The Spencerian

Dear Finnegan

by Benjamin J. Kirby

Finnegan Fawkes Kirby, my son, was born yesterday, May 2nd, at about 6:15 pm.  He weighed in at 9 pounds, 6 ounces, 22 inches long, happy, healthy, and -- dare I say it -- pretty good looking, like his sister.  

It has everything to do with their mother, who, by the way, is a superstar and -- I don't say this lightly -- easily one of the most impressive people I've ever met in my life.

This is my introduction of Finnegan to the world, via this blog.  It's a kind of open letter from me to him.

# # # #

Did I say that I need you?
Did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool you see
No one knows this more than me

Welcome to the great, wide world, Finnegan.  They say it's all in how you make your entrance, and if that's true, then buddy, you are well on your way to superstardom.

Of course, the credit of that entrance is not necessarily all yours for the taking, despite the fact that you were the focus of everyone's attention.  Well.  Mostly.

The story of your birth will end up the stuff of oft-repeated legend, so I won't embarrass you with it today.  

The short version is, you are here, happy and healthy, and your mother is easily the toughest person we know.  But witnessing your remarkable birth made me think of a couple of different phrases I've heard lately. 

One is, "behind every good man is a good woman."  I'd modify the phrasing, but generally speaking, in your case, that's true.  More on your mom in a minute.

The other is, "self-made man."  Someone referred to me as a self-made man the other day.  I'm nearly 41 years old, Finn, and I don't think anyone has ever referred to me as a self-made man.  I'm not even sure I knew what it meant.  

I must've looked offended, because the person who said it quickly explained themselves.  "Everything you've ever accomplished, and everything you are, you did yourself."

Well, that's just about the least true thing I've ever heard in my entire life, though to be fair, the person was trying to pay me a compliment.  Except when accepting them for my children, I do a terrible job at taking a compliment.  Still, this one just wasn't right.

I'm not a self-made anything.  Sure, I had professional mentors, professors in college, good friends, all of whom took an interest in me and my professional development.  And I owe them more than I could even begin to repay.  To try would be to drain the ocean with an eye-dropper.

With no offense to those people -- more of them than I ever deserved -- the real people who built me are people you know.  Or you will very soon.  (You've only been around a day or so, I'll give you a break.)

Your Grandmommy instilled in me -- and your Uncle Adam and Aunt Susie -- a love of reading and learning no teacher in any school could ever replicate.  I hope you love books and stories as much as I do.  And if you do, I will have your Grandmommy to thank for passing along that love of the written word.  

And speaking of your Uncle Adam, if you catch me trying to act on principle, it is not because I am the most principled, decent man you know.  For a compass of honesty and integrity -- traits I do not inherently posses, but try to employ daily -- you'll need to talk to him.

Speaking of your Aunt Susie, if you want to acquaint yourself with dignity and grace -- also two traits I do not inherently posses -- then you'll need to talk to her.  You should talk to her, anyway, because she embodies these things, and much more, with such humor and ease, you don't necessarily appreciate it as you always should.

I swore I wouldn't make this letter isn't about your sister -- she got her own -- but if you ever need an example of what it means to be a good kid, then I'll be all to happy to tell the story of when she first met you.  She was not spoiled.  She was not rotten.  She was not impatient, or rude, or mean.  She did not say any of the things awful kids say when first meeting their younger siblings ("put 'em in a corner!" -- inside family joke, there, I'll explain some time).  She looked at you, asked to be picked up, patted you on the head as you lay in your bassinet, gave you a gentle kiss on the cheek, and said, "Hi, Baby Finn."   

She also brought you a coveted balloon, and a stuffed toy bear.

And she did all of that after a day in a hospital waiting room.  

The day she spent in that waiting room was really your day.  You measured big, you were late.  And just before you made your appearance, it was a little scary.  Just for a minute.  

You're the great star, but the hero of this story, if it wasn't obvious, is your mother.  Of course she's your hero.  But she's mine, too, if you didn't know that already.  Because my hero -- and yours -- is a Mommy who walks the hospital halls through contractions.  My hero -- and yours -- is a Mommy who makes the "transition" to full labor while her dopey husband is at dinner (don't worry; I showed up on time).  My hero -- and yours -- is a Mommy who pushes at exactly the right time... and gives birth to an amazing baby boy.  You.

