Her screams cut me deeper than she meant them to, but the facts were clear: I was deficient, and this helplessness was a new layer to my trauma.
To her I’m a constant; one of two people she knows to rescue her from the hunger she can’t yet understand, and the fear of loneliness she knows only by instinct.
But in this state —without use of my arms after a vehicle crash— I could feel the vulnerability of not fully acting as the big, strong daddy my 7-month-old needs me to be; the one who can lift her the highest, and embrace her the tightest. …
There is a split-second for your body to prepare for the trauma before the car slams into your left side, and a leisurely ride into work on a sunny day becomes an exhausting and painful day at the hospital.
Your fight-or-flight instinct is sparked by the adrenaline pumping through your vulnerable shell: your heart pounds; your muscles tense; your awareness is heightened, just as the worst of your situation becomes the prime object of your focus.
The hood of the car is, all at once, a white blur streaking toward you, and also a crystal clear threat to your existence.
As the collision strips from you the handlebars–and with them your ability to control your destination–you hold out your hands to catch yourself from a fall that you won’t be able to avoid. …
It seems to be its own past-time to ask John Kasich whether he’s going to run again for president, perhaps even challenging the incumbent Donald Trump.
CNN is especially interested in Kasich’s plans, and the network invited the two-term Ohio Governor to let viewers see into a crystal ball, and know if he sees a way to the White House.
“Right now, I don’t see it,” Kasich told the network, surely dashing the hopes of keen political observers wanting another narrative arc to follow.
“That doesn’t mean there wouldn’t be a path down the road,” he said, maintaining the possibility of a plot twist later. …
The iron-framed grave markers of Eglise St. Martin look sadly and unnecessarily neglected around the church’s perimeter.
Some crucifixes are broken; the stone legs of a depiction of Jesus Christ sit disconcertingly on a pile of stone blocks. Some stone markers have crumbled or faded. Some wooden crosses are rotting away, but still stand above the remains of a person wanting to be remembered.
There is an understandable and appropriate silence about a graveyard. The dead are meant to be left to their stillness.
But the stillness in this small village in the French region of Picardie (Haut de France) is compounded by years of population loss, economic struggle, and cultural shifts. …
Even mentioning my plans to look at minivans earned the kind of under-the-breath-but-actually-directly-at-you reactions you might expect.
“Well, well, well, a minivan, huh?! Going to be a van dad, huh?! Deciding to give up being cool, huh?!”
Even as jokes, the point seemed to be that entertaining the minivan — no matter the circumstance — constituted some failure on my part.
Let me say one thing from the outset: I place very little value on out-dated definitions of masculinity, strength, coolness, etc.
Any apprehension I had adopting the minivan did not hinge on any arbitrary definition of what constitutes a ‘manly’ or ‘cool’ automobile or not. My personal credo is not inherently linked to any product or campaign. …
What used to be an exception in journalism seems to have become a norm: affording anonymity to sources offering some unattainable insight, intentionally-hidden fact, or, it seems, juicy gossip.
If-and-when to grant anonymity is one of the more controversial discussions in the journalism realm, and it should be.
A written, broadcast, Tweeted, Instagrammed, or whatever, record of a story or claim needs to carry credibility and provability, lest one be attacked for ‘fake news.’
At the same time, the eternal news cycle has led some journalists to seek big stories on tighter deadlines, and has led some sources to fear being pilloried by trolls and legitimate critics alike. …
It’s a silly mash-up, but one driven by serious impulses.
As a journalist by profession and vocation, I listen with dismay to how some demonize the monolithic ‘media’ with a carelessness that does a disservice to valid perspectives and gripes.
I’ve written before that journalists are servants of the people at our core, and listening, responding to, and engaging with the community is vital even if it sometimes takes great effort.
As an amateur bread baker, I like creating and providing food for others to enjoy. It can be a social act, both the baking process and the eating that follows. After college, I worked in a food co-op bakery to pay for gas in between reporting gigs — you could say the two things were entwined from the start. …
Kevin McGinty was one of those people whose generosity of spirit cut through the callousness of a world drenched in cynicism.
He could be cynical, like all of us, but I only heard it in the form of his jokes, or anecdotes, or a few words of encouragement.
As I heard of his death at age 78, I wanted to offer an anecdote of a friend that I remember daily.
Kevin was a native of County Mayo, Ireland, and an icon of Northeast Ohio’s Irish community.
He made up half of the Sounds of Britain & Ireland program on Cleveland’s NPR station, and it was when he came in to the studio to record that program when I’d see him most often. …
In the pangs of grief the simplest tasks can seem the most insurmountable.
Buttoning a shirt.
Pouring a glass of water.
Writing a paragraph.
Inexplicably we can burst into tears because our subconscious remembered that we were grieving, before our conscious selves permitted the rawness to claw back to the surface.
You can’t schedule the waves of emotion.
And even if you could, what hope would you have to control them?
You’d steer your bow toward the rolling and growing whitecaps of sorrow, and longing, and memory, and anger, and regret, and fear, and the soup of all of human experience. …
As Niccolo Machiavelli wrote by candlelight about power and people, his bed chamber was spared endless push alerts of ultime notizie (breaking news.)
His estate outside Florence in 1520 remained unsullied by the eternal wails of pundits and sound bytes which seem to drive our modern conversations and musings.
Machiavelli had his own form of media and matter to consume to be sure, but I have to imagine The Prince may have had another chapter or two if Fox News or MSNBC followed the machinations of Renaissance politicking as thoroughly as our world now.
Even without those chapters, Machiavelli’s recognition of what it takes to find and keep power may teach us something amid heated skirmishes in the modern ‘War on Media.’ …