President David Johns
(September 29, 2021)
I spent many of my after school evenings at the Greentown Branch Library. I really don’t remember how it started or why I gravitated there; there was no formal program, no academic intervention, no outreach to poor kids in the neighborhood; but, for some reason, the library is where I wanted to hang out.
Greentown is a few miles from the Pro Football Hall of Fame and Interstate 77, and close enough to the Akron-Canton Airport that we could smell smoke from the wreckage when New Yankee catcher, Thurman Munson, crashed his Cessna Citation there in August 1979.
You could see the library from my school playground. It was tiny, only a few hundred square feet, a single reading room with shelving along the walls and a few freestanding cases stuffed with newspapers, books, and magazines. And, most importantly, I could walk there in less than ten minutes.
Of course, I understand why my parents allowed me to spend countless hours there each week — one less fidgety kid running through the house! But I am not sure why Jean Shelly, the fiercely disciplined, frighteningly stern librarian, put up with me. But she did. In fact, she was kind to me, even maternal, keeping a table always ready for me to spread out all the materials I was exploring.
She pointed me to things that interested me, and then to things that became interesting to me: Al Unser, the Indianapolis 500, magic tricks and biographies of Harry Houdini, stories about the Buddha, world maps, castles, articles about Japan. And mysteries, lots of mysteries like the Hardy Boys, Sherlock Holmes, and especially Ellery Queen, whose ‘Mystery Magazine’ was the first ever subscription I had in my own name.
Miss Shelly was cool, like Morticia Addams is cool; she may have eaten the young of other families in town for all I knew, but she opened the world to me in that diminutive biblioteca, and I loved her for it.
The heavy black rotary phone on her desk sounded the same no matter who dialed the library’s number—except for one. Each evening near closing time, my mother would call—I always knew it was her—and Miss Shelly would tell me it was time for me to go home.
I always carried a treasure back home with me, a book or two that swept me up and drew me in, something that opened my imagination to worlds close at hand and far away. My sisters knew I was back in the house by the familiar sound of a stack of books sliding from my arms, hitting the kitchen table, and fanning out like a deck of cards.
I visited that little place recently, a few days after my father died. Like a lot of things from childhood that we look at with older eyes, it was smaller than I remembered, no bigger than a modest starter home. I haven’t thought about that library for years, so I am not sure why I stopped by then. Maybe I thought the bricks still carried something from those days—a droplet of mystery and adventure, a glimpse of Miss Shelly’s kind and unsmiling face, the ring of a telephone summoning me home.
But all was silent.
No longer a library, it is now a museum, weather-beaten and stuffed inside and out with other types of wonders and curiosities: lightning rods, mailboxes, and hitching posts.
I took a photo in front of the door that opened to me each evening. In my hand I held a book that I could never have read then, but that I wouldn’t be reading today had that once-upon-a-time library not embraced a towheaded boy from Greentown, Ohio with mismatched socks, and a heart hungry for the world.
This column by President David Johns appeared in The Franklin News-Post. President Johns may be reached at president@ferrum.edu.
President David Johns
(September 10, 2021) Anyone who was awake twenty years ago has a Sept. 11 story. Some people hurriedly gathered loved ones close, not knowing what to fear, but fearing it nevertheless. Others spent the day staring at a silent sky, or watching looping video images of the same two planes colliding time and time again into the same two buildings.
For my part, I had just finished reading a Time magazine article I thought was ironic. I walked down the hall to share a laugh with a coworker, ready to add some humor to the least interesting day of the week.
But he was transfixed, listening to a small radio sitting on his desk. Farther down the hall, a similar scene. Within minutes, several of us walked across the street to Clyde’s house, the nearest television we could find. There we sat for the rest of the day wondering when a plane would dive into our town.
The senses we have had since birth–taste, touch, smell, sight, sound–are how we interact with the world and how we know the lights are still on within us. But when fear is acute, these senses either shut down to protect us, or they wake up to protect us.
Mine woke up.
And while in New York City that day smelled like burnt steel, smoke, and cremation, in Richmond, Indiana, it smelled like fresh bread, laundry detergent, and the dusty sofa in Clyde Johnson’s family room.
