Put not your trust in princes...

One World Trade Center is almost complete. Current projections indicate that the building will be ready for occupancy in the Spring of 2014. Slightly more than half of its three million square feet of office space has already been leased, with the magazine publishing giant, Condé Nast, accounting for 1.2 million square feet of occupancy. The building will support 104 stories (the original, 1973 Twin Towers supported 110 stories) and top out at a symbolic 1,776 vertical feet.

            I remember when the original Twin Towers opened for business in 1973.  I was a freshman at Fordham University, in the Bronx, where, on a clear day, you could see the World Trade Center from the roof of Keating Hall, the tallest building (at that time) on the campus.  I also remember the mix of excitement and criticism the Twin Towers generated.  At the time, they were the tallest buildings in the world (and would continue to hold the distinction of being the tallest buildings in New York - New Yorkers never cared about what was going on in Chicago - until their destruction in 2011).  And while their architectural and engineering advances inspired universal admiration (there wasn’t a single interior column - excepting elevator shafts - anywhere in their slightly more than 40,000 square feet per story floor plan), New Yorkers dismissed the Towers’ nod to the brutal modernism of Le Corbusier as “boxy” and uninspiring. Over time, we grew used to the Twin Towers and, while they never generated the same kind of warm appreciation New Yorkers had for the Empire State Building as an iconic example of the New York skyline, they nevertheless became part of the City’s taken-for-granted landscape as generators of tourists’ interest (and dollars).  That is, of course, until September 11, 2001.  In the ninety minutes it took both towers to collapse in on themselves, creating a mountain of debris and a new moniker (“Ground Zero”), they were transformed into beloved icons of New Yorkers resident within the city limits and among its Diaspora (I am a member of the latter category).

            As a New York expat, I am particularly amenable to this revisionist characterization of the World Trade Center because of three poignant connections I have to the Twin Towers.  The first connection took place on February 25, 1993, the day before the first terrorist bombing of the World Trade Center.  At just about the time the bomb-laden van exploded in the underground parking structure on February 26^th (the next day), I was passing through the World Trade Center as I transferred from a New Jersey PATH train to a NYC bound “A” Subway train. When I awoke the day of the bombing to learn that “timing is everything,” I realized that - like it or not - the Twin Towers loomed large in my personal corner of the world.  The next two connections are irrevocably linked to the 9/11 tragedy. Two of my former students - one a stock broker working in the North Tower - the other an FDNY firefighter - lost their lives in the collapse of the towers. The third connection to the tragedy is my brother who still works in the Office of Management and Budget at New York City Hall - a mere three blocks from Ground Zero - and who I could not get in touch with until late in the evening (PST) on 9/11.

            So, it should not be surprising that 9/11 is a moment in time for me that is as familiar as my own birthday. Like most current and former New Yorkers, the anticipation of 9/11 is a complicated matter. New Yorkers view themselves as invincible. 9/11 puts the lie to that conceit. Yet, the almost magical appearance at Ground Zero of twin beams of bluish light piercing the stratosphere on the evening of 9/11 for each of the last 12 years inspires a certain respect for the hand of God that is hard to explain to anyone not of New York. I have only seen the twin beams of light in pictures.  The New Yorker in me yearns to return on this awful anniversary to the City that formed me in order to share in the lights’ symbolic message that we can never know what will happen next, other than to trust in a God who knows what the endgame looks like and who gently invites us to trust in this ethereal vision. Not an easy proposition for New Yorkers - even expats - to embrace.

            I am writing this column on 9/11/2013, so forgive me for these New York-centric ruminations. However, I think they have merit, if you flip through the Summer issue of Lancer Magazine.  It's our annual issue in which we celebrate the accomplishments of our recently launched alums of the Class of 2013. The one cliché that is always true for them (and for every high school graduate) is that they have the whole world in front of them.  At 18 they see themselves as invincible as the most cynical New Yorker of any age.  They will learn, over time, as we all have, that invincibility is as fragile as the morning fog.  We can neither alert them to this reality nor cushion their hard landing when they refuse to accept its inevitability. What we can do - and what 9/11 teaches us - is that, in the face of inexplicable - and unpredictable - life shattering events we must turn to a higher power - for Lasallians, that is God - who will assure us that we must not put “our trust in princes,” but in a Lord whose comfort is unconditional and available the moment we ask for it.

What do you do when the Government shuts down?