Behind every good man is a good woman, indeed.  And let me tell you something, son: if you forget the intent of that rule, if you treat a good woman standing by you with anything less that the respect, honor, and decency she deserves, then it's not me you'll have to answer to, friend.

It will be your Mommy.  

And while you're pondering that ominous but vague warning, remember that she's the one who did all the pushing, and laboring, and delivering of all nine pounds and six ounces of you without a single drop of pain medication.  

Finn, I know professional fighters with lower tolerance for pain (in a weird twist, this is actually true, and not a literary embellishment).

Too tough to be real?  I say "behind every man is a good woman," may have a whiff of old-school sexism, but it at least offers directional hints.  Disrespectful?  I'd watch your back, young man.

Finn, I love you and I'm proud of you.  You're a good baby, you'll be a good boy, and I know you'll grow up to be a good man.

Oh, and if you're ever wondering what it means to be a good man and a good father, don't ask me.  Talk to your Granddaddy.  I am proud you are my son, and I am proud to be his.  Still, since I've never had the presence of mind or the courage to ask him those kinds of questions, I have already done you and your sister the disservice of feeling my way along, guessing as I go, really.  But you can trust me on this one: he won't just have the answers.  He'll be the example your looking for.

No one is self-made, Finn.  It's why you have a family to begin with.  And though we're still having the political debate about women and working and even the control they have over their bodies, I hope that you will always give the women who believe in you the kindness, love, and respect they deserve.

I kind of like including songs and videos at the end of posts, mostly because I do titles and endings very, very poorly.
 
This is actually a Pearl Jam song.  Willie Nelson just covered it, but like most things Willie does, he did it better.  

Actually, Willie does this one better, but he's not alone.  It's a duet.  With his son. 

Your mother and I love you very much. 

Red Five, Standing By

by Benjamin J. Kirby

That's right.  A Star Wars reference regarding the imminent birth of my son.  

And so I am, just like Luke "Red Five" Skywalker: standing by.

Or this.  Except instead of hanging out with droids and Wookies, that just makes me want to get a buzz cut and smoke a cigarette.  

We go in tomorrow morning for a check, and then later in the afternoon we begin the process of induction.

And by "we," I mean "Duncan".  She is brave, and a trooper, and is handling this with all the grace and dignity you'd expect if you know her.  She is my hero.  (I, of course, am writing silly blog posts the night before, downloading pictures of X-wing fighters.  Yay, me!)  

Anyway, if all goes according to plan -- if, you might say, the Force is with us -- Finnegan Fawkes will arrive in the world probably Thursday morning or so.  We'll be a family of four.  

Will keep you posted.  And thanks so much for your good thoughts, wishes, and prayers. 

An Inconvenient Dog

by Benjamin J. Kirby

It was 2008 and things were not going well for us.  I will spare you the sob-story details -- this isn't about us, anyway.  The point is, we were feeling angry, emotionally busted, despondent.  They say when you're feeling this way it is important to avoid making life-altering decisions.

We ignored that good advice.  I swear I still remember it like yesterday, meeting Duncan at Pet Pal Animal Shelter, in St. Petersburg.  I convinced myself that we would just look at the dog we'd seen pictures of online.  We'd check him out, realize we didn't really need a dog, I would take Duncan out to lunch on Central Avenue somewhere, and that would be that.  Crisis averted.

I knew it was all over the minute I saw Conan laying on the cement floor.  I knew when he lumbered up to greet us that we'd be taking him home.  And we did.

I would love to tell you about the four-plus years filled with glory days: me, Duncan, Conan, and later, Emmy.  But I'd by lying.  He was a damn inconvenient dog.  

Great Danes are a special breed.  Conan was small for his size -- around a hundred and ten pounds -- but in a modest house our size, that is still a whole lot of dog.  

Danes are dirty -- they shed -- and Conan was almost entirely black, with some white on his paws, his chest, and his muzzle, which grew more white the older he got.  And we have white tile floors.  We should have bought stock in whatever company owns Swiffer.

They drool and they... leak.  They're couch potatoes, and we weren't smart enough to cover our last couch.  We had to literally throw it away because of the stains and stench.  No self respecting thrift store would've taken it.

They sleep a lot of the time, but they do require a little bit of exercise every day.  And the exercise is non-negotiable.  I gave up innumerable after-work events to rush home for a requisite dog walk.  At first I took to walking him early in the morning and after work.   After a training session and some regular walking, he and I settled on a good route.  

