And I Thank the Lord There Are People Out There Like You

Because I used to be a deejay, I sometimes name my blog posts after song titles, or after lyrics that I like. If you're a Rush fan, you know I've quoted from some of theirs-- "Freewill" and "Witch Hunt" and "Spirit of Radio," to cite three examples. But as I look at the end of 2023, what comes to mind isn't Rush songs, but rather, a great 1996 dance hit by OMC called "How Bizarre." It truly was a bizarre year, with incredible and unexpected highs (getting inducted into the Massachusetts Broadcasters Hall of Fame in June; being on stage with Geddy Lee in Cleveland in November) and at least one incredible and unexpected low (being fired by email, told that I am losing my job, despite 15 years of going above and beyond). 

It was a year when Twitter, now renamed "X" (which nobody I know ever calls it-- I don't know about you, but to me, it's still Twitter and I still send out Tweets) deteriorated into a place where haters-- neo-Nazis, antisemites, white supremacists, etc.-- love to congregate. But some of us still resist, and many friendships still endure. A lot of my followers and I still gather nightly to play Wordle and compare our scores. We still gather to raise money for kids and teachers in need via Donors Choose. 

And speaking of social media, for reasons that I don't entirely understand, I sit at the end of 2023 with 9389 followers on Twitter, and more than 4800 on Facebook. I've been blogging since 2015, and I continued to do so throughout 2023. Some of my blog posts can attract several thousand views; others get fewer than 100; but the fact that folks I don't even know personally are interested in what I write still amazes me.

In mid-December (see previous blog post), I celebrated being 9 years cancer-free. But to be honest, it's hard to celebrate without remembering the folks we've lost to cancer over the years, including our beloved Neil Peart of Rush, and my mother (of blessed memory), and more recently, one of my favorite baseball players-- Tim Wakefield. There are lots of folks who are beating cancer, and I am grateful to be among them. But there are still too many others whose story did not have a happy ending. I'm hoping that ongoing research will lead to new treatments and new cures in the new year ahead.

Politics remained as divisive and hateful as ever: having been around for a while, I can remember other eras of anger and division, like the Vietnam Era, but I still can't get used to a world where a growing number of politicians think it's okay to sling crude insults at their opponents and talk like schoolyard bullies, or use racist or antisemitic tropes in their political speeches, just to pander to certain voters. In fact, it was a year when hatred of "the other" (Jews, Muslims, immigrants, gay people) was on the march in many countries, often fueled by craven political leaders. I kept wishing for one of them to take a stand and say "no" to hate, but it was a year when political courage was in short supply.    

And yet, through a year that can only be described as bizarre (believe me, I never expected to be inducted into the Mass. Broadcasters Hall of Fame... and I never expected to be fired from my job either), there was one constant: you. When I was frustrated or discouraged, when I doubted myself, when I was feeling like what I had to say didn't matter, when some of the haters directed their words at me, you defended me. You encouraged me. You let me know you cared.

I hope I was able to do the same for many of you, and I will continue to reach out in the new year. Meanwhile, as 2023 comes to a close, I'm gratified to know that there are still people who take friendship seriously, who believe in kindness, and who care about ethics. So, to paraphrase the words of an Elton John song, I thank the Lord there are people out there like you. May 2024 bring you good health and good fortune. And may we all live to see a more peaceful world. Happy new year! 

I'm Not Supposed to Be Here (But I'm Glad I Am)

I remember it as if it was almost yesterday. It was the last week in November 2014 when I got the phone call from the specialist. And he told me what my primary care doctor and I had suspected. I had been diagnosed with cancer.

I wasn't surprised. Some of you know me, and you know the genetic hand I was dealt: just about all the women on the maternal side of my family got similar diagnoses, and all of them had succumbed to the disease. I can still remember watching my mother's battle with cancer. She had told me many times about her own mother, the grandmother I never met, who died at only 44 years old. My mother was just 71 when she passed, and from that day on, I dreaded what the future might hold for me.

I was 67 when I got the phone call. And thanks to early detection, I was able to have my surgery on this day (December 17) in 2014. Interestingly, I had an all-female staff working on my case: the oncologist was a woman, the anesthesiologist was a woman, as were all the nurses and the nurse practitioners. I grew up in an era when women were still discouraged from becoming doctors, and I had to admit that it made me smile to note how much society had changed. 

After the surgery, I had a month of radiation (no fun, but better than the alternative), and then, I had to come back to the hospital for regular tests, to make sure the cancer had not returned. Gradually, the testing regimen dwindled from every few months to once a year; and after 5 years, I was told that the odds of a recurrence were very low. But that hasn't stopped me from worrying-- cancer is a relentless foe, and it can make a return when one least expects it. 

But today is not a day for worrying. Today is my 9th anniversary of being cancer-free. I am deeply grateful to the excellent medical team that took care of me, and even on my worst day, I am grateful to be alive. I am also mindful of the many others in my family who are gone, as well as my friends and colleagues who have endured their own cancer diagnosis. Some of you who are reading this blog may be going through it yourself.

The good news is that there have been so many advances in cancer treatment. So many people, myself included, are living proof of that. We are still here, when previous generations had little hope of survival. On the other hand, we all know people whose type of cancer did not have that good outcome. In their memory, I hope you will make a donation to the hospital of your choice, so that researchers can continue to seek (and, hopefully, find) new cures. 

And for those who are going through what I did, please know you are not alone. Please know there is hope, and more people than in any previous generation are winning the fight. For me, it's my nine year anniversary of being cancer-free, and for however many more years God gives me, I will continue to be grateful. And I will continue to hope that one day, everyone with a cancer diagnosis will be able to survive and thrive... as I have.     

There Seems to Be a War on Hanukkah

I was thinking about Hanukkah a lot this week, and that's not something I usually do. Don't get me wrong: it's a perfectly nice holiday, and I enjoy it-- although attempts to turn it into the "Jewish Christmas" aren't very helpful. But it's actually a minor holiday in Judaism, and I think about Passover or Jewish New Year much more. Lately, however, Hanukkah is in the news, and not in a good way: I'm saddened to hear that some cities where they used to have a public lighting of the menorah are canceling those events, and others are hiring extra police to protect the celebrants. Hanukkah didn't used to be controversial. It's a small but happy holiday-- about miracles, about gratitude to God, and about religious freedom. But now, a lot of Jews are afraid to publicly observe it... and that's sad too. 

Truth be told, the culture at this time of year is seldom Hanukkah-oriented. Everywhere we go, all we can see are Christmas decorations, Christmas ornaments, and Christmas displays. Okay fine, Christmas is a major holiday in an overwhelmingly Christian country, and Hanukkah comes at a different time each year. But even when the dates align, most merchants and most civic spaces tend to treat Hanukkah like it doesn't exist. In a few cities with large Jewish populations, there might be a public menorah lighting, but for the most part, Jews observe Hanukkah at home, lighting their menorah near a window, a symbol of shining the light of hope into a world darkened by prejudice. 

But this year, prejudice seems to be winning. The Israel-Hamas war has brought out angry protesters who chant slogans that are not just pro-Palestinian but often anti-Jewish. I don't understand how screaming at the Jewish owner of a falafel restaurant in Philadelphia is going to get the war to stop. I don't understand how vilifying random Jews-- as if we are all somehow to blame for what the Israeli government is doing-- is an effective strategy for bringing about a more peaceful world. And I absolutely don't understand how shutting down Hanukkah observances (or any other Jewish holiday celebrations) will bring us any closer to mutual respect and understanding.

And we need mutual respect now more than ever. I read statements from my friends on the right that the Jews need to be converted and that America is really a Christian nation (no we don't, and no it isn't). I read statements from my friends on the left that Jews are responsible for Palestinian suffering (I am not responsible for what the government of Israel does; I don't live there. I support a two-state solution and I always have. And as an American, I totally reject Islamophobia. But I also wonder why there is so little anger at the many, many Muslim-majority nations, especially those run by autocrats, where they seem fine about having lots of noisy anti-Israel demonstrations, but do very little to actually welcome Palestinian refugees, and even less to make life better for them).      

As for me, I want to live in a world where it's safe for me to wear my Jewish star without someone berating me about what they think my politics are. I want to live in a world where people of all faiths, and no faiths, can respect each other's views and then go grab some lunch together. I want to live in a world where the haters don't win-- no matter how noisy they are. Now more than ever, we don't need a war on Hanukkah. We need to eat some potato pancakes and some jelly donuts together. And it might be nice if everyone put up a menorah, a symbol of taking a stand for tolerance and respect over hate and bigotry. Even teddy bears agree: the world could use more kindness and the world could use more friendship, especially among people with different views. So, as Hanukkah begins, I'm hoping you will join me in bringing a little more light into a world that needs it. Happy Hanukkah!     

Oh the Places You'll Go (or How I Ended Up Back in Cleveland)

I had known for a while that Geddy Lee was writing another book, and unlike the last one, this was more of an autobiography than a tribute to his love of playing the bass. And when he finished it and embarked upon a book tour, I was looking forward to seeing him-- we hadn't seen each other since the last book tour, back in 2019. 

Geddy came to the Orpheum Theater in Boston on Saturday night the 18th of November. Prior to the event, I had a wonderful time hanging out with a large group of Rush fans, many of whom were part of RushCon, which I attended on a few occasions and really enjoyed. I gave a talk (I hope it was interesting), and then I got the message from Geddy's manager that if I went to the venue early (as in, "now"), he'd have some time for us to chat. Needless to say, I went over immediately, and had a chance to hang with him for a few minutes. We hugged, and we talked about family, his book, and our 49-year friendship, something both of us are grateful for.

