What is a Thing, Really?

Nominalism is a funny word. Though its use is vanishingly small, the idea is ever with us. Nominalism comes from the Greek word nomos meaning “name.” It says, “Call me my name; never mind what I really am.”

This first came to mind when I read ads for lumber in the paper as a boy. “Nominal measurement 2 inches by 4 inches” the small print said. What? Yes, a 2 x 4 is simply called a 2 x 4. In reality it is a 1 1/2” by 3 1/2” board. It is a nominal 2 x 4 – “in name only.”

No one really cares about this, of course. No one says the lumber man is lying. The expression has worked itself into the vernacular by very natural means. Lumber is milled as a 2x4, dried and then milled again so the final size is an actual 1.5 inches by 3.5 inches.

But the issue is ever with us. What is the difference between what I call a thing and what the thing actually is – its ontology, or being? Is it what I say it is, or does it have substance in and of itself?

This problem sometimes unsettled me as a boy. I would hear a word – almost any word: maybe the word “school.” Having heard it a zillion times, the sounds of it and its common use would suddenly seem divorced from anything real. It felt like a nightmare: the world had no real meaning. It was all fake, reduced to sounds coming from my mouth.

I was grappling – unknowing – with this basic idea that a thing is what it is, no matter what you call it. Words are necessary so we can talk about reality, but they have no substance in themselves beyond the actual meaning agreed upon. If the expression “school” always means a place where students and teachers gather and etc., well and good. The word has meaning, borrowed from that to which it refers and given credibility through common agreement. In academic jargon, referent and sign are agreed.

Enter Elon Musk and anyone else who falls into the unlucky category of making a particular sign with their arm. “He made a Nazi salute” we are told, and large swaths of the electorate are dumbfounded or reduced to peels of laughter. “He did what​?!” I am in this category. It never entered my mind that he was making such a salute.

But if I step outside of my own mind I see there is a large swath of the electorate who think the occasion of Musk's expression was not unlike a rally where folks are eager for things the Nazi's were fond of: group-think, un-bridled dominance, blind allegiance to their leader, restoring the Fatherland to greatness. In such a rally someone – an abject fool, in my view – might be inclined to make a Nazi salute and mean it as such.

I remain dumbfounded by the idea Musk was doing this.

One could argue, of course, that the salute is primal; that a society who never heard of nor witnessed the Nazi salute might use it in a given context to mean what salutes mean: respect, allegiance, obedience, even adoration. And this brings further the question of what a salute really is supposed to mean. When the common private salutes an officer, when a letter begins with a salutation, when a military escort salutes a government leader -- what is the meaning?

Elon was saluting the crowd. He was saying "thank you, I honor you, I appreciate you, I respect you." He needed something to add to his words, so he used a hand expression from heart-to-crowd that meant exactly that to him and, he assumed, to onlookers. The fact it looked like a Nazi salute to some can hardly be helped, and should not matter anyway.

The minimum of charity insists we try to discern what a person had in mind. Was Elon imbibing the spirit of a Nazi rally?

This brings us back to nominalism. Is a salute “Nazi” because it entails the lifting of the arm and shaping of the hand in a particular way and at a given angle? Or is it “Nazi” if it shares in various external similarities with a Nazi rally? Strict nominalism says all that we need is the gesture: if it fits the name, that's what it is. The corrective notion – ontology – goes to the actual rally and claims there were various components that made it “Nazi-like,” lending credibility to the idea Musk intended the Nazi salute.

Is this possible? I suppose, but I simply don't believe it. I think the man has enough sense to avoid an actual Nazi salute, and accusations otherwise seem, at minimum, quite uncharitable. I have tried to understand where others are coming from and have no doubt let my own bias color the effort. I began by wondering if Musk's accusers were mere nominalists but I have concluded they believe the rally was indeed Nazi-like. This is distressing.

We have reached a place in our national discourse where major press organs think a hand-gesture is Nazi because they believe the Nazi 'spirit' was at the very inauguration rally. And they mean it. Meanwhile, an enormous portion of the electorate deeply identifies with that rally. And they mean it. When you say Elon gave a Nazi salute you say that those people – representative of that electorate – were Nazi's.