We would head down towards Stetson College of Law and walk the entire perimeter of the school.  If Emmy was with us, sometimes we'd stop at the soccer field and run.

It was on one of these walks that something happened.  It was a defining moment in my relationship with Conan.

Lots of people walk their dogs around our neighborhood, around Stetson (an institution conscientious enough to put up regular outposts with poop-scoop bags).  Most folks have fair to moderate control over their dogs.  

Some have no control over their dogs.

I don't remember exactly how old Emeline was, but it was young enough that Conan and I had only just figured out the stroller situation.  When I had him heel, his head was only a foot or two ahead of my hip.  But the stroller was way out in front, and that's where he wanted to be.  It took us some time to find the right pace, but we did.

We'd had Conan for at least two and a half years at that point.  I was fairly bitter about having to walk him every single day he didn't go to doggy day care.  Rain, heat, bitter cold.  Didn't matter -- he needed that walk, or he became insufferably neurotic.  A hundred and ten pounds of neurotic dog in our small house would not work.

Anyway, it was a clear day, sunny, nice.  I remember that.  We were gone two blocks south towards the college.  We had hit our stride and were ready to make the right turn towards the school.  

Conan was great around other dogs, mostly curious about them.  Scared as hell of little white dogs, but otherwise, a genuinely social kind of guy.

Still, I stayed on alert when we passed people, and especially people with dogs.  It was less for our sake, more for theirs.  He was good, obedient -- but because of his size, he could be intimidating.  

Conan saw them coming around the corner the same time I did.  A big guy, fat, beer gut, greasy t-shirt and flip-flops.  Talking on a cell phone, and smoking a cigarette.

And a dappled Mallorquin bulldog, all chest muscles, angry eyes and bitterness.  

He saw us and went insane.  

The guy's leash went fully taut, he dropped the cellphone and tried to stand his ground, losing against the gravelly road in his flip-flops, inch by inch as the bull pulled with everything he had.

I froze.

Conan, on the other hand, reacted.  He had his chest thrust out and was in kind of an lean crouch.  Every hair on his back was up, his floppy, goofy ears pinned fully back.

And that's when Conan did two things I had never seen him do, not before or since.  One, he didn't bark.  Conan was a barker.  Knock on our front door and he sounded off like the hounds of hell.  Another inconvenience.

But he didn't bark at the dope and his out-of-control bulldog, pulling hard towards us across the street.  

He drew back the black gums from his teeth and let out a low, gurgling growl I felt before I heard.  I saw his eyes roll back white and red, and his nails clacked slowly against the pavement.  He was no longer a pet.  Nature, the fight instinct, had completely taken over.   

Which made the second thing even more extraordinary.  

He let the leash go slack.  

Show him a nine pound white Shih Tzu and he'd yank your arm out of the socket.  It took me longer than I'd like to admit, but I did realize what he was doing.  He was giving me the power to let him go.    

I could feel it in the leash.  I could feel his power, loaded up, ready to fire.  I could feel the harnessed energy on the verge of exploding... and he was giving it to me.  I was the leader of his pack and he would await my order to go to work on the bulldog.

Recently, I could flick the leash in my hand with no more force from my index finger than turning on a light, and he would know to stop or sit.  The slightest jingle on his collar would tell him what to do.

That was all he needed in that moment.  The slightest indication from me and he'd have let loose.  Without hesitation.

Of course, none of that is the most extraordinary part of this story.  The best part, as you may have already guessed, is where he was in relation to me and the bull.

The stroller, in front of me, was angled much closer to the charging dog.  But I was in his path, too.

I was, by far, the easier one to shield.  The distance to the threat was further, I was away and back from the fat man's killing machine.  

And yet he had placed himself squarely in front of Emmy's stroller.  

He wasn't protecting me.  He was protecting Emeline.

Who would have won the fight?  Who knows.  Who cares.  It would've been damn ugly, because it was one hell of a pissed off dog.  The fat guy literally had to get on his knees to subdue him with his arms criss-crossed around his massive chest, trying to whisper to him.  Then again, Conan had a head the size of a cinder block and thick black nails three quarters of an inch long.  

I said probably the only smart thing I've ever said in a situation like that: "Come on, Coney.  Let's go." And he stood up and got normal weirdly fast.  He stood, settled quickly into his goofy, silly gait, and we were off.  

