I posted the fastest time at the Indy 500 time trials, but it wasn’t on the track. I was a teenager and alone in the infield’s 50-hole outhouse until a lanky old man in a wife-beater shirt entered and sat right beside me. No dividers, 48 empty spots, and just a toothless, smiling, inebriated, wild-haired man and me. I turned into Flash Gordon, literally, and left within seconds, dressing along the way.

It was, indeed, a bizarre adolescent moment in public. Not long afterwards a friend was in a restroom when a drunken happy old man shuffled in, stood at the adjacent urinal, gave a big sigh of relief and blurted, “Barely made it—can’t hold my liquor any more!” As they left, my friend noticed that the old fella had forgotten to unzip himself and was wetter than a fish in a shower.

Yeah, public places are just that, public. In 1983 I was the guest speaker at the Sonlight Church in Bluffton, Indiana, meeting in an old schoolhouse. It was senior and the place was packed. I ran into several old friends as we were entering the restroom shortly before the service. We laughed quite a bit reminiscing, until I realized my lapel mike was on—then they laughed even more. I entered an auditorium filled with snickers; I suppose hearing the speaker flush drained any serious expectations.

Perhaps the funniest restroom moment occurred when a singing group from my alma mater took its first trip outside of Indiana, to New York City. This quartet was comprised of country boys from small churches and rural high schools, and indeed were wide-eyed in the Big Apple. In an old historic building one of the members thought his buddy was the only other one to enter the restroom. He shut off the lights, then quickly crawled atop one of the huge wooden stalls and jumped in screaming—only to see the lights come on and a concerned stranger sitting in front of him. Ah, boys will be boys but that poor New Yorker is likely still in therapy.

During college we had to share one restroom per floor—one of the worst and best of routines from the past. We learned each other’s routines, from when and how often people showered to their toothpaste and mouthwash preferences. One popular colleague never put on his thick glasses until he was about to shave after his shower. One memorable morning his dorm friends placed a hairy pig’s foot in his shaving kit and, like clockwork, he reached in to get his glasses and razor and pulled out something quite different. After adjusting his eyes the scream could be heard across campus.

Restrooms by nature are not pleasant places, and rarely the topic of fruitful writing. But it’s in such settings that we’re reminded of our humanness, of our finiteness, of life at its most basic level. When visiting Henry VIII’s bedroom I was struck with the “chamber pot” discussion and the reminder of his basic human needs. The same with reading about King Saul at Engedi—when David cut the hem of the King’s garment during a potty break.

During my time in Greece with the National Endowment for the Humanities, I was reminded daily of life’s basic needs. Much of my time was spent researching and working at a Roman public bath in Isthmia near Corinth. The Greeks and Romans had the same bathing and restroom needs as we do today—though they spiritualized the ordeal. But the most striking moment came while touring the remains in Corinth itself. At a public restroom from the Roman Imperial era was a chamber in which a slave’s main duty was to provide sponges for visitors. In that once opulent and decadent city many people lived their lives in a degrading position, constantly reminded of both man’s basic needs and his baseness—oppressing others with no regard for their dignity.

In a high-tech digital world the public places with actual people interaction seems to diminish. I suppose restrooms, no matter how much marble or stainless steel, will remain busy places. However funny or serious, we’re reminded of life’s leveling experiences. Like restaurants, delivery rooms and dentist offices, we’re creatures with physical needs and at our most basic level are human. Unfortunately, many folks never rise above physical needs and desires, and they miss the rest of life—which is the best of life.

Have you had any unique public encounters?

Ten steps and a turned ankle, that was my introduction to platform shoes in 1973. The swelling looked liked a softball in my sock, but I was four inches taller. The limp looked like Dr. House’s, but I was struggling in style. The shoes looked like Rhode Island on a sock, but I was boasting hip fashion for the first time in my poor childhood. To make matters worse I also had flared cuffed pants with a pattern usually seen on a picnic table, and a matching jacket with a six-inch elastic waist band. You could have stretched it between two trees and launched water balloons the size of garbage bags.

Yeah, a Woody Allen subscript would have read “Look at me, I’m wanting your attention!” Or, “Don’t shoot me, I’m not an alien!” I would have been too loud even for an Austin Powers film or the Jackson 5’s debut. And my magnified sense of an inflated self came crashing down, literally, when I caught my right heel in my left cuff atop the steps in the old brick school. While I’m sure those pants ballooned like a parachute, the fall was hard and my pride was in worse shape than my sense of style. It’s one thing to be poor with dignity, it’s another thing to be poor and realize you’ve just spent your hard earned money on stupidity.

