JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

July 4 2001

I am passionate about community and democracy.  That’s why July is one of my favorite months and the 4^th of July is a favorite holiday.  I’m such a geek about these things that, at times to my children’s chagrin, I read them portions of The Declaration of Independence each July 4^th.

We all know that those who signed The Declaration of Independence did far more than declare our nation’s freedom.  They set an example.  They demonstrated the hard work that is required to build a nation – and for that matter to build communities.  It takes a lot of effort to find common ground.  The Founding Fathers spent week upon week in the sweltering heat of Philadelphia.

I am grateful for the sense of community my family has found in Longmont.  When we arrived in town, we were made to feel welcome in countless ways by generous neighbors.  The circle of people with whom we feel connected expands with each passing year.  For my children, Longmont will be one of the most cherished kinds of community – their home town.

Community is among our most basic human needs.  Psychology studies suggest that a sense of community ranks among the biggest factors affecting people’s happiness, behind only family relationships, financial security, and meaningful work.  Community even ranks ahead of health.

While those of us who grew up on the High Plains boast about our independent nature and are skeptical of psychology studies, we know that much of what we cherish in life requires community effort.

July 4 2006

I’m passionate about community for its own sake and the happiness it bestows upon my family.  But I care, too, because healthy communities are a prerequisite for a healthy democracy.  This is true at all levels of democracy – national, state and local.

Recent social science research suggests that today people tend to define their communities more narrowly than in the past.  To understand why, we must consider the foundation for a healthy community:  shared values.

To greater extents, we all live in value enclaves.  We tend to associate with people who see the world in narrowly similar ways as we do.  Our patterns of association are reinforced by niche media – talk radio, cable television, internet, all forms of print – whose primary purpose is to diminish the reputation of “the other side.”  It is as if an industry has been built on hatefulness.

Language that disparages people who hold different views serves one central purpose.  It conveys the message that “those people” are not part of our community.  They do not share our values.  They are outsiders and should be shunned.

There is nothing quite so damning as labeling someone an outsider.

Conventional wisdom today seems to hold that it is impossible for a nation as diverse as ours to find common ground.  We are and will continue to be hopelessly divided.

July 4 2007

I disagree.  In my work, I have the good fortune to talk to people from all walks of life.  There are a core set of values that are important to us all.  Among these values are security, opportunity, family, dignity and personal freedom – not to mention community.

The question is not whether we still hold values in common.  Rather, are we willing to make the effort to discover and focus on our shared values?  Or, will we allow civic sloth to prevail.

That’s the rub when it comes to community.  Like any relationship it takes work to keep it healthy.  Sometimes, a lot of hard work.  And, while it’s always easier to be lazy, there’s typically a high price to pay in the end.

I submit that the future of our democracy depends as much on our willingness to focus on common values and build healthy communities as anything else we might do.

We need this foundation to sustain democratic decision making.  The alternative is an all too familiar stalemate in which we ignore the most crucial issues and focus on petty differences.

We will always have disagreements within our communities.  There will always be those who insist on being contemptuous in their speech and behavior.  But, the ability to disagree – even passionately – in a constructive way begins with a firm commitment to our commonalities.

It’s worth the effort.

*     *     *

This piece was originally published in the Longmont Daily Times Call in July 2006.

Former President George H.W. Bush

Are there some secrets people should take to the grave?  Or, is it always best to come clean?

I’ve told this story to a few people so, perhaps in my case, these questions are moot.  I also figure that after nineteen years the statute of limitations has surely passed.

George H. W. Bush, while President, came to Topeka to help Mike Hayden raise money for his 1990 re-election bid for Governor.  President Bush gave a keynote address to a large and enthusiastic crowd at the Kansas Expo Center.  It was my opportunity to shake the hand of a sitting President – that’s really cool!

My perception of the elder Bush is that he’s a very gracious man.  I will always remember the phone call he made to Mike on the morning after election defeat.  Mike let those of us in the Cedar Crest kitchen listen in on speaker phone.  President Bush conveyed his condolences in the most genuine way, “I’ve lost, too.  It’s not fun but you’ll be fine.”

Grace is a quality that is highly undervalued especially in public life.  George H.W. Bush had it.

It is quite exciting to be part of a Presidential event.  It’s hard to escape the magnitude of what is happening when dozens of Secret Service agents arrive in advance to prep the venue for safety.

