Soaring to a New Height

As someone who loves history, living in Washington, DC has certainly afforded me the chance to meet an incredible array of historical figures over the years. From presidents to politicians to pundits, I constantly marvel at the paths I cross in our nation’s capitol. Such was the case for me a few years back when I had the amazing opportunity to meet Dr. Dorothy Height.

I had the great fortune of meeting the "Queen" of the civil rights movement many years ago through my work as a board member of the nonprofit organization known as Operation Hope. The work notwithstanding, its visionary and inspirational leader, John Bryant, is the primary reason I enjoy serving. Being around John makes you want to be a better person.

Through Operation Hope and its events, John introduced me to the likes of Andrew Young, Jack Kemp, and a wonderful woman with a beautiful collection of hats named Dorothy Height. I remember having a fairly cursory knowledge of Dr. Height’s role in the civil rights movement but John put it into perspective for me - "You realize that MLK’s speech wouldn’t have happened if not for the woman whose hand you just shook."

No I didn’t.

So John urged me to learn more. "You will be amazed that one person could do so much," he promised and that promise didn’t disappoint. I began reading all the incredible stories that would come to weave her legend. Being admitted to college but being denied entrance upon arrival. Getting invited to Hyde Park by Eleanor Roosevelt. Urging the March on Washington organizers to allow MLK to speak because she knew how well he connected with young people. Leading the National Council of Negro Women. Her contributions to history and to the struggle for equality go on and on.

After my crash course in all things Height, I got a fortuitous email from John asking if I might be able to provide her with a new desktop computer given my day job working for a technology company. In doing so, John recounted a conversation with Dr. Height who had asked her, "When am I going to join the iPod and Internet generation? I want to do it all." I couldn’t help but smile at the youthful exuberance of someone 95 years old.

I jumped at the chance and was flattered John asked me to help. What he didn’t realize however was that my altruism had an ulterior motive - I wanted to visit with Dorothy Height. And on a cold December night in 2007, I got to do so. I arrived at her apartment in southwest Washington and was greeted by her wonderful caregiver who informed me that Dr. Height was not yet home. "She’s had meetings all day," she said. Working past 7:00pm at 95? "Yup, that’s Dr. Height, darling."

For the better part of the next 30 minutes, I replaced her ancient, and I mean ancient, computer (it may, in fact, have been the first computer ever built). I finished quickly so I could spend some time looking at the amazing pieces of history scattered throughout her home.

There was a picture with Martin Luther King. Another with Lyndon Johnson. Yet another with Thurgood Marshall. I remember thinking that my photo with former Congressman John Kasich didn’t quite measure up. On an opposite wall were commissions and proclamations from virtually every President dating back to John Kennedy and beautiful portraits of friends and family. As I got lost in the decades of the American experience on display there, the door opened and Dr. Height finally arrived.

She thanked me for coming and for replacing her computer. "Such a nice-looking young man," she said as she extended her hand (clearly her vision was beginning to go at this time). Dr. Height then quickly moved to examine her new workstation, grabbed the mouse and demanded to know, "Is this connected to the Internet? I need to check my email." Awesome.

After I provided a quick tutorial, Dr. Height asked what she could do in return for the gesture. I simply asked if she would spend a few moments telling me about MLK. She happily obliged and I couldn’t believe I was getting treated to a firsthand account from a person who spent her life on the frontline of our history. It was an incredible evening to be sure.

Always one to think of others, Dr. Height made me promise to make sure her old computer would not go to waste. "There are plenty of school children who don’t have computers in Washington," she implored. I smiled and agreed, not having the heart to tell her that her old computer had little more value than a paper weight. With that, I left with an incredible life moment.

As I did, Dr. Height said, "I can’t thank you enough." As the nation now begins to mourn her passing, I’m not sure there is anything better we can say in return.

An Executive Privilege

I love you James Carville.