It really is hard to know how to remember some days, or certain events, or particular people. We know this to be true, because we struggle mightily these days with monuments and memorials, and this reminds us that remembering is not as easy nor as safe as it may seem.
I am conflicted with how to remember this day. Without a doubt we must remember the victims whose lives were crushed between floors of the Towers, incinerated–ashes to ashes–and those who chose to soar rather than meet a fiery end. We must remember the spectacle of twisted steel and the ashen faces of first responders, a new breed of Super Hero that was born out of the rubble of that day.
However, these things–destruction, body count, crowds running in fear–these are images of victory for those whose goal was terror.
Twenty years removed from that day and I believe more strongly than ever that Sept. 11 is not the day we should remember. Sept. 12 is. And the 13th, and Sept. 14, 15, 16, and beyond.
Frankly, I have trouble separating what actually happened on that day from what has been kneaded into my memory through two decades of elaboration. Documentaries, conspiracy theories, cell phone videos, political pontification, and newsreels. What I can say with certainty is that September 11th exposed human cruelty and hatred, but Sept. 12 displayed human resolve and solidarity. One day was a testament to nature ‘red in tooth and claw,’ the other a testament to the ‘better angels’ of this nature.
Of course, I am misremembering and painting with a broad brush of idealism. In the days following the 11th, we heard calls for scorched earth revenge that were as ugly as any terrorist’s invective against the United States, and irrational fear caused us to look at each other with suspicion when we boarded a plane together.
But being lumped together as one by the terrorists actually made us act together as one–mostly, and for a time. It seemed to matter less who was who or what group we represented. We were Americans, dammit, and we would live or die that way!
It did not last long, but it happened–a glimpse long enough to convince some of us that it was real, and if real, then something that could happen again. And, maybe the next time, we would not need to be in the crosshairs of violence to bring it back.
I don’t know. Many days that feels like a utopian fantasy. We are as polarized as we have been for quite some time, and simply being fellow citizens does not seem to be quite enough for us to accept each other as fellow Americans.
Our lives look too much like Sept. 11–filled as they often are with fear, and anger, with twisted steel, and revenge. Twenty Septembers later, and my hope for humanity does not come from remembering that day, but from remembering the days that follow it.
This column by President David Johns appeared in Roanoke Times and The Franklin News-Post. President Johns may be reached at president@ferrum.edu.
President David Johns
(January 6, 2021) One of my teachers used to say that no one should publish a book before turning 50. That was overstated, to be sure. However, J.D. Vance’s “Hillbilly Elegy” is a good example of why memoirists ought to have gray hair.
“Hillbilly Elegy” became a New York Times bestseller shortly after its release in 2016, and it has sold more than 3 million copies. Its soaring popularity is due in part to its portrayal of misunderstood and politically forgotten America, an America that overwhelmingly voted for Donald Trump.
Because of good luck or bad timing, Vance was quickly regarded as a spokesperson for disaffected Appalachia. Yet, his tempestuous family tale sits heavy in the stomach of some he claims to describe.
But, it’s important to note that Vance does not claim to be the voice of Appalachia. He is criticized by some for presenting an universalized view of the area and its people; but really, who in their right mind would ever claim to speak on behalf of an entire region? Vance certainly did not.
Some of his critics published a collection of essays, “Appalachian Reckoning: a Region Responds to Hillbilly Elegy.” This is a book-length tug of war for who can speak truthfully about Appalachia. The essays range from mildly appreciative to excoriatingly Vance-shaming, denouncing the memoir as a deeply flawed, imperfect story that is out of tune and out of touch.
It is true, however, that the public often rushes to stereotype and generalize because it’s easy, and because it has little patience for the complexity of just about everything, including Appalachia, and including 2016. Impatience made “Hillbilly Elegy” something more than it ever should have been: a singular memory of one young man’s family.
The story is now filtered through Ron Howard’s lens, and he fills the screen with poorly drawn caricatures of Appalachia set against a backdrop of beauty, addiction, and poverty. But like most stories we tell, this one is true only in part.
I am projecting my own experience on Vance, I realize, but my background is similar to his. He grew up in Ohio, so did I. His family was from Kentucky, mine was from West Virginia. We both left in the pursuit of education and careers — a law degree for Vance, a PhD for me.