Such a situation is untenable and portends the end of charity in public discourse. And while such a conclusion is deeply painful, I am a slave to hope, to the idea our nation can still be good and strong; that, in the end, it is our homes and communities that determine that, not Washington or press organs.

To paraphrase an ancient oracle, “A nation can only be great when it learns to be good.” Which is to say there is no true greatness without goodness. Otherwise it is just a name, or a salute: a word with no substance. I want the real thing.

A good start would be daring to believe that those who won the election are not Nazi's.

"If the Shoe Fits, Wear It!"

"If the shoe fits, wear it!" or so the saying goes. How often we read or hear a comment and know the person had us in mind. And yet how often, red-faced, have we confronted, only to learn they had no idea we were even "in the room," much less did they have us in mind.

I've been on both sides of this as perhaps we all have. Being accused of accusing or feeling the sting of affront when none was intended -- both are painful.

We usually know our flaws. The more serious the more sensitive. Pity the soul who unwittingly uncovers them. I pray for the grace to hear the affront and own it, intended or not. If the shoe fits, it makes no sense to pretend otherwise or take offense.

It's "Getting Along 101," but alas these jars of clay are fragile.

"For grace, O Lord, I pray. When the shoe fits, let me walk barefoot, learning -- listening -- rather than lashing out. Maybe, in time, I will learn the peace only you can give, the peace that refuses to be angry at accusations, true or otherwise."

When He was reviled, He did not revile in return; when He suffered, He did not threaten, but committed Himself to Him who judges righteously (I Peter 2:23)

Kepley School, Life, and Lessons

Kepley, looking SW from Kansas Ave.

That adjoining hallway is left-center. I thought the old gym was 

   demolished but it appears in the background. Looks almost 

                                     same after 45 years.

Time passes and we all learn to deal with it. Memory seems a gift, a salve along the way (except when it isn't.) Today I am thinking of those years at Kepley School, that place straddling Colorado Street that served, in 1977-'79 as “Junior High.” We went there after Joyce and before High School. It was a big change.

I remember being shy in the 7th grade, trying to stretch out of myself and not doing so well at it. The gathering in the main lobby before class was always a thing, forgettable as so much is, except for one notable encounter with a new student that sticks in my mind. We would get new students now and then: parents transferring in and out, moves for other reasons. I always felt for these kids but it seemed hard to properly befriend them. More on that later.

I almost always walked to school, it being a mere 10 blocks from my house on N. Glenn. The route was basic: Sykes to Main to Kansas to School, with the normal shortcuts and detours to keep an active boy active. I usually walked with my older sister who was on her way to High School six blocks or so further on (younger siblings were still in Hickok.) I remember all but nothing of those walks, only that they happened most days, and that sometimes we would stop at the Dart-In on the way home.

Kepley was new and mysterious to this 12-year old boy. I think 1977 was the year they finished a hallway tying the new cafeteria area with the main, original building. I had been there in the summer for band practice with Mr. G (can't remember the full name). That newer building also housed, as I recall, vocal class with Mr. Young, Art Class (can't remember the kind teacher's name), Home-Ec with Mrs. Chadd, and of course the cafeteria.

It was in that adjoining hallway, at the start of my 8th grade year, I had one of those coming alive moments. Still trying to stretch out of my shyness, I was walking along toward class and decided I would do the impossible and greet someone. I still remember who it was and see the whole thing for the change that it was. “Hi __________.” I had done it, stepped out of myself! The world was new!

Kepley was so many things. Sports of course, with wrestling workouts in the old, smelly

The old gym as I remember it.

gym. PE had a lot of fun games and I always loved it, even the archery. There were 8 classes to fill in those days including electives like shop or band, vocal, language arts, art, and home ec. I remember laboring through verb conjugations with Mr. Fast and joining in the torment that must have been daily for the librarians. Most of us didn't mean to be annoying but I am sure we were.