When we got out of sight of the bull and his terrible owner, I hugged Conan.  I probably should have hugged him more. 

I used to judge people by who they complimented first on our walks: Coney or Emmy.  But I stopped doing that because Conan won nearly every time.  I have a beautiful daughter, but people just gravitated towards Conan.  Turns out, it really is quite something to see a man and his daughter walk a hundred and ten pound dog on a leash with nothing but slack.

He was a pretty good looking guy, too.

Conan died yesterday.  He was around eight years old, maybe a little older.  

If it's okay with you, I will decline to share the details except to say that it was peaceful, he was never alone, and it was every bit as dignified as he deserved.

Turns out you miss some inconveniences more than you thought you might.  

Maybe you miss the chance to say thank you one more time.

It's not good enough here, but thank you, Conan.  We'll miss you.

Walking With a Ghost

by Benjamin J. Kirby

I suppose I should say something about the passing of Dick Clark, who died today at 82, but that's not what is on my mind tonight.  

I started this blog in January of 2005, but I didn't start it because I had all the confidence in the world I could create a great blog overnight.  I started it because I had something to say, and I wanted to give it a try.  I wasn't sure exactly how to say it, but the format has given me a lot of room to practice and grow.

The real trick was never the writing, though -- not what to write or how to write.  I knew that would come and that I'd craft it on my own.  The tricky piece was getting the damn thing started.  And so I turned to blogs like Kevin Murphy's Ghost in the Machine which gave me the courage to give the whole thing a try.

In a lot of ways Ghost in the Machine is what they call the blogfather of the Spencerian.  I'm grateful to Kevin and his more than twelve years of work at GitM.  

Looks like he's taking a break from blogging for a bit of time -- and for all the right reasons.  I understand and totally respect where he's coming from with respect to presidential politics.  I certainly understand where he's coming from on the personal stuff.    

Kevin is peeling away from the computer screen and going out into the real world -- he calls it a walkabout.  Walking about in the real world.  Where life happens.  I'll miss Kevin and GitM while they're out and about.  Still, I have to admit it sounds good to me.  After all, the real world is where we discover the stories we write.

Three Quick Things on Visuals

by Benjamin J. Kirby

Three quick things, all of them about visuals you should see.

The first is from Foreign Policy, and it is called Combat Camera.  These are remarkable photographs of men and women in the armed forces around the globe doing, well, some pretty extraordinary things.  You should see them all.

The next is a bit of administrative business.  Normally I wouldn't trouble you with this kind of thing, but I figure it's better to tell you what may be coming than just change it up.  

Typepad has a new dashboard.  It's pretty clear they're encouraging quicker, easier, shorter, faster posts.  Stuff you can do from mobile devices, even.  

You only need to spend about thirty seconds on this blog to see that it's not really built for the quick stuff.  I'm going to ramble at you for hundreds, sometimes thousands of words.  That's just what I do.

That being said, Matt's got a new baby in the house, and we have Finn on the way.  Time will be at a premium -- and, speaking for myself, my time to blog will be limited.  

So I'd like to do what I can.  If that's only a short burst, then I'll take advantage of what the good folks at Typepad have to offer.

As an aside, please be assured that over the next few weeks and months, I'd really like to keep things going on this blog.  I've never had a strategy to garner more readers.  This year that is a little different.  For the first time, there's a ready-made opportunity to get new readers to the blog: the GOP Convention.  The whole world will be watching us, if only for a few days.  Better make the most of it.

The last thing to share is a story from the Washington Post, complete with slide-show, about a guy with the most extensive face transplant to date.  He had a gun accident, and, well, the visuals speak for themselves.  

For me, a couple of the most powerful images were of the doctors.  They transplanted a face onto a guy.

Just look at what we can do.

Congratulations to Matt Spence

by Benjamin J. Kirby

I consider it a bit of a coup that I managed to get someone to regularly post here as a contributor.  Matt has had some good posts already, and I look forward to seeing what he has in store for the future.

If you're wondering where he has been the last week or so, well, I'm not the only one who has been expecting a son.

Matt and his lovely wife Erin greeted the arrival of their third son on Wednesday, and everyone is healthy and doing well.  I couldn't be happier for them.

I'll let Matt share more about the good news when he can.  In the meantime, I hope you send them all good wishes. 