For some strange reason, Boston's big album rocker (WBCN) never really played Rush very often: I was told the program director didn't like the band, and it wasn't till years later when the guys got played at a different station-- classic rocker WZLX. But a lack of local airplay never stopped thousands of fans from turning out at Rush concerts, nor did it diminish the size of the crowd at the Orpheum. Even now, eight years after the band broke up, the fans love Rush, and they absolutely love Geddy.     

I sat in the audience, enjoying the show. Eric McCormack, of "Will & Grace" fame, was the moderator, and he and Geddy had an interesting conversation.  But prior to that, the audience was treated to a slide show that included rare photos from Geddy's life and career (I was surprised that there was a photo of me, and when the fans saw it, they cheered; they also cheered the first time Neil's photo came up); it was accompanied by organist Josh Kantor. Josh is incredibly talented, and fun to listen to: he does the music at Fenway Park, and he added some local touches, like "Sweet Caroline"-- a sing-along version of which has become a staple at Red Sox games.      

Geddy seemed relaxed and comfortable, as he told stories about how he got his name (both his Hebrew name and his English one); his complicated relationship with John Rutsey; his first impression of Neil, and how Neil's audition for the band went; and why he thought his dad was an incredibly cool guy (and how his death-- when Geddy was only twelve-- affected him). He told of how he learned his dad had been a musician in the old country-- he wished he had known that growing up, as it was something he and his dad never got a chance to discuss.  

Along the way, in addition to answering McCormack's questions, Geddy read several excerpts from his book, and he also talked about missing Neil, and how much the friendship of his band-mates meant to him. He said they seldom if ever argued, and they could always make each other laugh. He mentioned bands that were really good to them (like Kiss) and bands that weren't (like Aerosmith). And he mentioned the staying power of "Working Man," which they performed during just about every tour.  Geddy's talk provided some details  about his life that many of us knew, as well as some we'd never heard before. I thought that perhaps writing the book was cathartic for him-- a retrospective on a successful career, but also a way to process losing his dad so unexpectedly, losing his mom to dementia, and ultimately, losing Neil to cancer. 

The talk had some sad and emotional moments, but it was also very entertaining, especially when Geddy told stories about life on the road. More recently, he told about how much he had enjoyed collaborating with Alex during the Taylor Hawkins tribute. He said it was great to play together again; but while he had no desire to re-create Rush (he has long said if there's no Neil, there's no Rush), he was eager to get back into music on some level. He had rediscovered a couple of songs that he wrote in the late 1990s, and he wanted to write some more, and possibly collaborate with Alex at some future point.

But as I was watching Geddy do his book talk, nobody in the audience knew I had a secret. When I was backstage with him before the show, his manager (Meg) suddenly asked me if I'd be willing to come to Cleveland the next night, assuming they could work out the logistics, to lead the fan Q & A. It was almost a spur of the moment thing; evidently Meg and Geddy got the idea, and once I said okay, it was a matter of making it happen-- except I was asked to not say a word, almost like I would be the "Mystery Guest."

I hadn't been back to Cleveland in a while, but it has such an important place in Rush history, and I was excited to be a part of Geddy's show. And that's how I ended up in a limo, being taken to the airport, and on to Cleveland, in time for the pre-show sound-check at the State Theatre. Geddy was very happy that I was there, and we had fun doing some ad-libs and testing our microphone levels. I did a practice run on some of the fan questions, and then they ushered me back to the Green Room (which isn't green, but I guess many years ago, the guests actually waited in a room of that color). At some point, while the first part of the show, moderated by music journalist Rob Tannenbaum, was going on, I was able to watch it from a chair to the side of the stage, behind the curtain (nobody in the audience could see me, but I had a wonderful view of Geddy and Rob in conversation.  Geddy read different material from what he read in Boston, and told a few different stories, but once again, he seemed relaxed and conversational-- as if he'd been doing this all his life. 

After the intermission, Geddy did another reading from his book, and then... he announced that the person reading the fan questions would be me, and I came out on stage. Geddy and I hugged, and I waved at the fans, many of whom were on their feet applauding and cheering us both. It was almost magical, and yes, I know that's a cliché, but that's how it felt-- like some kind of magic was happening. I had tears in my eyes, and I don't think I was the only one. After all, Cleveland was where it all began, and now, 49 years later, we were all re-united, brought together to celebrate Geddy and to celebrate how much Rush meant to our lives. 

I showed Geddy my old (1975) pass for the Agora Ballroom, and asked him what he remembered of playing there while I was at WMMS. And before we got into the questions, I thanked the fans for being loyal to this band, and I also thanked Geddy. He could easily have forgotten about me years ago, but Geddy (and Rush) always took friendship seriously; the guys in Rush were always loyal to those who had been good to them.  And then, we got into the Q & A. Just like in Boston, when Washington Post arts reporter Geoff Edgers led the questions segment, I read the name of the questioner, we'd put a spotlight on him or her (there were lots of women there, by the way, and I once again remarked that yes there ARE female Rush fans-- which got a cheer from some of them) and then, I'd read their question and Geddy would respond. I was pleased that he and I had a good rapport: to be honest, I hadn't been on stage in quite a while, and I was just hoping I'd do a good job for him and make the fans happy too.   

Evidently I did, because at the end, as I walked off stage, Meg and all the others who had been watching us, said it had turned out perfectly, and it was right that I was there to be a part of it. It was a full-circle event, in a way: I was back in Cleveland, doing what I used to do when I was still on the air, back with people I cared about, back with Geddy, talking about Rush in the city where I first introduced "Working Man." It was as it should be. And before I even got back to my hotel, fans were posting photos and comments to my social media pages. It had been a night I would never forget. I felt privileged to have experienced it.      

So, how do I put into words how much being there meant to me? During the Boston event, at one point, Eric McCormack began singing some lyrics from a Rush song I dearly love, "Madrigal." It seems a fitting tribute to Geddy, to the fans who have remained loyal to Rush, and to the power of friendship, even during difficult times. To everyone who saw me at either of the shows and said hello, or reached out to me on social media, thank you for making me a part of the extended Rush family. "When all around is madness, And there's no safe port in view, I long to turn my path homeward, To stop a while with you." And in a way, that's how it felt: like coming home, like being among friends, like stopping a while to celebrate our shared appreciation for Rush, and our gratitude for Geddy Lee.

    

When Ignorance and Prejudice and Fear Walk Hand in Hand

Back in the 1990s, I was teaching a media analysis course at Emerson College, and one night, after class, a student from Saudi Arabia had a question he needed to ask me. He was a very good student, and I was expecting a question about one of the readings. But what he really wanted to know about was the secret. I wasn't sure what he was referring to, so I asked him to elaborate. "The secret," he said. "We all know that the Jews run the media. How do they do it? What is their secret?"

He was serious. He had been taught all his life that "the Jews" were a powerful, often-sinister force in the world. And he was told, "the Jews" exercised their influence in secret-- they controlled the banks, the world economy, and of course, the media. Since I was perhaps the first Jew he'd ever really met in person, I guess he thought I'd teach him the magic words or the mystical handshake or whatever it was that allowed us to be so diabolical yet so influential. 

But, alas, I wasn't able to be much help. Truth be told, the Jews really don't control the media. There may have been a time circa 1911 when there was only one movie studio and it was owned by Jews, but historically, media outlets were always owned by a wide variety of folks-- and in the US, the majority of those owners have tended to be White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. Were there some Jews who owned newspapers or magazines or radio stations? Yes, of course. Did some Jews own TV stations or movie studios? Absolutely. And were some Jews presidents of networks? Sure. But did Jews control entire industries? Nope, not true-- no matter what my student was told. 

But myths like that one refuse to die. As recently as last week, someone suggested to me that the US government feels obligated to support Israel because of "how powerful the Jews are in the world." (However you feel about Israel, somehow I don't think that's the reason.) And there are other enduring myths about "the Jews" (always "the Jews"-- as if we're a monolithic group that thinks alike, and acts alike). The whole time I was growing up, I heard lots of jokes about "cheap Jews." According to the popular culture, "the Jews" were greedy and their god was money. Examples were everywhere: Judas in the New Testament, the poetry of T.S. Eliot, the character of Shylock the Jew in The Merchant of Venice... (Interestingly, Shakespeare probably never met an actual Jew in his life-- they had all been forcibly expelled from England in 1290, after more than a century of brutal antisemitic persecution. But he certainly met the stereotype: he created Shylock, the moneylender, a man who loved money more than he loved his own daughter.)

It doesn't take much to reawaken some of the old stereotypes, and social media hasn't helped-- some platforms (thanks, Elon) have willingly embraced the haters, and allowed them to spread old hatreds to a new generation, sometimes with deadly consequences. And some extremist politicians (on both sides) have been happy to blame society's problems on "the Jews." Meanwhile, it doesn't take a war in the middle-east for some folks to lash out at "the Jews." In fact, it's a tactic used by autocratic leaders all over the world for centuries.   

During a recent Senate hearing on worldwide threats, FBI Director Chris Wray said that while Jewish Americans are about 2.4% of the American public, they account for something like 60% of all religious-based hate crimes. That's not a number that makes me feel very encouraged. I grew up at a time when antisemitism was on the wane, compared to how it was during the Nazi era; but it was still a part of the culture, and I worried that it might come back. Agreed, things are nowhere nearly as bad as they used to be. But it doesn't take much for bigotry to recur... if we allow it... and if we remain silent when, as the late Neil Peart put it, "ignorance and prejudice and fear walk hand in hand." 

