This is a letter I've been working on for a very deserving man. I was kinda chosen out of my cohort for this honor. I had no idea until about 24 hours ago how big a deal this is. The last fella who got this award was given a $20,000 grant and the option to present a paper upon the topic of his choice at a banquet in held in his honor. The only obstacle between Dr. Cloud and this award is my abilty to articulate how wonderful a man he is.
For your consideration:
Neil Golemo
Master’s Candidate
School of Education
October 27, 2004
Nomination Committee, One great expectation of being in Grad School that has completely come true is that of exceptional professor performance. It’s only my first semester, yet I've already been exposed to three excellent teachers. Dr. Martha Lou Scott is fascinating, yet wholly disarming with her East-Texas accent. Also, she bleeds Green and Gold, just as I do. Dr. Shushok has proven to be one of the best facilitators of classroom discussion I have ever encountered. Then there's Dr. Robert C. Cloud. And he says his middle initial, as if he were a civil war general of old. Robert C. Cloud—or RCC for short—is a true commander of dramatic teaching form, the master of the 3-second pause. He literally reminds our class how smart and good looking we are at every meeting. He can take us from laughs to tears in the "flick of a cricket's leg."
I don't really remember either of my grandfathers. One died years before I was even conceived and the other, my namesake, died when I was very young. I remember only tiny bits. I remember looking at a cartoon in a Sesame Street book, seeing a portrait on the wall of Bert's father, and thinking I was reminded of my Grandpa Veith (He kind of had a pointy head). I remember, after he died of a heart-attack, giving my Grandma "hug-attacks." I remember pipe smoke, but I don't really remember him in the flesh.
And now the Lord has brought Dr. Cloud into my life. RCC challenges our class in a way I doubt any of us ever thought a professor could. He engages each and every person with every word of oration. When he speaks, his watery-blue eyes have a way of finding every other set in the room, demanding their attention –no, their fixation. And every time he says "now listen to RCC on this one..." we are all rapt in concentration, secured upon his every word. His are words that do not seem to come from the man, but from every man, woman or piece of prose that has ever touched him and taught him a lesson. When RCC holds forth, one does not hear only the words of a silver-haired gentleman, but the sagacity of Plato, the simplicity of a kindergartner and the wisdom from the mouth of his 92-years-young “Mee-Maw” when she admonished him that “there’s always the morning after the night before.”
Dr. Cloud is emotional. He shares his life with us so that we may know exactly how the skills and information we are learning now will make us better equipped to serve the Academy in our futures. With RCC, every reading has weight and importance. He has shown us that passion can have a place in our careers, passion tempered by knowledge. Dr. Cloud bares his soul for the good of ours.
Lately, he has been reading to us at the end of every class and I cannot help but feel as I might have felt—could I better remember—when my Grandfather read to me. Last night, when I felt his raspy voice wash over me, I was taken to a different place: the book-bag sitting in my lap became my old teddy bear and my jeans and Doc's were suddenly "footsie pajamas." For only a moment, I was little again and my life lay completely ahead of me. With whimsy in his heart, he spoke to us of the places we would go and the things we would do. And then, solemnly he informed my class of how he wished he could go with us, yet he could not; his time was passing. With a tear in his eye, he asked us to take him along in spirit. In that moment, RCC made me feel as though I had all the potential in the world and that my life is a book yet to be written. One can only imagine my shock when I realized it was true.
This only begins to describe how each one in my class feels about Dr. Robert C. Cloud. He continues to change the face of scholarship, enhance the level of academia among the students, and create leaders in education for tomorrow. I, along with my classmates, would like to nominate Dr. Cloud for the second annual Cornelia Marschall Smith Professor of the Year Award.
Sincerely,
Neil Golemo
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Lines
Tonight I was watching my favorite TV show on DVD. Yes, once again, I couldn't sleep.
There's this scene where the main character is drawing the image of the woman he once loved. For most of the scene, you cannot see the picture though you see his scowl and he, pencil in hand, working furiously to render her visage to parchment.