One precaution that is taken is building draped walkways to shield the President from public view when he is moving from one place to another.  A long “tunnel” with two curves was built in the Expo Center from a room on the side of the main auditorium to the podium where President Bush would speak.

Several Hayden Campaign staff, including me, were given security clearances to help out back stage.  There isn’t that much to do with the President’s advance team on the scene.  But, at one point, I was enlisted to help.

I was handed a glass of water and told to put it on the podium.  I took the glass and headed down the cloth draped hallway.

Juvenile thoughts still spring quickly to mind when you’re twenty-five years old.  I must admit that my “be mature” filter designed to sift out bad ideas did not always work to its full capacity nineteen years ago.  Sometimes the bad ideas seemed good in the moment.

I rounded the curve of the tunnel when a thought crossed my mind, “What if I took a tiny sip from this glass?  Then, I could say I drank from the same glass as the President.”  I didn’t have much time – twenty feet – to make a decision.  I looked behind me and to the front.  I was out of sight to the world.

I did it.  I took a small sip.  Then rushed to the podium and put the glass in its assigned location.

I felt guilty and rebellious.  Would I get in trouble?  Had I violated the campaign’s trust?  Perhaps.  But still…. what an opportunity.

The President and his entourage arrived a few minutes later.  I found a spot along the side wall of the auditorium to watch the President’s speech.  I watched.  I didn’t listen.  I waited in anticipation for him to take a drink.  Finally, about mid-speech, he paused and took a long drink.

I did it.  I could now say that I drank from the same glass as the President.

It didn’t occur to me until a few minutes later that most people would think, while rolling their eyes in disgust, “Are you really that juvenile?”

Sometimes, I guess I was.  What can I say?  Some brushes with fame are less glorious than others.

I am currently working with community organizations in Detroit and Battle Creek, Michigan.  I’ve spent quite a bit of time in Michigan in my career.  But, this is the first time in about 10 years.

In the late 1990s, I spent a good deal of time in Flint.  It is a place where I learned that, sometimes, it is very hard to find common ground with other people.  But, it’s worth the effort.

Flint is a city that has faced more than its share of hardships.  Once a place to which people would flock from across the country, even world, in hopes of working for General Motors, it is now a city commonly disparaged.

Over recent years, the city has had to grabble with high rates of unemployment, crime and severe racial tensions.

I had the opportunity to work with a group of non-profit executives who were meeting on a monthly basis to figure out ways to collaborate.  The effort was going nowhere fast.

Everyone in the group had preconceived views of one another.  People “knew” each other’s “real” motives.

Indeed, the non-profit community in Flint had a long history of turf wars driven in part by the racial tensions that plagued the whole community.  Many of the executives at the table made little effort to work together.  Their behavior was so passive-aggressive it was embarrassing.

After several months of no progress, those of us trying to husband collaboration were on the verge of calling off the effort.  More than once I sat in my hotel room at night and wondered why in the hell I was in Flint rather than at home with my family.

As a last ditch effort, we decided to change the agenda for our December meeting.  We told the group there would be no business oriented conversations.  Instead, we would have a potluck.

The non-profit executives were told to bring a favorite dish and be prepared to answer one question:  Why do you live in Flint?  That’s the one thing they all had in common.

People were skeptical of the idea at first.  So, to get buy in, we promised people we’d stick to a schedule:  Each person would have 10 minutes to talk about why they lived in Flint.

The first person spoke for 15 minutes.  The second person brought pictures of her childhood home in Flint.  She spoke for 20 minutes about her 50 years in the community.  The third person, an amateur ventriloquist, brought his dummy to help tell his story.  Forty minutes later it was clear that not everyone would have a chance to tell a story on this night.  But no one cared.

The group was having genuine fun together.  A woman in the group asked the others if they wanted to continue the potluck at her home.  Everyone agreed.  That night in my hotel room I was glad to be in Flint.  It was my best night there.

Day two of the potluck was just as powerful as the first.  The group laughed together and there was a tear shed on more than one occasion.  I can’t even tell you how long we met.

Trust formed over those two nights.  The group was able to look beyond professional turf and the color of one another’s skin to focus on a common love.  The non-profit executives were no longer executives.  On those nights they were just folks who called Flint home.

