I think we’ve reached or, heaven help me, are approaching, the mid-semester doldrums. Week 9 we’re in now, and young minds will sometimes wander. I’m speaking of mine, of course. My young mind. No idea about the students’ status.
But, hey, I was up until super late watching the greatest World Series game to ever be played, the only person between both of my sports comm classes to apparently do so, and I brought the enthusiasm under the florescent lights today.
We discussed this piece on the NWSL’s sexual abuse settlement. I find it somewhere between a process piece and a rote recap from someone, Meg Linehan, who’s been all over the story for a long while now. It’s a straightforward news story, and we need a lot of those. In this case, it allowed us to discuss how you can make that determination from the first three paragraphs.
The NWSL will create a $5 million player compensation fund as part of a settlement regarding its role in widespread allegations of abuse.
The settlement, announced on Wednesday, ends a joint investigation by the attorneys general (AGs) of the District of Columbia, Illinois and New York concerning systemic abuse across the league and potential violations of state and local human rights laws.
The three offices, as with the investigation by former U.S. Attorney General Sally Yates and the joint investigation by the NWSL and its players association that came before them, focused on “pervasive sexual harassment and abuse by coaches against players” and systematic failures by the league to “exercise adequate insight, institute workplace antidiscrimination policies, or appropriately respond to complaints,” as listed in the settlement agreement.
That distinction is important because the next story we discussed was Mitchell S. Jackson’s masterclass on pathos and grief, the Pulitzer Prize-winning 12 Minutes and A Life. To those who could not be bothered I said, “If you didn’t read this story this week, you’re missing out and only cheating yourself.” It does so much with tone and depth and grief and trust and anger and history and meanness and meaning and thorough no-nonsense reporting that everyone interested in media, even in the slightest bit, should have it on their list.
On February 23, 2020, a young man out for a run was lynched in Glynn County, Georgia.
His name was Ahmaud Marquez Arbery, called “Quez” by his beloveds and “Maud” by most others. And what I want you know about Maud is that he had a gift for impressions and a special knack for mimicking Martin Lawrence. What I want you to know about Maud is that he was fond of sweets and requested his mother’s fudge cake for the birthday parties he often shared with his big sister. What I want you to know about Maud is that he signed the cards he bought for his mother “Baby Boy.” What I want you to know about Maud is that he and his brother would don the helmets they used for go-carting and go heads-up on their trampoline, and that he never backed down from his big brother. What I want you to know about Maud is that he jammed his pinkie playing hoop in high school and instead of getting it treated like Jasmine advised, he let it heal on its own—forever crooked. What I want you know about Maud is that he didn’t like seeing his day-ones whining, that when they did, he’d chide, “Don’t cry about it, man. Do what you gotta do to handle your business.” What I want you to know about Maud is that Shenice told me he sometimes recorded their conversations so he could listen to her voice when they were apart. What you should know about Maud is that he adored his nephews Marcus III and Micah Arbery, that when they were colicky as babies, he’d take them for long walks in their stroller until they calmed. What you should know about Maud is that when a college friend asked Jasmine which parent she’d call first if ever in serious trouble, she said neither, that she’d call him. What I want you to know about Maud is that he was an avid connoisseur of the McChicken sandwich with cheese. What I want you know about Maud is that he and Keem were so close that the universe coerced each of them into breaking a foot on the same damn day in separate freak weight-room accidents, and that when they were getting treated in the trainer’s office, Maud joked about it. You should know that Maud dreamed of a career as an electrician and of owning a construction company. You should know that Maud gushed often of his desire to be a great husband and father. You should know that he told his boys that he wanted them all to buy a huge plot of land, build houses on it, and live in a gated community with their families. You should know that Maud never flew on a plane, but wanderlusted for trips to Jamaica, Japan, Africa. What you must know about Maud was that when Travis McMichael, Gregory McMichael, and William “Roddie” Bryan stalked and murdered him less than three months shy of his 26th birthday, he left behind his mother Wanda, his father Marcus Sr., his brother Buck, his sister Jasmine, his maternal grandmother Ella, his nephews, six uncles, 10 aunts, a host of cousins, all of whom are unimaginably, irrevocably, incontrovertibly poorer from his absence.
Ahmaud Marquez Arbery was more than a viral video. He was more than a hashtag or a name on a list of tragic victims. He was more than an article or an essay or posthumous profile. He was more than a headline or an op-ed or a news package or the news cycle. He was more than a retweet or shared post. He, doubtless, was more than our likes or emoji tears or hearts or praying hands. He was more than an R.I.P. t-shirt or placard. He was more than an autopsy or a transcript or a police report or a live-streamed hearing. He, for damn sure, was more than the latest reason for your liberal white friend’s ephemeral outrage. He was more than a rally or a march. He was more than a symbol, more than a movement, more than a cause. He. Was. Loved.
I print these out and scribble notes in the margin, on the off chance that someone wants to talk about a particular passage in class. One student wanted to talk about this part, and I was grateful it came up. There are so many rhetorical flourishes in there, so many bits of meaning, so much to learn from in those three little paragraphs. And not just there, but throughout the copy. I’d selfishly like everyone to be as impressed by truly great writing as I am. And I’d selfishly like to know more about Jackson’s process in writing this piece.
In org comm, as a come down, I had a slide deck about … ethics. Some days organizational communication is not the most interesting class. It’s just the material, never the presenter. Today was one of those days. Someone wanted to bring up the newest gambling scandal via the NBA, and I asked them to hold off. I have a particular reading on that which was published just today that we’ll discuss at some length on Thursday. The bracing plunge into the cold waters of ethical behavior can’t be held on just one day, no.
I had to park way up high in the parking deck today, which allowed me to see over the next building. So I took this large photograph. (Click to embiggen.)
I looked down to find myself standing in front of one of those “Feeling stressed? We can help.” signs. Aside from wishing my classes were just three percent more energetic today, I felt fine, so I hustled away from the sign and into the car before anyone came along and worried about me.
On the way home I asked Siri to tell me a joke. I got a bad joke. I asked Siri to tell me a funny joke. I think it misheard me, because I received a pretty awful pun. I asked Siri to tell me a dirty joke, which it consistently refused.
I wondered, what if there’s a big gap in Siri’s performance? What if Siri is great with simple tasks like setting a timer or texting someone, bad at slightly more ambitious things, but has the biggest stuff figured out? At which point I asked Siri to tell me the meaning of life. The second answer was useful.
I liked that one. Many people I admire carry an enthusiasm like that around with them. It seems like a reasonable, and achievable, aspiration. I liked it so much and made a mental note to remember where I was when it said that. I was driving through a cornfield that’s waiting to be chopped down. So I marveled at the burnt up stalks and leaf blades, as if I were experiencing them for the first time.
The third answer was, of course, 42. Feeling that Siri and I had come to an understanding, I stopped asking.
I was almost home, anyway.