On Friday, October 11^th, I was flying into Oakland Airport to attend the inauguration of the first lay president of Saint Mary’s College (Saint Mary’s is one of five Lasallian colleges and universities in the United States). I had forgotten to take my belt off as I passed through Security (don’t you just hate that?) and was flagged aside for a “pat down.” I don’t remember how the conversation with the TSA Agent started, but the gist of the encounter centered on this exchange:

Security:          “We’re taking it on the chin for the government shutdown.”
RG:                     How so, aren’t you an ‘essential service’ of the Federal Government?Security:          “Yes, but that doesn’t mean they have to pay us.”

That brief exchange caused me to spend the hour flight back to Burbank pondering the significance of what that Federal employee had said.  Consequently, when I got home, I Googled “TSA” salaries and discovered that the young man I had been speaking to earned somewhere between $22,800 and $35,600. At that point - Day 11 of the Shutdown -- no one knew when - or if - the shutdown would end. That’s when it dawned on me that this 20-something Federal employee had a real problem.  If the shutdown lasted longer than one pay period, there was the real possibility that he couldn’t pay many - if not most - of the monthly bills waiting for him in tomorrow’s mailbox.  Then, I thought, well, maybe he’s married. Assuming that his wife earned a salary at the upper end of his pay scale, what if she added another $35,000 to the household income? Then, I asked myself, what if they had children?  Well, according to the California Department of Health Care Services, a family of four, earning a household income of $70,000 puts them at 300% of the Federal Poverty level. By way of comparison: if their household income was $58,000 (or 250% of the Federal Poverty level), their children would be eligible for Medi-Cal (California’s version of Medicaid, the Federal Government’s poverty-level health insurance program).

His situation is one many of our families face on a regular basis.  Between the trailing effects of the Great Recession and the “Sequester,” more than a few of our two-income families have faced the awful question of sacrificing tuition for the monthly bills that won’t go away simply because household financial circumstances have changed.  This is why La Salle’s financial aid budget has practically doubled in the five years since the Great Recession has worked its way through the Nation’s economy.

I’m particularly sensitive to the plight of this particular TSA Agent because I think his predicament mirrors the challenges many two-income households face in this bizarre era of government paralysis, economic stagnation and punitive fiscal decisions masquerading themselves as public policy. Robert Packard, our CFO, can attest to the fact that a steady stream of middle-income families, stung by the effects of the Great Recession (and now by the Sequester and the Government Shutdown), have come to him seeking relief from the economic forces they can’t control - all for the simple purpose of keeping their children enrolled at La Salle. I am sad to note that their plight isn’t a function of a federal government that willed a shutdown into existence, ignoring the plight of the hapless TSA Agent I encountered on October 11^th; rather, their situation is a function of decades-long policies which have ignored the cumulative impact on Middle Class households who live pay check to pay check and don’t know how to respond to cataclysmic events which, through no fault of their own, threaten their homes, their families and their livelihoods.

For me, this is the great tragedy of the Sequester and the Government Shutdown: politicians so intent on proving they’re right ignore the very real effects their political strategy has on working households. Thankfully, La Salle is in a position to provide the additional financial aid necessary (so far) to support our middle income families who require both spouses to be employed in order to afford some portion of our tuition. But, I have to ask: what about that TSA Agent who barely makes ends meet - what hope does he have to ensure that his children will inherit a better life than the one he received? More importantly, in this - unnecessary - political imbroglio, is anyone asking these questions?  It doesn’t matter whether one agrees or disagrees with how our government spends our hard-earned tax dollars; I ask one simple question: should hard working people - like us - who, through no fault of their own, suffer because our politicians can’t - or won’t - compromise?

I’d like to think the answer is obvious.  I’m not sure my TSA Agent would agree.

Are books the wave of the future?

           

The City of San Diego opened it’s new, nine-story, $189 million dollar library last weekend. It took them over thirty years to bring the project into existence.  Some wags note, rather cynically, that San Diegans had more pressing priorities - like building a light-rail line and a downtown Baseball stadium.  Regardless of motivation, the magnificent structure, complete with a three-story atrium offering spectacular views of San Diego Bay, is open for business and, apparently, well worth the wait.

            In addition to state-of-the-art technology, San Diego’s new library will accommodate 1.2 million books. Wait a minute…haven’t we been barraged by the (mis)perception that books are a thing of the past in the 21^st Century?  In fact, are libraries even necessary? La Salle Librarian, Delia Swanner answers the latter question with a resounding yes! She quotes the American Association of School Librarians 2009 position statement: "Empowering Learners: Guidelines for School Library Programs":

1. Mission
The mission of the school library program is to ensure that students and staff are effective users of ideas and information; students are empowered to be critical thinkers, enthusiastic readers, skillful researchers, and ethical users of information.