Flint still faces more than its share of challenges.  The executives who took part in this initiative still get tired and discouraged.  But now they have someone to turn to that they didn’t have before.  Many of the executives continue to meet for breakfast on a semi-regular basis to offer each other encouragement, swap ideas and occasionally do work together.

As for me, this experience taught me the value of taking the time to do the hard work to find common ground.  And, sometimes all that takes is a little food and a few good stories.

Perhaps, not such hard work after all.

Atwood Golf Course Fairway #2

There was water flowing in the creek beds then, always a steady stream.

We paused on the banks debating whether to take off our shoes.  It was far easier to feel the creek bottom surface with bare feet.  The risk of slicing a toe on broken glass was real.  The prospect of more bounty typically prevailed.

Shoes and socks safely stored beneath the rickety wooden bridge, we slipped into the waste deep water to begin our search for treasure.  Optimism always ran high as mud began to ooze through our toes. Anticipation and excitement took hold the moment we felt a hard curved surface touch on the sole of our foot.  We’d reach down, sift through the mud and pull up our prize – would it be worth keeping?

Creek (pronounced crick) balls from the Atwood Golf Course were our treasure.  The golfer’s misfortunes were our opportunity for riches.  Once washed up and displayed on a tee box we could collect 10 or 25 cents per ball – 50 cents if you found a jewel like a brand new Titlest – from golfers in need of supplies.

Creek ball hunting was one of my primary sources of income in grade school supplementing what I earned mowing lawns.  These were completely discretionary dollars.  My parents did not make me report what I earned on my trips to the golf course so dollars were not diverted to a savings account.  Anything I made on the course turned into baseball cards, comic books or a Chocolate 400 at Currier Drug before I went home.

Lots of kids spent time on the golf course at one time or another to try to find creek balls.  My main partner-competitor was Tim Yount.  We went together for companionship and we would take turns checking for golfers (so we wouldn’t get hit by an errant drive).  But that’s as far as our cooperation went.  It was a brutal competition in the creek each of us wanting to find the most and best golf balls.  We lived by a simple rule that governed our marketplace: Finders-keepers, losers-weepers.

We typically made our rounds east to west starting at the creek on hole number two, moving to three and finishing up on number seven of the nine hole course.  We spent most of our time in the open water of each stream but if creek balls were scarce we’d venture into the weeded areas.

With weeds came the possible of greater reward but also more risk.  We’d always spend five or ten minutes picking leaches off our legs and from between our toes after exiting the water.  I can still feel the sting and trickle of blood that followed.

We often wore blue jeans if we planned in advance to search the weeds.  We’d convinced ourselves long pants deterred leaches, but I don’t know if that’s true.  I often found leaches in the shower a few hours later at home.  There was a downside to the jeans.  Crawdads would dart up our pants.  If Tim or I started shrieking and dancing for no apparent reason, the other knew what had happened.

Wednesdays, Ladies’ Day, was the best day to do business.  The Ladies were always encouraging, supportive and kind.  If we could find Maxine Finley or Hilda Eaton on the course, we knew we were guaranteed at least one dollar in sales, each.

Thursdays, Men’s Day, we tried to remain unseen.  On Thursdays, the men weren’t so generous, often chasing us off the course.  On other days, they were fine.  I suppose the Thursday “competitions” led to shorter nerves.

A few golfers, seeing one of their own lost balls in our collection, would demand to have it back free of charge.  They didn’t understand our rule of finders-keepers.

We would return a ball if we were in the creek when the ball went into the water.  It seemed like good course etiquette.  It also helped to facilitate our sales.  But, if we found the ball when golfers were nowhere in sight, we considered it our own.

On those days when few creek balls or customers could be found, our hunt would be suspended for water fights, throwing mud balls or golfing by hand – throwing the golf balls we found from hole to hole.

The Atwood Golf Course was a great workplace.  I can’t imagine one better for kids.

The drop in water table, so I’m told, is the main culprit for the dry creek beds today.  I’d like to see the water come back except, of course, the first week in August.  Paul Hayden and I often play out of the creeks during the Atwood Jamboree.  It’s a more pleasant experience when we are able to keep our shoes dry.

*     *     *

Photograph from the Atwood Country Club website.

*     *     *

I couldn’t help but think of this SNL skit when writing this post.

In Uniform

Twenty five years ago this summer I had the easiest job of my life.  I was an usher for the Texas Rangers Baseball Club.

