The urgency in the young man’s voice — plus the two questions he asked — immediately grabbed my attention.
“Either way, no matter what we do, you’ll live less than 12 months, probably less than nine. Even if we were in the United States, your disease is incurable.” He nodded slowly in understanding.
There was a time in America’s history when the continent was a vast sea of possibility. It was the raw material for visionaries and schemers, the enterprising and broad-shouldered.
It took only one awe-inspiring trips to campus for me to know Notre Dame would always be a part of me—and would be the place I would play football one day.
The case of the missing Observers.
In Salvador, the party blares until midnight, then quiets so that the neighborhood can rest before waking up early to songs of worship from the numerous churches.
At 7 a.m., a loud and familiar noise broke the predawn silence: the clanging of ice hitting a cooler full of bottles. Tailgating season had begun.
The media continually dissect statements from Pope Francis. When he says, “Who am I to judge?” or “We cannot insist only on issues related to abortion,” they speculate: Is Francis reversing Church teaching?
Although I now have such pleasant memories of my alma mater, the truth is that I have not always felt so well-connected to Notre Dame. In fact, there were many times when I wished to be almost anywhere other than South Bend.
The Black population at Notre Dame is 2 percent. That’s like skim milk. You couldn’t skip class cuz they knew. I’d be walking across campus and white people would pop out the bushes like, “Missed you in class today, Owen.”
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 62nd strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. For all the things that shake the thunder from ND’s fans, one reigns supreme.
On quiet summer mornings when the sun hits the dew just right, when the air is fresh and sweet, and when a stillness pervades campus, the Notre Dame spread before me is mine.
One might never associate Notre Dame with the literary avant-garde, yet for two bright years (1976-78) Steve Katz taught here. Katz’s often comic, sometimes satiric vision provided the acerbic warped edge to America’s avant-garde.
I hated my freshman year at Notre Dame. I was under the impression that all universities were incredibly diverse centers of debate and cultural exchange like Cal Berkeley, where Andrew Martinez made national headlines for expressing his First Amendment rights by attending classes in the nude in 1992. I was in for a shocking surprise.
My path to Notre Dame was, like those of so many African Americans growing up in the South, far from preordained.
After graduation, I realized I was deeply affected and personally angry about part of my experience at Notre Dame. Professionally I realized that I was hired and lauded because of my having graduated from Notre Dame. But because of what I had experienced, I preferred that my children not become legacies.
Inspired by a comment from my roommate, Rich Role, I developed the “Mike is Dead” series of cartoons based on the Beatles’ “Paul is Dead” rumors ten years earlier. The results were cartoons more clever than funny. My records show that they did not run sequentially and so I am not sure if this idea caught on. But somebody noticed as there was a real letter in the Observer…
LBJ was president. The Great Society seemed within reach. Suddenly Negroes were in vogue, at least at the nation’s elite colleges and universities; these institutions pursued and then wore their newfound diversity as a badge of honor.
In a developing country, a school child who cannot hear cannot learn. They are often placed in schools for mentally retarded children, if they attend school at all. A hearing aid can mean the difference between a child finishing high school and never attending school at all.
I’m gratified to know that I have something in common with Frank Sinatra, Indira Gandhi, Norman Mailer and Queen Elizabeth II, all of whom expressed a love of crossword puzzles. But it’s a mite worrisome that most of them are dead.
It was a beautiful sunny morning in September 1966 when my cab turned onto Notre Dame Avenue and I first saw the glittering Golden Dome.
Jerome Gary Cooper ’58 came to Notre Dame in autumn 1954 from Mobile, Alabama. He majored in finance and was a member of the Naval ROTC program. After graduation, he became a marine Corps officer, retiring with the rank of major general. He served as US ambassador to Jamaica during the Clinton administration. He and his wife, Beverly, live in Mobile.
It would take a book to explain what it’s like to be black at Notre Dame. And one with many voices. Now we have that book.
One cold winter morning, over 20 years ago when the new issue of the Notre Dame Magazine arrived in our mail, I recall that I was stunned by the cover. It was as though the artist who had created it had stepped into a very vivid dream I had recorded in my personal journal in 1983, almost 10 years earlier.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 61st strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends.
My recent chemotherapy for leukemia dropped my germ immunity to near zero. I was advised by my doctor that I would have to isolate myself from visitors and that I should not go to restaurants or church until my immunity was built up to a safe level — and that it might take weeks for that to happen.
The plot line is chiefly a vehicle for lessons in Irish history, Storyteller-style.
I’ve outgrown the days of introductory games in the classroom. But as students, and humans, we never really outgrow these epithets that encapsulate our “self” to our friends, family members and classmates. For some of my friends, the words driven, active, funny and loyal come to mind. For others, lazy or tardy. But for me, indecision is the quality I can’t escape.
At that moment, Haiti’s first emergency medical system helicopter, a project we’d been working on for over 12 months, roared to life.