Not Just A Hat Rack

1996 Speech Hits True Today

I had never really heard of Steve Silberman, contributing editor at Wired Magazine, until I found this article. I'm still not so sure who he is, other than a writer, a computer geek (I hope he doesn't mind) and a fanatic Deadhead. I had similarly never heard of The Well, which I tonight learned is a 22-year-old social networking website for smart people, originally called the Whole Earth 'Lectronic Link back when a few elite people had a mysterious ability to "dial up" to something obscure called the "internet." I'm confident I had no idea about the web, or what the future might hold, back in 11th grade.

The WELL predates MySpace and FaceBook by about 17 years. The WELL and Michael Jordan were rookies simultaneously. AOL took on the name America On Line four years AFTER the WELL's debut. You get the idea.

Anyways, Steve Silberman gave a presentation about WELL where he talked about good and bad characteristics of a "host" on a social networking site. (A host is what we would call a moderator today, I think.) "The Underdog Carries the Secret" was the topic of his presentation. He explained how the web was brilliant for bringing disparate voices together. The WELL was not and never has been anonymous, so every participant was theoretically accountable for his/her comments, although the "underdog" voice was still often trampled. Silberman loved the little voice.

Often times, the most stigmatized voice in a community carries some truth, that if the community at large was aware of it - and certainly if the host was aware of it - it would make things better, make for a better integration of the collective psyche.

He went on to recount a conversation recently with the woman who introduced his presentation:

I was talking Gail recently about what she felt made for a really thriving conferencing environment, and she said, basically, a wide range of very vivid and powerful archetypes. I thought that was very interesting. I think that that's also a metaphor for a good psyche - a healthy psyche - and also a healthy culture.

I agree. Here's to open and powerful debate. But then he knocked me off my chair with this conclusion.

I'd like to close with something that's completely unrelated. I'm going to be quoting (late San Francisco Chronicle columnist) Herb Caen. This is something that struck me as a great metaphor for the WELL. It's an obituary that ran a couple of weeks ago, of a woman named Blanche Pastorino. I don't know if any of you knew who she was.

"Another day, another heart-rending death: On Saturday, the gentle, delightful Blanche Pastorino died at 87 in a local convalescent hospital. For two decades, her Blanche's (now Carmen's) at 4th and Channel was jammed at lunch with such regulars as Herb Gold, Cap Weinberger, Fletcher Benton and Ruth Asawa, even though her entire menu consisted of crab salad and wine or Anchor Steam. A sign on the wall explained it all: 'If Food Is Your Main Consideration, This Is Not Your Place.'"

Thank you very much.

In an instant, the billions and billions of meaningless bits of information floating around a wired world served a purpose. A real purpose. While a few friends and family may have a tattered 13-year-old copy of my great Aunt's obituary pressed tightly between a novel on a dusty shelf; her life, the restaurant she lived for, her friends and her simplicity remain alive thanks to late 20th century technology and one stranger's archived comments.

Steve Silberman, thank you.

Herb Caen's Column here.
San Francisco Chronicle Obituary: Jan. 30, 1996
Six Years Later, from the San Francisco Examiner

Postcard in the Mail

Dear Stevie, We are spending a few days near Genoa with a friend from the US. Saw this card on the card rack and thought of you. Is (this) a favorite team of yours? All our love, Grandma & Grandpa

The oversized postcard front shows 11 players from the AC Milan soccer team lined up for a traditional team photo before a game. The card is postmarked September 18, 1976. There are 200 lire of stamps on the card, which was mailed from Italy to my family's "APO" address in New York. (APO is a government system intended to expedite and secure mail to US government employees abroad.)

It is written in my grandmother's hand - and I would have been seven years old when it arrived home in my father's briefcase to our home in Lisbon, Portugal. It probably took several months to get to me - maybe it arrived within days of 8th birthday that November.

I received it in the mail again this week, when my parents sent it to me as part of their housecleaning in San Francisco. At first I was half-inclined to dismiss it as another old "souvenir", but the fact that is is from my grandmother actually gives it great meaning. She passed away unexpectedly less than three years later - long before I really got to know "Florence."

As much as I traveled as a kid (lived in Venezuela, Mexico, Portugal and Colombia before I was 12) and as much as my cousins traveled (Kenya and Nigeria) - I remember my grandparents at the real travelers in the family. They went to Russia and Poland when they were under Communist governments. They traveled all over Western Europe and Africa. They split their time between our American home, San Francisco, and their retirement home, the village of Marino in the hills above Rome. We received lots of postcards, most of which are long gone. For some reason, this postcard survives 30 years later.

My grandfather, Steven Adolph, passed away about ten years after Florence. I knew him better. I have memories of him working in the garden... helping us grow apples trees in Virginia... his moustache... holidays and presents and wine and ravioli... a couple San Francisco Giants' games. But Florence lives on mainly in a few old photos and tricky flashes of memory.

