Making The Grade

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Put something soft on the ground to cushion your fall because you are about to hear something from me that just may knock you out.

Hooray for pesky academics!

As my alma mater, Northwestern University, is on a quarter system, finals were supposed to be this week. With Coronavirus scrapping physical classes and shredding schedules, the provost, Jonathan Holloway, provided a novel solution: undergrads could choose not to take final exams and base their grade on the quarter’s work that was already graded. In addition, students could change from a letter grade to pass/fail weeks after the regular deadline. What a wonderful world we live in! Students relieved of the insufferable burden of taking finals and avoiding, as the Provost wrote, “the incredible stress that everyone is trying to manage.” Apparently the next mandate would be for dogs and cats to live together in joyous harmony.

So now the goal of college life is eliminating stress. For me, stress was finding an equally delinquent fraternity brother for a ride to south campus for a late-night Burger King run. Owing to everyone else’s general desire to achieve academic excellence, I usually ended up walking for my Whopper. Finals stress for my senior-year roommate revolved around whether or not he would set the curve, which for an astronomy and physics Phi Beta Kappa double major was definitely within his universe. My somewhat more earthly concerns were remembering which courses I was taking and when and where the exams took place. The idea, of course, was to hit the Bahamas for spring break, not treat classes as time on the beach.

So what could really be so wrong with going with flow, given that life in the country has ground to halt everywhere except on the Internet? Well, back to those pesky academics. In a happy coincidence of my academic major and phonetically-similar surname, political science professor Jacqueline Stevens wrote to her students, “…the Provost distributed an announcement offering options for your final paper and your letter grade, despite the fact that he lacks any administrative authority to do so. Only instructors have the authority to create, evaluate, modify, or eliminate the assessments for your final letter grade.” Uh, oh. A statistics professor opined, “But when this pandemic is over, you need to be able to look back and say ‘I was strong’. I am not going to make the final optional for your own good.” Pity the bureaucrat trying to pry open the tenured classroom door.

So why do grades from courses that few will remember, even fewer will care about, and none will cure Coronavirus today, matter? In times of declared emergency, be it from the government or the flip side of the same coin, academia, we need to hold officials to the highest standards of accountability. New Jersey’s governor “suggests” a statewide curfew of 8:00 PM. What does that mean, and how are you innocent of a suggestion when going for a nightly jog? Should our model to fight Coronavirus be the same as the country with insufficient, third-world medical facilities and a predilection for bats as high cuisine? Should Rutgers students, who get Provost Holliday in July as their new university president, worry that their degree may not be worth anything when the incoming administration just makes up the rules for grades?

It comes as no surprise that I’m more cynical than most about the current pandemic. At Madison Square Garden I’d be less worried about the guy sneezing 20 rows up than the health of players sweating on each other on the court, even if it were the Knicks. And while I enjoy my CrossFit as much as the other athletes, it makes sense to close public gyms, which are basically germ petri dishes, no matter how much you wipe the weights,. But as my coach, and mother of a 10 year-old, said on Sunday, “Great workout, wash your hands, don’t touch your face, and keep you social distance. Love you.” So on this St. Patrick’s Day let’s toast that solid advice, unless the Governor “suggests” closing the liquor stores.

© 2020 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

In SOTU We Trust

It was there in countless movies and TV shows. The down-on-his-luck guy craning his neck as that sure thing was about to make him a winner at the racetrack. Of course, as the plotline had to go, that horse slowed down/was edged out/somehow came up lame, and the poor guy just tore up his ticket and went on his sad way. While I prefer to think of myself as a lucky guy, there was always a yearning for me to test my betting prowess and see if I could wager a few bucks and cash out some winnings. So in 2003 it was off to the Belmont Stakes to see if Funny Cide could break the Triple Crown curse and make me a few bucks. History shows mine was the bad choice to take the favorite as the 100,000 fans groaned in unison when the gelding faded in the backstretch. So there I was, sans fedora hat and cigar of a 50’s b-movie, tearing up the betting slip—my left hand letting loose confetti and my right disgustedly tossing down the remaining paper. While amusingly overdramatic, what I didn’t realize was that this act would later have a name: to pull a Pelosi.