2. Collaboration
The school library program promotes collaboration among members of the learning community, and encourages learners to be independent lifelong users and producers of ideas and information.

3. Reading
The school library program promotes reading as a foundational skill for learning, personal growth, and enjoyment.

4. Multiple Literacies
The school library program provides instruction that addresses multiple literacies, including information literacy, media literacy, visual literacy, and technology literacy.

One only has to walk through the Blakeslee Library at lunch (especially around Finals week) to encounter a room filled with students using the space for what it was intended: to study, to work on a project, to do research, to get a leg up on tomorrow’s assignments, and, most important of all - to ask for help.  But that’s not all.  While it should not be a surprise to learn that the student presence in the Blakeslee Library after school plummets (although never to zero), the monthly after-school Café Biblioteque (a “coffee house” featuring guest speakers/entertainers and/or original student work such as poetry) tends to draw better than three dozen students from every grade level. Interestingly enough, the single largest attendance at Café Biblioteque was last December when 70 students helped create Christmas greeting cards for teenagers who were spending the holidays in Juvenile Hall.

Even so, traditional uses of a library like La Salle’s continue to frustrate the predictions of 21^st Century prognosticators. The Blakeslee Library witnessed an annual door count of 18,420 (this is an increase of 23% over the prior year) and an average of 18 class visits per month. 728 books were checked out for research purposes.  This represents a 34% increase over the prior year.  In support of this, more proactive view of libraries, Luis Herrera, the City Librarian of San Francisco, offers a compelling argument for the continued need for libraries:

Libraries are more relevant than ever. They are a place for personal growth and reinvention, a place for help in navigating the information age, a gathering place for civic and cultural engagement and a trusted place for preserving culture.

So, while libraries will undoubtedly survive the “Age of Technology,” it is not at all clear that books in print will survive the duration of the 21^st Century. According to one study, however, less than 10% of the world’s books in print have been digitized, suggesting that they will be around for the duration of our lifetime and the lifetime of the so-called “Millennials.”  And, as the inevitable shift to electronic media drives current library users to a computer portal, books in print must be preserved, no longer because they are the primary source of research information, but because they represent an essential component of intellectual inquiry that won’t be electronically replaced anytime soon.

            Meanwhile, magnificent buildings like San Diego’s new Central Library, remind us of our aspirations to know more about our world and its story through the fundamental task of sitting quietly with a book in our hands.

 

 

 

We are prophets of a future not our own

Recently, I was asked to deliver the eulogy for a very dear friend and colleague whose life was cut short by pancreatic cancer.  It’s only the second time that I have been asked to perform this service, but it was the first time where the task of saying good-bye cut to the quick. This was a friend, slightly older than me, but light years ahead of me in his understanding of how to deal with a world that grows increasingly more nonsensical as we age. He had one of those irrepressible personalities which draw you in through humor and grace, only to remind you that high expectations for perfection in others will only lead to tears (yours).  The stereotypical phrase “so-and-so is larger than life” actually applied to him (though he would never have accepted that mantle of responsibility).  He is the second of two close friends (my colleague Annie Johnston was the first) to leave a gaping hole in my heart. Unfortunately for me, I was raised by a stereotypical Irish-American family who assumed that men don’t cry (unless, that is, your 13 year old son inadvertently knocks his father's 20 year old bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey  off the coffee table onto a slate floor at Christmas, 1968). So, when his wife asked me to do the eulogy, I knew that it was pointless to dodge that bullet.

            The task of writing a eulogy is never an easy one. One frequent writer of eulogies eloquently observed that “The writing and reading of a eulogy is, above all, the simple and elegant search for small truths.” But, whose truths? The deceased? The immediate family? The friends who have been gathered together, each with a different characterization of the friendship? The writing of a eulogy doesn’t seem intimidating until one is asked to be the author.

Having buried both parents, I have been known to observe that, if there is a choice between a fast death and a slow death, fast is much easier to handle. My friend’s death was fast - less than twelve months from the time of diagnosis. In retrospect, I now realize that, when one is asked to write a eulogy, it doesn’t matter if the death is fast or slow, the charge generally comes in the final days; leaving the author with precious little time to craft the perfect good-bye. It took me a week to write his eulogy.  What I learned in that week is remarkably simple: pay attention. The death of a friend or a loved one forces us to pay attention…to the gap left in one’s heart; to the loss of comfort generated by the assumption that the deceased will always be there; to the fraternal correction that is easier to take from someone who has earned our trust.

