My story seems to be stuck in Kentucky even though I returned almost two months ago.
There’s so much other stuff to talk about—riots in Athens as the schemes of Euro-bosses and technocrats seems to wash up on the rocks week after week, political calculus and triangulation in the United State that makes concessions to religious institutions and their ability to trump the law, capitulation to the banks and an utter rejection of the notion that any of them should be held accountable in any fashion for housing fraud.
Yep, so much other stuff to talk about. So let’s get to the point of this Kentucky trip, shall we?
We were at Berea College to see my cousin walk across the stage. We were there—aunts, mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins—to see him sit up there under the lights, maybe to sweat a bit in anticipation, to stand at the podium and share some wise words with the graduates, to receive an honorary degree.
“Are you with the President’s party?” a man asked as we walked into the chapel.
Why yes, we were.
We sat in the audience as the faculty in their flowing gowns filed in with the winter graduates following behind. We sat as families and friends cheered the students and as the organist played Brahms chorales. We sat and listened to the President’s welcoming words and to the invocation. And we sat and listened to a medley of songs sung by the black music ensemble.
And then Mr. Burt Lauderdale (Yes that’s my cousin up there on the stage, do you see him?) was presented the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Humane Letters. At which point, he approached the podium with a damp forhead and addressed the graduates on the topic of community, organizing community.
That evening, we sat down to eat at the table. We sat there—aunts, mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins—tired but thrilled to be together with Dr. Burt Lauderdale at the head of the table.
“We have a card for you,” I said.
We passed it down the table to where he sat.
“It’s blue,” I said, “for Berea’s colors.”
“Ah,” he said (as he does). “Then the b must be for Berea.”
No, Burt, that wasn’t it. The b was for you.