His call for former White House speechwriter Matt Latimer to be ‘glove-slapped’ is among my favorite quotes of recent memory. The references to him as a ‘dweeb’ and a ‘punk’ were particularly entertaining too. And totally appropriate too since he just lobbed a blade into the back of President George W. Bush.

Matt Latimer is but another in a long line of former White House staffers who demean the amazing opportunity to work at the highest levels of our republic by trashing it and selling it. And he attempts to justify those actions by implying that he is driven to do so by some self-righteous sense of duty that comes after making the shocking discovery that the White House isn’t exactly as romantic as he had dreamed.

Latimer expects to be given a pass for his gossipy ways by portraying himself as the young, Ronald-Reagan-inspired ideologue (cue ‘Morning in America’) who came to Washington to change the world. On his way to the top however, he made the awful discovery that Washington is actually a place where politics play a part in decision-making, people make fun of other people and sometimes they, gasp, swear. For someone who purports to be so incredibly sharp, he sure is naïve.

My major beef with Latimer is not the astounding arrogance with which he suggests he was smarter and more morally-centered than basically everyone (including the President) at the White House in which he served. Nor is the fact that he published things he saw and heard there with the discretion of a pre-pubescent girl on her Facebook page. (I do find it amazing that he was able to recount with such vivid accuracy conversations from months ago when I can’t remember what I had for lunch today.) Even the fact that he felt the need to grace the world with a memoir filled with the wisdom that comes from 30-something whole years of living doesn’t bug me most. No, my major problem is that he broke the code shared by White House staff – you don’t trash your friends, your colleagues, and most of all, your President.

I worked in President Bush’s office of speechwriting for the two years following the attacks of September 11, 2001. It was an honor to be there, to be among the brightest, hardest-working, and most-dedicated individuals around, and to serve in those hallowed halls. Overworked, underpaid, and more often than not unnoticed, I wouldn’t trade a day of that experience for anything.

While I wasn’t the caliber writer or senior staffer who had the President’s ear that Latimer claims to have been (I learned on about day three of my White House tenure that there are roughly six people on the President’s staff who actually matter, and I wasn’t one of them), I was on the team. And being on the team meant understanding a key responsibility – you serve at the pleasure of the President.

What does that mean? Quite simply, you are there to help him, to advance his efforts, and to protect him. It also means that if you have a problem, become disenchanted, or are just too conflicted with the evil and misguided way things are being done, you leave. Pretty straight-forward, except to folks like Matt Latimer. His brand of White House staffer sees the opportunity to better the President as secondary to the opportunity to better himself.

And like Scott “Benedict” McClellan before him, that opportunity comes in the smarmiest form of all – trying to make a quick buck by selling a book no one of consequence will read. Now, as the few minor ‘a-ha’ salacious nuggets cycle out of the 24-news rotation after generating such incredible headlines as “Bush Mocked Other Pols While President” (how shocking), his tome will become little more than a footnote, but a costly one at that. After alienating all of his former colleagues, I suppose Latimer has no interest in working in politics again. Then again I wonder who would trust him to sit in a closed-door strategy session in any professional endeavor? Not me anyway.

It’s ironic too that in his book, Latimer suggests disappointment that the real west wing didn’t live up to Aaron’s Sorkin’s fictional portrayal. As a fan of that show, I can say that Sorkin went to great lengths to highlight one major theme throughout the series above all others – loyalty. It’s too bad this is one real-life tenet that Latimer failed to grasp.

The Highs and Lows of Being a Supreme Court Justice

Judge Sonia Sotomayor brings a key demographic ‘first’ to the Supreme Court if she is confirmed – she will be the first Type 1 diabetic to ever serve on the nation’s highest bench. And while I will probably find some pretty relevant reasons to question her nomination, I will never cite her daily battle against the chronic disease known as diabetes as relevant grounds for disqualification.

Unfortunately for her, ignorance about diabetes continues to cloud the opinions of those who don’t share this view. I hope her nomination will help change those misperceptions.

