Be Responsible, the legacy of Professor W. Neal Robison

I found out today that William "Neal" Robison, a beloved former professor of mine from the Murrow School of Communication (as it was known then), died last week. He was 83.

2006 Cable 8 20th Anniversary Celebration

 

It can’t be overstated how much Neal showed his care and interest for his students. He was a tall man with an authoritative, booming broadcast voice but so often at the end of his lectures he would say to us, ‘be responsible, dammit’ because ‘I love you guys.’ And we knew he meant it. Going to college in rural Pullman Washington and being removed from the faster pace of the big cities, created this special pocket of time and space. Besides going to classes together, the broadcasting students worked on TV shows, newscasts and projects in addition to frequenting Mexican restaurants and bars featuring cheap pitchers with an unmatched ferocity. That ferocity was also mirrored in our reverence and esteem for our broadcast faculty, including Mr. Neal Robison. 

All Comm majors had to take his 101 class so everyone throughout the Communication disciplines knew him but the broadcasting kids had him as our advisor for the student-run cable station (Cable 8) and as an instructor for upper-level radio and broadcasting classes. All of this is to say, you know when you are in the presence of someone who truly loves what they do and cares about their impact on others. He shared his love of jazz and the show ‘Cop Rock’ with us in addition to putting up with the headaches (and even indulging in some of the hijinks) that come with college kids having access to a TV studio, audio/visual equipment and a cable channel. But he emphatically reminded us that as communicators, we had a paramount and solemn responsibility to be accurate, fair and thoughtful. I have always remembered that.

At one of the many Mexican Restaurant group dinners out 1996

As the fourth member of KISS, Halloween 1996

After graduating in 1997, I would return to Pullman to celebrate Neal’s retirement in 2005 by helping with an alumni surprise party. Neal had not been privy to any of the secret plans to gather alumni. He expressed his frustration that not very many students were present at his (decoy) celebration. But during the presentation honoring his retirement, the back wall suddenly opened to the auditorium and through the smokey fog machine and under a disco ball lined with streamers, rose the cheers and clapping of over 50 alumni and former students. Even though some couldn’t attend, many alumni still donated money for a special gift, wrote messages of congratulations and even sent in video clips. It was truly a moment to honor this dedicated educator and mentor who impacted our lives in ways big and small.

In 2006, the following year, Cable 8 would celebrate its milestone 20th birthday and we found ourselves gathering in Pullman once again, in the company of our beloved alumni and broadcast faculty, which included a retired Neal Robison. He spoke at the banquet and then accompanied us to the afterparty at the oak-paneled jazz pub, Rico’s in downtown Pullman.  It was an incredible weekend hanging with Neal and WSU friends--a high point I will never forget. But that would mark the last time I ever saw Neal.

I have learned things I never knew about him in reading his obituary. Like, he was a long distance runner…He loved cycling…He ended up settling post-retirement very close to my hometown in SW Washington…The number of beloved grandkids he had. Reflecting upon him and the influence he had on me and my classmates, evokes an appreciation and a gratitude for the brief but meaningful time we shared with him. ‘We are the lucky ones,’ a fellow alumna declared when commiserating with me about this loss. Indeed we are. RIP Neal.

Remembering Marge

 

This is Marge and she was a force of nature.

She was my Italian grandmother's cousin and she knew the family stories and stayed connected to relatives back in Italy too. Maybe she stood 4-foot-6-inches maybe...but she was a pistol, full of energy and someone who embraced life fully. The enthusiasm and interest she had in what you had to say also never ceased. I'm so grateful I got to grow up knowing a woman like this. I'm also grateful she got to know my children, even if they don't remember her as well. She lived to be 100, which is quite a thing. Logically it makes no sense but people like Marge just seem like they will be around forever. Of course that's not true, but I think it's really that their impact was so meaningful that it's hard to ever imagine a world without them. And yet, we must.

To a true character and loving matriarch of the Italian side of my family, RIP Marge.

 

 

 

 

 

RIP Dooce, queen of mommy bloggers

Dooce (aka Heather Hamilton), you helped show me that I could be honest in writing. You taught me another way to pronounce "crayon" as "crown". You showed me a pet dog could balance anything on its head. You showed the messiness of marriage and parenting. You showed how to make a business of words. You were the first mommy blogger I'd ever seen do this thing. I'm so sorry you were in that much pain. RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

The Invitation

This poem was brought to my attention by the cancer caregivers bereavement group I belong to. It resonates so deeply with where I find myself now almost 9 months since Ken's death. I have had to put myself back together in that time and build up my strength again. It is a process ongoing as well as carrying the grief that will forever be integrated into all my cells. And yet the lessons of life's delicacy, brevity and ever-changing nature help the useless trappings fall away. Much like this poem.

 

The Invitation  By Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.