I patrolled the center field bleachers in old Arlington Stadium – a minor league park expanded to be home to the Rangers.  I stood in the Texas sun on metal bleachers in polyester pants (and a really nice belt).

The ’84 Rangers were an unremarkable team.  Some might even call them bad.  They posted a 69-92 record for the season.  I worked 32 games in June and July at $18 per game.  The Rangers were victorious a mere eleven times.

I spent the rest of my time that summer attending summer school at Texas Christian (TCU), babysitting for a family friend of my brother’s girlfriend, and hanging out at the apartment swimming pool.  My parents were convinced I was just wasting my time.

I went to Fort Worth that summer to live with my brother who had just earned his undergraduate degree in radio and TV from TCU.  He had a summer job with one of the Dallas-Fort Worth television stations.  He might have been working for Highlands Electronics, too, but I really don’t remember.

I loved going to the ballpark the nights the Rangers were in town.  I was a huge baseball fan in the late 70s and early 80s.  The chance to see nine American League teams play ball was like a dream come true.  The fact that the Rangers were bad actually made the job better – fewer fans.

Ushers had to be at the park 30 minutes before the first pitch.  I seldom had much work to do.  A typical night was six fans in my section.  My supervisor checked in with the outfield ushers in the first or second inning.  After that, we could relax and enjoy the game.

I bought a mini-helmet filled with soft serve ice cream (always chocolate and vanilla twist) between the second and third innings.  Then, I’d settle in on the back row of my section and enjoy the rest of the game.  My only responsibilities were to walk to the bottom of the aisle between half-innings and retrieve home run balls that fell between the outfield fence and the stands.  This was pre-steroids era so I didn’t have to retrieve many balls.

I made an extra ten dollars one game.  Two fans who’d had too much to drink were trying to settle a bet: In the song American Pie, who was Dan McLean referring to when he sang, “The day the music died.”  Buddy Holly, of course.  The winner of the bet tipped me ten dollars.

There were only two nights the entire summer that I wasn’t able to sit down and relax – July 4 and July 5.  The Yankees were in town on the 4^th.  The Detroit Tigers played Texas on the 5^th.  There were fireworks after the game both nights.

The ’84 Tigers eventually went on to become World Champions.  Texas, at that time, was home to many recent, former Michiganders due to the recession of the early ‘80s.  The ballpark, and my section, was filled with Tigers fans that night.  Tigers fans helped to popularize the wave in Detroit that same summer.  They brought the wave to Texas that night to the point I felt dizzy watching it go ‘round.

A handful of well known players were on the ’84 Texas roster but they were mostly in the early or late years of their career.  Buddy Bell played third base.  Charlie Hough, Dave Stewart and Frank Tanana were part of the pitching rotation.  Those were names that meant something to baseball fans in the ‘70s and ‘80s.

The player I remember best, Mickey Rivers, seldom if ever played.  He hung out in center field shagging flies before the games.  Sometimes he’d lean against the fence and occasionally toss me a ball to give to a fan.

Ushers were free to leave the moment the final out was made.  Center field was close to the parking lots and I was the first one through the exit – except for the fans who left early, which was many.

I learned no life lessons working for the Rangers (except that polyester pants are hot in the Texas sun).  It was just a lot of fun.  Getting paid to eat ice cream and watch major league baseball… it doesn’t get much sweeter than that.

Arlington Stadium

GM Headquarters Detroit

I’m not close to being in Johnny Cash’s league but I’ve been a few places.  My work has taken me to 41 states and the District of Columbia.

I interview people for a living – in small groups and one-on-one.  I get paid to ask people questions such as “What do you think?” And, “Why do you think that?”  It’s not bad work if you can get it.

I’ve talked with folks rich and poor; old and young; black, white and brown about health care, education, politics, the environment, religion, immigration, taxes and U.S.-Russia relations just to name a few topics.  I write reports about what people say.  I advise clients, given what people think this is what you should do.

I spend a good deal of my time the past few years training people working in community organizations how to do this work for themselves – to ask their own questions, to do their own listening, to make their own judgments about what to do.

The great joy of this work is that I’ve had to the opportunity to learn from Americans from all walks of life – from executives to homeless.  It is humbling to sit and listen to people tell stories about their lives.

I sang hymns with members of an African Methodist Episcopal church in inner city Atlanta.  I’ve eaten pie with farmers in southeast North Dakota before talking about the environment.

