Rambling Josh

Every four years, around this time of year, I find myself watching more television in a two week span than I do during the other 50 weeks of the year combined. No, I haven’t fallen victim to a “Say Yes to the Dress” or “Long Island Medium” marathon. I would prefer to stare at the back of your head for two weeks. It’s the Summer Olympics, the Games of the XXXI Olympiad in Rio de Janeiro.

For those that are a bit rusty on their Roman numerals and geography, that is the 31st in Brazil…South America. The games and events being contested on the Olympic stage vary as much as the athletes competing in them. It is the athlete’s that draw me in, more so than the games they play, their stories, their struggles, their triumphs, their sacrifices. They are why I watch.

They are why I find myself out of my seat, arms raised overhead, cheering on people I don’t know, from countries I couldn’t find on a map. They are why I find my eye’s welling up with tears over and over again, while I watch their eye’s do the same, as they listen to their countries national anthem play for them and their accomplishments. They are why I feel a lump form in my throat when I see the competitors loved ones, that have traveled near and far to support them, overcome with emotion.

The competitors' family, friends, and loved ones know the story, know the struggles, and have most likely made sacrifices themselves to help these athletes' reach this level. For many of these athlete’s this is it, these Olympic Games are what they’ve worked for, and when the games are over we may never hear of them again.

My son and I were watching one of the swimming events, and the commentator mentioned that for some of the medalist this would be their first and last Olympics, because they had graduated from college and had careers to pursue. My son said, “They should be able to get two weeks off of work for the Olympics.” As if it involved little more than packing up your goggles and little rubber hat for trip to the cement pond.

I felt my eyes widen in confused disbelief as I launched into a mini-lecture on the four-year commitment, and hours and hours, of practice involved in preparing for these two weeks. This got the usual dismissive shoulder shrug, and grunt, that the majority of my mini-lectures are welcomed with. The spectrum of drive and ambition amongst teenagers is baffling. Some willingly endure torturous workouts, day in and day out, in pursuit of an Olympic dream, and others, well they have Pokémon to pursue.

We can’t all be Olympians, for various reasons, muscle tone like ball of mozzarella cheese, the speed and agility of a limp dishrag, or possibly an acute aversion to any physical activity that may produce nausea (other than tequila shots). Besides, as Syndrome in the movie “The Incredibles” said, “When everyone’s super, no one is.”

Someone needs to watch, someone needs to cheer, someone needs to tear up when a member of the synchronized swim team overcomes a childhood fear of getting water in their ear to lead Kazakhstan to a hard fought victory over Estonia. The drama…the pageantry.

Go Team USA!

The Ellis clan, from the Fritz and Helen branch of the tree, are having a reunion in Lignite this weekend. Any and all are invited to come and visit with those you’re on speaking terms with, collect on a debt, or maybe settle an old score. Whatever brings you our way, know that most of you will be greeted with wide smiles and a healthy dose of sarcasm. Most of you.

It’s been five years since our last Ellis family gathering. A seemingly sufficient time for most wounds to heal and septic systems to be plunged and purged. We shall see.

Grandpa Fritz and Grandma Helen spent the first few years of their marriage moving their ever expanding family here and there. Going where the work was, moving on when it wasn’t, and eventually settling for good in Lignite.

We lost Grandpa back in 1987, but I can still walk by their old flat roofed house and see him sitting on the front step having a cigarette and cup of coffee. A good man, a nice man, gone, but not forgotten. Although he may have preferred the solitude of his woodshop over a large gathering, I’m sure he would have lent his ready smile and sweet chuckle to the mix if he were still here.

Grandma Helen stills calls Lignite home (when she’s not dabbing bingo cards), as do three of her nine children, four with Julie, who was taken from the clan in 1977, and lies next to Grandpa in St. Mary’s Cemetery just outside of town. My dad, his sisters, and his brothers are good people, and although I don’t remember Julie, as I was only four when she was killed, I assume she was much the same.

I have always been interested in the continuous ripple and growth of family through time, and often wonder what the people looking back at me from those old black and white photos were like. What is the story behind each of the names stretching back through the ages? What happened between the day they were born and the day they died? What were their dreams and aspirations? Many times, we can’t even answer those questions for those we’ve shared our allotted time with.