I have been a Type I diabetic for over a decade now and I can sum up the experience with a not-so-eloquent assessment – it sucks. Everything I do, from exercise to eating, has to be done with an eye toward how it will affect my blood sugar. It’s hard, it’s grueling, and it’s exhausting.

But like any other disease, it’s manageable.

In an article titled, “Her Diabetes: Will It Be a Handicap,” Time magazine underscored the general misinformation that continues to exist about diabetes by posting a photo better suited for a documentary about heroin addicts. In fact, insulin isn’t injected into veins or arms, it tends to be introduced into the muscles of the abdomen, leg, or rear-end.

The Time article was also replete with factual errors and assessments, something I have found to be the norm in most journalistic accounts about diabetes. After all, it’s hard to break this complicated disease down to a few easy-to-comprehend thoughts. Having done so a few thousand times for friends and family over the years however, let me try.

There are two types of diabetics – Type Is and Type IIs. The former represent about 10% of all diabetics typically diagnosed with what is called juvenile diabetes because onset comes early in life. For me, that occurred at age 24. For Sotomayor, life changed at age 8. The vast majority of diabetics, known as Type IIs, tend to experience the disease later in life due to poor diet and exercise regiments or some catalytic event (pregnancy, accident, etc.).

Regardless of the distinction, all diabetics have issues with the production of insulin, the hormone that breaks down sugar and allows the body to turn it into energy. Without enough (or in some cases any) insulin being produced by the pancreas, we must inject it into our systems. Sounds easy right? It’s not. The pancreas is the natural regulator of that never-ending process and automatically pumps out just the right amount in response to what people eat or do. For diabetics, we have to make an educated guess as to what the right amount is, a decision which can have dire consequences. If we inject too much, we risk blackouts, coma, and even death. If we don’t inject enough insulin and our sugar stays high, we inflict serious damage to organs and body systems.

The most common question I have fielded throughout my 11-year struggle with the disease is, “You are diabetic, so that means you can’t have sugar right?” The answer to that question is, ‘No.’ Diabetics like me can eat anything we want, we simply must compensate for those choices by injecting the right amount of insulin into our bodies.

Doing so requires proper care and management in the form of regular insulin injections and blood sugar tests (performed by pricking the finger and using a meter to read sugar levels). By all accounts, Judge Sotomayor has her diabetes under control and has for over four decades. The ironic thing about the illness is that it perversely makes many people healthier. With careful monitoring and control, many diabetics monitor their health far more carefully than those with normal pancreases. And I’m pretty sure that’s the case for someone like Sotomayor who has been dealing with the ups and downs of the disease since she was eight.

I’ve been around Washington long enough to know that any issue is fair game when it comes to Supreme Court nominations. So should the diabetes question be raised? Sure. For all those Senate Judiciary Committee staff out there, know that the issue could be put to rest with one question to her – “Judge Sotomayor, could you provide us with your last five A1C readings?” The best indicator of diabetic control, the A1C describes, in no uncertain terms, how diabetics manage their blood sugar.

Providing that information to the Senate (and assuming her control is as good as it has been reported to be) leaves little room to press the issue, even for the most unfamiliar with the disease. Doing so also helps shed light on a disease that continues to be wrongly depicted in often ridiculous and insulting ways (see Steel Magnolias).

Judge Sotomayor’s diabetes is a part of her everyday life, just as it is of mine. So in the context of her upcoming confirmation hearings, the issue shouldn’t be ignored, but it also shouldn’t be overstated. Through her tight control and diligence, she has demonstrated that in the battle against diabetes, she rules supreme.

The Great 38

It was inevitable, but hearing the news today that Curt Schilling is retiring from baseball still bummed me out. As a diehard Red Sawks fan, Schilling represents everything that I love about the Beantown bombers and baseball in general. He’s loyal, intensely competitive and yet humble, and never gives anything but his all.

