In My Lifetime

Have you heard of Kathrine Switzer? No? Neither had I, until I saw a 1967 photo that was making the rounds on Facebook recently. In 1967, Ms. Switzer entered the Boston Marathon as K.V. Switzer, at a time when women were not allowed to participate in that race (or in many other athletic opportunities). As she ran that day, one of the race organizers, Jock Semple, jumped off the media truck and began yelling at her, attempting to physically force her out of the race. Ms Switzer had vowed that she would complete the marathon, saying, "I'm going to finish this race on my hands and knees if I have to, because nobody believes that I can do this." Those running with her provided her a shield of protection throughout the race and she finished the course in 4 hours and 20 minutes.

I thought of Kathrine’s story as I watched the Ashland University women’s basketball team in action last week. While I wasn’t able to get to their last regular season home game, I did catch the re-broadcast on the university television channel (channel 20 on cable). What an amazing team of gifted young women. It’s obvious that they love what they’re doing and that they work very hard at it, for their smiles, skills and determination tell that story. What an opportunity they have to be ambassadors for our community and our university through their sport – but it hasn’t always been that way.

Whether we’re talking about women’s rights and opportunities, about civil rights, or even about Social Security and Medicare, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded from time to time that the world as we know it hasn’t always been like this. As much as it seems that Social Security has been around forever, it was first signed into law in 1935, less than 80 years ago, and its income support in old age is what allows my mother to continue to live independently at age 90 – and it does the same for many in our town as well.

Thirty years later, both Medicare and Medicaid were instituted in 1965 – that’s within my lifetime. We can entertain a great deal of discussion about the costs, benefits, and practices of Medicare and Medicaid, but I don’t want to go back to the time when the poor and the elderly were unable to access medical care.

The landmark civil rights act was approved in 1964, just a year before Medicare and Medicaid. As I watch my young friends of varied race and ethnic backgrounds walk down the street together and sit in the classroom together, I have no interest in turning the clock back to the years of separate and (possibly) equal that was a part of America’s cultural landscape well into the 60’s – within my lifetime.

And it wasn’t until 1972, about the time that I was applying to college, that women were officially allowed to run in the Boston Marathon. Now I will make it perfectly clear that I have no intention of running in the Boston Marathon (or any other marathon), but I am grateful that if I wanted to punish my body that way, I could!

What’s the connection to today? I’ve had a chance to watch a portion of the PBS series, “Makers: Women Who Make America,” and its stories take me back to a time in the not-so-distant past when gender, skin color, age, poverty and other “categories” defined people in destructive ways.

That series is a powerful reminder for me that when we tell the story of AU basketball star Kari Daugherty and her incredible teammates, we also have to tell the story of Kathrine Switzer. When we tell the story of Senator Marco Rubio and his bright future, we also must tell the story of Army Private Félix Longoria. And when we tell the stories of social security recipients in our families and in our community, we must also tell the story of Ohio-born Jacob Coxey and his march on Washington. The stories of the past are ours to hear and to tell; their courage is ours to remember and to repeat.

The Day After: Now What

Now that the elections of 2012 are over, I find myself wondering, what happens on the day after for those whose hopes of leadership were dashed? Did Mitt and Ann stay in bed until noon on Wednesday, ordering room service and watching cartoons? I wonder how long it took for them to have The Conversation, to sit at the breakfast table, look into each other’s eyes, and ask, ”now what?” The question is huge for the Romneys. After months and years of relentless campaigning, is there a sense of relief for them that it’s finally over? Can they somehow be themselves instead of whoever the spinmeisters tell them to be?

Most of us have never run for political office, but we’ve been in a similar place.  The long and painful death, followed by the rituals of the wake and funeral. Then one morning the doorbell rings and it’s the delivery person to pick up the hospital bed from the corner of the living room. It’s over. We look at each other and say, “what now?”

The daily commute for the job we’ve loved (or hated) for 20, 30, 40 years. Now a plant closing, a pink slip or mandatory retirement has robbed us of our identity, of our livelihood. Now what? What can we do? What should we do?

Sometimes the “now what” question comes not from a sense of loss but with a sense of expectation. Thirty-seven years ago, Larry and I were newly married and had just arrived home from our honeymoon, when Larry’s dad gave him some counsel about marriage from his own wealth of experience. “Now, be sure to have JoAnn get up each morning and fix you breakfast.” I actually did wake up early on that first morning home, and may even have scrambled some eggs for Larry. But as my memory recalls the scenario, I turned from the stove and said to him, “If you think I’m going to do this every day for the rest of my life, think again.” Unlike our favorite United Way director, there’s no oatmeal for Larry on a chilly morning.

Now what? While in some situations it’s a question tinged with sorrow, there may be an unspoken sense of relief and anticipation, even with loss. I’m not sure that we’ll hear the Romneys say it out loud, but there does come a time when we trade one dream for another and get on with life. What an opportunity they have to make a difference, even if not in the White House.

Look at Jimmy Carter, now age 88, with his support for Habitat for Humanity and his work for peace in the Middle East.  Remember Dan Quayle? I had to turn to Google to get the scoop on James Danforth Quayle, 44^th vice president of the United States, but since losing the re-election campaign in 1992, he’s written The American Family: Discovering the Values That Make Us Strong, redeeming his Murphy Brown comment that took some flack during the campaign.  And Al Gore? The young man whose desire at age 18 was to one day write novels has won the Nobel Peace Prize for his advocacy in the area of climate change.

Loss – even on such a public stage – does not mean the end.  Nor does it mean the end on our own private stages. Bell Hooks, writing in All About Love, reminds us: “Contrary to what we may have been taught to think, unnecessary and unchosen suffering wounds us but need not scar us for life. It does mark us. What we allow the mark of our suffering to become is in our own hands.”

Yes, Mr. Romney, as you noted in your concession speech, you left everything on the field. You gave your all to the campaign. And, regardless of political affiliation, we salute you for your dedication to America. So what now? Here’s my advice to Ann and Mitt from my four-month foray into a change of life-direction. Get some rest. Spend time with those 18 grandchildren. And then, as Frederick Buechner reminds us, follow your heart to the place where your deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.