I suppose, like the sign holders, I’m afraid too. Afraid to “keep it real” in way too impersonal a format.

So what to do? I don’t know.

This Just In

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From the Office of Diversity, Justice, and Sustainability.

The “Lutes Meet & Greets” are back. I am pro “meet and greet”; however, at least one significant underrepresented group is missing. If the goals of these are, as I suspect, to improve retention, the missing group represents serious, low-hanging fruit. There are several possible answers, but only one correct one. Can you guess it?



Makeda For The Win

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Don’t tell anyone that Makeda was one of my favorite students in my Fall 2024 First Year Writing Seminar.

In large part, because she was from Gondar, Ethiopia. As if our Ethiopian connection wasn’t enough, she was super diligent and hyper intelligent, both academically and interpersonally. As a result, she elevated every class discussion by picking her places to make extremely thoughtful contributions. She dug the course material and it showed.

I’m worn down from having read thousands of first year essays, and yet, I always looked forward to Makeda’s. A superb writer with mature insights that belied her age.

So I was happy to get an email from her today asking if I would edit her nursing school admission essay. As I suspected, the essay didn’t really need anything apart from massaging a few phrases.

But it left me with a familiar dilemma. I’ve had the good fortune to teach several Makeda’s from near, meaning mostly Eastern Washington, and far. Students who are the “first in their families” to attend university. Students who are motivated by their families sacrifices to excel. Students who do excel relative to their peers.

These Makedas almost always aspire to the helping professions, teaching, nursing, social work; because, I think, it’s as ambitious a future as they can envision for themselves.

And of course, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a third grade teacher, or registered nurse, or social worker. “Absolutely nothing wrong” is a poor way of putting that, more to the point, there’s everything right with choosing those professions.

Still, I get this nagging feeling that inspired me to write this to Makeda just now when I returned her barely marked essay.

“Excellent work Makeda. You will sail through. Trust my few suggestions came through, if not, let me know. Only question I have is whether you might make even more of an impact as an MD. Either way, I’m excited for your future. Ron”

I have no doubt Makeda could excel in medical school and in practicing medicine, just like I have no doubt that my Makeda’s who plan to teach K-12 could pursue PhD’s and someday replace and exceed my university colleagues and me.

Maybe I’m projecting a superficial impulse that mo’ status is mo’ better? An obviously problematic premise.

I just don’t know if Makeda has considered the possibility of becoming a doctor, thus my nudge. I would love to turn her life upside down with that suggestion.

Either way, she’s destined to flourish.

Postscript. The reply.

“Thank you so much for your kind message and encouragement! I really appreciate it. I received your comments and suggestions and will do my best to adjust accordingly.

I also wanted to thank you for your thoughtful comment about the impact I could make as a physician, it really encouraged me! God willing, I do have a plan to pursue an MD in the future, and I was wondering if you think it would be a good idea to mention this in my last essay.

Thank you again for your time and support!

Makeda”

Postscript 2. Anyone who has ever uttered the phrase “shithole countries” has never met a Makeda.

So Unfair

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College athletes have a portal, but not me. Nowadays, college athletes are switching schools annually in some cases.

Where’s my portal window? I want to relocate a few hours north. Still awaiting offers from Victoria, Vancouver, Penticton. Beam me up. Please.

Taking Turns

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I was awed by my daughters’ poise last weekend, both at the memorial and the “day after” brunch.

The Winter of Grief hit hard for Alison on Monday; for Jeanette, Friday night. Fortunately, like cars simultaneously arriving at a four-way stop, we’ve edged out and then taken turns losing it. Maybe not the best analogy because it hasn’t been that intentional; fortunately, it’s just the way it’s worked.

Similarly, while I have things I could communicate about my first quite lonely, quiet week post memorial, they seem less weighty than this paragraph from Jeanette’s most recent Substack. So without knowing it, it’s her turn.