I remember one effective first-day-of-class introduction. After all the normal explanations the teacher brought out the paddle, sat down next to the desk and then crossed one leg up on the other, the sole of his shoe a ready target for the paddle. “If you cheat in class there will be consequences!” – and he would slap the sole of his shoe with the paddle. “If you lie or steal someone's things we will deal with it!” Wham. I had no problem with the teacher or his style. He wanted a well-ordered class and, as best I remember, we had one! And I seriously doubt he ever used the paddle for more than an object lesson. It worked!

There were many good teachers – they were all good to my mind now, for they were giving themselves for us, and that's no small thing. And I remember something we called “Lyceum,” a fancy old word meaning a gathering in the auditorium for a special speaker. I (almost) always enjoyed these. One time we had a guy from NASA who showed us a machine that could count grains of sand as you poured them out of a bag onto the sensor. Another was an escape artist, slipping out of handcuffs while he talked casually. He later extricated himself from a strait jacket to our amazement. Neat stuff.

And there was STUCO. I remember seeing the sign, something like “STUCO needs you to run for office.”

“What's STUCO?” I asked an unknown 8th grader. “It's Student Council. You should run.”

It was John Hastert. He helped me make signs out of news print paper and we posted them around the school. “Randy Huff for Rep.” I had zero idea what Student Council was, but John said I should run so I did. The election happened and I was befuddled to find myself a representative in some capacity for the 7th grade. We met in a common room that I think adjoined the shop area. The principal met with us and we talked of student leadership which involved, I learned, serving in concessions at home games. At the end of the year we enjoyed a bus trip to Wichita.

There are books to be written of all one learns in school. As important as the classroom was, for good or ill we learned maybe more about life outside of it. This lesson never left me after one new student came. It's rough being new and some of us were less than welcoming. He looked a little odd – don't we all sometimes? – and we picked on him. His first day at school he was in a white dress shirt, untucked, and we made fun of him. “Whitey!” we called him. I can still see him that first day in the lobby, off to the side, timid.

Later that spring I saw him on a street near my house. He was pushing his bike and attached to it by a string was a lawnmower. He was going through the neighborhoods to mow lawns. I ran over to him to say hello, forgetting my previous ill-treatment. As I approached him I saw him withdraw, a look of reluctance and concern, even a hint of disdain for me, given my prior cruelty. I suddenly remembered, somehow realizing I should tread carefully.

I had only meant to greet him and see how he was doing, and so I did. We chatted, and he warmed up a bit. I may even have apologized, and should have, though I doubt I did. Nonetheless, he went on his way and we were at least casual friends from then on. The encounter remains a life lesson. How we treat others really matters. Self-centeredness can make us cruel and oblivious. Something like repentance is needed, and forgiveness. Somehow my friend forgave me, and I am glad for the lesson learned.

There are a thousand other lessons from life and Kepley, all woven into so many good memories. I am grateful for the gift of life, and the many blessings of those Ulysses years.

Obvious

I speak a word, it's clear to me;
How could it be a fog to thee?
For ardored amour holds my mind;
Self-evident and satisfied.

Conclusions happy, logical;
To disagree? Impossible!
So leave behind false omnibus,
and walk with me in obvious.

Ulysses, Hickok School, and a Near Miss in the Principal's Office

There are always a thousand stories to tell, and the telling goes as deep as anything we know. I loved those happy Ulysses years, love to remember them, and love to tell about them from time to time.

We arrived in Ulysses near New Year's Day 1971. I was 5 and had three siblings: 7, 2, and 5 months. Our first house was at the far edge of a new subdivision on the Northeast corner of town. You could take Missouri Street North, pass a flower shop and the old Hungarian mechanic's back yard shop, past a public housing area and the dirt track by Hickok school. There was a park on your left followed by an old folks home.

Next you would come to that main cross road – Patterson -- that led out to the famous railroad bridge, go two more blocks or so and hit a wheat field. The airport was a mile distant to the West and our house was a brand new little brick place that we rented right on the corner where Missouri St. met farmland. It was so new there were sink holes in the back yard left over from excavation. We parked our Ford 500 in the front yard, friends unloaded the farm truck that served as a U Haul, and my folks set up house.