Family Time

by Benjamin J. Kirby

It was bound to happen sooner or later: for the first time, I inadvertently made my daughter cry, using nothing more than words.

I know the rap on me.  I know the deal.  Nice guy, funny -- but will be the first to take a joke too far.  Can cross the line.  Doesn't mean to, but will.  Smart, but not smart enough to know when it's enough.  

Of course, I've fussed at her, and she's cried.  Or, worse, I've bonked her head getting her into the car, and she's cried.  This was different.  

The short version is, we were having dinner and Duncan got some food on her hand or her wrist and Emmy, very worried, was going to wipe it off with her little wash cloth.  I made some over-the-top Oh no!  Mommy has food on her hand!  kind of thing, too dramatic, too silly, and then -- to make the situation worse -- I got up to go rinse the wash cloth out.  I didn't stay focused on Emmy so she could see I was kidding. 

Here's the point: two year-olds don't necessarily get sarcasm.  

Lesson learned.

And I'll tell you this: the only thing that will make you feel smaller than making your daughter cry because you teased her is having her crawl out of bed, hours after dinner, well past her bed-time, walk into the room you're in, stand there in her little Minnie Mouse nightgown, stuffed Mickey in hand, and look at you with her bight, beautiful eyes, with her bright, beautiful smile, and say with more love than you deserve, "You're a good Daddy."  

Nothing political here.  I just thought I'd share a story about what an ass I am, and what a really great kid I have.

I also just wanted to tell you that story so you can get an idea of where my head has been the last few days -- and probably will be going forward in the next several weeks.  I'll try to keep regularly posting, but between now and when Finn gets here (around the end of April, or so), it may be sporadic.  Bear with us -- and thanks for reading.

The Good Old Days: Fun With Pictures

by Benjamin J. Kirby

One of the benefits of living in Washington, DC, which I did, way back when:

It gets better:

I keep those two pictures hung in my office as a reminder that in our country, anyone can do anything.  There is no reason in the world for a college drop-out with a Dr. Seuss tie (One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish!), terrible sideburns, and not a clue in the world what he's talking about to have even a moment of time with one of the most powerful Senators in the nation, and one of the greatest Democrats in generations, and an American political icon.

And yet there I am.  

If you're curious, those pictures were taken at a fundraiser in Eastern Market for his 2000 election, which he won easily.  I went with my wife as kind of a last-minute deal (which might explain the tie), because someone had paid our way (it isn't -- or wasn't -- uncommon for folks to buy tickets to fundraisers and then not go, giving the tickets to friends or lower-level staff who normally couldn't afford to go).  

The specifics of what we were talking about don't matter (or, rather, I'm not going to tell you).  It was about campaigning and tyring to meet people and getting to know them.  He wasn't just engaged in that -- he seemed passionate about it.  I don't doubt that he was.  

I miss Senator Kennedy.  The country needs more like him.

The Finn Project: An Update

by Benjamin J. Kirby

Today was one of those days that started early, went in one direction, got busy in the middle, zagged to another direction, and ended up not at all where I thought it might be.

So I figured it was a good time to give you an update on Finn.  

All is well so far.  Duncan is now 31+ weeks pregnant.  She's about ready to be 39 weeks pregnant, but I'll tell you this: I could stand about two hours of it before I'd lose my mind.  She is a trooper and if you ever want to be amazed watch a pregnant woman work for a little bit (actually, bad advice, there: never just watch a pregnant woman work.  Help her out, for crying out loud.  She's pregnant, for God's sake.)

Despite some things that had us a bit worried off and on earlier, we're all doing fine.  Both Duncan and I are excited for Finn to get here.  In fact, Emeline is, too.  She's two, so this whole thing takes a bit of getting used to, but she'll get there.  She is smart, and she may be the sweetest, most caring kid I know (now that I have a kid, I know a lot more kids; they're all sweet, sure, but there really is something special about Emmy).  

I am excited, and I'm nervous.  Boys are different.  But I have a feeling he'll be a good kid, too -- just like his big sister.

Will keep you posted the closer we get.  Thanks.

A Nod to the Original Spencerian

by Benjamin J. Kirby

Me in 1989:

We have a new scanner, and so you can look forward to a lot more stuff like this: me finding random things and scanning them.  I'm sure I'll break it before too long.