That Day When I Lost My Job

I have to admit I'm someone who doesn't like surprises.  I'd much rather know what's going on, and I usually do. But last Wednesday blind-sided me. That was when I got the email that the provost wanted to see me for a quick Zoom meeting; it concerned my future at the university. About two dozen others of us got similar messages. It was not something I was expecting-- I mean, only a couple of weeks earlier, the university was celebrating those of us with work anniversaries: mine was 15 years. 

So, needless to say, I was not expecting to be told my services were no longer required. I sincerely thought I had done a good job: I taught some very well-received courses in media studies, ran the school newspaper, tutored, mentored, advised, belonged to various university committees, and I'd like to believe I made a positive impact, both on my students and on my colleagues. 

But maybe I didn't. Maybe what I have to offer wasn't what was needed or wanted. I would have thought that in the world today, a person who specializes in media analysis, someone who can teach a wide range of media-related courses (along with other courses too), would be useful. But evidently not.  

I still don't know how I feel about all of this. I'm getting a lot of emails from former (and current) students who think the university made the wrong decision. And I can't forget that there were 30 of us, all of whom were names in our fields in some way, all of whom worked hard for our students, all of whom went above and beyond... and yet, we're all gone. Just like that. Turn the page. 

I know it's not personal (at least, I hope it's not). Business decision. I ran a business and at times, I had to let people go too. But to be honest, I never thought I'd be the one to lose my job. I sincerely believed I was making a difference. And now, I don't know what the next thing is. I'm 76. Still young and cute, widely quoted and published, but 76. Will anyone want to hire me? Only time will tell.

It's times like this when I'm glad I have a blog, because there's something cathartic in writing this. As I said, I don't like surprises, and this was certainly not what I expected to be blogging about. Sometimes, life is fair (and predictable) and sometimes it isn't. As a cancer survivor, I'm still grateful to be alive. But I do hope there's still someplace where I can contribute. And not knowing what the next thing is, and not knowing what I can do about any of it... that too is not what I expected...

Do We Still Need Dress Codes?

When I was growing up in the 1950s and early 60s, dress codes were a part of everyone's life. It was a much more formal culture: even in public school, boys were expected to wear jackets and ties, and girls were expected to wear skirts and blouses. That applied to teachers too. In the office, there was no such thing as "business casual," and as for "casual Fridays," those were unheard of. Businessmen wore suits and their secretaries wore dresses. (Pantsuits for businesswomen were also a no-no.) If you went to religious services, you dressed up. If you went to a dance, you dressed up. If you went out to a restaurant... well, you get the idea. In fact, there were so many rules about what you were supposed to wear and when, and you deviated from them at your peril.

But over the past few decades, we've become a much less formal culture. Gradually, dress codes began to be relaxed-- even in the office. Agreed, most executives still tend to dress in a "professional" manner, but these days, more colors are permitted for men, pantsuits are okay for women, and just about every business has at least one "casual" day. And while most schools still expect a certain standard for the students, by the time kids are in college, they are wearing all sorts of different styles, and very few involve suits or dresses.   

I was talking to my students several weeks ago about whether dress codes are necessary in our far more casual culture. Of course, there are still times when it's best to utilize traditional styles: for example, I would never go to a job interview wearing jeans. Nor would I go to synagogue looking like I had just come from taking a walk on the beach. In fact, I was always taught that maintaining a professional image is important; it's part of being taken seriously.

But I found myself feeling ambivalent when congress (temporarily) relaxed its dress code a couple of weeks ago. It all started when Pennsylvania senator John Fetterman, who is recovering from a stroke and from depression, asked for permission to wear his customary shorts and a hoodie to work. A part of me wanted to accommodate him-- he has been through a lot, he's making an inspiring recovery, and if that's what will help him to feel better, who am I to say no?  But when he got the okay to dress casually on the floor of the senate, quite a few members of congress were uncomfortable, and they said so.

Okay fine, some of it was political posturing-- a few of his political opponents expressed a little bit too much outrage, given that some of them are not exactly examples of dressing for success: I've seen poorly-fitted jackets (or no jacket at all), shirts that didn't quite button, colors that didn't match-- if I were the fashion police, I could flag lots of folks for violations. Further, some of the folks demanding professionalism in congress were some of the biggest offenders when it comes to using bad language or being rude. In other words, wearing nice clothes doesn't make you a nice person.

But in the end, tradition ruled, and the dress code was reinstated. Still, I found the debate puzzling, because many folks seemed to equate clothing with behavior. I can name numerous members of congress who don't act in a professional manner-- yet they insist a dress code is needed to assure that there's decorum. And that's what I was discussing with my students: In some circumstances, I can see the benefit of looking professional and dressing in a way that's respectful. But I'm not convinced that going back to 1950s rules will produce more courteous behavior. So, perhaps you can contribute to the discussion: should businesses (including congress) tell their employees how to dress, and if so, what rules still make sense in 2023? I'm not in favor of shorts and a hoodie in the office, but I'm also not a fan of everyone having to dress up every day. So, where should we go from here? I'd welcome your opinions.

My New Year's Wish and An Apology

I don't usually blog about religion, but this seems like an appropriate time: as I write this, Jews all over the world are about to celebrate the Jewish New Year (Rosh Hashanah), which is also the beginning of the Ten Days of Repentance. As many of you know, New Year for us is not about partying (although there is a festive meal). It's about gratitude--it's a gift to be alive to greet another year. And it's also about reevaluation--looking back on what we did (or didn't do) in the past year and thinking seriously about what we need to do to improve ourselves. 

During the Ten Days of Repentance, it's about humility--humbling yourself and apologizing to those you may have wronged, as well as apologizing to God. The ten days culminate in Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, perhaps the most serious day in Judaism, a day of fasting and prayer. Some of us not only fast from food--we fast from social media, TV, radio, anything that's a potential distraction from sincerely contemplating our spirituality and humbly asking God to forgive the mistakes we've made.

Agreed, not everyone is religious, and not everyone fasts or prays or even believes in a deity. But I look at this period of time as an opportunity to learn, to grow, to work on becoming a better person. And that's something anyone can do, no matter how much or how little they align with a religion.

My New Year's wish for you is that you are able to live in good health-- as a cancer survivor, I know for a fact that if you don't have your health, you don't have anything. So, to me, health comes first. I also wish you a year of kindness--may you be kind to others, and may others be kind to you. A lack of kindness can corrode a person's spirit-- we all need the ability to be compassionate, and we're a lot better off when we act with compassion, rather than with pettiness or vindictiveness. And finally, my New Year's wish for you is a year of peace-- of course, there will be arguments, of course there will be disagreements, because we're human. But we don't have to create a world where that's ALL there is. In other words, we can create a world where when we disagree, it doesn't turn into endless rage or fury. We can create a world where we can agree to disagree and still be friends. I'd much rather live in that kind of world, wouldn't you?

And that gets me to my apology: I am by nature an impatient person, and if in the past year I was rude or discourteous with any of you, I hope you will forgive me. There are many things I wish I hadn't said, and while I cannot un-say them, I can promise to be more mindful and try my best to be more understanding. I don't always live up to the ideals and the goals I've set for myself, but I promise to keep trying, now and in the year ahead. 

To all who celebrate, I wish you a happy and health and peaceful New Year, and no matter what our beliefs or traditions (or our politics), may this be a good year for us, and for the world; and may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life.      

A Birthday and Two Anniversaries

This past week has been more eventful than usual: for one thing, it was Rush guitarist Alex Lifeson's 70th birthday. For another, it was the 39th anniversary of when I met Jeff, the adult with autism for whom I've served as an advocate and a mentor since we met in 1984. And it was also the 15th anniversary of my being hired as a professor at Lesley University in Cambridge MA.

Each event was special in its own way-- both Alex and I marveled at the fact that we've remained in touch for nearly 50 years. Jeff, who doesn't always understand abstract concepts like the passage of time, absolutely understands that I've been there for him for quite a long while; and when I told him it was our 39th anniversary, he seemed pleased (and he wanted to know if we'd go out for an anniversary lunch, or perhaps cake and ice cream... or both). And as for being at Lesley for 15 years, that's kind of amazing too. 

As many of you know, I'm a working class kid, and I grew up in an era when nobody expected girls to accomplish much beyond finding a husband. (Don't get me wrong-- there is nothing wrong with finding a husband if that's your main goal. I'm glad I eventually married, but I also wanted a career, and back then, girls were told we couldn't have both. How times have changed...) So, I followed my dream, even when folks said I was wasting my time, and I ended up having a long career in broadcasting. I met some famous people, I helped some underappreciated people become better known, and I tried to be entertaining on the radio.

And when the industry changed and a lot of us were downsized, I reinvented myself, as many of you know. I went back to school at age 55, got my PhD at age 64, and became a full-time professor of media studies. Not bad for someone who was told she'd never succeed. I'm the first woman in my family to get a Masters degree, and the first to get a PhD, in fact.  Lesley hired me in 2008-- I had been working part-time at Emerson College in Boston, but they never offered me a full-time gig, and when Lesley did, I took it. And now, I've been there 15 years, and I'm getting ready for the Fall semester.