Decades, maybe multiple generations, have passed since something meaningful has come from the annual State of the Union speech. Like the upcoming Oscars, but without the killer watch parties, this ritual has become a prime time festival for political geeks and wearers of red ties. So tired is the script that we can barely look up to watch. The sergeant-at-arms wails, “Mr./Madam Speaker, the President of the United States.” Applause bursts forth, otherwise unseen Congressmen stick their hand out for their one shot at a handshake, and the President ambles to the podium. For an hour or so the President drones on while his party leaps to their feet in applause every 20 seconds like a CrossFit air squat exercise. The opposing party, in well-rehearsed inertia, sits quietly with their hands folded as if to telegraph that they are the adults trying to tame a teen kegger.

And then there was this week.

Our current President redefined the phrase “taking a victory lap” during Tuesday’s speech. Utterly ignoring the blood sport of impeachment proceedings, he tried out his upcoming renomination acceptance speech by out-Oprahing Oprah. You get a medal! You get a charter school seat! You get your husband back from military deployment! It was true theater. Maybe theater of the absurd, but nobody could say it wasn’t good TV. For background, the Democratic women put on their white dresses again, but this year they looked more like bored Catholic high school seniors at graduation counting down the seconds before they could leave.

The winner of non-conformity was Speaker Nancy Pelosi. She didn’t buck tradition, she literally shredded it. It’s always been an odd sight over the years—the Speaker sitting stone-faced behind the President, occasionally applauding to keep themselves awake more than caring about the proceedings. Nancy was having none of this with a fusillade of smirking, shaking her head, and absent-mindedly leafing through the speech’s text. It was what a four year-old at the adults’ table would look like if they were constitutionally in line to Presidential succession. At the end of all, instead of throwing pumpkin pie around, she dramatically tore up a copy of the President’s speech. Of course any millennial streaming the event on their phone would wonder why there was any paper involved, so perhaps her gesture was all in vain.

While any semblance of decorum in Washington has now been shattered, all hope is not lost. Travelling Tuesday in New England, I surfed the channels to see how the media covered this travesty. The powerful Boston channels were focused and to the point in their “breaking news” headlines—Red Sox star Mookie Betts was getting traded to the Dodgers. That’s right, the state of our union depends on the outfield this season.

© 2020 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Conscious Unroyaling

Some ten years ago I stood in the summer morning’s heat at the start line of yet another road race. This was not an ordinary race as it was sponsored by Achilles, a group that promotes and helps disabled athletes. I had earned a spot at the front as I was guiding a disabled athlete through the course, something I had done for other races and four New York City marathons. To my surprise there was a swell of squeals from the larger-than-average crowd and I felt a slight bump, normal at a race start as runners jostle for position. Turning around, next to me was a not-well-disguised undercover cop whose protective charge was a mere ten feet way. It was Prince Harry.

Many of the athletes in front of us were disabled military veterans whose loss of one or more limbs was in plain sight. While most were American service members, His Royal Highness has a special affinity for those wounded in combat, and he worked his way around the disabled participants. Being Prince Harry, everyone knew who he was. Being somebody who cared, he wouldn’t just lean over and introduce himself, he would squat down to eye level to greet the wheelchair and push cycle participants. This wasn’t just another stop on an endless tour, this was time with his band of brothers. One could say he was born for this role; but make no mistake—he was genuine, compassionate, and caring.

What a difference a decade makes.

