word.

posted at 10:48 PM |

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Today Mark Van Madison, the man who helped convince me I could really do this journalism thing, will be laid to rest. His funeral today coincides with my 23rd birthday, the day I have been dreading for a few months now for fear of feeling old.

After losing one of my closest mentors, it turns out I was right.

I have written it before, but it bears repeating: the two biggest influences on my decision to go into reporting were my dad and Mr. Madison. My dad planted the seed when I was hardly 13, telling me he thought I could go into sports broadcasting (a path I followed until college, when I found sportswriting more inviting). Mr. Madison was the one who put a camera in my hand and said, "Let's go to work."

Mr. Madison trusted me more than most ever have; for that, I trusted him. I didn't always agree with him, and he wasn't always right. But he usually was, and the greatest gift he gave us was the ability to tell him what we thought. We were 16, 17, 18 years old, and no one else cared about our opinions. Mr. Madison not only cared, he encouraged us to express ourselves in ways we never thought we could. We did more than just announcements and news packages in his class; we learned about life and ourselves and the people around us and why we all mattered, every last one of us.

At his visitation yesterday, many of my old sports guys came back -- the same guys who butted heads with Mr. Madison and pulled some pranks that teachers at the school still talk about. To a man, we all knew that Mr. Madison had more patience, more diligence, and simply more passion for us than any other teacher. That's not a slight to my other teachers; it's the clearest representation I can give of how much Mr. Madison did for us. He wasn't afraid to tell us that we were being unfair, irresponsible or downright cruel. And he wasn't hesitant to tell us that he was proud of us, that he wanted the best for us, that he loved us. We used to make fun of his signature Dodge Ram pickup with the "JESUS" plate, but if any teacher ever showed us Jesus through his words and actions, it was Mr. Madison.

In a few weeks, the TV Production program's annual "Oscars" awards show will occur. I hope to be there, celebrating the work of the students who have come after me, and the life of the man who helped get us all where we are today. As his students, we don't have to be in journalism or broadcasting to see how much of an impact Mark Madison had on our lives. We can simply look in the mirror.

Pray for his wife, Sheila, and his son, Troy, as well as two adult sons I'm told he has from a previous marriage. We could count on Mr. Madison to talk to Sheila every day at the end of school, and we respected him all the more for it. If we miss him this much, they miss him that much more.

Thank you, Mr. Madison. Thank you so much.

Mark Van Madison, 1950-2008

posted at 1:34 PM |

Saturday, February 16, 2008

One of the unexpected benefits (curses?) of getting up at 6:45 every morning is that, well, you get up at 6:45 on weekends, too. So that’s where I am now, up in my bed, typing away and worrying that this font seems a little too small. I’ve wondered when being a reporter would start to take a physical toll on me, and I just feel like 22 is not a good place to start. I would really love to keep my eyesight for at least a few more years, just until my jaw gets square enough so I will look like one of those CSI-types with thin-rimmed glasses, unkempt hair and a two-day beard. I want to enjoy that transition from well-quaffed youngster to sleep-deprived, underpaid genius.

I covered my first real disaster scene a couple of weeks ago when tornadoes ripped through our state. It’s not the first time we’ve had killer tornadoes here, and it certainly won’t be the last. I used to be scared of tornadoes, fearful every time the sky took that eerie haze and the birds stopped and listened. That fear ended a few years ago, when a tornado tap-danced through the trees in my family’s front yard. The damage took months to clean up, mainly because we relied on ourselves and some guy with a dog and a chainsaw. But I figured afterward that if God wanted to take me out, He’d already used his tornado card.

So when I drove up on the first house that morning in Macon County, it was still dark and the Prizolla was trying to navigate the downed power lines and barbed wire and kids’ puzzles in the road. The battered structure was strung almost sideways, as though it were a guidepost to the destruction ahead. Trees were everywhere they shouldn’t have been, like they were the ammunition for the war that was waged on these people. There were no lights, save for the lights of the cars driven by police searching for survivors, and of those driven by the survivors searching for meaning. The clouds hung low, and I was peeking under the curtain. It would rise later on a place known best for just being there, and now it didn’t do that very well, either.