So it goes with us, so it probably went for those who came before, but a family reunion may offer a bit of mitigation in the matter, and provide us with a story to go with the face and the name. Sometimes the story may not be all that flattering, but flattering or not, a story is much more interesting than a list of dates.

The Ellis family story came from Wales to the United States with Thomas Ellis in 1707 when Thomas was 24 years old. Thomas, and his wife Jane Hughes, were of the Quaker faith, and he was said to come from ancient nobility in Wales, and was the most prominent Quaker in Pennsylvania in his time. A real hoity-toity one he was. Thomas and Jane were apparently buddies with Daniel Boone’s family and Abe Lincoln’s great-grandfather, Mordecai Lincoln.

“Coonskin Caps and Quakers” was the name of their band. Jane played tin whistle, Thomas was on kazoo, the Boone’s yodeled, and Mordecai twanged the mouth harp…honestly. Maybe, maybe not, but I can honestly say that I am looking forward to getting together with my clan, a noble clan at that. Swing by for some laughs and a swig of Red Eye.

The Lignite Community Calendar hanging on the wall in our kitchen tells me that today, July 17th, is my birthday. That calendar tells me a lot of things; birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, the moon phases, and that Doc Stevens is a quilter. Lounging under the stars on one of Doc’s quilts with a keg of his home brew within arm’s reach sounds about right. Maybe I’ll pencil that in on my calendar…“Q & K Night”.

As far as birthdays go, the calendar tells me the “when” but not the “how many” for each person listed. I suppose the “how many” didn’t seem like a necessary number to post as public knowledge. This allows for the conversational game surrounding the question of, “how old do you suppose so-and-so is” to be played amongst the curious and bored. For those that are curious, and/or bored, as of this writing I have managed to log 44 living and breathing calendar years on this earth.

To commemorate this grand achievement I decided to peddle my bike 22 miles up Highway 44 and meet my family at the Sugar Shack for a bacon cheeseburger deluxe and a beer. A Sugar Shack burger is probably the only burger I would exert that much effort to obtain, as they have been voted “best burger in the hills” for four years running. I was not disappointed.

Why didn’t I peddle the 22 miles back to Rapid City to make it 44 miles on Highway 44? The thought crossed my mind when I left the house, but 22 miles of uphill, a half-pound of beef, and a pint of beer later, I was convinced otherwise. Besides the roads were thick with “Rent Me” RVs, and age has diminished the brazen stupidity I used to peddle around the hills with.

Action without thought generally guarantees that more action will be necessary to remedy the thoughtlessness. I suppose this falls under the “measure twice, cut once” advice I’ve often failed to heed. I thought twice, and thought it would be enjoyable to ride back to town with my family rather than dodge Mini-Winnie’s pulling pontoons. Besides there was a second-hand birthday cake waiting for me at home, complete with second-hand candles to blow out.

As I’m sure I’ve blabbed about before, my son’s birthday is the day before mine, so for 17 years a second-hand celebration has been the way of it, and that way is just fine by me.

It was a lovely day in the hills, and the ride gave me some time to do a little birthday pondering. A little birthday pondering between the huffing and puffing, between perusing the ditch for treasures untold, between hoping the driver of the vehicle coming up behind wasn’t texting, between wishing the downhill outnumbered the uphill, between questioning why there was a solitary sock laying on the road, between wondering whether I should have a double bacon cheeseburger or a single.

Between all of that I managed to squeeze in some birthday pondering. Not too much, just enough. Just enough to remind me of how thankful and fortunate I am for all those that let me share in their lives. My family, my friends, my students, my colleagues…an embarrassment of riches that I cherish each and every day and twice on Sunday (whatever that means).

Happy 4th of July to you and yours. I hope you managed to sufficiently, and somewhat safely, celebrate our independence from those British rascals across the pond, in whatever manner you saw fit. I suspect for many, you saw fit to fire up the grill and put a well-tended flame to a variety of meats, and hot dogs (meats crazy, inbred cousin that you feel obligated to invite to family gatherings because he makes the kids smile and keeps their filthy little sausages away from the ribeye). We all have a cousin like that, if you can’t think of one in your family, you’re probably it.

If you are a vegan, you spent the day lecturing anyone who would listen about the humanely virtues of your tofu dogs, and horrified by the sight, smell, and sound of meat being perfectly seared, and gleefully devoured by your carnivorous kin. Just kidding, you probably weren’t invited, since at the last family barbecue you pointed to your grandmother’s white leather orthopedic shoes and accused her of being an accessory to murder. So it goes.