It was a rainy day, and the initial fall had soiled my knee. On the long walk home my cuff dragged in the mud, my shaggy hair looked like a wet Afghan hound and the only good thing was that I could step in mud puddles with my right foot without getting wet.

I only wore those clothes a couple of more times, but even my thick adolescent ego realized that our sleepy farming community of Buck Creek, Indiana was especially not the place for a look even edgy for Motown—it would have labeled me “Super Freak,” and it wouldn’t have been a compliment.

While I look at today’s baggy pants and just don’t get it, I can only assume my grandparents did the same. I suppose I’ll never understand the gangster look of trying to walk with pants down to your thighs, or why anyone thinks that’s attractive, but there are certainly deeper issues in life. It’s funny, I had all that extra elastic and these kids have none.

A few years ago I met a new college student from Rochester, New York. Rob arrived on our private Indiana campus and looked about as out of place as John Madden in Pacemate cheerleading clothes. His hair was usually in tall spiked Mohawk, and its color varied. His clothes were all variation of black, vintage Gothic, and he had metal studding everywhere. His 6’1” frame accented his accents. In rural America he might as well have carried a sign – “I know I scare you, so just leave me alone.” He eventually met a girl cut from a similar cloth and she likely sported the first lip ring on our campus. Well, fast forward nearly a decade and Rob and Bekah are married and both are family friends—great folks with bright futures. Rob is now as bald as cue ball; a situation he jokingly considers divine punishment for his radical hair days. However, I know he owns at least one corduroy sports blazer. I don’t recall any outward radical-ness in either of them, now a smart looking but casual couple. But there remains a radical fiber in them that I hope never changes. Just as I had stepped way out in my picnic pants and platforms, they had in the Gothic sense. But they had and still do maintain a radical-ness that’s attractive, a desire not to follow status quo but to excel in whatever they do—whether in investments or social work--one feeding possibilities in the other. Or spending an extended time helping kids in Romania. Or buying up a city block in Indianapolis. Or forgoing TVs for the sake of focus. Or doing without furniture. Or not eating out. You get the picture.

I recall going to hear Rob play in a somewhat disoriented ill-prepared heavy metal band during his senior year. It was a low-key battle of the bands and his group was pitiful. His partner’s outfit was especially hideous. And, quite frankly, I think they forgot the words to every song. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. That moment was one in which Rob was celebrating life in its fullest. He had weathered an extremely tough childhood in a rather oppressive city. He had chosen the punk look to scare off would-be attackers. He had been a recluse, finding himself, and in a sense celebrating his core. And there on that campus stage for 15 minutes he simply gushed with life. While the dissonant music pierced my aging ears, my heart smiled. It was, indeed, the most authentic band of the night. No prizes flying their way, but these otherwise good musicians were simply having fun. They made noise, not music, but had within them music that would one day make some pretty important noise in this world.

As a teacher I try to look through the outer to the core, and sometimes papers and blogs help to clarify the picture. This past year I had a few students who appeared to be from wealthy homes, but I learned that their parents were either out of work or working new jobs in rather demeaning roles. Another looked like he crawled from beneath a rock, but was rather blessed with parental support—and has his act together. A few seemed rather simple, until their blogs revealed strokes of brilliance and a depth considerably deeper than my picnic pant years. One student is as radical as Rob was for his day, and appears to be dressing in drag—but after five minutes with him it’s obvious he’s bright and full of life. He’ll likely be a leader. Another particular student seemed to sleep through every class, but over coffee he revealed a remarkable engagement with the most important of questions.

Yeah, I suppose I’ll always want to strap a bungee cord to the belt loops of the low riding rapper pant, take a lawn mower to hideous hair, and throw rubber bands around elephant pants—but I’ll also want to reach and respect the core of these students, to help them to ask and address life’s ultimate questions that will long outlive any fashion either of us endure. While they joke about the patches on my jackets’ elbows, and me their text-messaging habits, there’s still the need to connect on content that bridges our humanness.

There’s a Forest Gump-ness about Joni that speaks volumes into the pages of our lives. She’s my niece, 25 years old, and at 4’2” is a waist hugger. Lean into her story with me—it’s typical of the Down syndrome world and has the uniqueness each special child brings.