I’ve been to Union halls in Michigan and Legion halls in Idaho.  I’ve sat in cramped “community” rooms in rec centers in North Las Vegas and plush board rooms in New York City.  I’ve been to factory floors and college campuses.  I’ve had beers with Pulitzer Prize winning reporters in Tampa and with future governors and congressmen in Cleveland.  I’ve stayed in hotels on Newport Beach and overlooking a deserted downtown in Flint, Michigan.

The conversations with people can get uncomfortable.  A man in Miami had to be restrained from hitting me when I asked, “What would you say to someone who said, ‘Americans complain a lot.’”  Thankfully another person in the group yelled, “He said he was going to play devil’s advocate.”  The man replied, “He’s doing a damn good job of it.”

I had to intervene when two people from Michigan got into an argument about race relations.

People you’d never expect could find common ground just by listening to each other answer questions.  In Albany, Georgia a woman said, “I pulled my kids out of public school because they can’t pray to God.”  The woman next to her said, “I think they should give condemns to kids in high school.”  I thought to myself, “This is going to be a long afternoon.”  Long after the focus group came to an end the two women stood in the parking lot still talking.  I saw them exchange phone numbers.

Some people I interview leave me speechless – not a good thing when you’re being paid to ask questions.  I had to pause when…

-          A man from Las Vegas told me about getting robbed at gunpoint in his own apartment and then declared, “This is the best place I’ve ever lived.”

-          An older man crying because he’s harassed by his teenage neighbors and he didn’t know what to do.

-          A group in southern Mississippi explaining why they think it makes sense for black and white students to have separate proms – in the late 1990s.

-          A woman in Atlanta talking about her son being bullied and eventually taking his own life.

-          A young mother from Andover, Kansas talking about what it was like to lose the family farm.

I tried not to slap my forehead when interviewing a group in Philadelphia about US-Russia relations.  A man said, “Why don’t we just buy Russia.”  The woman next to him asked, “Can we do that?”

I tried not to pull my hair out when a farmer from southwest Minnesota sat silently in a group for more than 90 minutes.  “Brian,” I queried, “do you have any thoughts about the environmental issues we’ve been talking about?”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of opinions about what people have been sayin’.”

“Do you care to share any with us?”

“Rather not,” he replied and didn’t say another word until he said good-bye.

The travel itself can be a bit of an adventure.  I went to Las Vegas the first time when my plane was stuck in Denver and my boss’ plane was stuck in DC due to weather.  My boss was supposed to give a speech in Las Vegas.  I gave the speech.  He stayed home.

Flying from Fargo to Minneapolis the cabin of our 16 seat plane filled with smoke.  Our pilot assured us it was no big deal that he had to shut down one engine.  It was slightly disconcerting to see the runway lined with fire trucks.  But, I made it to Denver in time to watch KU play in the Sweet 16 – so  life was good.

I’ve been in some jams, too – all minor of my own doing.  On my first business trip after college, it didn’t occur to me to rent a car.  We had to take a bus to Payless Cars because everyone else was sold out.  My boss wasn’t happy when we arrived at our meeting an hour late.

I had to bang on the door of Brown’s Shoe Fit in Lincoln, Nebraska at 6 a.m. and beg the night accountant to sell me a pair of dress shoes.  I was giving a speech to ten western governors at 8 a.m. and the  only shoes I had were a pair of flip flops.  They didn’t quite go with my suit.

My work takes me to many interesting places at interesting times.  I was in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch newsroom when editors and reporters argued over how to cover the discovery that Mark McGwire was taking Andro the summer he hit 70 home runs.

The O.J. Simpson verdict (for his murder trial) was announced while I was interview a group of Baltimore Sun reporters.  The interview ended abruptly so they could publish a special edition of the newspaper.  It was on the streets by the time I reached my car.

I stayed in the Marriott World Trade Center on 9/1/01 – far removed from the tragedy of 9/11 but weird for me.

Then Candidate Obama gave his speech on race and politics in March 0f 2008 in the wake of the controversy about his church pastor.  I was with a group of about 50 people on that day.  Thirty or so were African-American.  The next day I was doing business on the Eastern Plains of Colorado.  The reactions to the speech could not have been more different.