In an age of ever-changing rosters and a laser focus on the almighty greenback, his commitment to the game, his team, and the fans make him a hall-of-famer in any town in my opinion, not just Cooperstown. Why? Well there just aren’t too many guys around like him.

Guys who are driven by the conviction to say the things that need to be said. On steroids for example, Schilling rightfully calls people out. "This will be the steroids era forever," he said. "Jose Canseco admitted he cheated his entire career. Everything he ever did should be wiped clean. I think his MVP should go back and should go to the runner-up." Couldn’t agree more. Same for you too Mr. Bonds and Mr. McGwire.

Guys who don’t make excuses. The day after the Red Sox won the 2004 World Series, I remember Schilling being asked about the difficulty in breaking Babe Ruth’s curse. His response was something to the effect of, “that’s something that guys who couldn’t get the job done used as an excuse.” Awesome.

Guys who call out hypocrisy. "You can't go out and push people to do something you're not doing yourself," he once said of charity. "I'm getting paid a ridiculous amount of money to do what I do for a living, and there's no reason why I wouldn't [give].” What athletes admit the absurdity of their salaries?

I could go on and on.

On the field, Schilling’s numbers tell of incredible prowess. 216 career wins, three times the runner-up for the Cy Young, a .597 career winning percentage, an 11-2 record in postseason games, four World Series appearances with three wins, and a 2.23 lifetime ERA. Impressive stuff, but the manner in which he achieved those metrics was far more impressive.

Everything Schilling did was gutsy. And while it sounds cliché to bring up the bloody sock episode, that was the stuff of heroes. He stepped up (literally) and got the job done without uttering an excuse or soliciting praise afterwards. He was the 2004 version of Daniel LaRusso coming out to fight Johnny after the Red Sox doctors did that Mr. Miyagi miracle hand-clapping healing thing.

“Curt Schilling’s going to pitch? Curt Schilling’s going to pitch! This is what it's all about, folks. You know it. How's the ankle, son? All right. What a man!”

Indeed. Having guys like that to admire and root for made winning the World Series all the sweeter for fans like me.

Off the field, I always admired how Schilling conducted himself. When he wasn’t backing up his teammates or providing quality insight on the issues affecting the game through his blog and radio show, he spent his time being good-natured and kind. In 2002, I loved it when he interrupted a White House briefing to rib White House press secretary Ari Fleischer about his Diamondbacks beating Fleischer’s beloved Yankees in the World Series.

And perhaps most impressive, the devout Schilling always found ways to share his great fortune with others. A few years ago, he wrote checks of $500,000 each to the ALS Association, the Jimmy Fund, and the United Way. His generosity wasn’t limited to simply cutting checks though, a practice normally reserved for celebrities looking for ways to ease the guilt of living lives of gluttony and excess. When Schilling and his wife Shonda heard the countless stories of families losing everything in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, they opened up their hearts and their home to Efrem Fields and his wife and seven children, who stayed with the Schillings for a year.

How many of us could, or rather would, do that in the same situation?

Over the years, I got to see #38 pitch quite a few times at Fenway Park, Camden Yards, and the old Vet in Philadelphia. (In addition to the Sox, Schilling also pitched for my other favorite team the Phillies.) My personal favorite of all the games I attended though was his 9-2 drubbing of the Yankees in the Bronx in 2005, his first start since the championship win nearly a year earlier.

Like so many other class acts of the day, I am fortunate to have had the opportunity to know the great Curt Schilling through his baseball and through his example. He gave me great moments in a game I love. But he also gave me the hope that there are still people in the world who don’t cheat, people who achieve through hard work, people who are not ashamed to be guided by faith and humility, and people who care about something larger than themselves.

So while I am sad to see him go, I can’t wait to see him inducted into the Hall in five years. And oddly enough, to see that bloody sock already enshrined there now.