I believe there are times when we enter a place we don’t know and never will know, and in those times I used to think about the not knowing. I would realize that my finite life will not enter the finite lives of those around me, that I would never dance on a Saturday night in the square and I would never go fishing with him or talk on the corner with her. I would only talk to them, try to reach into that world I will never sleep in, and then leave with my footprints drying behind me.

This used to bother me a lot more than it does now, and here’s why: I no longer yearn to stay, to capture the people and their experiences so I might set their snowglobe on a shelf. I have begun to overlap their lives with mine, like the transparencies we used in school to show the changing demarcation of colonial South America. I don’t see the unknown, but the known: I see my people, my family, my Molly there. I still think about them, to be sure, but I don’t try to be God anymore, because He never asked me to be. He invited me to love Him and to love the gifts He gives me. They are good gifts.

I ask you to pray for those who are picking up their lives and bravely putting the pieces back together. Help any way you can, whether it’s financial or with your hands. And when you do, don’t think about what will happen with your giving. Remember instead your blessings, your gifts, and take them with you as you walk into other people’s snowglobes.

posted at 8:32 AM |

Saturday, October 20, 2007

I'm sorry, but if you haven't checked out Santa Monica's KCRW and its Morning Becomes Eclectic, you need to. Micah and I listened to this program probably every day we were in L.A. while visiting Swati, and my mind was blown.

Right now I'm listening to an L.A. band called Earlimart, which I thoroughly enjoy so far. Our so-called Music City has nothing that even comes close to MBE (and I know you're going to mention WRVU, but you're wrong. You just are.)

So go there, and then sign up for the MBE podcasts on iTunes. Now. Or maybe after you finish reading this.

And speaking of metropolises (and yes, that's correct), I'll be taking my first trip to the Big Apple next month for a higher education conference. Needless to say, I'm pretty stoked, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to head up there a couple of days early to check it out. Joey: be prepared for a phone call.

My main reason for writing at 4:00 this morning stems from recent posts I read from a couple of friends who, quite frankly, can't catch a break. (Note: Out of respect for their privacy, I'm not tagging the friends to whom these life examples belong.) Looking through their recent writings, as well as those of others, has left me fairly sobered. How do you deal with the loss of one parent and the inevitable loss of the other within mere weeks? How do you recover from health and financial problems when you keep getting hit while your back is turned?

A coworker e-mailed me yesterday saying she felt generally depressed by some of the hateful attitudes held by many of our neighbors. She was saddened by the United States, saying she couldn't remember a time when she had lost so much faith in us.

I think we're down. I think we're way down, in a place where we haven't been in a long time. As our emotional detachment grows -- mainly, I believe, because of the deluge of information, witless commentary and/or propaganda we receive and often willingly access -- we become increasingly helpless. We don't have the support systems we used to, so we deal with our problems alone. We shrink into a cocoon of solitude, an aloneness so deep that we fool ourselves into thinking that not only would no one understand our predicament, but that no one cares in the first place.

So we begin to hate the person next to us for not caring. For not suffering like us. For being beneath us. For not being beneath us. And so we shrink, until we become very, very small people -- and as we become smaller, the distance between ourselves and the next person only grows.

I know this probably sounds a bit hypocritical from a guy who willingly chose to live alone. I'm fantastically blessed to live in the area where I grew up, to have family and friends who care deeply about me and are easily accessible. But I have lived in a place where I knew no one, and quite honestly, that time was the most daring of my life. I often depended on complete strangers that later became some of my greatest friends. When I struggled in anything and everything, I knew to whom I could go without hesitation.

This is my life: filled with people who lift me up for no reason other than that they want to see me succeed and find happiness.

I want that for you. More important, God wants that for you. There is nothing worse in this world than being alone -- because to be alone is to be without hope, without confidence, without reassurance. Don't be afraid to reach out. To ask for an ally when you're wounded is not weak; to do anything else is foolishness.