A lot of people still ask me about the name of the blog, the Spencerian.  Here's the first post which explains it:

A note on the name of the thing: the Spencerian.  You’ll wonder what the Spencerian is, and in order to stave off early any wild Internet conspiracy theories about Spencer, For Hire, or outgoing Energy Secretary Spencer Abraham, we will explain ourselves now.  The maternal grandfather of Spencerian editor Benjamin J. Kirby was named Forrest Fulk, and he lived in a place called Spencer, Indiana.  He died when Benjamin’s mother, his daughter, was very young; Benjamin never knew him.  One year Benjamin’s mother got creative and had framed Forrest Fulk’s high school yearbook entry, including his picture.  Benjamin had never seen a picture of him that young.  Anyway, it turns out that not only was he the Vice-President of the athletic association, and a star of the school play, “The Patsy,” he was the Circulation Manager of The Spencerian, meaning he presumably went classroom to classroom collecting dues for the school paper.  As it happens, Benjamin worked for his high school newspaper, too (the Little Rock Central High Tiger).  This struck the editors as a fun coincidence, not to mention a really neat name for an online publication.  Thus the editors humbly bestow the moniker of this blog in honor of the early journalistic work of Forrest Fulk for his service to the original Spencerian of 1930.  It is our serious and sincere hope that we do him, and The Spencerian, justice.

Please, please don't give me any shit about the third person thing.  I feel bad enough about it as it is.  (If you're going to poke fun, try and figure out what in the hell kind of shirt I'm wearing.  Is that half a duck?)

Anyway, in that photo, I am performing my Little Rock Central High Tiger duties.  Specifically, I'm changing out the fancy print cartridges we used to use on the gigantic computer and printer which churned out our stories on a special, slick paper which was then carefully cut with exact-o knives and laid using special glue and tape onto a sheet which was then sent to the printer. 

1989, just in case you needed a reminder.  No Apple.  No Google.  No Constant Contact.

And no blog. 

I'm not complaining, though.  I probably had it easy compared to what Grandfather Fulk had to do when he worked for his school paper. 

The Matt Spence Introduction Blog Post

by Matt Spence

If I were a word cloud there would be a large STARBUCKS CHAI right in the middle, surrounded by things like sarcasm, sports, politics, education, family, father of boys, flip-flops, southern barbecue & sweet tea, Catholic, husband, Florida State University, eclectic, etc. 

If I were to choose an entrance song for myself (be it to the fighting ring, basketball court or most likely the batter's box) it would be either Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes, 'Till I Collapse by Eminem, Mudfootball by Jack Johnson or Conquering Fools by O.A.R.  If that list made you look for dramamine, I understand.  As I said, eclectic would definitely be one of the words in a Matt Spence word cloud.   

I am not sure if I am proud or horrified that I just referred to myself in the third person.  I think Matt Spence has been listening to too many athlete interviews...    

Raised in lovely and soul-crushingly boring Seminole, FL, I have two degrees from FSU and a permanently messed-up rotator cuff to show for my adolescent/young adult years.  I also worked for Bob Graham, interned for lobbyists and newspapers and spent 3 months in Iowa on the presidential campaign trail.  A six year hiatus from the political world saw me get married, work as a church youth minister and have two boys (with a third on the way in March.)  I am now back in the public sector, building a cradle to career education network in Pinellas County by day, reading up on education research, public policy and politics by night. 

Some more random stuff about me: I can remember the most ridiculous and esoteric information.  I think that great teachers should get paid a whole lot of money - and not just because my wife is a teacher, because it just makes sense for bosses to be able to reward stellar employees, not with first period planning or an easy dismissal post, but with real, actual U.S. currency.  I believe that Kerry Wood's 20 strikeout performance in 1998 was the greatest pitching performance of all time (aside from many, many of my little league games, of course.)  I think that last in, first out hiring and retention policies are moronic.  I think Peter Warrick was the most exciting college football player of my lifetime and believe that he was robbed of the Heisman in 1999 - of course it was his own fault for robbing Dillards...  I believe that the student loan system as currently constituted is an abomination.  If there was a bar/table game heptathalon (darts, pool, poker, shuffleboard, golden tee, ping pong and air hockey) I would freaking dominate.  Actually, that sounds like a fantastic idea.  I think SpikeTV would buy the rights to show that on cable.  Forget this blogging thing, I think I just found myself a career... 