My mother grew up in the hollers near Coburn, West Virginia, where I spent time as a child. Family networks there were tight and extensive; family secrets, which were never secret, ranged from shocking to comic. My maternal side of the family emigrated to Ohio looking for work in the rubber plants in Akron and in the warehouses at the Diebold Safe and Vault Co. in Canton, Ohio, where I was born.
Vance was 32 when Elegy was published, but I will subtract a year or two for writing and shopping the manuscript to publishers, and assume he was 30 years old when Elegy was written.
When I was 30 or 32, I was completely unprepared to tell my family’s story. I was still too angry and ashamed. I was still differentiating from my Appalachian upbringing, a decade away from acknowledging the courage and wisdom of my blue collar family.
Vance may be able to tell his family’s story better than I would have been able to tell mine nearly 30 years ago. I would have been unkind and unfair. Nevertheless, rather than silence his voice, I would like to see Vance tell his story again after he turns 50.
Our perspectives change over time and we make peace in new ways with the people and places we have left behind. We are more measured and more tentative in our generalizations and in our depictions.
I admit, my remarks are more confession than critique. These days I am ashamed for having ever been ashamed of my Appalachian birthright, for having bought into a belief that I had to “move out to move up.”
We lose a lot when we think this way, and I have spent decades recovering what I cast aside so cavalierly as a young man. I cannot and will not say that this is Vance’s experience, but it was mine. For me, admittedly a slow learner, it has taken years to become proud of my Appalachian roots, and to embrace my family, so precious and real and flawed and perfect.
And to let each one of them live inside of me.
This column by President David Johns appeared in The Roanoke Times and The Franklin News-Post. President Johns may be reached at president@ferrum.edu.
(March 4, 2020) There is a lot of talk in Richmond and Washington, D.C. these days about the need for a skilled workforce. Without a doubt, there are gaps in trades and professions that must be filled if we are to build a good future for ourselves and for our children, and must be filled if our country is to be a global economic leader.
To hear some of the discussion, what we need to do is simply to train young people for specific high-demand jobs. In fact, a national campaign is underway, led by the Ad Council, in close association with IBM, Apple and the White House, to promote this very idea and to encourage alternatives to college. We have statewide incentives to fund workforce development, which very often means programs that teach specific skills to match the needs of industry at the present moment.
This is important. However, a skilled workforce is not the same as a prepared workforce.
In all the clamor for skills training something is missing, and that something is a demand that colleges of all types prepare students to be responsible citizens. Women and men who are informed, involved, who act with civility, humanity and who care about the future, they are crucial for the health of our country. Although education may be preparation for good work, it is so much more.
And yet, nearly every day I hear someone questioning or dismissing the value of education (even from among some talking heads who have Ivy League degrees!). It is true, of course, that one can make a living without going to college, although an average college graduate will earn $1 million more in his or her career than an average high school graduate. And yes, $1.5 trillion in student loan debt is too much; however, very few folks seem concerned about the overall amount of consumer debt, which is nine times higher and often leaves us little to show for it.
At the end of the day, if we do not take care of our democracy then having a robust economy is meaningless. Who benefits, after all, if many of our skilled workforce are denied an opportunity to learn about our history and about the ideals that gave rise to this great nation? Who benefits if only a handful of areas of study pay attention to preparing citizens? Who wins if we reject the importance of education that forms such people?
For the benefit of us all, our society needs as many people as possible who can think critically and ask questions, who understand where we came from, and who care about how a free nation should act in order to remain free.
This is why one of the goals of our strategic plan at Ferrum College is to “prepare citizens committed to integrity and service.” It’s because citizenship is the work of us all, and not the work of a few. Every one of our faculty, staff, and students can tell you that we are serious about our motto, “Not Self, But Others,” and that we believe it teaches us how we ought to live.
So, let’s build a strong workforce. Let’s provide women and men the skills necessary to build good lives and a strong economy. And, let’s be sure that our skilled workforce is also a prepared workforce, ready to live free and ready to live as responsible citizens.
This column by President David Johns appeared in The Roanoke Times and The Franklin News-Post. President Johns may be reached at president@ferrum.edu.