I like meat…grilled, smoked, “crocked”, fried in butter (real butter), wrapped in bacon (real bacon)…mmmm good. For special outdoor type occasions, such as Independence Day, a ballgame, camping, a manhunt for a deranged vegan, I will put aside my aversion to sitting in the hot sun, eating hot food on rickety plates with subpar cutlery, while simultaneously attempting to prevent the wind from toppling my red solo cup. Don’t expect the same concessions to be made if you accompany me to a restaurant with the option of indoor or outdoor seating.

My wife, who is perpetually chilly (literally, not figuratively), would choose dining under the blazing sun over dining under the pleasantly cool breeze of an air-conditioning vent anytime. My argument is that she can put on a coat, moon boots, mittens, ear muffs or any other source of warmth, but I am socially bound to keep a certain amount of clothing on in public.

Generally, I am about as laid back a person as you will find (my dad always claimed I would soil myself if I were any more laid back…so far so good), but I am not above pouting, whining, and breaking out my rarely used cranky face, if forced into daytime outdoor dining when a perfectly acceptable indoor option is available. I love the outdoors, but I believe that the price of your meal at a restaurant is inclusive of the use of their structure for the prevention of sweat pooling in the seat of your trousers.

Enough whining about sweat soaked Underoos and windswept napkins. I hope you had an enjoyable holiday weekend doing whatever it is you and yours like to do on holiday weekends. Perhaps it’s belting out a wonderfully off-key version of Lee Greenwoods, “God Bless the USA”? Perhaps not. Whatever blows your hair back, we have options, because we are independent. Independence didn’t come easy, and it wouldn’t remain without the efforts and sacrifices of those that lay it on the line for all that we stand for, past, present, and future.

Happy Independence Day.

Finally, the episode of This Old Camper I’ve been looking forward to since I started on the remodel of the 1966 Aristocrat Lo-Liner my parents bequeathed us a few years back. The episode where the camper is moved from the spot in our yard that it was backed into 5 years ago, when we brought the little rascal home to whip it into camping shape.

I whip slow, but every episode has been a process of learning processes that only seemed to lead to yet another process of processes. Now the time is drawing near, the time to make a reservation at a campground, drag the comforts of home out to the woods, and hob knob with campground folk.

Our sixteen-year-old son’s suspicion of our fun family camping intent has heightened since noticing the camper’s ceremonious move from the backyard to the driveway. I fielded his first question, “Does that thing have an air conditioner?” by pointing out that it had seven windows that are all in perfect working condition, and that the air does change condition from being outside the camper air to inside the camper air when it passes through them. So yes, there is “air conditioning”.

When he asked, “Where do you plan on taking it?” he seemed to put a lot of emphasis on “you”, but, like any good dad, I’m quite adept at ignoring noise from my children that doesn’t fit into the family fun scheme. It’s for his own good. Maybe for the first outing I’ll leave the camper hooked up to the pick-up at the campground, then if he decides to make a break for the comforts of his electronics riddled room in the middle of the night at least we won’t have to call a cab.

This travel trailer has done a lot of traveling over the past 50 years. It began its journey in California, where it was manufactured by the I.B. Perch Company. They sold five different models, and ours, the Lo-Liner, was called such, because it came with a set of small wheels that you could put on the camper so it would fit in your garage. “Stores in your garage as an extra bedroom for guests, a quiet place to study for the student, a playroom for the children, or a comfortable office for the salesman.” Handy-dandy indeed.

Sadly the lo-liner wheels have disappeared over the past 50 years, but we have used it as a guest room from time-to-time, our daughter spent the better part of a summer sacked out in it as apparent preparation for her separation from the main house when she went to college, and I’ve used it as a man cave when man stuff needed to be pondered.

All of the owner registrations for the camper, since it was rolled off the lot, are in a drawer in the camper. A couple in California were the first owners in 1966, it made a jump to Powers Lake, ND in the 70s, then to Minnesota, back to North Dakota in the 90s, and now South Dakota. It’s been around, but it’s been well taken care of by all that have owned it, and we are quite pleased to have been next in line for the Lo-Liner.

I’ll keep you posted on the “Goin' Campin'” episode of This Old Camper. Tis' the season.