This week, I am in Detroit.  I arrived the same day GM announced it is filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.  I had the opportunity to interview people on the streets of downtown Detroit.  The streets were clean.  The people were friendly.  There was resilience in the air.  A testament to American’s fortitude.  A reminder that it’s easy to have preconceived views about unfamiliar places.

I love to ask questions.  I love to learn.  But, it doesn’t always translate well to my personal life.  Phil Priebe once declared that he’s not coming to our house for dinner if, “John’s going to ask a bunch of questions.”  I try to tone it down.

I am grateful for the places my work has taken me – though I’m no fan of post 9/11 air travel or staying in hotel rooms.  I feel fortunate to have heard the stories of thousands of Americans – each different but so similar.

We live at a time when media and politics emphasize our differences.  Yet we all are more like the two women in Georgia who stayed late to exchange phone numbers in the parking lot.  We all have so much in common and we’d know it if we just took the time to talk to each other.

As a woman in Detroit said this week, “I think we all want to live in communities that are safe, healthy, respectful, full of opportunities and are connected.”

I hear that everywhere, man!

*     *     *

 For those of you who made it to the end, here’s a little Johnny Cash.

I was tired.  My flight from Denver to St. Louis was delayed several hours by thunderstorms over the Midwest.

I reached the hotel shortly after midnight. I wanted nothing more than to be in bed.  I had to be at the Post-Dispatch at 7:30 a.m. the next morning to meet with the paper’s editor.

A woman in a hotel uniform approached as I stood at the check-in counter.  She picked up my bag without even asking and said with more enthusiasm than anyone should have at that time of night, “I’ll show you to your room.”

“No, that’s alright,” I said trying to reclaim my bag from her hand.  I’m an introvert and my desire for silence grows stronger when I’m tired.

She just turned around and headed for the elevator paying no heed to my plea.  “I don’t have anything else to do,” she said as if everyone would want company given the opportunity.

I had no choice except follow.  I felt helpless.  The woman bellhop was in complete control.  I put my briefcase over my shoulder and followed her toward the elevator.

“So, how was your flight,” she asked in a loud, chipper voice.

My heart sank a little lower still.  She was a talker.  “Fine,” I answered trying my best to strike a tone of not being rude but making clear that I was too tired to talk.

“I’ve never flown myself,” she said.  “I don’t know if I’d really want to. I think I’d get nervous when the plane was landing. I’d be afraid that we’d crash. Do you get nervous?”

“No,” I replied head facing the floor, hoping to no avail that a lack of eye contact would deter her from talking more.

“Oh, that’s good. If you travel a lot that would be a bad deal.  Do you travel a lot?”

“Some.”

“I didn’t expect anyone to arrive this late.  What brings you in so late?  Was your plane late?”

“It was delayed,” I said, looking down as we rode up the elevator.

“That’s too bad,” she responded either not noticing my signals to be left alone or refusing to be deterred by a grump. “Why were you delayed?”

“Weather,” I said.

The chatter and questions continued in the elevator and down the hall to the hotel room.  As she opened the door to the room where I would stay, she asked, “What brings you to St. Louis?”

“Business,” I replied as I walked into the room in front of her.  I was reaching in my briefcase for my wallet to get money for a tip when the next question came my way.

“That’s good. Who are you working with?”

“The St. Louis Post-Dispatch,” I said with my back still turned toward her.

Silence.

I turned. The smile on her face was gone. Her entire demeanor had changed. Now she looked toward the floor. No glow in her eyes at all.

The name of the newspaper, Post-Dispatch, had clearly triggered this dramatic change.  I wanted desperately to go to bed.  I was in no mood to talk for another moment. But, I felt a strange obligation to find out why the words Post-Dispatch had such an effect on this seemingly happy woman.  Ugh!

“You don’t like the Post-Dispatch,” I asked cautiously.

“No,” is all she said still looking toward the floor.

Our roles were now reversed.  I was the one asking questions.  She was the one uttering mono-syllable responses toward the ground.

“Why not,” I asked looking directly at her for the first time that night.

“They wrote something bad about my son,” she replied softly.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask anything more.  Who knew what might be in this Pandora ’s Box.  But something inside me compelled me to learn more.

“What did they write,” I asked.

“He was killed by a cop.  They said it was justified,” she replied still barely audible but a hint of an old anger rising up in her voice.

“What else was in the story,” I asked.