In what should be a time of pleasant iambic pentameter for the Duke and Duchess of Sussex has turned into a turgid As Megxit Turns soap opera. There’s certainly a time and place to take a step back and out of the limelight, like Uncle Andrew’s recent disappearance. Then again, that prince somehow failed to end his association with a convicted pedophile, so staying out of sight was probably the better plan than having the masses chase him down with pitchforks. And while brother William gets the crown, he also inherited his grandfather’s receding hairline. No bad comb overs for this royal—to the razor he went and lost the hair battle while winning the dignity war.

Unlike Henry V, this Prince Harry is not looking to make a heroic stand against the French or anybody else for that matter. Apparently he is concerned about his mental health, and his wife complains that nobody is asking how she is feeling after having a baby. Thus they “intend to step back as ‘senior’ members of the Royal Family and work to become financially independent, while continuing to fully support Her Majesty The Queen.” If I had to guess, Her Majesty would give slightly different advice, like see a therapist and pop some Prozac. It’s not like they have to wait in line at the local National Health clinic.

We now face the prophecy of the St. Crispin’s Day speech coming alarmingly true, with Shakespeare’s monarch proclaiming, “That he which hath no stomach to this fight/Let him depart; his passport shall be made/And crowns for convoy put into his purse;” So it’s off to Canada for our main cabin couple to figure out how to be “financially independent,” with a collective hope they don’t fall into the celebrity-merchandising trap. Imagine if Lady Gwyneth of Goop directed their quest for treasure with lines of “Sussex Sex Toys” or “Windsor Wick Candles” (all organic, of course). Maybe Meghan could go back to Northwestern and earn an MBA and help guide their budding business empire. One of the University’s colors is royal purple, after all.

There will be no muse of fire, swelling scene, or warlike Harry to end this sad tale. The House of Windsor will survive, bruised but maybe better off with the redheaded spawn across the ocean and closer to the rebellious colonies that seem to fit his temperament. Maybe the Sussex Three will live happily ever after, but they shouldn’t bank on keeping any mantle space open for The Queen’s Christmas Card.

© 2020 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Thirty Bucks

“Wanna buy a pizza?”

That refrain haunted my boarding school dorm every Saturday night of my senior year. Chase the pie whisperer was hawking the goods to raise money for the baseball team’s spring training trip to Florida. The weekend hustle was in the great American tradition of hard work, taking advantage of a captive audience, and promoting ill-defined social benefits. In this case our teenage hunger was assuaged and the team made a noticeable improvement in turning double plays.

New York City has always been a center of hustle. Whether it is people moving quickly, talking even faster, or a combination of both to sell some kind of ware, hard work and a willingness to pound the pavement was admired. When rain comes, a mysterious fleet of people appear at subway entrances to sell cheap umbrellas. When the sun returns, like woodland spirits at dawn, they disappear. I’m pretty sure they are also the same guys who sell green hats for St. Patrick’s Day and red, white, and blue gear for Fourth of July. Now these folks may not be future moguls, but everyone has a kind word for saving your suit from a soaking or providing instant gear for a holiday.

Then came the drama of the $30 New Year’s Eve pizza.

When a million people come together in Times Square to count down the New Year, all manner of things can happen. In the 80’s it was mostly muggings, stabbings, and an occasional shooting. In the Disney-like atmosphere of today, the talk is mostly about security and what kind of adult diaper people wear standing for 12 hours until the ball drops. Into this morass of opportunity waded the Domino’s pizza guy. With a store just off Times Square, he had a constant supply of pizzas and, literally, a million hungry mouths to feed. And as James Earl Jones’s character in Field of Dreams predicted, people were willing to hand over their money without even thinking. In this case, it was $30 for a pie. New York City, a legal (and tasty) product, and people with cash to burn. The man was set up for a nice pay day and be seen as a model entrepreneur.

So you would think.

“Price Gouging!” “Greed!” “How Could He?” Those are some of the printable headlines. In our modern nanny-state city, this fine man was decried as a war profiteer. I’m not saying he was feeding the masses with loaves and fishes, but he wasn’t the Judas of pizza either. Want a real rip off? Try the old man day-drinking bar that slaps a New Year’s sign on the door proclaiming an 8:00 PM-Midnight open bar for a mere $100 bucks. Trust me, neither the value nor the booze will be top shelf.