I lived in the Marino apartment for a summer after college. The smell was familiar. The tile on the patio that wrapped around the building felt the same on my bare feet. The building still offered a stunning view of Rome on the occasional smog-free day. There were still bricks under the legs at the head of the bed -- they thought this improved circulation or something. The books, the African art, the tableware all brought back glimpses of a grandmother I barely remember.

That memory is a warm place. Though we all traveled, and were rarely together in my childhood, the postcards, care packages and visits every other year or so were all I knew. And it was enough. Well, maybe I didn't think so then. But now, when a 30-year-old message arrives, it's enough. It's the thought that counts.

Dear Grandma and Grandpa, Thank you for the postcard from Milan. Milan is not one of my favorite teams - Grandpa (or Dad) said I should root for Lazio because of Giorgio Chinaglia. See you soon! Love, Your Grandson.

The Milan roster featured Albertosi, Scala, Bet, Maldera 3, Rivera, Bigon, Benetti, Turone, Gorin, Sabadini and Chiarugi. I don't have a scanner - so here's an image from the 76-77 team (courtesy: ACmilan.com):

Letters Live On

Matt La Plante scores again in today's Salt Lake Tribune. The very dependable national/political/war reporter writes a front-page article on letters from servicemen who were killed in Iraq in honor of Memorial Day. It's the type of story that brings honor to its subjects, is uniquely personal and can be politically influential. These are some of the charactersitics of writing that first pulled me towards my degree in journalism.

This type of story is also very challenging to research and report. These families willingly shared their stories, letters and emails from someone they recently laid to rest. Maybe they saw the honor in telling their story. Maybe it was painful but ultimately rewarding. Or maybe it was agonizing to crack open the past again like a Pandora's Box. This rationale pushed me away from journalism. How do you straddle the fine line between those who want their story told, and those who don't - if a reporter, editor or publisher deems a story "newsworthy"?

"Please explain to the boys that I tried to be a good father and that I will always love them and I will always be proud of them," Gregson Gourley wrote in 2003. (His wife gave birth to a baby girl shortly before his second deployment.) "Please never let them forget who their dad is."

Elsewhere in the Tribune, the editorial board used the same Abraham Lincoln quote (from his Second Inaugural Address) that I based my college application upon. I can't find it on their website, but it's reads like this:

"With malice towards none, with charity for all, with justice in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in."

Those words helped get me into Northwestern... and have been a guide for me throughout my personal and professional life. Unfortunately I was unable to finish the work I started here 2 1/2 years ago. Oh well, I move on.

Speaking of Northwestern, congrats to the Northwestern Wildcast Women's Lacrosse team... they won their third straight NCAA title this weekend. Dynasty and Northwestern are usually only paired in debate and journalism references - nice to have a sports dynasty in place!

'Cats Three-Peat!!! has all the details.

Plus, the softball team is making its second consecutive appearance in the College World Series in Oklahoma City - follow all the action on ESPN and ESPN2 apparently, beginning Thursday. Go Cats!

Found Letters, #1

I have boxes of old letters and notes, to and from me.  I found this one inside a cookbook.  Unfortunately, I promptly ran it through the washing machine by accident.  But I have been able to reconstruct all but the first sentence, which appears in italics from my memory.  This note, accompanying the gift to me of a brand-new baseball glove, provides me a warm glimpse into my past, as I set out just days later to begin a career in baseball in Palm Springs.  The author was a dear friend with whom I no longer correspond.                                                                                                                                           

Christmas 1991

(Merry Christmas. I know you have other gloves, but those gloves are old and worn.)  This glove is different because it is empty.  The other glove you have is full, full of memories that have softened and worn it down.  The others played innumerable games of catch in the front yard, wherever that front yard may have been.  The other glove was there with you when you were learning the game, to keep your eye on the ball, to follow through on your swing.  It played hundreds of Little League games.  It is full of the sound of your family clapping for you from the bleachers, when you made the game winning play; and when you didn’t.

But this glove is empty, and it is stiff.  And you’re not a little boy in Little League any more. You’re about to start in a whole new game, in a new town, with team.  It’s a whole new ballpark. At first it may feel as stiff and empty as this new glove.  But with attention and care, soon the rough edges will start to smooth, tight spots stretch and laces loosen here and there.  This glove too will fill up with new names and faces, grow worn with sights, sounds and smells.  It will be full of a whole new life, one I hope you’ll love.  A life that fits you, like a glove.                                                                

                                                   

PS - Despite these sentiments, I didn't keep the glove.  It just didn't fit my hand.  I acquired my current glove at one of the last baseball winter meetings I attended.  It is in dire need of memories.