“They just told the police’s side of the story. They never talked to me.”

I was all the way in now. There was no turning back. I had to find out why this woman felt so deeply troubled.

“Why did they say it was justified,” I asked trying a slightly different tact.

Now she was mad.  “The police said he was just a gang member.  That made it justified. They never even asked me,” she repeated for a second time.

“Who didn’t ask you,” I said trying to think how I could calm the anger and still learn more.

“The newspaper. They just put in the paper what the police told them to say.”

“Why did you want the paper to talk to you?”

“I wanted them to hear my side of the story,” she said looking up a fire in her eyes.

I was searching my brain for a way to diffuse the tension.  And, at the same time, something inside me led me to push things a bit further.  “You know,” I started slowly. “I’ve heard people complain that newspaper reporters harass people when they’re grieving.  They knock on people’s doors or call their homes wanting to do an interview when people are grieving over a family member who was just killed.

“I’ve heard a lot of people say reporters should leave people alone at times like this.  Give people a little space instead of harassing them at a difficult time.  Maybe, the newspaper didn’t want to bother you right after your son was killed.  Maybe they were just trying to give you a little space.”

“Maybe,” she said hesitatingly.  I doubt she bought that line of thinking but at least it calmed her anger.  Her voice was reflective now.  Distant.  “They should have talked to me.”

I tried to match her tone.  “What did you want them to know,” I asked.

She looked up at me and said in almost a whisper, “My baby died that night.”  Strength returning to her voice, she added, “I wanted them to know that a mother lost her baby.”

There was silence in the room.  It felt long but was probably just a moment.  I didn’t know what to say.  I had no more questions in my mind.  I finally looked her in the eye and said, “I’m sorry.”

She nodded.  As she turned to go, I handed her the tip that I still held in my hand.

“Thanks,” she said and walked more quickly toward the door.

As closed the door she called out with some vigor returning to her voice, “I hope you have a great time in St. Louis.”

Are we more mobile now than we were a generation ago?  Two generations ago?  Do people move more now than they did in the past?

For the past few years, I ask these questions when I give speeches or talks.  Groups always answer a definitive yes.

The answer is no. 

About one in five of us move homes in any given year.  That’s about the same as it was in 1950, 1960 and every decade since.  Richard Florida writes in the March 2009 edition of The Atlantic Online: “Last year fewer Americans moved, as a percentage of the population, than in any year since the Census Bureau started tracking address changes, in the late 1940s.”

What gives? How is it that fewer of us are moving but most of us believe the opposite to be true?

This is my hypothesis:  In the past, when we moved, we really had to move.  Now, we can change locations but never leave or we can stay in the same place and travel the world.

I grew up in Atwood, Kansas in the far northwest corner of the state.  Mom’s family lived in Wilmington, Delaware.   Travel in the 1960s and 1970s was expensive.  A family of four could afford few airplane trips from Kansas to Delaware.  We saw my maternal grandparents every other year, at most.

Telephone communications was not cheap either.  We would only call on weekends or, perhaps, after 7 p.m.  People watched clocks in those days before they made phone calls – the cost difference was significant.  Long distance rates led us to limit our calls to two or three times per month.

Two or three calls per month.  A face-to-face visit every other year.  That’s not a lot of contact.  It is almost unimaginable in a Facebook, Twitter, Skype sort of world.

That’s what it meant to move two generations ago.  When you left a community you were gone.  If you wanted to be part of a community, which most humans do, you had to invest yourself in your new hometown.  You put down roots at your new address.

That’s not the case anymore.  We can stay connected to our favorite people no matter where we live.

A year or so ago, I was doing a project at the University of Kansas.  We were interviewing students about how Facebook is changing their social networks and friendships.  I vividly recall the remarks of a young woman who lived in Saudi Arabia as a high school student because her father worked there as an petroleum engineer:  “The first thing I do each morning is use Facebook to talk to my family and friends in Saudi Arabia.”

My mom lived half a country away from her parents.  Her contact was limited to two or three times a month.  Staying in contact with multiple friends was out of the question except by mail. Two generations later, a young woman can talk to her parents and friends half a globe away on a daily basis.

Communications technologies and low cost travel make it far easier to leave home.  We can stay connected to our loved ones ever day.  Personally, I’ve been enjoying Facebook a great deal.  I have reconnected with high school, college and graduate school classmates scattered across the country.