Finally, we see the face of his beloved. It's an incredibly simple drawing; just a few lines -but beautiful and sublime. My heart sunk and I'll admit I got a little teary. Yeah, I know it's been one of those "weeks" but even still, the pure poignancy of the drawing touched me.
Upon a second or two of reflection, I was touched even further to realize that I was so moved by a collection of lines. Black upon white. Nothing more. But then again, yes. Yes it was.
In this world we've been lead to believe that we are more than just black lines against white paper. Life is more than black and white, the song says. There's grey in there too.
We have "yes" and we have "no." "Maybe."
This picture. It captured her completely. It required no grays to encompass all that made his muse beautiful. This drawing made my heart sing and cry and mope around in its socks and stained hoody drinking milk from the carton for three days in a row, all at the same time.
I heard a quote by Oscar Wilde that once said: "morality, like art, means drawing a line someplace."
Whatever the case may be, for good or for not-so-good, it is the lines we draw that define us. Grays and shadows will fall where they may, but my friends, it is the lines we draw that make the man... or woman... okay person.
I could launch into a whole diatribe (or prolong the current one) by talking about morality and all that stuff. But as ol' RCC would say, "folks, maybe that's a rabbit I'll chase another time." Perhaps our time is better served wondering why it is that we need lines.
We need lines to show us where to park and where to walk. We need lines to get tickets to a show... or Pigskin (Nice legs, Mary!). When you think about it, you've lines to thank for reading this particular bit of prose. Lines bent into the shape of letters.
We desire lines. Sometimes just because we want something to toe. Other times, we love the connection that only a line can illustrate. I remember before a recent trip to Illinois, I was "MapQuesting" routes to drive home from Hamilton. (Wow. Weird statement. Waco is home? Waco is home.) On a whim, I decided to plot the course from my apartment to Erin's. One cannot describe the particular flavor of comfort I got from seeing a red line cross states and rivers to connect the two places in which we both sleep, eat and breath.
Sigh.
What a wonderful thing a line is. Comfort-bringer and curse. Much like my fallen form, forever shall it bring me wonder of a greater thing than myself.
There's this scene where the main character is drawing the image of the woman he once loved. For most of the scene, you cannot see the picture though you see his scowl and he, pencil in hand, working furiously to render her visage to parchment.
Finally, we see the face of his beloved. It's an incredibly simple drawing; just a few lines -but beautiful and sublime. My heart sunk and I'll admit I got a little teary. Yeah, I know it's been one of those "weeks" but even still, the pure poignancy of the drawing touched me.
Upon a second or two of reflection, I was touched even further to realize that I was so moved by a collection of lines. Black upon white. Nothing more. But then again, yes. Yes it was.
In this world we've been lead to believe that we are more than just black lines against white paper. Life is more than black and white, the song says. There's grey in there too.
We have "yes" and we have "no." "Maybe."
This picture. It captured her completely. It required no grays to encompass all that made his muse beautiful. This drawing made my heart sing and cry and mope around in its socks and stained hoody drinking milk from the carton for three days in a row, all at the same time.
I heard a quote by Oscar Wilde that once said: "morality, like art, means drawing a line someplace."
Whatever the case may be, for good or for not-so-good, it is the lines we draw that define us. Grays and shadows will fall where they may, but my friends, it is the lines we draw that make the man... or woman... okay person.
I could launch into a whole diatribe (or prolong the current one) by talking about morality and all that stuff. But as ol' RCC would say, "folks, maybe that's a rabbit I'll chase another time." Perhaps our time is better served wondering why it is that we need lines.
We need lines to show us where to park and where to walk. We need lines to get tickets to a show... or Pigskin (Nice legs, Mary!). When you think about it, you've lines to thank for reading this particular bit of prose. Lines bent into the shape of letters.