“Mom’s memorial weekend was hard and surreal, and also beautiful, honoring, and full of loved ones; those who came to be with and support us, as well as those who sent their love from afar. I spent the reception looking for mom in the crowd, wanting to walk over and rest my head on her shoulder, get a hug, or simply stand by her side. I just wanted to stand beside her, listen to her wrap up her conversation before leaving with her by my side. When I was by her side, I knew I always belonged, I was always wanted. I came into this world by her side, cozy and comfortable in her womb for two weeks past my due date. I was born from her body, I fed from her as an infant, I grew up under the caring watch of her loving and attentive eye. Being by her side is the most natural environment I have ever existed in. I miss her every day. The longer it’s been, the more surreal it feels, the more I think, ‘it’s been long enough, she should be coming back now’. And she doesn’t.”

Fourteen Ways

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I have more end-of-life questions than answers, but I am certain of one thing. Some people, like Lynn, live in ways that inspire those they leave behind to emulate them. Here are several ideas on how we can keep her spirit alive. There was only one Lynn, so pick your favorite few.

Fourteen ways to be more Lynn-like.

  • Take your watch off on occasion and leave your phone behind. And don’t worry about being exactly on-time, instead be even more present to people.
  • Consciously choose intimacy and commit especially deeply to one person.
  • Jump in streams, lakes, or the sound, with or without clothes.
  • Pay closer attention to plants by learning their names and caring for them.
  • Never speak negatively of anyone, instead always give people the benefit of the doubt.
  • Be proactively friendly. When you move somewhere new, if your neighbors don’t initiate for whatever reason, bake them something, walk over with it, and introduce yourself.
  • Trust in kindness and resist the urge to keep score in relationships.
  • Travel, learn new languages, and immerse yourself in other cultures.
  • Eat a lot of fruit and leave a trail of apple cores wherever you go.
  • Volunteer at a food bank, respect the homeless, and give generously to non-profits that care for the most vulnerable among us.
  • Commit to a faith community.
  • Dance.
  • And if you want to embody the most Lynn-like attribute of all, make it this one. Be especially mindful of and friendly to the newcomer, the outsider, the immigrant, whomever is lonely.
  • And lastly, somehow, despite touching so many people’s lives so profoundly, self-compassion illuded Lynn. She often felt she wasn’t nearly enough of a daughter, sister, wife, mother, educator, citizen. She lived with a nagging sensation that there was so much more that she could and should do. Somehow, she understood and forgave others’ shortcomings with more of a generosity of spirit than her own. I struggled to accept this and felt relatively powerless in helping her muster some semblance of self-compassion. Given that, one more especially poignant way we can honor her legacy is to pick up that baton and practice self-compassion. To learn together to accept that although we’re flawed, we’re enough. And with that assurance, to keep her memory alive by consciously and imperfectly being as Lynn-like as we can in whatever time we have left.

Blessed be the life of Lynn Byrnes.

Reverse Psychology

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This morning, on my final Lynn CaringBridge post, I wrote, “Lynn’s memorial is going to be lit.” The truth of the matter is I’m dreading it.

Largely because almost all of Lynn’s most special friends will be there, but she won’t be. What she would give to be able to look each person in the eye, smile, and hug them one more time.

If you’re at the memorial and wondering what I’m thinking it’s, “I really, really wish Lynn was here to see everyone whose lives she touched and to enjoy their company.” Remember, she loved parties.

Last night, Alison asked me how I’m doing. I explained that it all depends upon the level of distraction. Like most people these days, I’m pretty damn good at distracting myself from the permanence of the loss that I wrote about previously. Landman, estate executor details, Facebook reels, UCLA portal comings and goings, U.S. imperialism and related bullshit, etc.

When someone thoughtfully checks-in, like Ali, and I’m forced to stop and remember all that’s been lost, I’m immediately overcome by emotion. I cried in the kitchen.

For me, Saturday afternoon will not be lit. Absent any distractions, I will be a complete and total mess.

I’m approaching the event mindful of what basketball analysts say an offensive player should do when going against a fearsome shot blocker/rim protector. The inclination is to opt for finesse, maintain a safe distance, and lob something high arching up and hope for the best. Counterintuitively, the advice of the best basketball minds is to negate their strengths by driving right into them. Or as the kids say, “Getting up in their grill.”

That’s what everyone coming together Saturday afternoon is going to help me do. Get up in the grill of grief. Jumpstart it. Press “fast forward” on the process.

Prob, so much so, I’ll be fine Sunday morn. Right?