I feel very fortunate, especially since in December, I'll (hopefully) celebrate another anniversary-- I'll be nine years cancer free. Meanwhile, I'm grateful that Alex and I are still in communication, grateful that Jeff continues to do well, and grateful that at 76, I'm still able to bring home a paycheck. And in a world that can sometimes be chaotic, it's nice to know that some things haven't changed: there are still milestones to achieve, and opportunities to make a difference, and anniversaries to celebrate with people I love. 

       

When We Shout at the "Teacher of the Year"

Wherever you are on the political spectrum, I hope you share my view that just because you disagree with someone, that doesn't give you the right to scream at them or make threats. And yet, a lot of folks seem to believe it's okay to shout first and think about it later. I'm reading far too many articles about angry parents disrupting school board meeting by shouting and cursing at board members; or protesters demanding that librarians remove certain books immediately, and getting furious when their demands aren't met (or aren't met quickly enough). And don't even get me started on our politics, where you can find far too many angry people, stirred up by partisan talk show hosts, convinced that folks on the other side are the spawn of Satan. 

But I never thought I'd be reading about folks attacking the Teacher of the Year. The "Teacher of the Year" award was created back in the 1950s, during the presidency of Dwight D. Eisenhower. It was intended to honor the teaching profession and highlight some great teachers. Every state in the United States has given this award, and until fairly recently, it was quite non-controversial.

Until it wasn't. The 2023 Idaho Teacher of the Year, Karen Lauritzen, was a veteran teacher who has taught in the Idaho schools for more than two decades and was widely respected. She was selected in a county that is overwhelmingly Republican, and where her teaching skills had never been questioned. She was delighted by the award, and eager to share the good news with her fourth graders. But what happened next was not so delightful. Seemingly out of nowhere, she found herself accused by conservative talk shows of being a "left-wing activist" who was "promoting transgenderism." She also received unexpected complaints from certain parents who claimed she was teaching sexual content to her students (she was not, and never had). And she was accused of teaching about inappropriate topics-- which ranged from teaching her students about customs from other cultures, to teaching them about the United Nations. 

The angry comments and complaints seem to have been based on someone finding a couple of posts she had made on her own social media account, in which she expressed support for diversity and inclusion. As someone who has also done this, I fail to see the problem. Teachers and professors are human beings, and they undoubtedly have opinions about current issues. As long as they don't impose those opinions on anyone, I don't see the harm. But in Idaho, some parents and talk show hosts decided Ms. Lauritzen was the enemy, and that is how they wanted her to be treated: in fact, they wanted her fired, no questions asked.

Sad to say, Ms. Lauritzen's experience was shared by Teacher of the Year winners in other states, including Nebraska, Kentucky, and Louisiana. Someone dug up a post that, on its face was not very controversial, but because it went against the beliefs of a certain segment of the population, or because someone disagreed with it, the teacher began getting angry emails, and the school board began getting demands that the teacher be removed. The so-called "Culture Wars" have been making it impossible for even the best teachers to do their jobs.

And in the end, many of these teachers are concluding that the distrust and the angry accusations (and often, the silence of the superintendent in their state) are not worth the aggravation. So, they are leaving. I'm not sure who benefits from that. I certainly know who loses-- the students. The Teacher of the Year is someone who demonstrates excellence at his or her job. So, why demonize and vilify them? Why shout at them? Why drive them from the profession? How did we get to a place where some folks think this is perfectly okay? 

I'll leave you with what Ms. Lauritzen told the Boston Globe several days ago. Explaining why teachers are leaving, she said it's because "they don’t feel valued... if you can’t pay them well, they at least need to feel that you value their judgment; they’re doing good things, and [they] have children’s best interest at heart. And when you take all that away — what’s left?”   

In Search of the Missing Photo

I never met my maternal grandmother, even though I am named after her; in the Jewish religion, it's a custom to name one's children after someone who has passed on, so that person's memory will live on in the world through the good deeds we do. So, while I'm Donna in English, I'm Devorah (Debra) in Hebrew-- which I believe was my Grandma Dora's Hebrew name.

My mother, of blessed memory, loved her dearly. Unfortunately, my grandmother endured many health problems, and she died young-- she was only 44, and from what was described to me, it certainly seemed like cancer. Today, the story might have a very different outcome, but in 1939, there were so few treatments available. My mother never fully recovered from watching what her mom went through. Even decades later, when telling me about the woman who was my grandmother, it would bring tears to my mother's eyes. 

I've heard so many stories of how compassionate and generous my Grandma Dora was. I always wished I could have met her.  Despite living through the Great Depression, and despite her poor health, I am told she was somehow optimistic; she was a very spiritual and caring person, and I know my mother always tried to emulate her. 

But while I have the stories my mother told me when I was growing up, I have no picture of my Grandma Dora. None. For whatever reason, no photographs from her life seem to have survived. I have found various documents online via Ancestry.com -- census records, streets she lived on, when and where she married my grandfather... but not one photo. 

I feel very fortunate that photographs of my mother, and my father, survived. I even have photos of a few of my relatives, and a couple of photos of my maternal grandfather. But the woman who was such a profound influence on my mother-- if anyone did take her picture, no-one has ever found it.

Every year, in September, just before the Jewish New Year, I visit the graves of my departed relatives, and I visit hers too. And when I stand before her gravestone, I imagine what she looked like, what she sounded like (my mother told me she would sing lullabies in Yiddish-- I wish I had heard those songs). I wonder if she would have liked me. When she was growing up, the roles of girls were so restricted, but by the time I was a teenager, so much had changed. Neither she nor my mother was encouraged to go to college, for example; but I was able to go, and I even graduated. I'd like to think she'd be pleased.

But above all, I wish I could tell her that while she died far too young, there have been so many advances in the treatment of cancer since then, and I am living proof-- as many of you know, I had cancer surgery in December 2014, and thanks to modern medicine (and by the grace of God), I am still here, at age 76. And for as long as I have on this earth, I will continue to do good deeds in her memory, in my mother's and my father's memory, and in the other relatives of mine who have passed. But there will always be a part of me that wishes I'd been able to meet my Grandma Dora. And I will continue to wish I had just one photo to remember her by.   

Brought Up to Believe (Or, What Does It Mean To Get A Good Education?)

When I was growing up in the 1950s and early 1960s, parents were eager for their kids to go to college. Back then, in a very conservative time, the expectation was that girls would learn to become teachers or nurses or executive secretaries (prior to becoming wives and mothers, of course); and boys would learn to be engineers, doctors, and businessmen. There was a plan, and everyone was expected to follow it, since (allegedly) we'd always done it this way.

Back then, we studied English Literature-- mostly British and U.S. writers, 99% of whom were white and male. And we studied World History-- but the focus was on Europe and no place else. We studied U.S. History-- but the focus was on America as a great country that had done amazing things. Agreed, America had in fact done some things that were amazing. On the other hand, however, there was no conversation about how Native Americans (or "Indians") were treated, no discussion of poverty, or people with disabilities, or discrimination. Nothing that was negative-- after all, we loved our country, and we were told that to question the dominant (positive) narratives was unpatriotic.

Yes, we might study Comparative Religions-- but the default position was Christianity, and all the other faiths, while misguided, were to be tolerated. The Holocaust? Barely mentioned. Slavery? The main thing was it ended with the Emancipation Proclamation. (And we never were told that some of the Founding Fathers had owned slaves.) Segregation? Not a thing to dwell on. Antisemitism? Not a thing to dwell on either. Racism? Nothing to discuss-- the constitution said we were all equal. Gay people? They were considered deviants, so why talk about them? (Some folks today insist there was no indoctrination back then-- but as someone who thought differently about some things, I can tell you that only certain viewpoints, and certain beliefs, were welcome. I was often told I had the "wrong" beliefs.)  

Even in college, there were a lot of things we weren't supposed to talk about. Occasionally, I had a professor who did things differently, a professor who was thought-provoking and encouraged us to analyze some trend or question what we had been taught. But for the most part, everyone adhered to the norms of traditional culture. I respected those norms, but all around me, it was an era of social change (the women's movement, the civil rights movement, the gay rights movement, etc.), yet many of my professors would have preferred to avoid any discussions about any of that. In fact, I got in trouble when I tried to bring some of these topics up. I was told to stop asking questions. 

But I couldn't. And I still can't. Frankly, as an educator, I think asking questions like "why did this happen?" or "has something like this ever happened before?" can be important-- especially now. We're about to start a new school year, and yet, in large parts of the USA, there are conservative politicians insisting that what we need is to go back to the way things used to be in the 1950s. To avoid "controversial concepts" and to avoid "divisive issues." To never discuss anything that might possibly offend someone (I'm not a mind-reader; how can I predict what will offend a student?). There are states where laws now forbid students from reading certain books or penalize teachers (including professors) if they introduce a view of history that contradicts the dominant narrative. 

How is this a good thing? How does pretending there's only one interpretation of history help us to understand world events? In the 1950s and early 1960s, perhaps education was easier because there was one "approved" perspective and one dominant narrative. But we're in 2023. And it's a different, more complicated world; just telling students to memorize certain facts may not work as well as it once did. So, if you're in my classes, you may learn some stuff that you don't agree with. That's okay. And you may learn some stuff you think is 100% correct. That's okay too. But what we don't need is to prevent conversations about the issues from occurring. What we do need is to let students learn: teach them to examine the issues thoroughly, and to respect each other's views-- something that didn't happen very often in those mythical "good old days" some folks want us to return to.   

