Color, Ohana, Permanence & Change
Delivered by Tim Flood at RC's 2003 Commencement

 
Hello, and good evening. As I believe most of you know, my wife Christine is the Coordinator for Residential Learning here, so she, I, and our two wonderful sons, Fitzpatrick and Spencer, live just down the hall.

What you may not know is that Fitz and Spencer have, literally, lived their entire lives here in Residential College, and that Chrissy and I have been here since 1995, when I was a graduate student working as the RD.

I’m going to speak with you for about an hour today, and I’m very glad to have the opportunity to do so. The honor of my selection as Commencement speaker seems especially well-timed; some of the Upperclasspeople, all of whom earn special recognition today, are the last students who remember, even a little bit, when I was the one to come to when you got written up, when the toilets overflowed or the washers stopped working. When you were having a personal crisis, wanted to curse out the Parking guy, or were about to throttle your roommate.

Once upon a time, that person was me, and a few of these upperclasspeople remember. They’ll, no doubt, agree with me that Chrissy does the better job, but as we all come together here today, I bet we’ll also agree that the time has flown by.

Speaking of time flying—no, I’m not going to speak for an hour. But I am going to speak for a while, and I didn’t want you to get antsy in the middle and walk out. This isn’t a Core lecture after all!

That amazingly hot summer when we moved in, into this large, dark, paint-peeling, no cable TV, no Internet, tile-floored place, that summer in 1995 seems like just yesterday to me. But so much has changed.

And the timing is even weirder, because I know that I stand here today among giants of RC—Bob, Jeff, Murray, Fran & Betty—who were here almost from the moment the doors opened on this Residential College back in 1970. The memories of those people and this place span decades, and my 8 years here really seem to pale.

Luckily, Betty and Fran are ageless. The rest of the people on that list? Ageless? I don’t know! Don’t get me wrong, when I walked in the door 8 years ago, my belly was substantially smaller and I was sporting this gravity-defying mop of almost entirely black hair! I know: black hair. It seems like just yesterday, but things sure have changed since then.

And that’s really my point. In those intervening 8 years, I’ve been to many Commencements like this one, in this room, with many of these same faces. I am honored to now number myself among those speakers.

Even in their wonderful variety, these Commencement addresses seem to have a certain structure: there’s the biographical part, there’s mention of some important and powerful piece of literature, and then there’s the larger message, the point, the emphasis with which we’d like to send these graduating RC’ers, these friends old and young, and all the rest of us by association and proximity, out into the world.

This point is The Point. And I’ll get there soon enough.

Oh, oh, oh—and there’s always a title. I’m far from the beginning, but let me turn now to the title of my talk today: “Color, Ohana, Permanence and Change.”

My Ph.D. is in English, so I revel in opportunities to share great literature with people. Today is one such opportunity, and I thought, a lot, about what tract, what sampling, what shining piece of poetry or prose I would share with you today.

The answer, in the end, was as plain as the skin on my face. I want to share with you a poem that I read on the first day of every single course I teach—whether its in writing, literature, or technology—these words ring so true. These words are about power, they are about knowing, and speaking, and writing, and presenting oneself to the world, and about sharing that world with others. They’re only a little bit about color.

Langston Hughes was world class. He was born in 1902 and he died the year I was born. He was an enormous figure in the Harlem Renaissance (which you should have learned all about in Core last semester), and his writing remains one of the strongest and most resonant voices in literature today—African-American literature, sure, but I mean in all literature.

In 1951, when Hughes himself would have been nearly fifty, he wrote a poem in which he positioned himself as a 22 year-old college student. Time for him was unimportant; that he was no longer a college student didn’t mean he couldn’t speak to and for college students, and his simple story should hold meaning for all of us here today.

Today on this day of celebration, in a community like this one, but also today as so many of us look toward the rest of our lives, to the world outside and beyond these walls, to the crazy and conflicted political landscape there, to the ever-shrinking face of the globe, to the potential that awaits us all, and to the powers which will play upon us there. For all of this, Hughes offers his “Theme for English B”

The instructor said, Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you-- Then, it will be true. I wonder if it's that simple? I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then here to this college on the hill above Harlem. I am the only colored student in my class. The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem, through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator up to my room, sit down, and write this page: It's not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York, too.) Me--who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach. I guess being colored doesn't make me not like the same things other folks like who are other races. So will my page be colored that I write? Being me, it will not be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white-- yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that's true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me-- although you're older--and white-- and somewhat more free. This is my page for English B.