Beyond Domino guy’s foresight, there is something else that should elevate him to the street vendor hall of fame. How did he get to walk around the pens of people in the first place? Dubbing itself as “one of the safest places on earth,” the news outlets endlessly repeated the requirements for entry into Times Square, the army of cops protecting the area, and the “once entered you cannot leave or move anywhere” mantra. Apparently this guy has the skills of an Ocean’s Eleven safe cracker or warm pizza is some kind of sci-fi cloaking device.

Not as swift was our twit Mayor De Blasio who tweeted in part, “…I’m sorry this corporate chain exploited you—stick it to them by patronizing one of fantastic LOCAL pizzerias.” OK then, where were the LOCAL pizzerias that night? There are plenty around Times Square, and they all deliver. Knocking a man for hustling is even more insulting coming from a guy who has never done a full day’s work, honest or otherwise, in his life. Even worse, De Blasio proudly eats a street slice…with a knife and fork. Not very LOCAL.

So the start of 2020 looked bleak for New York until I scanned the headlines in the Daily News. “Man snatches woman off Bronx subway train, later beaten by good Sam[aritan]s.” Now that’s my LOCAL town.

© 2020 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Red, White, and Claus-A Christmas Story

From Thanksgiving to December 25^th, they are all over the place. A bright red triangle with white tassel ball at the point and matching trim at the base. For years now the fuzzy wool has been replaced by synthetic fibers, and they are made in countries that don’t celebrate Christmas except for the commercial export potential. The Santa hat.

I own such a hat, and it crowns my head during my Christmas day air travels. And every year as I climb into my father-in-law’s pickup truck, my wife will look up and grimace, give a less-than-Santa-stare, and mumble something about getting rid of that hat. And every year I will completely ignore her suggestion.

In November of 1996, my mother was diagnosed with cancer—probably fatal within a year. Seeking more aggressive treatment, she underwent her second day-long surgery within a month at a different hospital. All of a sudden Christmas day was upon us, and with little time to think about presents, my brother had hurriedly picked up two Santa hats on the way to visiting our mother. And so it came to pass that my brother and I, he a few inches taller than my six-foot frame, ambled down the cancer hospital’s corridors looking like absurd over-sized elves.

Yet for all the sadness we had gone through recently, it struck me how lucky we were. Despite our mother’s desperate condition, we passed by patients who were, and this was hard to believe, in far worse shape. Men and women hunched over in their wheelchairs slowly made their way around, a forest of tubes and IV’s attached all over their bodies. Relatives followed nearby, trying vainly to keep a brave face for the sake of their sick family members as well as themselves. It was a scene to which I had become accustomed, but this Christmas day was different. Looking at us, the patients gave a little smile. The family members first mimicked that grin and then let out a hearty “Merry Christmas” our way. Nurses and doctors gave a passing nod of approval. The pall of sadness had, for a brief moment, lifted.

That was my moment of Christmas meaning. It was the little glimmer of hope that a hat could give. The little humor. A little laugh. A little sign that things could be alright. This was a place at the cutting edge of modern medicine, yet death always had good chance to notch another victory. My own search for the meaning of Christmas had gone through any number of phases—working retail and hating endless repeats of the season’s songs, enjoying the material benefits of a good year’s gift giving, and even an annual appearance at church. Suffice it to say I was much more Charlie Brown looking for a decent tree than spiritual reckoning with the gift of Jesus on this world. But what my brother and I had stumbled into was giving just a little hope to those lacking it. Wasn’t that what Christmas was all about?

I can’t say what happen to those folks we passed that day 23 years ago, but for our mother, it was, as Churchill might have put it, the end of the beginning. Her survival was by no means assured, and it took months of treatment for her to recover and restart her life. But that day, unlike the days and weeks before, there was a little laughter in her room, a few presents exchanged, a little food eaten after weeks of liquid nutrients. Our gift that Christmas was hope.