A warm, sunny semblance of summer is beginning to trickle in and take shape. School has been kicked to the curb, and for a few glorious months kids can revel in the unbridled joy of being as dumb as a sack of hammers in an ungraded, academic free Eden of ignorance. Some have taken up permanent residence in this Eden of ignorance, and spend thirteen months a year (give or take) gazing at the hammer’s in their sack. Hammers are fun.

I believe it was Mark Twain who once said, “When you have a hammer everything looks like a nail.” Mr. Twain may have had a point, when my brother and I had hammers our Tonka trucks looked like nails. When I had a rubber hammer, my brother’s head looked like a nail, a big round mouthy nail that pushed my buttons until I was left with only one obvious choice. Obvious to all my big brother brethren living in relentless irritation from a little brother.

Every year around this time we hear scuttle about how much learning is lost over the summer, and that we should go to school year-round like other countries. Do you know the source of this scuttle? I have a sneaky suspicion it’s parents that are terrified of the prospect of being the entertainment director for their kids all summer. I’m fairly certain it’s not teachers, and if it were, they would be silenced right quick by their co-workers who would suddenly see them as big round mouthy nails.

“The other countries score better than us in math” the do-gooders lament. Well jolly good for them, but they have to live in other countries. We get to live in America baby! I’ll take our freedoms over long division supremacy any day. You want to sacrifice everyone’s summer so your precious child can score a few points higher in standardized math tests? I have something for you in this sack of hammers I like to lug around. Without summer break things would get ugly quick. To be more specific, teachers would get ugly quick.

As they say, “If you can read this thank a teacher.” If you can’t read this, it’s because the math score ranking lunatics had summer break abolished, and all the teachers quit to pursue their karaoke careers in bars that serve two-for-one fishbowl Kamikaze’s and half priced happy hour bacon and jalapeño poppers. So it goes.

Our daughter opted to come home from college this summer and occupy her rent-free room. She seems to be enjoying Mom and Dad’s reduced rate meal plan, complete with laundry service and dog petting privileges. Our son has not had the opportunity of fending for his own room and board thrust upon him as of yet, so he is blissfully unaware of the potential hunger and hardships life can saddle one with outside the confines of a house owned and occupied by two gainfully employed adults that have a vested interest in his wellbeing.

It is good to have the whole family under one roof for the summer. I know summer’s like this are becoming a precious commodity. As the kids get older, the variables that pull them away from home seem to increase more and more, so I’ll take what I can get when I can get it. What more can we do? Enjoy your summer…it’s hammer time.

When I think back to some of the earliest memories I have of my mom, they generally involve her sitting at her sewing machine surrounded by fabric, zippers, buttons, thread and all the other necessary “stuff” needed to create everything from elf aprons to leisure suits. The creations that fill the gap between elf aprons and leisure suits is not well defined in the sewing literature, but rest assured, if it could be constructed of cloth my mom has probably made it a time or two.

As a child I took the creativity and talent of my mom’s sewing abilities for granted. Mostly because she made it look so easy, but also because children are generally self-absorbed, and lousy judges of creativity or talent. In the eyes of a child, someone that can fart the first verse of Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy” is vastly more talented and creative than someone than can sew a one of a kind Rhinestone Cowboy satin snap-up western shirt with tassels and a velvet yoke. My mom did the latter, my brother attempted the former.

Actually, it wasn’t “one-of-a-kind”, my brother had one as well. Mine was black, his was cream-colored, and, “yes” we asked our mother to make them for us. We held those shirts in such high regard that we wore them for our school pictures that year. Thankfully, by then everyone in town had grown accustomed to our “special ways” and we were spared ridicule or tassel tearing scuffles with satin and velvet opposed bullies. Lignite was such a nurturing, caring community. As they say, “It takes a village to raise an idiot.”

After a recent weekend project my appreciation of my mom’s sewing abilities has been elevated another notch or two on the Martha Stewart-O-Meter. This appreciation elevation was prompted by my attempt to sew curtains for our 1967 Aristocrat Camper. Technically, it was not an “attempt”, as I was successful in completing the curtain project, but I’m sure in the eyes of someone more skilled it would be classified as an “attempt”. I gave myself a C-, but I will have to wait for Mrs. Larsen, our high school home economics instructor, to swing by and issue the official grade.

