TOADTalk by Jake Jacobsen: Beyond Failure

 

 

Good morning. I was so relieved last week to hear Dr. D recall her many stories of personal failure: I had also planned, for my talk, to come clean about my shortcomings, but now, I thought, I can brag about my many triumphs and balance things out. The problem is, I couldn’t come up with any--besides that great day in 1968 when, at the Connecticut State Indoor Track Championships, I found myself winning the high hurdle event after clearing the third flight with perfect steps and frightening speed. I was so shocked to be nearing the finish line ahead of my competition that I promptly snagged my foot over the fourth hurdle, fell in a sprawling heap, and watched the other runners finish the race without me. Anyway, my talk is a variation on that theme.

 

Exactly one year ago I had just completed my last TOAD talk—I know you all remember it perfectly. While I loitered under the archways a stranger came up and introduced himself. “Does the name Howie Muir mean anything to you?” he asked. Well, we all know Ian and Will Muir, sensational new sophomores: this was their father, Howie Muir. But to me, the mention of that name sent me into a time warp. Howie Muir was the Director of Admission who sent me my letter of acceptance to college in the spring of 1969. This Howie Muir was that Howie Muir’s father, Will and Ian’s grandfather (who a few summers ago, at the age of 80, biked a thousand miles with his grandsons). As you can imagine, I was particularly relieved to get that letter that senior spring, as my dad had attended the college, I had visited it often, and I had a sense that “it was written” that I go there. The problem was that I had been deferred after having applied early, and that winter I had suffered a crisis of confidence. I was a good student, but I had more than a few B’s on my transcript, and I don’t think I particularly nailed the SAT. The truth is, I had underperformed as a junior, and it took me too long to realize my faulty approach. So, great news, right? The acceptance letter came, and I celebrated—for all of five minutes, because arriving in the mail with the letter was a note to my father, also from Howie Muir. “Dear George,” it began—I can still see those hand-written words on the page—“You have a fine boy. However”—don’t you hate that word when it appears on your essays or your report cards?—“However, it’s probably fair that I tell you that his acceptance is somewhat of a risk for us . . .” What a shock. What humiliation. I was face-to-face with the cruelest of revelations: that I had been a marginal candidate whose good fortune resulted not from his own record but from his father’s alumni status—that and the charm I was sure I had displayed in my interview.

 

But here’s the point: that was a harsh discovery, but it was also a blessing, as it made me want to redeem myself in Howie Muir’s eyes—and in my father’s. So I did just that: after a rocky start, I met some fine scholars (my best friends to this day) who taught me through their examples what it takes to excel. And now, Ian Muir will tell his grandfather that the seventeen-year-old whose soul he crushed is the best teacher he’s ever had!

 

Fast-forward six years from that humbling day of my acceptance letter. It was the summer of 1975. After two years traveling through Europe and doing an assortment of odd jobs and moving to California, I had been accepted to a program for a Masters degree in education, and part of the requirement was that I teach a four-week summer school session. I was assigned to a group of twenty-five students, rising sophomores and juniors, who had trouble with their writing, and my specific job was to teach grammar, usage, and punctuation. The problem was, I didn’t know how to do that. Writing had never been difficult for me, and I knew the basic rules of syntax and punctuation, but teaching them in a way that made sense and kept the students awake (remember, this is summer school) was a challenge. Well, I muddled through. I even thought the kids liked me and had internalized their lessons because of my hip delivery, my carefully planned lessons, my crafty use of different-colored chalk on the blackboard. At the end of the term, however—there’s that word again--it was time for my review with my master teacher. I remember this incident as clearly as if it were yesterday as well. He invited me to his house, offered me some iced tea, and then proceeded to destroy my psyche. These were his exact words: “Rod (that’s my name, in case you don’t know), you’ve tried hard, but I think you should seriously consider another line of work.” It’s been thirty-four years, and in some ways I am still seeking to prove that I chose the right path. I’m still seeking my redemption.

 

So these are two rather embarrassing illustrations of the quest for personal redemption. But the same theme we see played out more seriously in the lives of our public figures. Every day, it seems, we learn of the failings, the immoral behavior, and the humiliation of famous and accomplished people. And though we are often properly cynical when an actor or politician or athlete emerges from the darkness claiming to have seen the light, sometimes the stories are inspiring, even enlightening, because they challenge us to examine our own prejudices and values. My favorite recent redemption story is that of Mike Vick, the gifted quarterback for Virginia Tech and two NFL teams who, about four years ago, was arrested for running a dog-fighting ring. His redemption has been a terrific story, I think. You probably have your own favorite figures who have emerged from iniquity and the depths of bad deeds to become role models. Are these tales of transformation real? Are we fools to think people can change their behavior like this? I think we don’t lose anything, really, by believing in these kinds of stories, even when some of them turn out badly.

 

But the most significant kind of redemption I’d like to talk about is on a national scale, and it’s a phenomenon that has occurred in many countries for different reasons—South Africa, Chile, and Rwanda come to mind. But I witnessed it most profoundly last summer on a tour of development projects in Cambodia, and I’ll never forget it. It has taken the form of a home-grown crusade by thousands of citizens to reclaim the country from one of history’s worst examples of auto-genocide (that’s genocide against one’s own people). In 1975, after years of Civil War, the Khmer Rouge forces under Pol Pot defeated their enemies and began a horrific transformation of their society. They marked their ascension to power with the phrase “Year Zero,” and began what they envisioned as total revolution of society on an agrarian model. In two days they had evacuated the cities, exiling millions of people to the countryside, and beginning the elimination of undesirables like teachers, speakers of foreign languages, ethnic minorities, and Buddhist monks. By the time the Vietnamese and rebel armies defeated the Khmer Rouge four years later, almost two million citizens had been killed. The genocide has been recorded in a film called The Killing Fields and in many histories and memoirs that I read before my visit, but what we saw there last summer, barely thirty years after the carnage, is millions of people humbly trying to make a life for themselves and thousands of young Cambodians leading the way toward a redeemed society and culture. Most of these citizens were born after this holocaust, people whose relatives in many cases suffered the horror of the killing fields or perhaps were the perpetrators of that horror. They focus on the future, while not denying the past, as they selflessly dedicate their lives, through work in non-governmental organizations, to the improvement of public health, the expanding of educational opportunities, and the establishment of sustainable small business. We met scores of these young leaders, gentle and gracious redeemers who would inspire you as they did me if you were to meet them. I’d like to share this transformational experience in greater detail in a convocation after the holidays, and I hope you’ll come.

 

So as the TOAD, I’d like officially to wish you Happy Holidays—traditionally a season where redemption stories perhaps seem more plausible than at other times of the year. I hope you’ll take the time to listen to them. Thank you.