Charlie the Angel

I guess it’s the unfortunate reality that comes with getting older, but I feel like more and more people I either know or know of are dying these days. Some, like my childhood friend Ryon Provencher, I knew well. Others, like Dave Matthews Band saxophonist Leroi Moore, I only knew through their craft. And some, like Sydney Pollack and Paul Newman, I didn’t know but certainly admired. Regardless, it’s all pretty damn depressing.

Death and mortality continue to frighten me; then again I suppose they are supposed to in some way. But I think the thing that depresses me most is when good people leave this earth too early. Such is the case with a wonderful man I had the honor of knowing named Charlie.

Charles Edward Harris was born in 1955 with Down syndrome and lived his entire life in the city where he passed away in May – Richmond, Virginia. Upon his graduation from the Amelia Street School, his physical limitations severely affected his job opportunities in the real world, so much so that he was deemed “unemployable.” As many would discover however, that disgustingly bigoted label stood in complete contradiction to Charlie’s spirit and abilities.

As a quick aside, the very idea of characterizing someone as “unemployable” is deplorable to me. It suggests a shocking arrogance that comes from someone who thinks he has the final say as to who has worth and who doesn’t. Everyone, and I mean everyone, deserves a chance to contribute and can contribute. It may take a little extra effort to determine what form that contribution will take but in the end, we can all find that thing that delivers with it a sense of dignity and purpose. No one is ‘unemployable.’

Thankfully a few good souls at nearby Virginia Commonwealth University felt the same way and gave Charlie a chance. Under VCU’s program, ‘Project Employability,’ he got a job working at the University of Richmond – first at the ‘Dry Dock’ and then later at ‘The Pier.’ That’s where I came to know him.

The Pier was a campus fast-food takeout eatery where you could enjoy a burger or a chicken sandwich in between classes while enjoying the view from a common area that overlooked Westhampton Lake. It was a great spot to take a break and relax. On one of my first days of college at UR, I did just that and noticed a quiet man tirelessly cleaning tables, taking out the trash, and sweeping the floors.

His uniform of a bright red polo shirt and a blue baseball hat with the Pier’s logo caught my eye and I could tell he wore them with pride. Over the weeks and months that followed I continued to see him and marvel at his work ethic. And then one day, after some unfounded hesitation had finally subsided, I decided to walk over and say hello. The funny thing was that while Charlie couldn’t talk, I never had a problem understanding him. He was able to communicate more with a smile or an outstretched hand than I ever could with words.

That first meeting led to a friendship that spanned my entire collegiate run at Richmond. I always made a point of stopping by the Pier to see my friend, and always looked forward to it. Sometimes he would simply wave. Other times he would smile and try to say something to me. And on more than a few occasions, I joined him while he ate his lunch, which had been painstakingly prepared with love by a family member.

Many people commented me to over the years something to the effect of, “That is so nice of you to be friendly to Charlie,” as if doing so was a huge chore or a requirement for a service project. What those people failed to realize was that I spent time with Charlie because I wanted to. He inspired me to make the very most of what hand we are dealt in life. He taught me to not accept the limiting decisions of others who supposedly know best. And most of all, he reminded me to always be grateful.

Grateful for the wonderful life I have. Grateful for the incredible opportunities I have been given. Grateful for not having to bear the great burdens and challenges of diseases like Down syndrome. Grateful for knowing genuinely good people like him.

For nearly 20 years, Charlie showed up for work every day and did his job with characteristic pride. Considering my head spins when I think about doing the same thing for 20 days, that accomplishment is nothing short of remarkable for someone so ‘unemployable.’ He retired shortly after I left UR and when I would return to campus for a football game or to visit a professor in the subsequent years that followed, I always made a point of looking for him when I walked by the Pier. Sadly, I never saw my friend again.

I never forgot him though, or the way he lived his life – with a smile on his face and his head held high. Unemployable? Please. More like unforgettable.

Rest in peace Charlie, I look forward to having lunch with you again someday.