If that doesn't work out, I look forward to some semi-regular (as I mentioned, two little kids and another on the way...) guest posting here at The Spencerian.  I hope to opine on education, politics, general stupidity and anything else Ben would like from me.  I hope you enjoy it.   

Welcome Matt Spence to the Spencerian

by Benjamin J. Kirby

Maybe you saw the guest post from Matt Spence back in November on the Penn State awfulness.

That post -- and the fact that I work with him and am privy to the fact that he is a very good writer -- convinced me to offer him a spot as a guest writer here at the Spencerian.  I hope you'll welcome him with open arms and minds. 

It's funny: when I started this blog, I kind of imagined it as this great collaborative thing where everybody I knew would submit stories and essays about politics and government and our American life.  It never really worked out that way, and that's not such a bad thing.  I've enjoyed having the blog all to myself in some respects.

But the truth is, I've never been able to dedicate the time it would take to publish several posts a day.  I just don't have that kind of time to produce that kind of content.  

And I don't expect that having Matt on board will produce a DailyKos or Saint Petersblog-type result, either (if anything, it'll be more like the great blog Pensito Review, with Trish and Jon and Buck and Helen and Dr. D. and Kevin... but only a little more).  Some quick, minor housekeeping things you'll notice: we are adding bylines to the top, just to be clear who is writing what.  I'll try to update the "About" page to include Matt's first post.  There'll be a new category to the right called "Written by Matt Spence," that will house the archives of his work. 

I'll tell you what I told him: I don't have a lot of rules or expectations.  It's okay if we disagree.  I won't edit him (unless there's something just glaring; trust me, there won't be).  He has an interest in politics, yes, and in education, and I think you can expect to see pieces from him with an education-based public policy angle.  I am just guessing here, but I also think we'll see stuff from the perspective of a father of three, which I think would be just great.  I will tolerate his love of professional atheletics.

He's got a son on the way, and so do I.  My hope is that between us, we'll be able to provide you, well, something worthwhile even as our schedules get a bit more hectic.

You can't possibly know what it means to me that you come by and read this blog.  Thank you, and once again, a hearty welcome to Matt.

An Open Letter to My Daughter on the Occasion of Her Second Birthday

I wrote anopen letter to Emeline when she was born, which was, as of today, two years ago.

Here's a new one for her. 

# # # #

Dear Emeline: 

Walking out to my car the other day, I stopped and looked at the setting sun, red and glorious.  Pink clouds blanketed the fading blue sky.  A big flock of birds dotted the horizon.  A little closer, some egrets were celebrating an early dinner in the marsh field near my office building.  Frogs were tuning up for their evening rituals, though you had to listen for them over the cricket noises.  

You would have loved it.  I could almost hear your go-to question you pepper us with over and over again: "What dat noise?  What dat noise?  What dat noise?"  

Your nearly-insatiable curiosity: it is one of my favorite things about you, which is saying something because you are turning into a great person with many, many wonderful qualities.

I hope you stay curious.  I hope you keep that inquisitive sense about you for a lifetime.  I promise, it will serve you well later in life.

Unfortunately, we're living in a time where curiosity and a sense of wanting to fill the empty spaces in our minds has been devalued, almost to nothing.  We live in a world of selective facts.  You can simply deny the truth, and when you deny it enough times, that falsehood becomes true for you.  You can choose a predetermined world in which an entire belief structure is preconceived for your convenience.

We're living in a world where intellectual curiosity has been vilified.  The quest to expand our own knowledge -- and our collective knowledge -- is derided as elitist.

One of the things I want for you very much is for you to make your own decisions about who you are and what you believe.  The way you get there, though, is by asking questions.  If you just turn on the TV and wait for some talking head to tell you what to believe, well, you'll eventually believe anything... even if it's not true.

As for our nation, I'm hoping this is just an unfortunate phase our country is going through (kind of like with you and sleeping these days, but that's a conversation for another place and time).  Don't worry, I believe our country will get better.  We don't really have much choice.  

As for you, I'm hoping that as you get older, you'll never stop asking: What dat noise?  

The sun sets in the west, and birds fly and sing, crickets chirp and froggies croak.  Today you're asking what those noises are.  Tomorrow, I hope you ask why.   

Seven Years: Looking Forward to More

Thanks for coming by.

