Post by david on Nov 26, 2008 12:25:35 GMT -8
I didn’t attend commencement at San Diego State. I had completed my coursework in January and had already been out of school for five months by the time the college got around to presenting me with my degree.
There were so many graduates that my five seconds in the spotlight didn’t seem to justify all of the effort required to attend.
My older sister had commenced four years earlier at UC Davis. I attended, and my strongest memories were of the pungent odor of cows and of graduates wearing sandals and all forms of casual attire beneath their gowns.
No one seemed disappointed to have missed my ceremony, least of all: me.
I was married, and a father. My wife, Loretta, had interrupted her schooling and worked full time while I finished my degree; then, I returned the favor, taking over the role of chief breadwinner while she obtained a degree and teaching credential.
I was actively seeking full-time employment in my chosen field: public recreation. Though times were still good, entry-level jobs were scarce and there were many applicants.
After finishing as runner-up three times in a row, I was developing second thoughts about my career choice. I followed up with the prospective employers and discovered that two of three candidates who beat me had master’s degrees.
So, when my wife completed her degree, we left San Diego and returned to Alamosa, Colorado – where we had met and near where I had served both as Vista Volunteer and, briefly, as a Teacher Corps intern.
I enrolled in graduate school at Adams State College and Loretta became a first-year kindergarten teacher in nearby Center, Colorado.
Adams State seemed like a good match for me. For one thing – and perhaps most importantly – they had low standards. My undergraduate G.P.A. wasn’t much to brag about; and I never have been a particularly “scholarly” student – I love being a student; but I’m not all that fond of studying…
I became a member of the campus radio staff – having my own morning show every day and being allowed to experiment with sportscasting and other special programming.
Winter arrived, bringing snow and ice to Colorado. The biggest story was of the installation of traffic signals on a major street that bisected the campus.
A steady flow of students crossed that street, with surges before and after the hour as they flowed from classes to the dorms and back.
I noticed that pedestrians were almost all ignoring the new “walk, don’t-walk” signals. They simply looked left and right, as they had before the lights were installed, and crossed if the coast was clear.
This seemed to me to be a perfect opportunity for on-the-spot radio journalism. I raced to the KASF studios, grabbed a tape recorder and returned to the scene of the crime.
Intercepting scofflaws as they ascended the curb, I employed my best imitation of Mike Wallace and challenged them:
“You just crossed the street. Did you notice that the signal said, ‘Don’t Walk’?” I demanded, shoving the mike into the unsuspecting miscreant’s face.
“Uh. Oh. Er…No, not really,” was the general reply.
After a dozen or so similar exchanges, I cast my eyes around in search of someone who might share my outrage.
I noticed a worker who was chipping ice away from a nearby drain. The sound of his shovel had been punctuating my interviews.
My intent was to first obtain his testimony as witness to the dozens of lawbreakers who had crossed against the light and then to give him a chance to judge them – hopefully with a ripe quote including words like “irresponsible” or “arrogant.”
But I framed my initial question too broadly, asking, “How long have you been here?”
The worker rested on his shovel and looked up at me. He reflected on my question for a few seconds – taking more time and care in responding than I had in asking.
“Oh,” he began, with a heavy accent reminiscent of the Frito Bandito, “about nine years!”
This unexpected response caught me completely off guard. A more experienced or skilled broadcaster would have handled the situation easily; a simple follow-up question would have brought the interview under control.
But I was a novice, and it was about 20 below, and my mind – operating as well as can be expected when it’s 20 below – just wasn’t up to the challenge.
That worker was Willie Naranjo of La Jara in neighboring Conejos County. He was the father of three and had, in fact, been working for the college for about nine years.
After that morning, I began noticing Willie all over the campus. He was a true Jack-of-all-trades, familiar with all kinds of tools and able to solve all kinds of problems.
He was one of the “little people” that kept the campus running, an unsung hero who was practically invisible to students, faculty and professional staff.
It turned out that Willie had noticed me a few months before our encounter at the intersection. During warmer months, his primary assignment was grounds and he maintained the grass at the stadium, which was adjacent to married student housing.
I was a jogger during the fall quarter. The grass was so even and level that it was possible to jog just inside the track – on the cushion of turf, which was easier on the feet, knees and hips.
Of course, this wasn’t a practice the groundskeeper would appreciate. If many others applied the same strategy, they’d wear a path through the grass; but I never noticed any degrading of the surface and selfishly trod in luxury as if it were being maintained for my personal use only.
After we became acquainted, Willie mentioned that he’d seen me jogging on that grass. He didn’t say it in an accusing way – in fact, he didn’t seem to mind. He mentioned it in passing.
But the revelation had an impact on me. As I got to know my friend better, I became rather ashamed of myself – and more that a little angry with others.
The Willie Naranjos of this world spend their life energy doing thousands of little things that enhance the quality of life for people who rarely and even then barely notice them.
I think I know what a “day’s work” is – but only because I’ve experimented with it. Though I’ve had jobs that required physical labor, I don’t imagine I’ve done more than 10, maybe 20, real days of work in my life.
I don’t make friends easily. My friendship with Willie was short-lived. I met his wife and kids, visited his home in La Jara and we talked – often while he worked on one thing or another on campus.
In June, I attended graduation. I climbed up the steps and received my Master’s Degree from the college president and I posed for a few pictures.
My favorite image from that day is a snapshot taken by Loretta outside the gymnasium and after the ceremony.
In that photo, I’m standing in my cap and gown in earnest conversation with Willie – who had been assigned to clean up after all of us that day.
My purpose at Adams State College was to obtain a degree that would distinguish me from “lesser beings.” I was chasing a piece of paper that I hoped would give me an advantage over others.
Willie’s purpose was to put food on the table and to make it possible for his three children to one day become students at the college he served.