We desire lines. Sometimes just because we want something to toe. Other times, we love the connection that only a line can illustrate. I remember before a recent trip to Illinois, I was "MapQuesting" routes to drive home from Hamilton. (Wow. Weird statement. Waco is home? Waco is home.) On a whim, I decided to plot the course from my apartment to Erin's. One cannot describe the particular flavor of comfort I got from seeing a red line cross states and rivers to connect the two places in which we both sleep, eat and breath.
Sigh.
What a wonderful thing a line is. Comfort-bringer and curse. Much like my fallen form, forever shall it bring me wonder of a greater thing than myself.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
The "bit role"...
Put on some pants... check.
Shirt... check.
Tuck in... whoop!... check.
Got my keys, got my phone, fly's up. Let's go. Phone rings -it's Myles.
"Hey Neil, on your way over?"
I start to walk to the door. "Just stepping out of the Apartment... en route, brother".
"Well, um, okay we're going to take a field trip... I can't explain now and I have no idea what's going to happen."
I lean forward, interested. "Um, okayyy, I'll be there in a minute".
What in the heck? I'm used to Myles saying things over my head, but this was crazy. So, I hurry up and get to Myles to discover a skinny looking African American woman looking quite perturbed and sitting on Myles's stoop. Well, actually, I didn't know for a fact that it was a woman. To be honest, I thought it was the infamous "Glenn". (A homeless man Myles and his roommates occasionally support with a meal or the occasional buck or two) Turns out, I wasn't that far off...
I park across the street; say a quick prayer asking for nothing in particular. I turn the ignition key counter-clockwise, sigh, and pull it out. I glance up at the rear-view, fix my hat. I close my eyes and open the door. After crossing the street, I get to within a few feet of where the young woman was sitting and subsequently realized that not only was she a "she" but also that she wasn't exactly all that young.
As the realization begins to curve my eyebrow Myles steps up with a "Neil. How are ya?". I shake his hand and introduces the lady to me as "Deisha" (sp?). In the next few minutes, I found out that Deisha needed a ride to her place a few miles away, a room in the "Viking Inn". Since I had plenty of gas, I volunteered.
Deisha looks at me and asks: "Do you think that maybe we could get me some chicken or something to eat?".
My heart drops and I say: "of course, Deena".
Yeah, I definitely blew that one.
I'm not really sure how to describe the thoughts going through my head as we held forth unto the highway out towards a rougher part of town. Deisha's telling us about Glenn ditching her far from the apartment and how he's smokin' again, etc. At this, I wonder if the Bob Marley in my CD player was such a good choice... or was it? Then Deisha gets quiet and Myles says "so how was your weekend?". I was surprised at my own ability to Bullshit calmness on the surface while my heart is fluttering wildly underneath.
As I pull into the "Viking Inn", my mind is in a state of horror confused with intense interest. My eyes wide, I sucked in every detail. Three cars in the parking lot. A lady in tight and dirty jean shorts stands in the doorway of the of motel office sucking a cigarette all the way down to her orange fingernails. 5 episodes of MakeOver have taught me that Orange is an "unfortunate" color for her complexion.
"Its the apartment on the other side of the suburban" Deisha croaks.
As I stop and before the struts can even dampen the inertia of the car making it bounce back --you know what I'm talking about-- Deisha leaps out the back-right door of my Stratus. The second the door even shuts Myles turns his shoulders towards me, leans slightly forward and without taking his eyes off of a Deisha angrily pounding upon the motel door, says -as if he had to- "Neil, I have absolutely no idea where this is going. If I were you I'd be ready to throw it in reverse and get the hell out of here".
After a few seconds of pounding on a door that won't be answered and a few attempts to peer through a curtained window, a livid Deisha storms off through the parking lot back towards the office. She motions for us to follow her. Forgetting I had already slipped the car into reverse in preparation for a hasty get-away, I accidentally put it into neutral. As I was looking down to fix the problem, I see Myles's eyes focus upon something over my shoulder. I twist to look out the driver's-side window to see a skinny African-American man in a torn, red t-shirt stumble out of another motel room with two beers in one hand --one open, one not-- with a younger-looking woman tottering behind him. He walks right up to the door upon which Deisha had so eagerly been knocking and slips in a key. He looks at us, Myles and I look at each other, then he seems to recognize Myles.