Today I enjoyed the exciting news of a new KU Basketball recruit with my nephew in Lawrence, Matt Cunningham wherever in the nation he might be covering basketball games, and Phil Priebe in Fort Collins.  We had a shared experience of sorts without ever being together.  I watched the news break on Twitter.  Then, we used Facebook, text messages and the phone to talk.  It all felt very modern.

These are great gains from my perspective.  I am able to maintain far more relationships with people whom I care about than has ever been possible before.

We also are losing something.  Fewer of us are putting down roots in the places we actually live.  Scholars such as Robert Putnam have well documented this phenomenon in books such as Bowling Alone.  The trends began before social media was even on the scene.

Those of us who work in the public sector feel the consequences of local detachment on a daily basis.  It is more difficult to govern ourselves today than in the past, in part, because local communities don’t exist the way they once did.

This begs the question: What will local mean?  When we look a few years down the road how much more will our communities be transformed?

I have written before on this blog that growing up in an intensely local community was a defining experience of my life.  How will geographically dispersed communities reshape all our lives?

We don’t know the answers.  But, it’s clear that community will be different than it was.

From time to time, I give speeches and talks based on my public opinion research.  This is one of my speech lines:  Americans have become accidental extremists.  None of us meant to be, nor do we want to be, outlandish partisans.  And, yet, so many of us are.

We live in echo chambers listening to only points of view that reinforce our own.  We seldom seek out opinions that conflict with our views.  When we hear them we make little effort to understand.

In the speeches I give, I talk about how this came about.  We cherry pick our news.  No longer do we all watch or read the same news.  “Conservatives” watch Fox News.  “Liberals” watch MSNBC.  “Conservatives” listen to Rush Limbaugh.  “Liberals” listened to Al Franken – before he ran for U.S. Senate.

People who study how we live have documented that we are clustering into enclaves.  We tend to live and play with people who think just like we do.  Sure, there are exceptions to this pattern but fewer all the time.  No matter whether you tend to vote Republican or Democrat, the odds are that most of the people who live near you voted the same way.  There are very few 50-50 or even 60-40 communities in our nation. 

Psychologists have done studies to try to understand what happens when we spend all our time with people who think just like we do.  The short answer is we become more extreme.

There is a human tendency to want to have the “middle” opinion in our social group.  People fit in best when their views are neither extreme left nor right compared to their friends.  If we spend our time with “liberals,” we’re likely to become more liberal.  If we spend our time with “conservatives,” we’re likely to become more conservative.

Points of view that would be considered extreme in a mixed circle of friends are deemed reasonable when everyone thinks the same.

That’s what is happening in America.  The extreme has become acceptable – at least among our friends.

I see this all the time in my own life.  I drive about Boulder County and see bumper stickers using George W. Bush’s name as profanity – still.  Some are so crude I hope upon hope that my children don’t ask what they mean.  Rather than express outrage at the crass language, many Boulder residents laugh or shake their head in agreement.  Well educated people seem to take pride in their ability to trash talk like juveniles.

I travel to the Eastern Plains of Colorado and hear people question President Obama’s religion and citizenship – still.  Driving on the plains I tune my dial to the talk radio shows that air for hours each day.  These shows are filled with callers who clamor for Congress to impeach President Obama.  Rather than say, “Don’t be absurd,” hosts and fans of these shows say, “Here, here.”

Behavior we would never tolerate from our children we accept as normal in the political realm.  That’s true in liberal circles.  That’s true in conservative circles.  The one thing that both modern conservatives and liberals seem to share in common is a complete disregard for decorum and grace.

I’m not immune from the accidental extremism that has infected our nation.  I get caught up in these debates sometimes, too.  But, that’s not who I want to be.  This is not what I want my country to be.

It is considered acceptable to call politicians liars and crooks and thieves.  Some politicians have acted in such scandalous ways that they deserve these labels.

But next time we’re trashing a politician perhaps we should pause for a moment and reflect.  How did it come to be this way?

The harsh truth is that our politicians are a reflection of us.  Politicians have become more partisan, more bitter because we Americans have become more extreme.  Recent polling data suggests that we are more polarized as a nation than any time since polls have been taken.

We face big challenges in our towns and our country.  We can’t make progress if all we do is bicker and blame.  We must heal the wounds that divide us.  That work must begin at home.  In each of our homes.