Joni stood at the opposite end of the crowded hallway from her special friend, Wade. In a memorable moment, the crowd parted on cue and Wade yelled in his recognizable slurred speech, “Joni Smith! Joni Smith! Will you please go to the prom with me?” The kids of Frankfort High School witnessed one of life’s special moments. With the same flushed face and joy of any young girl, her almond eyes had a special sparkle. And with her heavy-tongued response she rushed an answered, “Yes! Yes I will go with you, Wade!”

The hallway roar was never louder than on that fateful day. Joni’s cracked lips framed a wide smile. She immediately put both palms against her cheeks accenting her surprise. While her Down syndrome eyes, crowded crooked teeth, lack of muscle definition, and over-childish preoccupations may frame her identity for strangers, not for the kids of Frankfort High. They had grown to love her—they had either been worn down or warmed up by her daily hugs and a personality stuck in positive mode.

A few weeks later Joni and Wade didn’t just attend the prom, they were the prom.

They danced every dance and then some. Before too long the crowd centered them on the dance floor and watched them, cheered them, loved them. Same dance steps regardless of the beat. Same smiles regardless of the lyrics. Same flailing short arms their peers had witnessed at recesses years earlier. Thumbs up everywhere, and extra Joni-hugs all around. She idolized Cinderella, and this was her magic ball.

Both mothers agreed that an alternative after-prom was preferred, gauging their shared health issues and the realities of romance at their maturation level. They parted from their classmates for an after-prom of their own, one Joni recalled for me for this article as if it were yesterday—not six years ago. “Got to see his new Batman. I did. Yes I did. Batman his favorite. Wade loves Bat Man. Hey, know what?” as she leaned in to whisper, “So do I.” My sister shared that Joni was allowed to stand in Wade’s bedroom doorway for 15 minutes and observe his new Batman doll.” It was an occasion they both had anticipated for days, and have locked in their memories as one of the greatest of life’s moments. And guess what Joni dressed as for Halloween this year? Yes, Batman.

A few weeks after prom the reality of challenges hit anew in a public display of affection. At a high school bowling party, Wade was seven lanes down from Joni when it struck him—to propose to Joni. He slowly sprinted through classmates at the end of the lanes, did a face-first slide, and then with his head propped on his hand yelled for all to hear, but for one in particular, “Joni Smith! Joni Smith, Will you marry me!?” Once again, their peers roared. When the love bug hit, he acted. But it’s here that reality hit rather hard and Down syndrome showed one of the many aspects of its downside.

The marriage was not to be, and couldn’t. The parents had discussed this possible “proposal scenario,” and it proved to be the beginning of the end for their kids’ relationship. When cognition and affection are locked at fifth-grade levels, limits are real.

High school is often the highlight of life for those living with challenges. It’s scheduled interaction with a large group. It’s familiarity. Predictability. It’s relationships with peers, both those with and without cognitive, physical and/or social challenges. In some ways, like the alcoholic father in the movie Hoosiers or the uncle in Napoleon Dynamite, Joni will live in high school the rest of her life. It’s more than a point of reference, and perhaps that’s the point. While most students move on in life and build upon the years in high school, Joni’s life goes on and memories from high school tend to grow on her. It’s as if there’s another prom that might happen. Another hallway romance. Another time to see a new Batman doll. Time and space are relegated to the familiar. Abstract concepts and “the future” are tough sells. Tough, but not impossible.

She understands pain, heartbreak, love and beauty. Perhaps not in articulate ways, but ways more deeply than I can articulate. Her heart surgeries and constant sniffling colds have introduced her to physical hardships and frustrations. She deals with special friends’ reclassified affection. She is surrounded by caring relatives and friends. Long after many of her classmate’s names are forgotten, people will still yell “Joni!” down supermarket aisles. She’s that “happy thought” from high school for hundreds, and they are hers. And she sees beauty in the mirror, brushing often her extra-long full hair.

She remains the joy of my sister’s life, whose journey changed radically with Joni’s birth. Her husband couldn’t handle the thought of raising a special needs child, and in a heartless detestable show of spinelessness abandoned his bride and babe while they were still in the hospital. I changed Joni’s last name above to protect his identity, but such actions identify one’s character.

Many of us can empathize in some small way with my sister’s plight of raising a special needs child, or in our case, a son with a chronic disease. However, regardless of the struggle, there is joy in the journey and in some way it defines it. And there is sustaining power wrapped in those joyful times.