Looking back after 35 years I have no doubt about which of us had a higher purpose.
There were so many graduates that my five seconds in the spotlight didn’t seem to justify all of the effort required to attend.
My older sister had commenced four years earlier at UC Davis. I attended, and my strongest memories were of the pungent odor of cows and of graduates wearing sandals and all forms of casual attire beneath their gowns.
No one seemed disappointed to have missed my ceremony, least of all: me.
I was married, and a father. My wife, Loretta, had interrupted her schooling and worked full time while I finished my degree; then, I returned the favor, taking over the role of chief breadwinner while she obtained a degree and teaching credential.
I was actively seeking full-time employment in my chosen field: public recreation. Though times were still good, entry-level jobs were scarce and there were many applicants.
After finishing as runner-up three times in a row, I was developing second thoughts about my career choice. I followed up with the prospective employers and discovered that two of three candidates who beat me had master’s degrees.
So, when my wife completed her degree, we left San Diego and returned to Alamosa, Colorado – where we had met and near where I had served both as Vista Volunteer and, briefly, as a Teacher Corps intern.
I enrolled in graduate school at Adams State College and Loretta became a first-year kindergarten teacher in nearby Center, Colorado.
Adams State seemed like a good match for me. For one thing – and perhaps most importantly – they had low standards. My undergraduate G.P.A. wasn’t much to brag about; and I never have been a particularly “scholarly” student – I love being a student; but I’m not all that fond of studying…
I became a member of the campus radio staff – having my own morning show every day and being allowed to experiment with sportscasting and other special programming.
Winter arrived, bringing snow and ice to Colorado. The biggest story was of the installation of traffic signals on a major street that bisected the campus.
A steady flow of students crossed that street, with surges before and after the hour as they flowed from classes to the dorms and back.
I noticed that pedestrians were almost all ignoring the new “walk, don’t-walk” signals. They simply looked left and right, as they had before the lights were installed, and crossed if the coast was clear.
This seemed to me to be a perfect opportunity for on-the-spot radio journalism. I raced to the KASF studios, grabbed a tape recorder and returned to the scene of the crime.
Intercepting scofflaws as they ascended the curb, I employed my best imitation of Mike Wallace and challenged them:
“You just crossed the street. Did you notice that the signal said, ‘Don’t Walk’?” I demanded, shoving the mike into the unsuspecting miscreant’s face.
“Uh. Oh. Er…No, not really,” was the general reply.
After a dozen or so similar exchanges, I cast my eyes around in search of someone who might share my outrage.
I noticed a worker who was chipping ice away from a nearby drain. The sound of his shovel had been punctuating my interviews.
My intent was to first obtain his testimony as witness to the dozens of lawbreakers who had crossed against the light and then to give him a chance to judge them – hopefully with a ripe quote including words like “irresponsible” or “arrogant.”
But I framed my initial question too broadly, asking, “How long have you been here?”
The worker rested on his shovel and looked up at me. He reflected on my question for a few seconds – taking more time and care in responding than I had in asking.
“Oh,” he began, with a heavy accent reminiscent of the Frito Bandito, “about nine years!”
This unexpected response caught me completely off guard. A more experienced or skilled broadcaster would have handled the situation easily; a simple follow-up question would have brought the interview under control.
But I was a novice, and it was about 20 below, and my mind – operating as well as can be expected when it’s 20 below – just wasn’t up to the challenge.
That worker was Willie Naranjo of La Jara in neighboring Conejos County. He was the father of three and had, in fact, been working for the college for about nine years.
After that morning, I began noticing Willie all over the campus. He was a true Jack-of-all-trades, familiar with all kinds of tools and able to solve all kinds of problems.
He was one of the “little people” that kept the campus running, an unsung hero who was practically invisible to students, faculty and professional staff.
It turned out that Willie had noticed me a few months before our encounter at the intersection. During warmer months, his primary assignment was grounds and he maintained the grass at the stadium, which was adjacent to married student housing.
I was a jogger during the fall quarter. The grass was so even and level that it was possible to jog just inside the track – on the cushion of turf, which was easier on the feet, knees and hips.
Of course, this wasn’t a practice the groundskeeper would appreciate. If many others applied the same strategy, they’d wear a path through the grass; but I never noticed any degrading of the surface and selfishly trod in luxury as if it were being maintained for my personal use only.
After we became acquainted, Willie mentioned that he’d seen me jogging on that grass. He didn’t say it in an accusing way – in fact, he didn’t seem to mind. He mentioned it in passing.
But the revelation had an impact on me. As I got to know my friend better, I became rather ashamed of myself – and more that a little angry with others.
The Willie Naranjos of this world spend their life energy doing thousands of little things that enhance the quality of life for people who rarely and even then barely notice them.
I think I know what a “day’s work” is – but only because I’ve experimented with it. Though I’ve had jobs that required physical labor, I don’t imagine I’ve done more than 10, maybe 20, real days of work in my life.
I don’t make friends easily. My friendship with Willie was short-lived. I met his wife and kids, visited his home in La Jara and we talked – often while he worked on one thing or another on campus.
In June, I attended graduation. I climbed up the steps and received my Master’s Degree from the college president and I posed for a few pictures.
My favorite image from that day is a snapshot taken by Loretta outside the gymnasium and after the ceremony.
In that photo, I’m standing in my cap and gown in earnest conversation with Willie – who had been assigned to clean up after all of us that day.
My purpose at Adams State College was to obtain a degree that would distinguish me from “lesser beings.” I was chasing a piece of paper that I hoped would give me an advantage over others.
Willie’s purpose was to put food on the table and to make it possible for his three children to one day become students at the college he served.
Looking back after 35 years I have no doubt about which of us had a higher purpose.