He walks up to the door: "What's up?".
Myles: "Deisha's looking for you. She just went to the motel office to get your key".
Yeah, this is Glenn.
So Glenn walks straight to the motel office. We follow, -in the car of course. I'll spare you the rest of this story but I will let you know it involves a husband and a wife yelling and screaming at each other, a motel key being thrown into the middle of a parking lot, and Myles and my not saying a word.
As we drove Deisha back to Myles's place, I guess because that's where we found her, I think I began to kind of cry inside. Had I just witnessed the ending of a marriage? A breaking point in the conjunction of two lives?
What kind of shit was this? How could this be? I hadn't said anything. I hadn't done a thing to help them. Hell, in a way I had facilitated this whole event via the four wheels of my Dodge. But then one tells himself there really was nothing he really could do. That the relationship had been deteriorating for months or even years before this day and I had only caught but a frame or two of a story reels into the telling.
Sigh.
As I gave Deisha all the money I had, I suddenly wish I had more to give. I hated myself for having a good car. I despised myself for purchasing a wicked-cool CD player to put in it. I saw the Baylor ring on my finger, the Nike Watch on my wrist and the phone in my pocket and I all of a sudden felt heavy, as if I was wearing three parkas on a spring day.
I thought about the parents who've placed me in a position to succeed. I have a wonderful life with friends who support me and an amazing woman who waits to kiss me. I think about the life I've had and all the days I've yet to enjoy, and I wonder what I could have done to deserve it. It's a beautiful thing when the heaviest weight upon your heart is watching October baseball without seeing Cubbie Blue.
In stories of many lives, I play a major character. I may be the quirky roommate, or the fatherly mentor. I could be the naive apprentice or the hunky "Mr. Right". (thanks, Erin) But it appears that in this case, I am but a random dude playing the "bit" part. In the credits of Deisha's life, I guess I'd be "Guy #2 in Car". I guess I'm okay with that. I only hope I got my line right.
Shirt... check.
Tuck in... whoop!... check.
Got my keys, got my phone, fly's up. Let's go. Phone rings -it's Myles.
"Hey Neil, on your way over?"
I start to walk to the door. "Just stepping out of the Apartment... en route, brother".
"Well, um, okay we're going to take a field trip... I can't explain now and I have no idea what's going to happen."
I lean forward, interested. "Um, okayyy, I'll be there in a minute".
What in the heck? I'm used to Myles saying things over my head, but this was crazy. So, I hurry up and get to Myles to discover a skinny looking African American woman looking quite perturbed and sitting on Myles's stoop. Well, actually, I didn't know for a fact that it was a woman. To be honest, I thought it was the infamous "Glenn". (A homeless man Myles and his roommates occasionally support with a meal or the occasional buck or two) Turns out, I wasn't that far off...
I park across the street; say a quick prayer asking for nothing in particular. I turn the ignition key counter-clockwise, sigh, and pull it out. I glance up at the rear-view, fix my hat. I close my eyes and open the door. After crossing the street, I get to within a few feet of where the young woman was sitting and subsequently realized that not only was she a "she" but also that she wasn't exactly all that young.
As the realization begins to curve my eyebrow Myles steps up with a "Neil. How are ya?". I shake his hand and introduces the lady to me as "Deisha" (sp?). In the next few minutes, I found out that Deisha needed a ride to her place a few miles away, a room in the "Viking Inn". Since I had plenty of gas, I volunteered.
Deisha looks at me and asks: "Do you think that maybe we could get me some chicken or something to eat?".
My heart drops and I say: "of course, Deena".
Yeah, I definitely blew that one.
