Once upon a time Georges-Ibrahim Cisse wanted to be an astronaut.
This cover story can trace its origins to an email that came to me in February 2013.
Life has its seasons. Summer was turning to fall; he would start first grade in a week. The time had come. He followed me to the garage then waited outside as I pulled out his shiny blue bike with the sleek silver handlebars. He watched solemnly as I wrenched off the training wheels and tossed them into the garbage. There was no going back.
So I’m talking to this other guy who writes. And we’re lamenting this and that, commiserating, comparing notes, talking the trade — group therapy for two. He asks if I’ve read The War of Art, and I must look puzzled because he says the title is a play on the classic, The Art of War.
What will tomorrow’s Notre Dame education look like?
With the coming of autumn my wife moved two big pots of outdoor plants into a south-facing, upstairs window. The pretty annuals didn’t last long. But each pot also contained asparagus ferns, spindly, lovely and green. They have flourished, despite being indoors, climbing the window panes, stretching up into sunlight, their fingery lacework now almost 4 feet tall.…
Human health and happiness, light, heat and life on Earth come from the sunlight cascading down from above. It also works like magic.
Notre Dame has a nettlesome past helping African Americans feel at home, and recent campus flare-ups played against a national backdrop of rekindled racial polarization.
When someone as great as Father Ted Hesburgh, CSC, lives deep into his 97th year, you begin to wonder if he might just live forever. So news of his death today has come as a sudden blow, a punch to the stomach, even though reports had him in severe decline over the past few weeks.
This is the 20th letter I’ve written asking for contributions to Notre Dame Magazine. That’s hard to believe.
The book is their story, too — a tale of the broken parts that remain when children miss out on affection and parental affirmation.
As a teacher of writing for 25 years, I have learned some lessons.
Because I said so
Even at semester’s end, after three months swimming in these rivers, I make my way — always against the current, up the down staircase, entering as others exit — feeling like a foreigner unschooled in the ways of flocks and herds.
Thanksgiving is a time to say thanks for kindnesses, favors and good deeds that have gone too long without expressions of gratitude
They have come in the night, in the dark, crunching through snow, faces strafed by the wind. And now they sit in a LaFortune meeting room, long tables arranged in a big square, to hear a panel of people speak and answer questions, give pep talks and offer advice.
When Wil Haygood, writer of The Butler, came to campus.
I learned the true value of Notre Dame football during the Davie, Willingham and Weis eras.
Deciding who gets in and who doesn’t attracts a passionate band of critics, gripers and second-guessers. Bishop and his staff know quite well their decisions break hearts, collapse dreams and vault young people into life-altering directions.
While many elements are indeed grim, this story rests on help and hope and the human spirit.
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 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.
I think you’ll find the list of fans in these stories to be an all-star lineup.
James W. Frick ’51, ’72Ph.D., 1924-2014
Life is more interesting when viewed over time — as a book rather than a few beginning chapters.
“The paper I have enclosed was composed at Notre Dame by Michael Ury when he was on retreat in 1986. Michael died this past year of cancer. Naturally his family was devastated. His mother is in a nursing home that I visit. She asked me if I could see that this was published. I thought of no better place than ND. Our Lady would want to bring comfort to a loving mother.”
For years I carried around in my wallet a little scrap of paper that read Peace like a River, Leif Enger. I didn’t recognize the handwriting but knew it was a book recommendation from someone. I’m really glad I held on to it.
This issue started with an idea that’s been around awhile — the concept of the “Notre Dame man.” Three decades ago the editors here talked about doing a story that answered the question, “What do we mean by the ‘Notre Dame man?’”
At one time the phrase meant something significant. It was an ideal. I still get a handful of letters each year from alums who have written about a father who has died; they talk about their father’s strong but quiet life and all the good he did. “He was a true Notre Dame man,” they conclude. In the past year or two I have written obituaries of colleagues here, and each time I have thought those three words the best summation of their lives.…
While the campus expansion in recent times may have caused a mild case of disorientation in those returning for an occasional football game or reunion, the next wave of construction projects may prove even more dizzying to those who stay away too long.
A talk radio commentator was ranting the other day about the global warming “hoax.” He said this winter was evidence that the planet isn’t getting any hotter and that climate change talk is mere propaganda.