We only lived there a year or so but as memories go that little three bedroom home with a full, unfinished basement is etched in my mind. Someone was building another house next door in that first year, and the backhoe was fascinating. We had neighbors, especially the Akagi family whom I knew in school and always enjoyed knowing. Others from surrounding homes I remember by face or experience, but not name.

Of course there was the first year walking to Sullivan for Kindergarten. Who walks that far anymore? We did, and thought little of it. I passed the time on the way to school by kicking rocks and swinging sticks, once to the dismay of my elder sister, a second grader walking along side. I was oblivious and energetic, and the end of my stick found her eye one morning. My teacher had a stern word for me when we got to school, and my sister was at the eye doctor before the day was over. No more swinging sticks while walking!

Sullivan was good though I've forgotten my teacher's name. It was larger than the little country school I had attended far away in Miltonvale for first semester. I still remember the circle drive where my Mom would sometimes drop me off and say cheerily, “Let your light shine for Jesus.” I think of it now with gladness, though I often left the admonishment unfulfilled!

The next year I went to Hickok for first grade. This was a much shorter walk, all decked out in my Sears Toughskin pants and a new shirt. Mrs. Bowen was my teacher, nearing retirement and seeming old, like every adult does to a 1st grader I suppose. I loved her and knew where she lived in later years – seems like it was on my way to Kepley, maybe Baughman at Sykes or somewhere in there. I loved Mrs. Bowen even though she gave me a swat for tripping my friend, Troy. Life was pretty real then.

And I received other swats at Hickok, not for the telling now, except for this near miss. In first grade we were in the lunch room acting as boys will do. I was sitting next to my friend, Dale. “Get over there by your girlfriend,” I said playfully, pushing him away as we sat on the cafeteria table benches. “Get over there by yours!” he shouted back, shoving me in return. Without warning a man grabbed my left elbow and Dale's right, yanked us off of the bench, and marched us into the office adjoining the cafeteria. I was terrified. The Principal, Mr. Welch, knew we needed attention and he definitely had ours. I still remember the long narrow paddle with holes in it. He got it out of the bottom drawer and laid it on the desk where we could see it plainly.

I was a tender soul and some would say this was too much, even traumatizing. But I am not so sure. It put fear in me, and fear is what is needed sometimes, or so seems to me. I can assure you the idea of shoving a friend in the cafeteria never again entered my mind. Lesson learned! After a stern lecture he set us free, the paddle back in the drawer un-used.

There were other memories at Hickok. My teachers were, I think, a Mrs. MacArthur who taught us Spanish a little in the second grade. Another lady whose name slips my mind filled in for awhile in 1972 second grade – she also taught us kids piano lessons and lived over on Ulysses Parkway or adjacent. In fact, seems she had a bad accident and it may have been Mrs. MacArthur filling in for her. Third grade was Mrs. Day and I once got into well-deserved trouble with her in which I barely dodged the bullet.

Fourth grade was good – I learned how to multiply – and I can see the teacher's face but forget the name. Fifth grade was Mrs. Bender and she made a good positive impact with reading and other qualities of her class. I once remember, with childish innocence, telling a racially crass joke and receiving a hasty correction. Years later I had occasion to chat with her son, Gary, the noted broadcaster, and it was good reminiscence on Ulysses and her teaching life.

I think a Mrs. Oches taught music there, including occasional days when we would all play random instruments. And there were creative escapades into things like square dancing. PE was always fun with some pretty tough and challenging exercises, like holding the parachute all on the edge in a circle and pulling it up and down while balls bounced in the middle. Team work, strain, unusual muscles, and awkward all rolled into one.

And there was always something like a field day at the end of the year when, to my delight, Sullivan would send over there teams, or vis a vis, and we would have, among other things, a great softball game out on the playground.

Not long before we moved to Ulysses, I am told, someone lost there life at the electrical site on the south end of the Hickok school property. That always made me sad and thoughtful when I would go on that part of the playground. And among other things at Hickok there were the occasional after-hour activities for 4-H or music recitals that brought me into the building and I would see the halls, dark and mysterious behind the barricades.

I loved Ulysses and I loved Hickok, principal's office and fear of paddles notwithstanding. And I am deeply grateful for all those who gave their gifts and love and labor to help me and my siblings get through those happy years of school.