Archive - November 2013

Christmas in Paris? Well, if not . . . what about a calendar of Paris so you can live the City of Lights everyday? That’s what Mike McCaskey (Ethiopia 1965-67) decided to do. Mike, who has his PhD from Case Western Reserve, and has taught at UCLA and Harvard Business Schools, never played for the Chicago Bears, but he was the Chairmen of the organization and now has produced a beautiful Paris calendar for 2014 called “My Paris.” I asked Mike how all this came about and he emailed me that, “The calendar was a way to use some of my favorite photos of Paris. I love walking around the city and taking pictures, often of places or moments that are out-of-the-way. Looking at other calendars I couldn’t find one that exactly worked the way I wanted it to. “My calendar should fit easily into a briefcase or folder (so . . .

I have been returning to Barcelona since I first visited the capital of Catalonia in the fall of 1967. It is a city that has change as much, more so, than I have. It continues to change, and all for the better. When I first arrived, Barcelona was a sleepy city on the Mediterranean, a place where one passed through to change planes, catch a boat, take a train to a final destination. There was history here, of course. Antoni Gaudi’s amazing architecture, the Gothic Quarter, and Las Ramblas, a long tree-lined promenade that draws visitors from around the world to shop, for an evening strolls, a drink at a sidewalk café and where to watch the world walk by. Las Rambles stretches from Placa de Catalonia to the monument to Christopher Columbus. This towering statue overlooks the harbor and the Columbus figure gestures, not to America, but in error . . .

THE WHITE HOUSE Office of the Press Secretary FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE November 22, 2013 Readout of the President’s Meeting with the Peace Corps In 1961, President John F. Kennedy established the Peace Corps to promote peace and increase international understanding by encouraging Americans to serve in developing countries.  This afternoon, on the 50th anniversary of President Kennedy’s assassination, President Obama met with longtime supporters of the Peace Corps, its leadership, and volunteers currently serving in Tanzania.  Together, they paid tribute to President Kennedy’s legacy and reaffirmed the importance of serving others at home and abroad.  Since the Peace Corps’ creation, more than 215,000 Americans have committed their lives and talents serving others in 139 countries, and have returned home to give back to their own communities. President Obama opened the meeting by observing a moment of silence at 2:00 p.m. EST to honor President Kennedy’s memory.  He expressed his appreciation for the commitment . . .

[I want to end this series of remembrances of JFK’s death today, November 22nd, 2013, with the recollection by one of the key people who launched the agency, Al Guskin. On the 50th anniversary celebration of the founding of the Peace Corps Al spoke to a gathering of 1500 people at the exact time (2:00am) on the exact spot (the steps of the Michigan Union) where JFK challenged the students to serve. He talked about what the students did 50 years earlier. Later that same day Al was honored to receive the University of Michigan Distinguished Alumni Service Award based on his involvement in the founding of the Peace Corps and his leadership career in higher education. Here is what Al remembers.] Like everyone else I remember exactly where I was when I heard that Kennedy was assassinated. I was in Bangkok Thailand teaching as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the . . .

I was in Freetown, Sierra Leone ( where I was the deputy director of the Peace Corps) and my wife and I were celebrating the first birthday first birthday of our third son, Matthew…he was born in Freetown. Some local boys, good friends, came into the house to give us the shocking news….our celebration came to an end whole the young boys told us how sad they were about our President. The next day I was in the PC office in downtown Freetown (it was on the second floor of an obscure building) and I went out on a small landing to view the high hill on which Fourah Bay College (founded in 1829) was situated. Down the winding path came the entire student body in their black robes, led by the Principal of the College, Davidson Nicol, They were going to the American Embassy to pay their respects and . . .

Dwight Morrow High School, Englewood, New Jersey. Tenth grade biology class. There was the usual buzz of adolescent chatter as we straggled in from gym the previous period and shuffled to our seats. Restless teens, we were looking past biology to the end of the school day and the long Thanksgiving holiday. I took my seat in the back of the classroom just in front of Martin Levine. Our biology teacher, Dr. Hill, radiated a fierce intelligence and seriousness of purpose that kept you on your toes and made you want to up your game. He wore those generic, no-nonsense black-framed glasses that bestowed an added, if superfluous, sense of gravitas. The moment Dr, Hill walked into class, we all sensed something serious had happened. One of two African-American teachers at Dwight Morrow back then–both of them PhDs, unlike their majority white peers–Dr. Hill carried himself with quiet dignity and . . .

[Recently, I was surprised to find the following diary entry. I had not remembered that I’d composed it in my dorm room at Indiana University in the fall of my sophomore year:] November 22, 1963 3:33 P.M. It is hard to describe my feelings at this hour – shock, disbelief, fear. I was waiting in the hallway in Ballantine Hall here at Indiana University to see Mr. Solt, a history teacher, about my schedule. Reading the bulletin board outside of the philosophy office, I overheard one of the secretaries in that office telling that she had heard on her radio that President Kennedy and Vice-President Lyndon Johnson, along with the Texas Governor (Connally) had been shot in Dallas, Texas, and had been taken to the hospital. Walking in the history department I told those secretaries what I had heard. One had just been talking on the phone to her mother . . .

The phone rang in early afternoon that awful day.  It was my wife giving the handful of us in our small office the news that Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. A short time later we learned that he had died from his wounds. Most of us had never had to deal with tragedy; we were young, ambitious, highly paid, sure of our destinies, and totally unprepared for an assassination, an event we thought happened in other times. Instinctively, we gathered in the office of an older guy, a decorated combat veteran from WWII who we hoped could explain it all. Of course, he couldn’t. We closed up shop and went home. I was convinced that some right wing conspiracy was at work, that the ‘John Birchers’ had been involved, that an ugly sub-strata of America had risen up to destroy ‘my president.’ I could not bring myself to watch the funeral and spent the day sitting . . .

Below is a poem I wrote about that occasion, trying to capture how it was for us, my family.  My father was a pastor exiled after a disastrous personal and professional failure in an inner city church to a remote rural parish in Coshocton County, Ohio.  We were placed in a drafty, beat-up old parsonage in a godforsaken little burg cruelly named Blissfield.  My 23-year-old sister was troubled and miserable and living with us even though she was engaged to be married to a rather strange little man in another town.  My mother took to her bed most days and was in rampaging change-of-life. Then JFK got killed. Even though we were Republicans and had opposed his election, it affected us deeply in that already desperately gloomy time.  I was taking the school bus every day into a small high school in Warsaw, Ohio, where I actually enjoyed myself — . . .