In 1951, long before most of us were born, but not too long after this nation and most of the world had been rocked by World War II.

1951—as our nation headed face-first down the road which would lead it through the tensions, problems and progress of the Cold War, the Civil Rights Movements, Viet-Nam and other wars like it, Watergate, Iran-Contra, and—G-d help us all—the freakish glam-rock and hair-bands of 1980s pop music.

1951, as our nation reached these cross roads and rested on the verge of following these intractable paths, of life-changing and society-altering endeavors which characterized the late 20th century, Langston Hughes chose to celebrate a guy, a kid even, and a composition he had to write for class.

Langston Hughes was enormous in his day, and remains so still, in no small part because of the essence of this poem. His “Theme for English B” is only a little bit about color. Does it matter to you, to the message and power of this poem, that Hughes is black and his teacher is white? It shouldn’t. I bet it doesn’t.

Yeah, in 1951 it probably did. And that’s a shame. But what’s most important in this poem, what’s most important here, is that Langston Hughes isn’t so much talking about skin color. He’s talking about power.

In 1951, Langston Hughes did something amazing. In a nation firmly divided along black and white lines, a nation that had taken almost 200 years at that point to face, and to attempt to fix, its problems of race relations and obsession with skin tone, Langston Hughes said, with this poem and elsewhere, that complexion isn’t the issue.

America has been defined by its handling of race but, to Hughes, race has been the largest component of a much larger struggle, a struggle to power and to influence.

Yes, in 1950s America, the people who had power were white; the people without it were persons of color. But Hughes alludes to much more than this--he uses "black" and "white" to talk about women and men, gay and straight, rich and poor, here and there, preppy/punk, stoner/straight-edge, in and out, up and down, and a whole range of others: all kinds of lines and all kinds of distinctions.

These days, fifty years later, problems remain, of course problems remain, but they were less about skin tone in the 80’s when I grew up, and issues of skin tone are even less important to your perceptions and observations.

You will, later, go from this room and continue to live full and complete lives, but I doubt you’ll find anyone as pasty-white as I am. I stand before you today, probably getting a sunburn from the lovely sconces which light this room. And I stand here today a changed man because of my affinity with Langston Hughes, because he speaks to me not as a white man or fat man or an English PhD or as 34 year old who still lives in a dorm.

He speaks to me as an American, and he means “America” in the melting-pot sense, America driven not by its petty jealousies or commercial interests, but by what Abraham Lincoln called in his first Inaugural Address “the better angels of our nature,” to America as it ought to be

And in the turbulent 1960s, as history to most of us, Robert Kennedy, noted “what we need is the United States is not division, what we need in the United States is not hatred, what we need in the United States is not violence, but is love and wisdom and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice for those who still suffer.”

That’s the kicker. Love, wisdom and compassion toward one another--not superficial lines and distinctions. And you know what obliterates all these lines anyway? Yes you do know: meeting people. Getting to know someone as a person rather than as a label. Yeah, you know this already. Or you wouldn’t be here.

Hughes says to us, like Lincoln, like Kennedy, that the answer isn’t in something like complexion—the answer is in knowing, in sharing and in understanding.

Does this sound an awful lot like a Core lecture? It’s not. Even in the days when I taught Core, I didn’t deliver this one. But it ought to still sound like one.

You may not realize it now, but those Core lectures are important; they set you thinking and some of them will stay with you for the rest of your life. Because the best of them ask more questions than they answer.

Langston Hughes asks a question. He wonders, outside of this poem, what are we going to do with this world? What are we going to do with the mess we’ve made of it and all the confusing shades that make it? How are we going to find our ways? What awaits us?

Is everything going to be okay?

The answer to all of it; the way to face the challenges ahead and to confront the forces at play there. . .

The answer is commonality. The answer is coming together, it’s recognizing our shared selves and embracing our distinctions. The answer is community.

A community of individuals who thrive. Hughes asks “Will my page be colored that I write?” and he immediately answers “Being me, it will not be white.” He’s not only talking about race, he’s talking far above and beyond something so superficial. He’s talking about personality, he’s talking about investing yourself in your work, he’s talking about presenting yourself—your whole self, with all your flaws and excellence—he’s talking about showing yourself off, being yourself, celebrating yourself with those around you. He’s talking about all the colors, all the options, all the wonder that is the spice of life.

