I am blessed in this life to have known, and to know, many remarkable people, each who taught or teach me still something about myself and the world. Among their number are those who hail from the most extraordinary times and places--unassuming, unrefined, unprivileged times and places. They are people we might otherwise fail to notice, so many shadows and background voices, even though they live right out in the open, among us, near us.
I knew a man, since passed, who was the epitome of 'salt of the earth'. He was a tough man, earnest, remarkably gentle; his face bore the wrinkles and scars of tougher times, a roadmap of hurt and humbling circumstance. He grew up in sparse and unforgiving conditions, to a family in tatters, in poverty, at a time before there was much in the way of public assistance. Not yet a man, he raised himself, took odd jobs, physically demanding and dangerous jobs, and made his way. He logged the evergreen forests of the Northwest and fished the hard waters of the north Pacific. When World War II broke out, he was among the first to enlist. He survived the most brutal campaigns in the Pacific Theater, the violence, the disease, the psychological trauma, though he would be haunted by his experience until the end of his days. He received commendations for valor and self-sacrifice. Upon his return from the war, he raised a family by any means. He worked the forest, hired on as ranch hand, wrangled animals in the rodeo, and finally returned to the sea. There were few better trainers of horses, fewer people more real. His laugh was genuine, his handshake firm, his word true.
This man was not well-educated; he never had the chance to finish secondary school. He never led a division, never built a company, never authored a new technique. He had little to show for his life at the end, no material kingdom, no wealth amassed. His was a humble existence. He lived and died in relative obscurity, known only to those who walked the same docks and climbed the same hills. He had the gift of common sense, and experience made him wise. I am a better man because I got to know him, to argue with him, to talk horses and hunting with him, to laugh over a cup of bitter black coffee with him. I marveled over his life with his every retelling.
I was raised to believe that we will be held to account for our actions, if not now then in the hereafter, for how we treat the very least among us. I was also taught not to judge another until I walked a mile in their shoes. Consider the man above. Both of these ideas stem from an abiding respect for others. It is easy in our world to dismiss the masses--to ignore the anonymous, the humble, the wretched. We are nonetheless accountable for how we speak to others, for how we treat and regard them, for our biases and assumptions about them, no matter whether they tend our gardens, watch our gates, deliver our goods, pass us at drop off, even teach our children. We must take care to watch our words, those said in frustration, said in a hurry, said in contempt, said for all matter of reasons, good and bad. We must take care to consider our actions. Character, it is often said, is who we are when no one is looking. Sometimes, though, character is who we are when they are looking, when our children are watching.
We can always explain away our choices and actions. If you live a life of respect, and treat everyone as if they fully deserve, you'll never have to!
See you around campus.