The Courage to Change

I was thinking about Neil Peart the other day. I had the privilege of being a panelist on a recent Rush Deep Dive about the album 2112 (you can find it on YouTube), and we were talking about what the lyrics meant, why Neil wrote them, and how he was influenced by Ayn Rand at that time, back in 1976. He was in his early 20s, and the world looked very different to him then.

Fast forward to 2010, when he and I chatted backstage before a Rush concert. He had long since moved on from his Ayn Rand days, much to the chagrin of some fans who were upset that he had changed some of his views. But as he acknowledged, the change was gradual. And for him, it was necessary. He did not believe in standing still. He loved to learn, and until the day he died, he never stopped taking in new information. Arbitrarily believing everything he believed in 1976 and never re-evaluating any of it would not have been who he was. His ethics did not change-- and Neil was an ethical person. But how he reacted to life's ups and downs, or how he interpreted current issues, differed when he was in his 40s from how things looked when he was in his 20s.  

He told a reporter in 2006 that some of the lyrics he wrote in his early 20s now made him cringe-- yes, the beliefs he held in his early 20s were sincere, but he understood that the world looked very black and white back then. There were good guys and bad guys, folks who stood up for their beliefs and folks who sold out. There were no exceptions, and there was no nuance. The hero never compromised, because he (and it was usually a he) knew he was right. And if someone was struggling, it was due to their own failings; they just needed to be strong and try harder. Expecting others to help was a weakness. 

Interestingly, even back in his Ayn Rand days, Neil never fully subscribed to all of her beliefs. He collaborated with his band-mates, he loved his family and cared about their well-being, and he was always courteous to me, whether we agreed about a topic or not. And yes, many times, he did help others. But in a now widely-quoted Rolling Stone interview in June 2012, he described himself as a "bleeding heart libertarian." He acknowledged he was still idealistic, but he understood the world was not perfect, and the playing field was not level, and-- as he told me when we talked-- he understood that some people were struggling through no fault of their own.

I wish I could talk to him about the Supreme Court's decisions on Affirmative Action and Pres. Biden's student loan forgiveness program. I'd love to hear his opinion about whether he felt the court decided correctly on these cases. (No, we never discussed either issue, and Mr. Biden wasn't president, so we never discussed him either.) Besides, Neil was Canadian, and undoubtedly had opinions about what his own government was doing. My point is, in his earlier years, he would probably have been opposed to the government helping people with X, or Y, or Z. I wonder if he would still feel that way today. I don't want to put words in his mouth, so I won't try to guess; but the sense I got from our later conversation was he had come to believe that sometimes, compassion was a plus rather than a minus.

One of the many things I respected about Neil (and about Geddy and Alex too) was that Rush didn't just go along with everyone else, and they didn't insult the folks with whom they disagreed. I doubt than any of the guys would be on social media calling someone names or mocking them. That wasn't their style at all. They valued being logical and seeking out the facts. Meanwhile, I'm glad Neil had the courage to modify and change some of his views as time went on. But I must say that many of his lyrics are as thought-provoking today as when he wrote them years ago. And I don't think I'm alone in saying I miss him.

Reasons to Like Garth Brooks

While I'm usually identified as a former rock and roll deejay, the truth is that during some of my radio career, I played other kinds of music. It depended on where I was working, and what the format of that station was. Some stations where I worked, the format was jazz, or top-40, or easy listening, or country. But wherever I worked, even if the format wasn't one of my favorites, I was usually able to find a few songs I liked. (And I always understood that it wasn't about what I liked: it was about making the audience happy and playing the songs they liked.)  

When I worked briefly in country radio, I have to admit I couldn't relate to most of the songs-- I don't have a favorite bar (I've never even tasted alcohol), I've never been divorced, and I don't drive a pick-up truck. (I know, that's a stereotypical view of country songs, but a lot of them certainly seemed like they were about those themes!) That said, there was always one country artist whose music I liked a lot-- Garth Brooks. 

Perhaps I liked him because he was comfortable in both the rock world and the country world-- while he was best known for his many country hits, he also loved rock and roll. In fact, while growing up, he thought about being a rock musician. He liked Bob Seger (so do I), he liked the Allman Brothers (me too), he liked a lot of the bands that I enjoyed (I only met him once, and I never got the chance to ask if he liked Rush, but I wouldn't be surprised if he did). 

I found that I enjoyed a lot of his music-- "The Dance," "The Thunder Rolls," "Shameless" (also done by Billy Joel), and of course the long version of "Friends in Low Places"-- a great song to sing along with. He also did some very creative music videos, one of which was surprisingly controversial back in 1992. "We Shall Be Free" was a song about creating a more compassionate and tolerant world-- about not judging people based on how they worshiped, or what their race was, or which candidates they supported, or who they loved. The controversy arose over one verse. It went:

"When we're free to love anyone we choose,
When this world's big enough for all different views,
When we all can worship from our own kind of pew,
Then we shall be free..."

That line about being free to love anyone we choose was the part that caused him so much grief-- in the music video, there was about a two-second image of two men hugging. Evidently, this was an outrage to some folks, because many country stations refused to play the song, and some places banned the video. It was one of his few songs not to make the top-10.  I never understood what the problem was, frankly. In a world where there is so much hatred and where so many folks are judgmental, what's wrong with respecting others--even those who don't do things the way you or I might do them?

Fast forward to 2023, a time when the culture wars rage on, and many politicians are proposing laws that seem to target the gay community. Some folks are even boycotting certain products that are perceived to be supportive of gay or transgender rights: Bud Light is being boycotted because one of its commercials features someone who is trans. Brooks, who is opening a new bar in Nashville, was asked if he would carry Bud Light. He said he would, explaining that in his establishment, he wanted everyone to feel at home. “I think diversity is the answer to the problems that are here and the answer to the problems that are coming. So I love diversity. All inclusive; so, all are welcome."

It was the perfect answer for the times we live in: in a world where the loudest and angriest voices seem to dominate, be courageous and stand up for respect, courtesy, and kindness. Be willing to make others feel welcome. Some haters objected to his answer (at which point, he suggested that, if that's their attitude, perhaps they might want to spend their money at some other establishment); but a lot of other folks--myself included-- had to smile. I may not like every country song or every country singer, but I do like Garth Brooks. Whether back in the early 1990s or in June 2023, he hasn't changed. He remains someone who loves performing and making his fans happy, but he isn't afraid to be ethical. He is someone who believes that the most important value is tolerance. I couldn't agree more.

Listen to Your Heart

As many of you know, I'm about to be inducted into the Massachusetts Broadcasters Hall of Fame. It's a great honor, and my one regret is that my parents aren't alive to see it. But, while I am sure they'd be happy for me, they never did understand why I wanted a career in radio. And they absolutely did not understand why I was willing to leave Boston (and leave a career as a teacher) to go to Cleveland, a city where I'd never been before, and work as a rock & roll deejay. Teaching was secure. It was stable. And you got your summers off. But it wasn't what I wanted to do.

Don't get me wrong: I had some enjoyable times as a teacher. Agreed, some of the students were annoying, but others were eager to learn. It was the early 1970s, an era of turbulence and social change, and even in English classes, current issues were on everyone's mind. For some reason, the kids thought I was an interesting person-- I guess I wasn't like a lot of the other teachers. I was much younger, and I liked the same music they did. I could also understand a lot of what they were going through. I was strict if I had to be, but I was also someone who motivated and encouraged them. And so it was that I became sort of a combination counselor, mentor, and teacher. And when I finally got a part-time deejay job at a local AM station, they were able to hear me on the air. They thought that was exceedingly cool. This is a photo of me from the 1973 Hyde Park High School Yearbook. (Note the books on my desk: they were about rock music as poetry. To this day, I gravitate to songs that have meaningful lyrics.)

My students were disappointed when they found out I was leaving, but I don't think they were surprised. They knew that I loved radio, and when I had the chance to follow my dream, they knew it was what I needed to do. Some of them wrote to me in Cleveland; I still have some of those letters.  

When I left teaching to work at WMMS, ten hours and 600 miles away from Boston, I knew I was taking a risk. I was leaving the city where I'd lived all my life and going to a place where I knew no-one, just because I loved radio. I even took a cut in pay, as I recall, but it was never just about the money-- I mean, of course, I wanted to make enough to pay my bills. But while teaching high school English paid reasonably well, my heart was in radio, as it had been ever since I was a kid. I knew this was my big chance, the one I'd waited for; and I knew I had to take it.

Some of you know what happened for me in Cleveland--both the good and the bad. The good part included discovering a certain Canadian rock band and helping to launch their career in the US; having their first two albums dedicated to me was both surprising and humbling. I was also the chair of a committee on prison reform, and in addition to having fun as a music director and meeting a lot of rock stars, I did a number of speaking engagements and met some wonderful listeners. The bad part was never getting equal pay, and never really fitting in-- it was a time when there was a lot of drug use, and I've never done any of that. I probably was a huge disappointment to the folks at the station. 

To be honest, I wasn't sorry to leave Cleveland and move to New York, where I worked for Rush's label for a year, and then I got back into radio, working at a jazz station. My career took me to a soft-rock station in Washington DC for a while, and then, finally, back to Boston, where I eventually started my own consulting career. I did that for 28 years, traveling all over North America (I even had clients in Alaska. Hawaii, and Puerto Rico-- and Canada too). And when the radio industry changed in the 1990s, I had to reinvent myself and go back to school. Some of you know I got my PhD when I was 64, and these days, I'm an author, a media historian, and a professor.