He’s talking about a literal prism full of opportunity, superimposed on the blank page we’re handed as we define and show ourselves throughout our adult lives. I don’t know what color or colors, I can barely get through an eight-pack of Crayola crayons without help. But the possibilities are limitless to color that page.

And this vibrancy is shared. Hughes writes,
“ But it will be a part of you, instructor.
You are white--yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me”

Is he saying that his professor is boring, without personality and unable to share himself? Maybe, but I’d hope not. But haven’t we all had professors like that?

Yes, sure, but I bet not in this building.

Here, for good or bad, as tragedy and comedy, everyone’s out there; everyone’s allowed and encouraged to be out there, to be and to celebrate yourself. And it’s awesome.

It is “awesome” because, as a child of the 80s, that word punctuates nearly every phrase I utter. It’s awesome. But it’s also awesome in the sense that this place, and the opportunities afforded us all here, are awe-inspiring, they would blow your mind if you took the time to appreciate them.

Most of you have only known college with RC in it. You’ll continue to discover how awe-inspiring, how much more awe-inspiring this place can be—as you move through it, remember it, reflect on it, miss it. It’s awesome.

More than those RC’ers who are leaving us today and who are no doubt destined for great things. More than these people, who deserve and have earned great praise and kudos—but more than any of these individuals, we celebrate today this place, this community which nurtured us all.

As Fran mentioned in her introduction of me, I’ve accepted a job at a university in Pennsylvania.

But, you know what, we’re not gone from this place. I’m going, yes, and I’ll actually be—believe it or not—commuting much of the time: 4 days there, three days here. Chrissy and the boys will remain.

Why? How? What for? Is this cowardly? Is this us refusing to face and embrace our destinies? No. It’s not that. It’s that my standards are very high.

Let me explain.

I have five brothers and sisters, 22 cousins, around a dozen nieces and nephews, and if there are fewer than 40 people at Thanksgiving dinner at my Mom’s, then that’s a pathetically small crowd.

Additionally, I am the product of large state schools. UNCG is less than half the size of U Maryland, and only 1/3 as large as Texas A&M. As schools go, UNCG is small and intimate.

Residential College, then, is like one big, riotous, rolling Thanksgiving Dinner.

Chrissy and I have lived here 8 years. My children were raised here. When we round the corner near Aycock Street and see that UNCG water tower, Spencer invariably squeals and says “Home!” just like Fitzy did at that age.

The whole campus is like our front yard. We run around and laugh and play as if we own the place. Fitzpatrick and Spencer are among the most recognizable ambassadors that UNCG has.

I can’t tell you how many times strangers have stopped us on the street or in the mall or whatever and said “I know you, you’re the UNCG family!”

It is that familiarity, that togetherness to which I would now like to turn.

Many of you will be in the Coliseum on the 16th for the University’s Commencement ceremonies. Go. They’re worth it. I graduated last May and some string of coincidences had me sitting right up front.

It was so great to see so many familiar faces—from the faculty who process in in all this wonderful regalia, pomp and circumstance, to the ushers and speakers and even the people who were working security and standing by to clean up the mess. We knew each other. Most of these people, I wouldn’t have known if not for my connections to campus.

My favorite part was breaking ranks, dashing out from my place in the first row, to hug, high-five or hand-shake with all the RC’ers who processed past me when the undergrads marched in.

When you go to the Coliseum for your University Commencement, whether it’s this year or later, don’t be overwhelmed or dismayed by its bigness. Find those opportunities to connect with the people you know, to find intimacy in that vastness, to touch someone close to you, and to remember all that this place has been.

Ohana, my friends. Ohana. A few weeks ago, the Upperclasspeople threw a Luau out in the back yard, an afternoon and evening of food and games and fun. The evening wound down with a movie, with Lilo & Stitch.

For those of you who’ve not seen it, stop by anytime. We seem to watch it constantly! Also, I won’t wreck much of it here, except to say that the story revolves around a little girl and her old sister who cares for her. At times, they refer to this family as “broken,” but they sustain themselves on the Hawaiian principle of “Ohana,” of family, and based on the idea that “no one gets left behind.”

I’m going to Pennsylvania to see—to see if the people and the place and the work and the wonder can be as amazing as they have been here at UNCG and at RC. The money is great and the benefits are through the roof, but does that matter?

After my years at UNCG and RC, those things matter less and less, to me it’s much more about Ohana and the feeling you get from the place where you are. After my years at UNCG and RC, that’s a tough bill to fill.