So please, let's remember who's sitting next to us, because they aren't strangers. You know them. They are you.

Labels: iTunes, LA, radio

posted at 4:03 AM |

Friday, October 05, 2007

(Does anyone remember this show? Anyone?)

Looking for wireless Internet in Nashville is an adventure. There are a few stalwarts: the public library, for one, and Panera on 21st Avenue. Currently I’m blogging with the well-manicured grass (ask me about it sometime!) between my toes at Centennial Park, which can somehow offer free Internet but can’t keep community cent – well, nevermind.

It has been quite a long time since I saw you folks around here. I know I’ve been pretty lame about keeping up, and I know this because you keep telling me! Like our brave men and women at Papa John’s, I fear the wrath of the people if I do not deliver.

So what’s new? Well, dear readers, I’m glad I asked for you. Aside from celebrating Micah’s 20th birthday this month (wow, that sounds odd), I have officially proclaimed October to be “Get It Together Month.” This was provoked by what could have been my first bounced check in my life (to the state government, no less) that was so lovingly paid by my credit union so as to not destroy my credit and prevent me from buying a toothbrush next week. Of course, one could argue that the same credit union’s absurd limit on online transfers put me in the predicament in the first place, but no! I will take responsibility, full and unfettered, thank you.

My first major accomplishment of Get It Together Month: making a dentist appointment! (As you can see, I have developed something of a molar obsession.) I have also ceased all plastic action and am moving back to good ole cash, so that every time I buy a Wendy’s Frosty, a little part of me dies inside, and that part of me is fiscal solvency. It’s like Operation, only opposite.

Other features of Get It Together Month include: biking instead of driving (“getting my green together”), nailing the meet-the-family trip with Molly next week (“getting my charm together”), writing on this bad boy more ("getting my blog together") and planning another trip to Mexico.

Say wha--?

That’s right, fair readers, it appears the gang is looking at yet another visit to our fair city Morelia. Originally I had planned this trip for next summer, but after Doug and Alex’s wedding last weekend (congrats!), we all started reminiscing and are thinking about trying to make it before Christmas. I’ll keep you posted, but like an override of President Bush’s veto on child health insurance, it’s a real possibility.

And finally, speaking of President Bush, today on NPR I heard a bit of his response to reports that the Justice Department gave permission to the CIA to torture suspected terrorists. “This government does not torture people,” Bush said.

Of course, English teachers across the country responded, “You’ve been torturing us for years!”

(Thank you ladies and gentlemen, and good night!)

Labels: Bush, Mexico, park, TV

posted at 4:39 PM |

Thursday, October 04, 2007

http://pewresearch.org/databank/dailynumber/?NumberID=378

posted at 1:12 PM |

Saturday, August 25, 2007

So I'm at Cafe Coco at 2 a.m. and I was listening to two guys talk about the Gospel next to me and chow down on this major sandwich that no person should be eating this early.

I'm starting to kinda like this place.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to type as fast as my dexterous fingers can move to catch up with everyone I've missed over the past week (or, in the case of my Mexican friends, the past three months). I'm still trying to figure out this work-play-life balance, but I'm starting to get a handle on things. I think.

For those who hadn't heard, the 30-second update is that I'm now the higher education reporter at The Tennessean, which is somewhat odd because I A. just graduated; B. have a brother and girlfriend in college, not to mention friends; and C. people are calling it a promotion, and it just seems too early for that. And I'm also too poor.

But all in all, there have been a wealth of blessings since moving to Nashville, many of which have been provided by people who put up with me despite my growing lack of dependability and my sick tendency to only talk about work while I'm away from work. I'm chalking it up to an extreme dedication and belief in what I'm doing, even though it gets frustrating. I figure if it wasn't, I would still be unsatisfied.

Anyway, thanks to all of you who helped make my summer way, way better than any person deserves. Here's hoping we can all dance in the rain soon.

Labels: cafe coco, summer, work

posted at 2:04 AM |