Thomas Merton, the Catholic convert, Trappist monk and memoirist, had this to say about the premature death of the great Southern Catholic writer, Flannery O’Connor:

“But respect had to be maintained.  Flannery maintained it ironically and relentlessly with a kind of innocent passion long after it had died of contempt - as if she were the only one left who took this thing seriously.”

The last line - “as if she were the only one left who took this thing seriously” - strikes me as the epitome of what we want from those who have left us too soon. We want the deceased to take us, our lives, the lives of intimate others, seriously - only we have no way of knowing whether that was ever true. So, we search the “small truths” for glimmers of what we now know, retrospectively, we didn’t realize we wanted all along - to rest secure in the knowledge that at least one person understood us in ways that defy conscious description.  Oscar Wilde got that dynamic right when he penned, two generations ago,

 

  “the truth is never pure and never simple.”

It is this dynamic which confounds us - we want truth to be pure and simple - and. of course, death continually reminds us that neither is true. The American poet, Emily Dickinson, once described what the living have after the death of a loved one as “an awful leisure.”  The living are left with “an awful leisure” that is too much with us when the sorrow is as fresh and painful as a paper cut.  And yet, grief has its purpose. It’s the bridge between the pain and anger of the premature loss of one whose footprints are all over the lives of family and friends and the recognition that, in the words of NY Times columnist, Anna Quindlen, “we are defined by whom we have lost.”

Readers of this column may find it odd that I have chosen to focus on the eulogy of a friend to launch the 2013-2014 school year; and yet, I think school is always about the end-game. The present moment is merely a tool to prepare the students entrusted to our care for a future they (and we) can only dimly perceive. I can’t think of a better way to start a new school year than to consider the proposition that others will have the final say on the life we lived.

I don’t expect teenagers to acquire an appreciation for the legacy they leave behind; but I think it’s useful for the adults who surround them with a web of personal and professional support to consider what needs to be in place now, so that when the endgame is played out, those who have the last word will say: “This was a life well lived.”

One of my favorite American plays, one that is annually tricked out for every high school speech tournament in America, is Robert Anderson’s I never sang for my father. During both the opening and closing monologues of the play, Gene, the protagonist, tries to describe his complicated relationship with his father:

“Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor’s mind...towards some resolution it never finds.”

 Isn’t that the challenge we all face, albeit, often too late, when it comes to our responsibility for the children entrusted to our care? Shouldn’t we take the opportunity, now, to cement the message of love and hope that we assume these young people take for granted so that we can emulate the words attributed to Oscar Romero the martyred Archbishop of El Salvador:

 

“We are prophets of a future not our own.”

Who is my neighbor?

Who is my neighbor? This question, posed to Jesus by what we would identify in today’s nomenclature as a lawyer, can be found in Luke 10:25-37; the Gospel reading we heard on Sunday, July 14^th.  Over the years I’ve heard priests take a variety of perspectives on the significance of Jesus’ message in this Gospel passage.  What I haven’t heard - at least not yet - is a commentary on how Jesus upended the definition of the word “neighbor.” The Webster Dictionary, for example, is quite clear - and simple - in its definition of the term:

one living or located near another

Those who are familiar with what has come to be called the “Good Samaritan” parable know that the injured man at the center of the story was nowhere near a population center, but on the desolate road connecting Jerusalem to Jericho. So the notion that a “neighbor” would be nearby is, for all practical purposes, irrelevant.  Yet, Jesus, in the penultimate moment of his encounter with the lawyer, asks him:

Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man

who fell into the hands of robbers?

And the lawyer answers this self-evident question correctly:

The one who showed him mercy

The lawyer’s question is an important one. Hebrew - and later - Christian Scriptures call believers to “love our neighbor” as ourselves. Hidden within the multiple layers of meaning of this magnificent parable is Jesus’ broadening of the concept of neighbor to embrace Gospel values that redefine Webster’s simple - and simplistic - definition of someone in close proximity to someone else. In other words, Jesus tells us that everyone is our neighbor. And, while I prefer the biblical translation that favors the word compassion over the word mercy; still Jesus’ message that everyone is my neighbor - and therefore worthy of my concern - represents one of the single most challenging imperatives of the Gospel.