And if there's a message in any of this, I suppose it's to think about which path will bring you happiness. You may need to take some chances, you may need to encounter disapproval, and you may disappoint some well-meaning folks who don't understand that what they think is right for you might not be what you think is right for you. (In the end, I hope my parents came to accept my career, even if it puzzled them sometimes.) And so, if you believe the path you're on will allow you to make a positive contribution, go for it. And while not every dream is meant to come true, there's definitely satisfaction in knowing that at least you gave it a shot. To this day, despite the frustrations and the obstacles, I have a lot of amazing memories. And looking back on it, I'm glad I took that chance, and listened to my heart.  

Just a Little Respect

The other day, I saw yet another post on social media calling Joe Biden "senile," and saying he had dementia. I see this kind of stuff way too often, and yes I know, people on both sides love to throw around insults about politicians they dislike. But there's something about the word "senile" when applied to an older politician that really irritates me. I mean, just because you don't like someone's policies, or you don't like how they communicate, does that mean the person is "senile"? Really?

So, I went on Twitter and tweeted the following: "As someone who's 76, works full-time, writes articles, & does public speaking, I wish folks who don't like Joe Biden would stop saying he's "senile." Many 80 year olds are as mentally sharp as younger folks. Aging doesn't automatically mean senility."

Evidently, my Tweet struck a chord. Much to my surprise, more than 14,200 people saw it; several hundred of them "liked" it, and it even got a bunch of re-tweets. I also got some comments from folks who have relatives or even colleagues in their 80s who are still working (whether for money, or as volunteers); until several years ago, one of my colleagues was in her early 80s and she was as dynamic and mentally sharp as someone 30 years younger. 

See, this isn't about Joe Biden. Frankly, I don't care how many folks can't stand him, or how many think he's amazing. What I do care about, and I've said this before, is getting rid of the stereotypes we still use about so-called "senior citizens." If a young person forgets to do something, or forgets the lyrics to a song, it's usually treated as no big deal; we all have days like that, don't we?  If an older person does it, well it's a "senior moment," or maybe it's proof that their memory is starting to fade.

But is it? Agreed, folks who are 80 are rarely able to do what they did at 20. But should that be the standard by which we measure older people? Isn't there some middle ground between "nimble and agile like a 20-year old" and "ready to go into assisted living"? Truth be told, not everyone ages the same way. Me, I hope to keep working for as long as my health permits-- I enjoy being useful and keeping my brain active-- and I'd like to believe my brain is still functioning just fine! But yes, some days, when I forget some little thing, I have to remind myself it's nothing to worry about... because our culture is constantly reinforcing the message that older people can't keep up, or they no longer have much to offer.

So, where did we get the belief that just because someone has reached a certain age, that means they can no longer contribute?  I know some 30 year olds who are still not living up to their potential, and I know some 80 year olds who are far exceeding society's expectations. So, whether it's Joe Biden, or Donald Trump, or Bernie Sanders, or anyone else in their late 70s/early 80s, don't arbitrarily assume the person is "senile" when they say or do something you disagree with. 

I understand that on social media, folks love to sling insults, but this one is especially hurtful, since many of us DO worry about whether we'll eventually have dementia. (Most of us won't, but it's still a fear a lot of us have.) That said, I'll keep on hoping for less name-calling and more respect for older people, because if you give us a chance, we might still have some wisdom we can share, or some knowledge we can offer.  

Why I'm Still On Twitter

It was sometime in January 2008, and I was teaching at Emerson College in Boston. A couple of my Journalism students asked if they could "follow" me on Facebook, but I had to admit to them I wasn't on social media yet. In fact, I had no plans to be on it at any time soon (I think the late, great Betty White once called it a "giant time-waster," and that's how it certainly seemed to me). 

But my students reminded me that as a radio consultant (which I still was at the time), I needed to be available to my clients, some of whom were certainly on social media by then. And so it was, in February 2008, that I finally joined Facebook.  A few months after that, in August 2008, I joined Twitter. As time passed, it turned out to be a good way to keep in touch with people-- not just clients, but friends, former and current colleagues, and... Rush fans. Lots of them reached out, and I was happy to hear from them. 

To my surprise, a growing number of folks (including my Emerson students) wanted to follow me on Facebook and Twitter-- I eventually added Instagram, but I don't use it very much. Anyway, for some reason, I've ended up with close to 5,000 followers on Facebook; and as I'm writing this, I've got more than 8,800 followers on Twitter. (I don't have, and never received, the famous Blue Check Mark-- Twitter verification turned me down twice, saying I wasn't well-known enough, there were no hashtags about me, etc. It was disappointing but somehow I survived).    

I was concerned when I heard Elon Musk was buying Twitter-- I had nothing against him, and even during my years in radio, I never met the guy. But he kept referring to himself as a "free speech absolutist," and I was worried that he might allow certain voices back on the platform (Neo-Nazis, for example) who had, in my view, been justifiably banned by the previous owner. I also had noticed that while he claimed to believe in free speech, he seemed quite willing to block anyone who was critical of him or disagreed with his views. (He seemed to have shifted from generally libertarian views to more hard-right perspectives.) I can respect whatever his views might be, but I was worried about whether he would impose them on the rest of us.

Today, many of the folks I used to follow, journalists especially, have been made to feel so unwelcome that they left the platform. I miss them-- Twitter used to be a wonderful way to reach out to reporters with story ideas, or share information. Elon declared war on sites like NPR, for reasons that make no sense to me. He also has posted some bizarre conspiracy theories. He removed the Blue Check Marks from folks who had earned theirs under the previous ownership (even the Pope lost his); and he tried to monetize what used to be a way to verify whether people were who they said they were, rather than imposters or bots. And yes, he did let some folks back onto Twitter who I wish were still not permitted.

But I haven't left, and I have no plan to leave at any time soon. Twitter is still a wonderful way to organize donations for teachers via Donors Choose. It's still a wonderful way to reach out to Rush fans. When I blog about Rush, which I sometimes do, or participate in a webcast about the band, I get the most response from folks on Twitter. Meanwhile, I play Wordle with my followers, I comment on current events, and sometimes I post about what's going on in my life. I've made some good friends on Twitter; those relationships matters to me. So, as crazy as things may get, and even though I don't like what Elon has done to Twitter, I intend to stick around and keep posting. To those who read my Tweets, thank you. I look forward to continuing to communicate with you, now and in the future!

An Attitude of Gratitude

Geddy Lee's new book is finally coming out in November, I am told. I've been asked by several Rush fans if I'll be in it, and I've replied that I honestly have no idea. Given that it's a memoir, whatever Geddy thinks is especially important about his life will be included. If I had to guess, he'll focus on family stories, his childhood friends, his upbringing, his mentors-- in other words, the factors that made him who he is today. And yes, of course, he will write about his career-- and what it was like to be a rock musician in a very popular band.  

If I do get included, that will be wonderful. But if I don't, I won't be disappointed at all. Here's why. Ever since I first met the members of Rush in mid-1974, they have always been courteous to me, and they have always been appreciative for my role in their career. Over the years, individually and as a group, they thanked me many times for championing them: for encouraging radio stations to play their music, and sticking up for them when critics would say bad things about their newest album (some of the reviews were brutal...and I couldn't understand that at all). I spent a long time trying to get the judges at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame to change their minds and induct the guys. Meanwhile, I led the effort to get Rush a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Geddy, Alex, and Neil knew about it all. And they expressed their appreciation every time they saw me.

At the Agora Ballroom in Cleveland, at a live concert in December of 1974, just before Geddy sang "Working Man," he gave me a shout-out. Sometimes, during a magazine or newspaper interview, one of the guys would mention how I had helped get them noticed in the USA and how I got their music on the radio; even ten, fifteen, twenty years later, they would take a moment and thank me. They didn't have to do that. But that is the kind of people they were. And still are.

That's rare in rock and roll; in fact, it's rare in lots of professions-- especially in business, and in politics. So much has become transactional. It boils down to: "I'll be nice to you because I need you to do me a favor. And once you do it, I'll forget you exist." I've seen that behavior more times than I can count. But I've known Rush for nearly five decades, and that is not how they have ever been. There are many folks who have known them for years and can attest to the fact that the guys in the band have never acted like the stereotype of a rock star. They were always three nice guys from Toronto, before they were famous, while they were on their way up, and after they achieved fame. Success never went to their head.    

When I was at the after-party at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2013, Geddy's mom (of blessed memory) was there. She had watched with pride as her son and his band-mates were (finally) inducted, and when she saw me, she called Geddy over and asked if he had thanked me for what I had done for the band. Geddy kind of rolled his eyes, but then he said something like, "Yes, Ma, I've thanked her many times." Geddy's mom raised him right-- she raised him to express his appreciation to people who were kind, and even years later, that's what he has always done.         

So, if I'm in Geddy's book, I will certainly be pleased that I was included. But if his memoir goes in an entirely different direction, I'll be pleased about that too. Since 1974, we've kept in touch. I saw him when he was promoting his book about the bass (here's a photo from when he came to Brookline, a few minutes from Boston, to a wonderful independent store called the Booksmith in 2019). And if there's a book tour for the new book, I'll look forward to seeing him then. But for now, I hope the book is everything he wants it to be, and says exactly what he wants it to say. And I'll be happy for him either way. Rush and I have shared a lot of history, and I have so many good memories. And knowing the guys for so many years is another thing I'm grateful for.  