I would have graded the project lower, but I gave myself extra credit for hardly using any foul language. I’m quite confident my mom could have completed the project in half the time with half the cursing. She could out-sew and out-curse me any day of the week, especially Saturdays. Keeping the people of Burke County in high fashion and raising nitwits prompted perfection in both arenas.

While I was sewing the curtains, the sound of the sewing machine kept taking me back to our old house in Lignite. The metallic “click” of the presser foot on the feed dogs (I googled sewing machine parts) slightly muffled by the fabric held firmly between them was a sound that was heard often in our house. I got so engrossed in the entire process that half a day went by without much notice.

Half a day. Precisely the time between the noon siren and the six-o-clock siren that marked the passing of each day during our youth. Now I know that when mom said, “Come home when the whistle blows” it was probably meant more as a command than a request. I had complete silence with no interruptions the entire time I was farting around with my curtain project. No worries of nitwit whereabouts, no progress interrupting lectures needed regarding why the sewing scissors should not be used to cut open freezie pops or trim your brother’s singed hair.

No fires to put out (literally), just peace and quiet punctuated by the “click” and “hum” of the sewing machine. I am my mother’s son, but thankfully, my kids are not like my mother’s nitwits. “Like a rhinestone cowboy…”

Norm was a good dog. I don’t say that about a lot of dogs, mainly because a lot of dogs bark unnecessarily, and unnecessary barking is unnecessary. I’ve tried explaining this logic to barking dogs in a calm civil manner, but have found it as useful as using reason with a toddler. There is no reason, there is no reasoning, there is only noise. Norm was not noisy, Norm was reasonable, thus, Norm was a good dog.

Dogs are said to be “man’s best friend”, but I have a sneaky suspicion that if dogs had opposable thumbs, and could read well enough to pass a driving test and order carry out, our friendship would turn cool, leaning more towards acquaintances. Someone they used to know, someone they hung out with before life got so complicated.

You would wave as they drove by with heads poking out of every window, one of them would ask, “Who was that?” Your dog would pull his head in, reflect for a moment as he stares down the road in front of him…humming softly to the radio, and say, “He used to be my best friend, but you know how it is…we grew apart.” The other dogs would slowly nod as thoughts of their former best friends flittered about with long ago memories of fetch, sit, roll over, and rope tug-o-war.

One of them would lament, “Man, by best friend could throw! He could have played centerfield for the Yankees, but he hit the sauce more consistently than he could hit a curveball, so I spent a lot of time trying to cheer him up. It was exhausting, and slightly humiliating, but what’s a dog to do?”

I suspect dog’s, like people, have other dog’s that they enjoy hanging out with more than others. Dog’s they can just be dog’s around. Run full tilt, wallow in a muddy creak, roll in something rank, chase a few cat’s…whatever…no judgement. I suspect this because my dog, Pre, a quiet, mild mannered black lab, is not very chummy with other dogs. Any dog, other than Norm that is. If dog’s can have a best friend, Norm was Pre’s. They never had a spat, they shared water and food dishes without so much as growl. They were best friends.

Norm was my good friend Paul’s dog. A quiet, mild mannered yellow lab, who loved a bumpy ride through a pasture in a pickup box above all else. Recently, Norm wasn’t feeling well, and it was discovered that he had developed several inoperable tumors on several major organs. Paul had to have Norm put to sleep. Just because a decision is for the best doesn’t make it any easier to make.

Paul and I have known each other for over twenty years. We’ve never had a spat, we’ve shared a lot of laughs, spilt a bit of rum, and traveled near and far without so much as a growl. Although, unlike Norm and Pre, we’ve never been compelled to sniff the south end of a northbound friend. Every good friendship has boundaries.

Norm, you were a good dog, and you are missed by all who had the pleasure of knowing you.

Possessing the ability to order beer, chicken, eggs, or coffee with milk in Spanish does not make me bi-lingual. After all, besides counting to ten, that is about the extent of my Spanish language skills. Skills that took me two college courses in Spanish to attain. Not Spanish 101 and Spanish 102, you have to pass Spanish 101 to advance to 102, but rather Spanish 101 dos times.