            Ironically, the tragedy of the Trayvon Martin case highlights an understanding of the term “neighbor” that is rarely appreciated through the lens of Sunday’s Gospel: is it possible for someone to not be my neighbor? George Zimmerman certainly thought so as he patrolled his neighborhood that fateful night.  Neighborhood watch programs, like the one George Zimmerman supported, argue in favor of the notion that not everyone is my neighbor. And, in a simplistic way, it is easy to agree to that proposition.  All of us have experienced the fear that accompanies a late night walk through unfamiliar surroundings.  In those settings each of us has assumed that the person walking towards us is filled with ill intentions. Is it possible, then, that the person on the other side of the street is not my neighbor?

            Jesus would say “no.”  This is a hard proposition to support - and the Trayvon Martin case is an excellent example why. Lost in the screaming headlines of who did what to whom is the fact that a boy with a shady past was confronted by an adult who assumed he was up to no good.  What if George Zimmerman had assumed that Trayvon Martin was his neighbor? Would the conversation between the two individuals have led to a different ending? Would Trayvon Martin still be alive? Would George Zimmerman have avoided having his head slammed on the ground? Regardless of who initiated the confrontation, the end game was all but predictable, given the presence of a gun in Zimmerman’s pocket. That gun affirmed the notion that Trayvon Martin was not George Zimmerman’s neighbor. Left unanswered by the tragedy is the question: could the outcome have been different?

            Of course we’ll never know; but the encounter between Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman provides an opportunity for each of us to ask the same question the lawyer asked of Jesus: who is my neighbor? At La Salle, we are constantly asking ourselves that question. Our motto:

Learn ­ - Serve ­ - Lead

assumes that everyone is our neighbor - even when we find it inconvenient or intimidating.  This isn’t to suggest that we frown on graduates who join neighborhood watch programs - the world is often a frightening place. Rather, we want our graduates to cultivate the Gospel notion that everyone is our neighbor; that each person deserves the benefit of the doubt. And, when suspicious circumstances cloud that notion, we want our students to meet those moments with a perspective that is balanced between alarm with respect to the present situation and concern for the other.

            There are no easy answers to the Zimmerman-Martin case; but there are plenty of questions - and the most important one is:

Who is my neighbor?

 

 

Who can say if I've been changed for the better...

            If you look up the definition of philanthropy in Webster’s Dictionary, you will find a quite serviceable, no-nonsense American definition of the term:

…private initiatives, for the public good, focusing on quality of life

But, if you look to the Greeks for a translation of the word, which was created around the time of Aeschylus (ca. 460 BCE) and which got its start in life as an adjective, not a noun (hang in there!), you would encounter a far more poetic (and satisfying) definition:

…love of humanity in the sense of caring for, nourishing, developing and enhancing

what it is to be human

Note this definition does not say “what it means to be human”, rather, “what it is to be human.”  In other words, the goal of philanthropy, understood through the lens of classical Greek, aims at nothing less than the transformation of the human condition such that it moves closer to a state of perfection.  I like this approach because it hints at the fundamental challenge which confronts all modern-day philanthropists: how to be certain one’s philanthropy makes a difference.

            This challenge brings us back to the factoid noted earlier - that the earliest, primitive, use of the word philanthropy was as an adjective, not a noun. The Greeks used the term as an adjective in order to better describe the relationship between benefactor and beneficiary...both of whom would be fundamentally changed by the philanthropic act.  More specifically, both would benefit, not just the beneficiary. Thus, the philanthropist would become more fully human through the selfless act of philanthropy while the beneficiary would be shaped by the opportunity to escape whatever current malignant condition prevented him/her from becoming more fully human.

            I choose to dwell on this particular, rather arcane, subject as we enter the interregnum between the end of one school year and the start of another because it occurs to me that we tend to overlook how we at La Salle are continually being shaped by philanthropic acts. Recently, I took the opportunity at the School’s annual Platinum Circle dinner, in which we honor retiring Trustees, Regents and Alumni Association Board members, to comment on three forms of philanthropy - as practiced at La Salle - which transforms the lives of the students entrusted to our care.

 

·         Philanthropy of mentoring

·         Philanthropy of serving

·         Philanthropy of giving

At La Salle - to stress the Greek understanding of the term as an adjective - these are overlapping relationships.  Alumni Board members, for example, frequently volunteer to be college and career mentors for our seniors, offer service during our annual Adopt-a-Family drive and make a contribution to the School’s Annual Fund and/or one of our endowed scholarships (which enables students without the means to attend La Salle). Each of those activities – together and separately – shapes the relationship of the alumnus to La Salle and the School to the alum.