The Importance of Telling the Stories

I never met Eunice Randall. I wish I had, because she was the first female radio announcer in Massachusetts, and one of first in the United States. She may have been on the air as far back as late 1919, but we can definitely place her on the radio throughout the early 1920s, doing everything from reading bedtime stories to the little kids, to reporting the news headlines, to playing the latest hit songs. She also repaired the equipment when it broke (which it often did), and if a guest didn't show up (all radio was live back then), she and one of her colleagues at the station would sing duets. 

Thanks to her niece, I have a few photos, some of her writings, even a rare recording of her, re-enacting the first show she ever did; she was barely 21 the first time she went on the air, and I wonder if she was nervous. I also wonder what it was like to be the first-- at a time when there were no other women doing what she did, a time with no female role models, when many men did not believe women belonged anywhere except in the home. (In fact, when Eunice first got on the air, women still didn't have the right to vote.)  

This photo is one of my favorites. It was taken at station 1XE in Medford Hillside, Massachusetts, in 1921. It was staged for the newspapers, but it wasn't too far from reality: early radio studios were far from glamorous, and you had no idea who was listening, since not everyone had a radio yet; plus, given the early technology, signals faded in and out. But anyone who did receive 1XE must have been amazed when they heard her voice. (By all accounts, including fan letters, she became very popular.) 

Eventually, Eunice left radio. She worked for one of the utility companies, making technical drawings. She kept up with ham radio, long a favorite hobby of hers. She married a fellow ham, a guy she had known for many years. After retiring, they moved up to Maine. She died in 1982. But when I was on the air, I never knew she existed; and back then, few if any media history books mentioned the pioneering women broadcasters from radio's early years. So, I never got a chance to thank her. I never got a chance to ask her what it was like being there at the beginning.

But I am glad I found out about her in the mid-1990s. Having been the first woman on the radio at my college station in 1968, I had searched for years to find out the names of the first women at other stations. Once I finally found Eunice, I searched for living relatives, and found her niece. And that's when I promised I would make sure Eunice was never forgotten again. I've kept that promise. And I championed her (posthumous) induction into the Massachusetts Broadcasters Hall of Fame. Her niece was there to see it.

On June 8, 2023, it will be my turn to be inducted into the Massachusetts Broadcasters Hall of Fame. I am being given the Pioneer Broadcaster Award, and I'm the first woman to win it. It's partly for my long radio career; it's partly for what I did in discovering and championing the rock band Rush; but it's also partly for my many years as a media historian, researching and telling the stories of the once-famous but now often forgotten reporters, sportswriters, and broadcasters, the men and women who have contributed to our lives. 

I don't know if anyone considers me a role model. I don't know if I'll be remembered in the future. But I do know that it's humbling and gratifying to see my accomplishments validated by my peers. Many people along the way said I'd never succeed. And yet, here I am, about to join some of the folks I admire most in the Hall of Fame. And I promise to keep researching, and keep telling the stories, because there are so many more that deserve to be told. 

I'd Wager You've Heard About This

According to all the local newspapers, as well as local TV & radio, this past Friday was a BIG day. It was the day when online sports betting finally arrived in Massachusetts-- or as Associated Press reporter Steve LeBlanc referred to us, "sports-crazed Massachusetts." And evidently, the timing could not have been more perfect. "Massachusetts sports fans raced to their cellphones to begin placing bets, as the state allowed online sports wagering just days ahead of next week’s start of the NCAA basketball tournaments."

He wasn't exaggerating. According to Channel 4 in Boston, more than 400,000 fans in Massachusetts signed up for mobile sports betting accounts after the launch. And the Boston Globe reported that "over the first weekend of mobile wagering, Massachusetts bettors invested far more time placing bets than did those in similarly sized states." And the Worcester Telegram reported that "In-person betting began at the end of January, but mobile betting is expected to quickly become the dominant method of sports wagering here."

And then came the barrage of ads. Endless radio, TV, and online ads. Ads that showed excited, happy people (including many people of color), all betting on their favorite sport from the comfort of their couch. And not just betting on which team will win. Betting on outcomes within the game, like choosing a certain NFL football player and betting that he will score a touchdown, or betting that a certain NBA basketball player will score more three-pointers than he did previously. The possibilities are endless, and all the ads make it seem like so much fun. 

But the hard-sell is making me nervous. I understand the state of Massachusetts, along with the casinos, and the sports betting companies like FanDuel & DraftKings, will make lots of money from in person and online betting. And some of the fans may make a few bucks too. But let's be honest: most will not. And rather than being fun and exciting, gambling can quickly become addictive. I'm always amused when I see companies that advertise booze saying in their ad to "drink responsibly"-- okay fine, if you're a casual drinker, you probably will; but it's an addictive product, and some folks will be doing the opposite from drinking responsibly. And the more they use the product, the more the companies that provide it make a profit. Ditto for gambling-- I see the disclaimer about "if you think you have a problem, you can call this hotline for help." But few addicts will admit they have a problem. They'll just keep gambling, hoping to win back what they lost.      

I'm not trying to be a curmudgeon. But I admit I'm one of those folks who fails to see the benefit of gambling. Yes, I've bought a scratch ticket now and then, and I won $40 bucks in a slot machine in Vegas once-- but I've also seen folks who spend their entire paycheck buying scratch tickets, or who get to the slot machines and lose every cent they have. Yet, we're encouraging folks to bet online, and telling them it's safe and easy. And as much as various government officials insist that teens won't be allowed to bet, and that protections are in place to keep online betting from being abused, why do I think it won't take long before some folks (including teens) will find ways around the guardrails?

Like I said, the hard sell is making me nervous. It's also taking away from the joy and the beauty of sports. If everything is reduced to a transaction (bet on this play, bet on this outcome), how do you just relax and enjoy the game? I truly don't understand why folks can't spend some time cheering for their favorite team without turning it into a bunch of opportunities to place another bet. I'm sure there are folks who are reading this and think I'm totally wrong, so please explain to me what the benefit of online sports betting is. To me, the downside is more worrisome than any upside. But I'm willing to bet that some of you will disagree...

Why Governor DeSantis is Wrong About Women's Studies

Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s, I didn't learn much in my history classes about women. In fact, about the only women whose names were mentioned were either the wives of famous men (like Martha Washington, Abigail Adams, or Dolly Madison), or the occasional woman who did something noteworthy in a traditional role, like Betsy Ross, who sewed the first American flag (today, most scholars believe that's a myth, but again, it was one of the few times we learned about a woman who did anything). I didn't know that even in the 1800s, there were women journalists or women doctors or women in business or women who kept their name when they married. 

And because Black History Month was not a thing yet, I never learned about Rosa Parks or Linda Brown (one of the plaintiffs in Brown vs. the Board of Education), nor the many Black women who were instrumental in the burgeoning Civil Rights Movement. And I had no idea there were several important Black female journalists who covered politics-- nobody taught about Alice Dunnigan or Ethel Payne back then. Similarly, it wouldn't be till much later in the 1960s when second-wave feminists like Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan got mentioned, although usually not in a favorable way (the overwhelmingly male press corps was quite scornful of the Women's Movement). And I was warned by numerous folks that I'd never get a husband if I seemed to be one of those "women's libbers" (as feminists were called back then).

These days, there are many schools and colleges that provide a more expansive view of history, teaching about the many women who contributed to our country's progress. It is no longer unusual for students to learn about women scientists or astronauts or politicians or athletes-- and yes, women in media too. There's even Women's History Month, which made its debut in 1987. And just because we spend some time paying tribute to important women does not mean that important men are forgotten-- it's not an "either-or," and it shouldn't be.

Meanwhile, in Florida, as part of his ongoing assault on public education, Governor Ron DeSantis (a graduate of both Yale and Harvard) now wants to ban Women's Studies at all state colleges and universities. He says that studying gender (as well as studying race) is too "woke," too liberal, and too ideological. And he believes that students who major or minor in Women's Studies aren't getting a real degree, so he intends to remove this area of study entirely. Of course, considering that he claims to be taking this stand on behalf of "freedom," one might ask how banning courses and eliminating majors and insisting that certain topics must not be studied is "freedom." It certainly sounds tyrannical to me: it's using the power of the government to thwart any subjects you disagree with. But then, I guess he knows better. After all, he's very popular and the voters who chose him seem to like what he's doing.

But I think he's missing the point. I grew up at a time when education was very conservative, when so many issues were never discussed at all, and when the accomplishments of women and minorities were either marginalized or erased. I don't think my education was any better because of what I wasn't allowed to learn. And I'm not persuaded that going back to those days (and those attitudes) will make the next generation of students any better off. As a professor, and as a former adult learner, I can honestly say there's a genuine benefit to studying gender, or race, or ethnicity, or political philosophy. And there's nothing wrong with being exposed to a wide range of views, some of which you might agree with, and others you might not. Students need to learn to think for themselves-- they shouldn't have politicians thinking for them. 

As I write this, it's the start of Women's History Month. I see this month as an opportunity, just like Black History Month was: a chance to say thank you to some folks who have been written out of history, and to help write them back in. Today's students need to know about how we got here, and part of that process is knowing the women who stood against the dominant views of their era and made a difference. They are not all from one ideology or one race or one religion. They are many and they are varied, and we really should study what they did because some of them are quite inspiring. In other words, there's still a lot we can learn from Women's Studies. And while Gov. DeSantis may think it's a waste of time, I think it's quite the opposite. In fact, I invite you to join me as I do my little part, paying tribute every day on social media to a woman I believe is worth remembering.