I take solace in knowing that at least I won’t starve if I find myself in a country that speaks Spanish, and doesn’t understand English, no matter how many times I repeat a word or how much I increase the volume. If that worked I would have learned Spanish, because it is the technique my friendly, but frustrated, Spanish professor was reduced to almost every day in class. Dr. Linares was a nice man, but even nice guys have their limitations, and I found his.

He probably had dreams of being a code breaker for a spy agency or a suave government diplomat, but instead he was in Aberdeen, SD, ensuring that I, at the very least, could obtain employment as a very, very short-order cook at a Mexican resort that didn’t have more than diez rooms. I would have learned more than numbers one through ten, but as fate would have it, I only have ten fingers, so anything beyond that seemed excessive and unnecessary.

Although, the first time around, I believe Dr. Linares took some delight in failing me, I am fairly certain he passed me the second go round out of fear that my North Dakotan accent was beginning to rub off on him. He would have been laughed out of Taco John’s. I don’t think I’ve ever taken delight in seeing a student fail one of my classes, but as an older brother, I may have taken delight in witnessing my little brother fail a time or two.

The reason I witnessed the failures may have had something to do with my instigating the failure in some way, shape, or form, but let’s not quibble over details. The German’s have a word for pleasure derived from the misfortune of others, “Schadenfreude”. Ironically, I would hazard a guess that there are a few automotive companies experiencing some schadenfreude in regard to Volkswagen’s “exhaustive” issues.

I experienced schadenfreude the other day while watching my son’s tennis matches. A few courts down from where my son was playing there was a young man that wasn’t being very sporting. He was losing, which may have contributed to his angst, but I think the fact that he was losing to kid three feet shorter and five years younger may have pushed him over the edge. Schadenfreude began to grow with each of his angry outbursts of unsportsmanlike frustration, and peaked when he broke his racket by slamming it against the ground.

It is questionable as to whether his racket breaking qualifies as a “misfortune”, since he was the one that broke it, but I can say, without question, that I found great pleasure in it. Pleasure that bumped up to yet another level of schadenfreude when the kids coach gave him a very thorough and very animated talking to regarding his behavior.

Schadenfreude was enjoyed by all, well, almost all.

Our daughter, Sierra, is nearing the end of her sophomore year of college. Unless she ends up on the “scenic route” that I took to reach the end of my undergraduate degree she is half way to the finish line of her bachelor’s degree, and the starting line of what some refer to as “real life”. Of course, if one isn’t quite ready for “real life” there’s always graduate school.

Sierra is enjoying her college experience, and is gaining a lot of valuable knowledge and experience. Knowledge and experience that I hope translates into a satisfying, fulfilling career that provides enough income to make monthly payments on her college experience with enough left over to put me in a retirement home that changes my diaper at least once a week and allows a daily ration of whiskey and a cigar. A parent can dream can’t they?

I knew she would enjoy college, and I know she has chosen a program of study that suits her well, so I am excited to see what the future holds for her. I am excited to see what the future holds for both of my children, but not so much so that I would wish away a minute of time in the present. As I’ve lamented in many past columns, the future will come soon enough.

One thing that I wasn’t expecting out of Sierra’s college experience as a student, was that it would change me as a professor. This change has been for the better, and can be summed up in with the word “empathy”. Being privy to her various experiences, good, bad, and down right frustrating, trying to navigate all the working parts of a university from a parent’s vantage point has increased the empathy I have for my students.

It’s not that I didn’t care about my students before, I just didn’t really concern myself with all that was vying for their energy and attention outside of my classroom. I knew what I wanted them to learn about the subject I was attempting to teach them, but beyond that it didn’t seem like much of my business. After twelve or so years of blabbing in front of young adults, that has changed, and empathy has made me a better teacher.

A teacher that doesn’t just see the students sitting before me in class anymore, but one that sees them, and the bleacher full of people behind them. The bleacher full of family, friends, children, spouses, and former teachers cheering them on and wanting nothing but the best for them.

Having a daughter in college has motivated and inspired me to take a seat in the bleachers behind each of my students, and not be another pain-in-the-posterior professor holding yet another flaming hoop that they need to jump through on their march towards “real life”. I focus much less on what I feel they should know, how they should learn it, why they should learn it, and who I feel they should be striving to become, and instead, focus on, and take sincere interest in, who they want to be and what they need to know to navigate their world. Their “real world”.

College may exist outside of the “real world”, but it is a world, and any world can benefit from a little more empathy.