As of today, this blog has been around for seven years, and it's all thanks to you.  Seven years.  You know, seven years is longer than I've ever held any job (oh, don't judge; I'm in the world of politics and government.  We move around a lot.).  The last seven years have been great, and I hope you have enjoyed reading this blog as much I've enjoyed trying to keep up with it.  

I could talk a lot about the last seven years, but it's really the last year I want to take a quick look back on, because that was really your year.  Kind of funny to think about now, but it was this time (or so) last year when I was giving serious consideration to stopping the blog.  

It has always required a fair amount of care and feeding -- it's a lot to keep up with, even as infrequently as I post.  And with a then-one year-old in the house, it was almost more a distraction than anything else.  I don't want to bash the Netroots Awards any more than I already do, but one of my reasons was lack of recognition for the work I put into it.  

That has changed.  And I couldn't be happier.

This year, the Spencerian became a Newstex syndicated blog.  I continue to get posts recognized by my friends at the Florida Progressive Coalition in the "Post of the Day" section.  I'd count how many I got this year, but I'm kind of lazy.  My friends at Progress Florida also honor the blog with mentions in their Best of the Blogs section every now and then.    

This past summer, it was a huge deal when this blog was picked with just a handful of others to represent the best of Florida on the Washington Post political blog The Fix.

I started a blog of fiction called Clintonaut, which won a little something (here).  I also just finished publishing a novel, chapter by chapter, there for your reading pleasure.  

All of that -- and your continued readership -- has given the Spencerian something of a new lease on life. 

I can only say thank you.  Here's hoping 2012 is as great as 2011.  

Which leads me to a quick note, here.  I mentioned having a one year-old in the house.  I don't want to be unkind to Emeline -- after all, she's as much my inspiration as anything.  But she's going to be two next month, and she's got a little brother on the way.  Finn will be here around the end of April, and there is much to be done around the house prepping for his arrival.  

I now have the advantage of having been to this rodeo before.  It's a lot of work.  Work I look forward to, work I want to do -- but work, nonetheless.  Between now and a couple of months after he's born, posting may lighten up around here. 

I'm sorry for that -- I really am.  But Duncan is getting to the point where she could use my help with more things around the house, and though I love you and I love this blog, my first and most important duty is to my family.  

I'll keep you posted, and I promise not to disappear entirely.  After all, things are just getting good.

Welcome to the Dance

By now you likely know of my deep loathing for the insufferable "year end" list.  I avoided doing any kind of list last year with a nice assist from Mayor Bloomberg and a timely snowstorm.  I didn't do a list last year (or the year before, or the year before), and I won't do one this year (though if Mr. Rothstein of Chicago is interested, we could develop a wager again for Election 2012; he should know I've left that door wide open if he'd care to walk through and likely trounce me once again).

To be honest and to be fair, you should know that I am reluctant to make a list of this or that for 2011 in part because it feels a bit like looking a gift horse in the mouth.  2011 was a good year for us.  Really good, in fact.  And for many of our friends, it was a very difficult year, I'm afraid.  I'm supposed to quantify all the great and good things in list form?  That seems cheap.  Tawdry, even.

My only real hope is that 2012 is a good year for us as well, and with the April(ish) arrival of Finn, it holds that promise in its delicate hands.  Duncan and I both have good thoughts and the highest of hopes for our friends and neighbors in 2012 as well.   

I apply the same logic to politics (and blogging, actually).  The things about which we can write and investigate have been blessedly abundant, and any of us who do this for fun or professionally ought to be most thankful for the bounty of this pre-election year.

2012 holds promise.  But here I will cop to my fear and apprehension.  Will it be the good year I so want it to be?  Personally, professionally, politically?  

I hope so.  I can't wait to have Finnegan in the world -- I know a lot's riding on him already, but the memory of the joy of having his sister here is still so vivid, it's easy to translate it into giddy anticipation.  Professionally, I've been at JWB five years in February.  That's the longest I've ever been at one job, anywhere (look, I'm a political creature; we move around a lot).  I'm curious to see what's in store for our changing organization.

As for politics, well, I've always thought of it as a kind of dance (albeit a drunken, nearly incomprehensible hootenany of a barn dance, but you get the idea).  Sometimes you have to sit one or two songs out.  Sometimes a careless drunk steps on your toes.  

Sometimes, though, the line goes 'round and 'round.  And you're in the lead.  

Here's to a happy, healthy, productive 2012 for us all.