I'm not really sure how to describe the thoughts going through my head as we held forth unto the highway out towards a rougher part of town. Deisha's telling us about Glenn ditching her far from the apartment and how he's smokin' again, etc. At this, I wonder if the Bob Marley in my CD player was such a good choice... or was it? Then Deisha gets quiet and Myles says "so how was your weekend?". I was surprised at my own ability to Bullshit calmness on the surface while my heart is fluttering wildly underneath.
As I pull into the "Viking Inn", my mind is in a state of horror confused with intense interest. My eyes wide, I sucked in every detail. Three cars in the parking lot. A lady in tight and dirty jean shorts stands in the doorway of the of motel office sucking a cigarette all the way down to her orange fingernails. 5 episodes of MakeOver have taught me that Orange is an "unfortunate" color for her complexion.
"Its the apartment on the other side of the suburban" Deisha croaks.
As I stop and before the struts can even dampen the inertia of the car making it bounce back --you know what I'm talking about-- Deisha leaps out the back-right door of my Stratus. The second the door even shuts Myles turns his shoulders towards me, leans slightly forward and without taking his eyes off of a Deisha angrily pounding upon the motel door, says -as if he had to- "Neil, I have absolutely no idea where this is going. If I were you I'd be ready to throw it in reverse and get the hell out of here".
After a few seconds of pounding on a door that won't be answered and a few attempts to peer through a curtained window, a livid Deisha storms off through the parking lot back towards the office. She motions for us to follow her. Forgetting I had already slipped the car into reverse in preparation for a hasty get-away, I accidentally put it into neutral. As I was looking down to fix the problem, I see Myles's eyes focus upon something over my shoulder. I twist to look out the driver's-side window to see a skinny African-American man in a torn, red t-shirt stumble out of another motel room with two beers in one hand --one open, one not-- with a younger-looking woman tottering behind him. He walks right up to the door upon which Deisha had so eagerly been knocking and slips in a key. He looks at us, Myles and I look at each other, then he seems to recognize Myles.
He walks up to the door: "What's up?".
Myles: "Deisha's looking for you. She just went to the motel office to get your key".
Yeah, this is Glenn.
So Glenn walks straight to the motel office. We follow, -in the car of course. I'll spare you the rest of this story but I will let you know it involves a husband and a wife yelling and screaming at each other, a motel key being thrown into the middle of a parking lot, and Myles and my not saying a word.
As we drove Deisha back to Myles's place, I guess because that's where we found her, I think I began to kind of cry inside. Had I just witnessed the ending of a marriage? A breaking point in the conjunction of two lives?
What kind of shit was this? How could this be? I hadn't said anything. I hadn't done a thing to help them. Hell, in a way I had facilitated this whole event via the four wheels of my Dodge. But then one tells himself there really was nothing he really could do. That the relationship had been deteriorating for months or even years before this day and I had only caught but a frame or two of a story reels into the telling.
Sigh.
As I gave Deisha all the money I had, I suddenly wish I had more to give. I hated myself for having a good car. I despised myself for purchasing a wicked-cool CD player to put in it. I saw the Baylor ring on my finger, the Nike Watch on my wrist and the phone in my pocket and I all of a sudden felt heavy, as if I was wearing three parkas on a spring day.
I thought about the parents who've placed me in a position to succeed. I have a wonderful life with friends who support me and an amazing woman who waits to kiss me. I think about the life I've had and all the days I've yet to enjoy, and I wonder what I could have done to deserve it. It's a beautiful thing when the heaviest weight upon your heart is watching October baseball without seeing Cubbie Blue.
In stories of many lives, I play a major character. I may be the quirky roommate, or the fatherly mentor. I could be the naive apprentice or the hunky "Mr. Right". (thanks, Erin) But it appears that in this case, I am but a random dude playing the "bit" part. In the credits of Deisha's life, I guess I'd be "Guy #2 in Car". I guess I'm okay with that. I only hope I got my line right.
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