    

The Photo I Forgot About

I'm often asked to do free-lance writing, and I was working on an article about Boston radio in the 1960s. That led me to various newspaper databases, and eventually, I ended up on a database I'd never used before. I found some interesting stuff (although not what I was seeking), but before I went on to something else, I typed in my name, curious to see if my college radio experience got written about anywhere. No, I didn't think I was especially important in the greater scheme of things, but given that I was the first female deejay at Northeastern University, I thought that maybe someone (other than a reporter at my college newspaper) might have written something. 

I didn't find any articles that I hadn't already seen, but I did find this: a photo taken in October or November of 1968, evidently intended to go with an article written about my debut at WNEU Radio.

I had no idea this image even existed. I had seen a photo of me in the WNEU studio, sitting at the console, next to a turntable, surrounded by 45s (remember those?); but I did not recall this photo-- which was taken in the station's record library. It brought back memories I hadn't thought about in more than five decades.

I was 21 years old, and a senior at Northeastern. I had fallen in love with radio as a kid, found (to my disappointment) that women were not welcome on the air, and then, fought to get a chance to prove the doubters wrong. I didn't have many friends at Northeastern, but once I got on the air, I started getting fan mail. And when I was in the record library, surrounded by so many amazing albums, I felt at home. I was not only a deejay at WNEU but also the station's music director, and I loved it.

In some ways, those were the happiest days of my life. I felt that I had found my calling. I wasn't that fond of school, where the expectation was that I'd be a teacher; back then, girls were supposed to become teachers, nurses, or secretaries, but while those were good choices for some folks, I knew in my heart that I was supposed to be a deejay. And when I went to the WNEU studio to do my show, or hung out in the record library, I knew I was where I belonged.

Not everyone shared my view. Much to my frustration, the radio industry still wasn't hiring many women. It would take me nearly 5 years to find a full-time radio gig, at a small suburban AM station called WCAS in Cambridge, Mass. But by the end of 1973, I was on my way to WMMS in Cleveland, much to the shock of my parents. I had never really left Boston before, but this was my chance and I intended to take it. Many of you know what happened in Cleveland (and in my radio career). But that's a story for another day.

In this long-forgotten photo, I look confident and at peace. I generally didn't feel that way; but when I was on the air, or when I was listening to new music, I knew this was where I belonged. It gave me hope that maybe my life was finally going to get better. After so many years of being mocked because I was different, I was finally getting some acceptance, and even some love. I remember it well. And while the story would have its share of ups and downs, on this day, the future looked bright. I knew that radio was where I wanted to be, and finally, I would get my chance to be there.    

Megyn Kelly and the Disappearance of Courtesy

I've never met Megyn Kelly. But based on what she said a couple of days ago, she seems to believe I'm a fraud. Agreed, she didn't say this about me. She said it about Jill Biden. But I certainly felt Ms. Kelly's disrespect, and I was not amused.

What caused Ms. Kelly to take to Twitter and express her outrage about the First Lady was this: during the Eagles-49ers playoff game, the play-by-play announcers, noticing that she was in the crowd, referred to her as "Dr. Jill Biden." This offended Ms. Kelly, and she said so, accusing the First Lady of being nothing more than a "wannabe" with a "fake title." She concluded her tweet by suggesting to the First Lady, "Get a real MD or just work on your self-esteem."

Okay, I understand. Ms. Kelly is a partisan, a former Fox News commentator, and she dislikes the fact that Joe Biden is president. I'm fine about that-- she has every right to her opinion. I can also understand that she might be criticizing Joe Biden by proxy whenever she criticizes his wife.  But the scornful dismissal of Jill Biden's degree, and Ms. Kelly's annoyance that the announcers used the First Lady's preferred title, was uncalled for. 

Like Jill Biden, I got my doctorate later in life: she was 55, and I was 64.  Hers was a doctorate in Educational Leadership from the University of Delaware; mine was a PhD in Communication from the University of Massachusetts.  Like Jill Biden, I studied nights (and worked days) in my quest for the advanced degree. I promise you, it wasn't easy doing it that way. If you have an adult learner in your family, or if you are an adult learner yourself, you know that when you've been out of school for a while, it can be challenging to go back. I've read some online critics who claim the Doctor of Education isn't a "real" degree; but I know some folks who have one, and they worked hard to get it. They don't deserve to be mocked, by Megyn Kelly or anyone else.

To me, it's about good manners. I grew up in the 1950s and 1960s, and perhaps I'm hopelessly outdated, but I was always taught to be polite when speaking to others. For example, I was taught that you called professors "Professor." You didn't call them by their first name. Nor did you call priests or rabbis or ministers by their first name: you used their title. Ditto for a wide range of other folks, including your boss. Now, agreed, once you got to know them, if they gave you permission to use their first name, it might be okay. But it was their decision, not yours.

Thus, I'm not bothered if Jill Biden wants to be called Dr. Biden; it's her decision, and it reflects the degree she worked hard for. When my students are addressing me for the first time, I'd expect "Professor Halper" or "Doctor Halper." To me, it's just courtesy. I understand that we're in a more casual era now, and first names are more common: in fact, I often let my students call me Donna, if they ask. But if I were at an academic conference, I would want to use my professional title. And why not? Nothing pretentious about it. Nothing fraudulent or fake. Like Jill Biden, I worked hard for that degree (took me nine years before I finished), and I'm proud of what I accomplished. Lots of folks told me I was "too old." But I proved them wrong. And I see no harm in using the title that reflects all the research I did, and all the effort I put into it writing my dissertation (which was 365 pages long). 

So, my advice to Megyn Kelly is learn some manners. Jill Biden is not asking for anything unreasonable. She's simply asking to be called by her academic title. If that makes her happy, why should anyone be upset about it? She has a real degree from a real university. So do I. So do many folks with Ed.D and PhD degrees. We aren't claiming to be medical doctors. We're just saying that our accomplishments are valid, and deserving of respect. And Megyn, if you can't be proud of us, could you at least try to be courteous? We earned our degrees, so please call us by our title if that's what we want.

 

Omissions and Corrections, or Why History Matters

When I was in high school, I don't recall learning anything about the Civil Rights Movement. Our American history books in the late 1950s/early 1960s focused mainly on U.S. presidents, famous military leaders, and some men whose inventions changed society (like Thomas Edison, or Alexander Graham Bell). We studied one or two women (Clara Barton and Betsy Ross come to mind) and while slavery was mentioned, not very much time was spent on it; the same was true about the "Indians"-- they were presented in the Thanksgiving story, and never appeared again. 

I came from a family of readers, and being Jewish, I knew about the Holocaust; but that wasn't taught in school either. The emphasis, as I recall, was on all the good things the U.S. had done. The fact that there were influential members of the government who insisted on restricting the number of Jews (and other immigrants) who could come here was never discussed. Truth be told, a lot of things were never discussed-- and besides, it was not an era when discussion was encouraged. Teachers taught, students took notes, and that was how it was done. Perhaps the goal was to avoid controversy, or perhaps the goal was to make sure we all turned out sufficiently patriotic. In either case, I only found out later how much was omitted from the typical history course.

I was reading an article in an educational publication recently that noted the steep decline in college students majoring in history. In numerous colleges, history is no longer required, and many students avoid studying it-- after all, who cares about what happened a century ago? How can that help anyone get a good job? Historian and author Mike Maxwell explains the rationale for this attitude: "The present system of American education emphasizes “21st century skills,” especially skills associated with the STEM subjects of science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. Learning about events from the past has limited currency in this results-oriented educational environment."

Add to this unfortunate belief a bunch of self-serving politicians who have been demanding that history be taught a certain way-- reminiscent of how it was in the 1950s: no discussions of current events, no discussions of racism or sexism or antisemitism, nothing that would make any students feel "discomfort." In fact, no mention of any mistakes America ever made (to do that, said one politician, would teach students to "hate America"). These politicians, many from conservative states, insist that teachers are "indoctrinating" students, and there are now laws in some of those states that tell teachers what they can teach and how they can teach it.  

As many of you know, I'm a media historian. My expertise is in the history of broadcasting, as well as baseball history, women's history, and the history of rock & roll. I understand that there are numerous perspectives and points of view (and debates) about a wide range of issues; but I don't think avoiding them is the answer. Nor do I think going back to how things were taught (or not taught) in the 1950s is helpful. There are so many stories that still need to be told, so many events that need to be re-evaluated, in light of new information that we now have. Enforcing one "correct" way to look at history means important lessons will not be taught, and important conversations will not occur.

Frankly, I'd like to see changes to how history is taught in many schools-- not to make it partisan, and not to "indoctrinate" (which rarely occurs, by the way, but sounds wonderful for politicians to use in speeches, since it generates outrage from potential voters). I'd like to see history taught in a way that energizes students, a way that makes them curious about what it was like to live in that time, and what we can learn from how our ancestors handled the problems they encountered. Knowledge of history alone may not help someone get a job, but ignorance about history can make one more easily manipulated by folks who want to mislead, and much less able to decide what is factual, or what lessons from the past we can benefit from knowing.

So, I hope those who continue to minimize the importance of history will think again. As the philosopher George Santayana wrote, circa 1905, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." I see a lot of history repeating itself, and I see a lot of efforts to pretend past mistakes never happened. History contains some wonderful and positive lessons, about people who overcame obstacles or created something that made everyone's life better. But it also contains some lessons about times when we could have done better. Let's bring history back to life. Let's tell the stories (all the stories), write the people who were erased back in, correct the myths... In other words, let's embrace the study of history... because where we've been matters... as we try to figure out where we're going.