My sister found herself suddenly without income, a dead-beat husband then ex-husband, and a child in need of multiple surgeries to get back to the next birthday party—several years running. Instead of living off welfare she found work in a slaughterhouse. By day she drives thousands of hogs through shoots and by night she tends to her daughter. That’s her life. There will be no "empty nest" period for her. No frills. No long cruise vacations—in fact, no real "time-off" or breaks from motherhood duties typically ending around a daughter’s college years.

Each Christmas our family of ten gathers around our mother, and predictably my sister arrives late. The journey to the party is long in more ways than one. But each year she arrives with a van filled with gifts for all her nieces, nephews, brothers, sisters and whomever else she knows will attend. It's something she anticipates all year. Her tough life pattern doesn’t detract from a pattern of a giving spirit. Like her daughter, she’s a hugger—and both seem to embrace their life’s journey with a sense of joy.

The March of Dimes is among the groups researching Down syndrome, trying to provide answers to the parents of 1/800 children born. The researchers are looking at the composition of chromosome 21—the known cause—and what might be done to prevent this condition for the 350,000 living with Down syndrome in the United States. Chromosome 21 ends up with extra material from either parent giving this chromosome pair three parts, often called trisomy 21. The result is that Down syndrome children end up with 23.5 pairs of chromosomes instead of 23, or 47 total chromosomes instead of 46. In other words, Joni’s condition is from receiving too much genetic matter, not the lack thereof—one of life’s ironic twists.

Perhaps like most parents, I’ve held Joni and wondered what she would have been like without her small ears and nose, without her small mouth, loose limbs and cognitive challenges. I can see a glimpse of my sister in her face, and it often makes me wonder. But I can’t seem to see another Joni. Perhaps yet in our lifetime the March of Dimes team will crack the chromosome 21 mystery and Down syndrome will be relegated to the periphery. But for now, the Joni’s of our lives will continue to teach us about life’s blessings.

What are your observations about Down syndrome children? Any lessons learned?

About an hour west of Atlanta a crowd gathered to hear me speak on the The Da Vinci Code (2003). Silly me, I had figured if they flew me in and dedicated their Saturday morning for a workshop—they had read the book! I felt a bit like Da Vinci trying to describe his “Mona Lisa” in front of an empty frame. Or, telling my students all about Steinbeck, C. S. Lewis and Erasmus without having them read their works.

Imagine someone describing all the details of Dr. King’s memorable visit to the Washington D.C. Mall, from the bulging crowds to his passionate delivery of the speech, but never offering them pause to read or listen to his “Dream” speech. Perhaps a good contemporary example would be standing on one side of the Extreme Home Makeover bus, and instead of ever seeing the house that Ty and his team built for you, they only described it. And even though the crowd yelled “Move that bus!” for hours, you chose not to yell and you never removed the obstacle to enjoying both its beauty and its added value to your life—and to that of your family. The classics do such things for us.

However, we do this often in our personal and formal education—rubbing shoulders with Voltaire, Cervantes, Luther, Kempis, Chaucer and the like without ever shaking their hands. We increasingly dance around Life’s Ultimate Questions (one of Ronald Nash’s confident book titles) without facilitating people’s intrinsic hunger for meaty dialogue from what generations of folks have collectively decided are classics. While a book like Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code is but an ephemeral fancy that evokes group discussions, and is a fun read despite its ridiculous historic claims, to enter dialogue without reading the author’s work is itself counter-intuitive. Regardless of its final resting place on literary shelves, there are those who’ve nestled in a café chair and devoured it, and those who have only seen others reading it as they made their way to the counter.

The same is true of Rick Warren’s The Purpose-Driven Life (2002). I vividly recall several months of traveling to engagements when the planes to and from these college towns were filled with passengers reading either Warren or Brown. The same was true of earlier with the release of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s [Philosopher’s] Stone (1997), a series about to reach 500 million in sales. And, here again many concerned citizens crowded in halls and churches to condemn without reading. The end of the Sorcerer’s Stone is fascinating—and actually reflects Rowling’s creatively intense though simple style while profoundly noting that there is no power greater than that of a mother who gives her life for her son. Well, if you haven’t read the book I just revealed the source of Harry’s powers.

Of the above books, look again at Warren’s little text, though not a novel it hits at the heart of the classics—engaging us in life’s ultimate questions. He challenges us in simple form and diction to think through both the human condition and its relationship to the supernatural.