Like the characters in Lilo & Stitch, like so many of you who face changes and transitions in your lives, I’ve been around the block a few times, and I know what I’m looking for. So has each of you. Will I find it? Will you? Yeah, we will. But it will have started here.

As I go back and forth to Pennsylvania in the Fall, my family—those three adorable souls with whom I live—but so much more as well—will be away from me. But none of us will be left behind.

While some of those 9 hour drives won’t seem too luxurious, I have the luxury of coming and going. As do all of you. Don’t walk out that door and think you’re not welcomed back. You are. Always.

I want to head toward closing this talk with a story from our first summer, when we’d first moved in. Back in those days, our apartment was to the right of the lobby—the green kitchen was our kitchen, 125, Carissa’s room and Amanda’s room were our living space. And there were these mammoth fire doors that blocked off either side, so that the apartment was separate from the rest of building. Back in those days, if you wanted to get from one end of the first floor to the other, you had to go outside or upstairs and around.

It was a strange but necessary arrangement, and when I first interviewed for my job, the current RD invited us over to see the apartment and to hang out. She was mostly positive about the space, but she said the thing that drove her most crazy were the hallway lights—those 1,000 watt bulbs that light the hallways are nice in public spaces, but they are a bit much, you know, in your home.

So those previous tenants had let those hallway lights burn out, and they refused to have them replaced.

So, literally it was maybe Chrissy’s and my third night living in. It was July, so the place was empty and hot as an oven. I was out at work or something, when Chrissy hears this unmistakable thump upstairs, as she described it, “like someone had dropped a cinder block onto the floor.” Being sensible, she gets up and checks the fire doors—first at one end of the apartment, then at the other. Locked.

Then she moves methodically through the apartment to check the windows. First to what is now 125. Then to the kitchen. Then to Carissa’s room. Then to Amanda’s. All locked. But, as she comes out of what is now Amanda’s room, she realizes the thing that has been bugging her since she first heard the thump, but which she was too overwhelmed at first to notice.

The hallway lights were on.

From that day to this, we joke that Mary Foust is indeed roaming around—but not with morbid, untrue stories of nursing students or anything like that. We joke that she’s back—and that she’s an electrician!

Thanks for laughing with me and not at me with that one. Was that a ghost story? Who knows, probably not—especially since the building is almost 80 years old, so stuff’s sure to fall off of it every once in a while.

But my point is that RC has given us all the insight to handle that tale appropriately: that we all ought to be able to embrace the unexpected and learn from it, that we don’t have all the answers.

To know that knowledge and understanding are constant and endlessly progressing characteristics.

To know that they sometimes mean admitting that you don’t know or don’t understand first.

That they will certainly entail some surprises, but that the most resonant stories, the most profound learning, the most marvelous meaning-making that you’ll do in your life—that all of this happens when you extend your sensibilities, when you open your mind, and when you share your stories with those around you.

This, I’d say, is the essence of our experience at Residential College. Not the ghost stories, part—contrary to some of the campus legends you hear!

More the part that many of us take for granted. In this big, wild, sloppy, fun, crazy, cool mess of a family, that we’re all learning.

Our time here, whether this Spring is the end of your first year or the end of your last year at RC and UNCG, your time here has been of nearly constant, immersive learning.

In the book sense, yes, absolutely, and the quality of education you’ve received here is both unrivaled and essential. But also in a larger sense as well, in a community sense, in a story-telling and story-making sense, wrapped tightly in the understanding that, if the only place you do your learning is in the classroom, 50 minutes a day, three days a week, then you are grossly short-changing yourself.

And when we do all inevitably leave this place, whether it’s to Pennsylvania or to somewhere else, much of ourselves will remain. We are as much a part of this place as it is a part of us. As Hughes says, we may not always want to be connected, “but we are, that’s true.”

And I say this to each of you:

To each and everyone of you who is leaving us today, to those graduates, to those Upperclasspeople, to those non-returning sophomores—and to all of you who are going to leave at some point:

This place, I know it, has changed you, and you will carry the benefits of your experience here forever—of the friends made, the classes taught or taken, the adventures had, and the mishaps overcome.

But you have changed this place as well; it is what it is, and it thrives, because of you. You are lucky, it is lucky, we are lucky. And nobody gets left behind.

So, when you go, remember all of us here, send news of your adventures and exploits, invite us to your weddings and share with us other big events.

Go with Langston Hughes in mind, with your senses of self, community, ohana, permanence and change guiding you.

Go, my friends, and color yourself some white pages!

Thank you for your time.

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