            All of which reminds me of the powerful exhortation Saint John Baptist de La Salle gave the early Brothers about their relationship to the students entrusted to their care: that their interactions with young people should be as an older brother watching out for the younger one. This is why the understanding of philanthropy as a “love of humanity” strikes such a powerful cord in me.  At La Salle, we aim at nothing less than changing the world one student at a time.  We can’t do this if we are not in relationship with our students, their parents, our colleagues, alumni and friends who care about the same Lasallian values.

            There is a wonderful line in the Musical Wicked in which Galinda and Elphaba describe their relationship this way:

Who can say if I've been changed for the better?

 But because I knew you

 I have been changed for good.

I am confident that, at La Salle, administrators, teachers, parents and alums strive to love humanity, to nurture and enhance what it means to be human and, in doing so, change for the better the lives of those entrusted to our care. Without a doubt, philanthropy at La Salle makes an enormous difference.

 

Just one person’s Midsummer’s musings…

 

 

Earth Day shoud be every day...

           

I grew up on the shores of Onondaga Lake in Upstate New York. I am reminded of it on a regular basis because years ago a friend gave me a framed photograph of it for my birthday. It hangs in my study where I am writing this column. It’s a beautiful lake, and unusual in New York as there is virtually no residential development around its shores. Three quarters of the lake is surrounded by one of the longest parks in Upstate New York and attracts over a million visitors a year.  Like most “Upstaters,” I spent a good chunk of the summer playing Frisbee with friends while enjoying the cool breezes that came off the lake. I never swam in Onondaga Lake, however. If I wanted to swim, I would have to drive 16 miles to the south and east of Onondaga Lake where Green Lake hosted a wide, sandy beach on its northern shore.

            Onondaga Lake is considered to be the most polluted lake in the United States. Swimming was banned in 1940 and commercial fishing on the lake ended in 1970. The lake’s destruction began in 1884 when the Solvay Process Company started producing soda ash which is used in the manufacture of a wide variety of products including paper and glass. Its by-products traversed a viaduct which then dumped them directly into the lake. I can still remember seeing the effluent pour into the lake while playing ball on the opposite shore.  Even though Solvay Process closed its plant almost 30 years ago, Onondaga Lake is still unsafe; having been classified as a public health threat and listed as a Federal Superfund site. It will take 15 years and a third of a billion dollars to restore Onondaga Lake to the condition it was in at the time the Iroquois Confederacy was created along its shores.

            Today (April 22^nd) is the 43^rd anniversary of Earth Day. From a modest protest march of Columbia University students down Fifth Avenue, the celebration of Earth Day has spread to schools and colleges throughout the United States and to 192 countries. The Clean Water Act became law just three years after the first Earth Day Celebration and, forty years later, continues to set the standard for what substances can be introduced into the Nation’s rivers and lakes. It took another 16 years, however, before Solvay Process would stop dumping chemicals into Onondaga Lake.  Even today the lake continues to receive treated waste water from the local Metropolitan Sewage Treatment Facility.

            It never occurred to me when I was young that the willful pollution of Onondaga Lake was a monumental eco-crime. I just took it for granted that the lake was unswimmable as I drove the 16 miles to Green Lake. So, I wonder what our students take for granted now that Earth Day has become an annual fact of life. Certainly the seniors in our Environmental Science class get a hefty dose of reality as they manage a school-wide recycling program two to three times a week.  I wonder if they take note of the large quantities of paper that fill the blue bins in offices and classrooms. I wonder if they take for granted that not all the paper is recyclable and that a good chunk of it will help to fill up a land fill in Puente Hills. And, as I took for granted that Onondaga Lake was unswimmable, will they assume that recycling is as good as it gets and - even more to the point - will they ask themselves who does the recycling when school lets out for the summer?

            Thanks to the generosity of one of our most loyal donors, the School has created the Robinson Fellowship in Environmental Science. Three juniors will be given the opportunity to spend a week this summer in Yellowstone Park, working side by side with National Park Service ecologists and field researchers. They will work on conservation and wildlife restoration projects, collect data related to current field research including population studies, invasive and endangered species accounting as well as challenges to the food chain.  As part of the Fellowship, they will be expected to prepare a presentation on the experience to their fellow students in the Environmental Science class.

            Perhaps these students - and those who will follow them to Yellowstone Park - will acquire a better appreciation for the fragility of Nature than those of us who took for granted that we lived on the shores of the most polluted lake in the United States.