On February 15th, McGraw-Hill will release my little book, Why I Teach: And Why It Matters to My Students at a conference in San Francisco. Though short, it took a lifetime to write. The thesis is rather easy—it’s because I cannot not teach. And, I’ve realized that teaching is a noble cause worthy of one’s life energies. But it’s here that I engage the above discussion anew; if teachers are not helping students to ascertain their life purpose, to engage life’s ultimate questions, they’re not pushing them hard enough. Regardless of which Latin root of “education” we use, we need to re-engage the classics. The root “educare” means to train or mold, and many hold up this definition to emphasize passing down knowledge. The other root, “educere,” means to lead out, and involves questioning and creative resolution. Great works can do both simultaneously—as long as we concern our students with more than the rote memory of the subjects and plots, but also the key questions being addressed about our humanity and civility.

In Why I Teach I reflect on the life passion of Robert Maynard Hutchins to preserve the “Great Books” in the college curriculum. The following is from a lively 1970 interview with this former President of the University of Chicago.

“. . . When young people are asked, "What are you interested in?" they answer that they are interested in justice, they want justice for the Negro, they want justice for the Third World. If you say, "Well, what is justice?" they haven't any idea …. They are ignorant of the fact that there is a Great Conversation echoing back through history on the subject of justice. You are quite right that they are not ignorant in the sense that they do not lack information. They have more information than any previous generation, but having a great deal of information has little to do with knowledge.”

In this same section of Why I Teach is a mention of Athony Kronman’s new book, Education’s End: Why Our Colleges and Universities Have Given Up on the Meaning of Life (Yale, 2007), and note his thesis that colleges no longer help students to answer this biggest of big questions. However, his books falls short of endorsing professors with authority to engage the questions with the depth and personal tenacity that once underpinned all of education. He remains safe on this score, riding his work of its potency. I end this discussion with the reflections guided by the rather pensive and systematic thinker, Christopher Flannery. Aided by his co-author, Rae Wineland Newstad, they note:

However much America—and the world—needs technically skilled workers and professionals, there can be no doubt of the critically greater need for liberally educated citizens and human beings who can distinguish good from evil, justice from injustice, what is noble and beautiful from what is base and degrading. Such men and women will be fit to enjoy and confer on one another all the blessings of life that are within our power. Not just in the workplace, but in the home and the neighborhood, in the public square, the town meeting, and the church (The Liberal Arts in Higher Education (New York: University Press of America, Inc., 1998), p. 6, cf. pp. 3-23).

Well, it’s Saturday morning and I’m going to put down this pen (keyboard) and talk with an old friend—llike many of my friends, she's been dead for quite awhile. Yes, I'm finishing a classic. I'm no longer daunted by the long list of classics and/or “great books,” expecially in the light of enjoying a second time through my favorites. And given the wave of new titles, and some rather enjoyable morsels, I've learned that it's not about finishing any list, but knowing enough of the questions and responses to assist with one’s one journey--staying engaged in the Great Conversation. And, as Flannery and Newstand note, to help enhance life for those around us. This very blog site is rather flippant against any page of a great book. I hope, however, at the least it prompts to return to such a page.

What are your favorite “classics?” Any key thoughts you’ve gleaned for the book?

In the windy darkness of the Egyptian desert I wasn’t ready for a lifeless shock—our flashlights illuminated dozens of ancient skeletons reaching through the sand. Half way between Cairo and Alexandria the netherworld seemed half alive. I can still see that first fleshless hand and forearm suddenly appear before my nose, and the closest Depends were two hours away.

We were at our new excavation site, arriving for the first time after dark. These were the remains of hundreds of priests buried in “the holy hill,” now desecrated by centuries of howling night winds. From the fourth through the eighth centuries thousands of Coptic priests went off the grid—disappearing forever from all contact with the outside world to get in contact with themselves and their God.

It was an eerie place at first, until meeting the living priests from the nearby monastery. After Muslims destroyed the now buried monastery, another sprouted. Today it’s the residence of His Holiness Pope Shenouda III, and we were privileged to stay in his compound. Each evening monks dressed in all black would walk out into the desert with provisions tied in cloth bags and affixed to the end of sticks hoisted over their shoulders. on the end. They would stay in their desert caves for days before resurfacing.

But there was also a sense of deep peace. I’ll forever recall their silhouettes disappearing at dusk on the horizon. Many of these monks were highly educated men that had left professions for their spiritual professions. While I didn’t understand their choices, I could understand their search for meaning and purpose, for inner peace.

What do you do to live at peace? To find your life purpose?