And so as a reminder of that hope, on Wednesday this 54 year-old man will be wandering the airports of America, Santa cap on, his hair greyer than 23 years ago but not quite Kris Kringle white. My fellow travelers will smile and flight crews on the short end of the scheduling stick will tell me my reindeer are parked outside for refueling.  Even a few small kids might point at my hat and ask their parents why even Santa has to change in Atlanta to deliver his presents. And as I climb into my father-in-law’s pickup truck, my wife will look up and grimace, give a less-than-Santa-stare, and mumble something about getting rid of that hat. And I will, once again, completely ignore her suggestion.

May you all find your particular meaning to Christmas, a message of hope, a message of peace. If you aren’t sure how to start that journey, you could do a lot worse that put on a Santa hat.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Morning In Marinette

Only if you haven’t turned on a TV lately could you have missed Mike Bloomberg. In a lack of subtlety brazen even by political standards, Mayor Mike bought ad time across the country like a sailor on shore leave discovering dollar happy hour at the bar across from his ship. In this case, Bloomberg bought a $30 million round proclaiming, in sepia-toned still photos, his grand accomplishments and self-described ability to defeat President Trump. 

Reagan’s “Morning in America” spot it was not.

Of course that 1984 ad, while shot in California, was more of a mythic place for invoking overarching themes of American pride and prosperity. What most people don’t realize is that the ad’s title is actually “Prouder, Stronger, Better." All of which begs the question, is there a place in the country that feels prouder, stronger, and better? It turns out there is, and I got the chance to spend a few days there.

Marinette, Wisconsin is on the Michigan border, some 45 minutes north of Green Bay. Home to Fincantieri Marinette Marine, builders of the Navy’s LCS ships, the factory started as a WWII dirt floor plant and, after a $100 million remodel (and plenty of concrete for hard floors), now produces decidedly 21^st hardware. The LCS class is a low-draft vessel that, through a modular design, can change its mission with a few fork lifts and properly-equipped storage boxes. From launching surface-to-air missiles, amphibious Marine assaults, and probably a whole bunch of classified things they didn’t tell me, the ship is a force to be reckoned with. At $400 million a copy it might not break Bloomberg’s billionaire bank account, but the 100,000 gallons of fuel oil to make it go might give him pause. Then again, with his Napoleonic fervor about eliminating fossil fuels, Mike would be too busy trying to put in solar panels to turn on the ignition.

What made visiting the factory so interesting was the people. This wasn’t just a factory, this was a heavy industrial plant. The workmen (and a few workwomen) had dirty overalls, clothes soiled with steel dust, grease, and other muck that just doesn’t wash out. They carried heavy tools. They were focused on their dangerous work. They were strong.

Once a ship is floated into the water, a factory civilian takes over as the officer in charge. Nothing moves on or off, no change made, no bolt tightened without his sign off. Such an officer was Big Tom. While his name isn’t actually Tom, he is big. 6’3” and probably some 280 pounds, Big Tom owned the boat, and probably 75 pounds of extra heft from a Wisconsin diet of bratwurst, cheese curds, and beer. But get him talking about the ship and he was like a teenager in puppy love. He purred about the inspections of every system, x-raying individual welds, and presenting the results to the Navy. In the pilot house he pointed out how every computer cable had to tested, making his point by separating a strand from its bundle, his thick fingers working with the delicacy of a flower collector taking off an individual petal for pressing into a book. This is a man who is proud, very proud, of his labor.

And then there was Maryanne (not her real name) who ran public relations and events for the boat yard. Lithe with a long mane of red hair (and about a third of Big Tom’s body mass), she made her steel-toe work boots seem more of a fashion statement than a factory floor requirement. By coincidence I happen to have pictures on my phone of the LCS ships made by a rival in Mobile, Alabama. Glancing at them her faced puckered and she simply said, “Oh, the tri-hulls [a difference in the competitor’s design]. Ours are better.”

Prouder, Stronger, Better. In the complicated mix of union politics, conservative culture, and economic hope, it is this kind of town where the candidates will target their resources to pick up every last swing vote. We will find out who wins that election in November. But one thing is for sure—when the sun rises tomorrow it will be morning in Marinette.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

The FGLI College Welfare Shakedown

A weeknight knock on my fraternity room door usually meant one of two things. Perhaps one of the guys in the house wanted to discuss the finer points of science with my Phi Beta Kappa astronomy/physics double major roommate. The universally more likely reason was not to quench the thirst for knowledge but to douse a dry throat from my perpetually-stocked beer fridge. By instinct my hand had almost opened a can when I was startled to hear a voice ask for ten dollars. “Vince got arrested and we need cash to bail him out, otherwise he’s going to stay all night at the police station.”

n one of those you-only-see-this-on-cop-shows-moments, Brother Vince had been pulled over by the local constabulary for, yes, a broken taillight. While sober and otherwise law abiding, he had missed a court date to adjudicate a speeding ticket and thus had an outstanding bench warrant. In a moment of clarity unusual for college students, Vince had the presence of mind to have the fraternity phone number memorized and not use his proverbial one call back home, thus tipping off his parents that he had recently taken the family ride 40 miles over the speed limit. My Hamilton, along with those from the other guys, promptly sprung him and he returned with an embarrassed, beet-red face that no Hollywood makeup artist could have hidden.

I hadn’t thought about this for nearly thirty years until an otherwise unremarkable article in my alma mater’s Daily Northwestern newspaper caught my eye. The headline talked about an emergency fund moving across bureaucratic responsibility lines and I thought this could be a feel good story about the University stepping up when a student’s family encountered some terrible misfortune. To my surprise, the story included a student complaining about a delay in receiving her check to cover airfare for…a visit to her sick grandmother. In such family crisis situations a university can, and should, help its students by rearranging paper and test deadlines. In a similar vein, over the years I have had to ask my bosses for bereavement leave, which was graciously granted every time. And while not lacking for compassion when it comes to grandma, this begs the bigger question: when did private universities become welfare offices?

The answer lies in the newest campus culture crusade—the first-generation, low-income (FGLI) college student. In the traditional narrative a student from meager means overcomes their circumstances and works hard in high school, thus earning a hefty (or full) scholarship for tuition, room, and board and then works the crappy dining hall dishwashing line for book and movie money. The family chips in where they can and a collective sacrifice elevates the student and society. With an $80,000 a year price tag, reality has left any discussion about college costs; sadly, so too has personal responsibility when receiving charity.

Today our FGLI student is a “victim” who always needs more “help” in college. Even on a full ride there is a never-ending set of expenses for which somebody else is expected to pay. The “Student Enrichment Services” site racks up an impressive list of this aggrievement. Need a long-term laptop loan? No problem (although it begs the question how you filled out that free electronic common application). Want to hit a ballet performance downtown as part of the dance club? Somebody else will pay for it, “to help reduce the financial burden these activities may cause students.” Need a winter coat? Suit up for free (and all that climate change aside, how did you not know that Chicago is cold in the winter). Next thing you know, people are going to ask if you need food stamps. Actually there’s a suggestion and link for that. I’m not sure what color the FGLI flag flies, but it probably should be the dollar-bill green of accountability-free liberal guilt. After graduation these kids are in for a shock when their manager doesn’t offer an $800 United gift certificate along with time off to go mourn Uncle Zippy’s passing.

There’s still a bone I have to pick with Vince as I don’t think I ever got my ten bucks back. Maybe he used it to pay off his ticket, learned his lesson, and banked the rest for beer money, which suits me just fine. Unfortunately, I also now know that my modest annual fund contributions to Northwestern go to something far less educational.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.