Five Who Make a Difference:
Rita Dove |
Doris Kearns Goodwin |
Daniel Kemmis |
Arturo Madrid |
Bill Moyers
A poet laureate, a best-selling historian, a Montana
mayor-philosopher, a catalyst of our Hispanic culture, and an essayist
of public television are the winners of this year's Charles
Frankel Prize. The awards, now in their eighth year, go to
individuals who have stimulated and expanded public understanding
of the humanities. President Clinton made the 1996 presentations
at a White House ceremony in November.
"As a child, I fell in love with language," poet Rita Dove
explains. "It could be a good joke or a good story, just so it
was well told. I had wonderful elementary school teachers who
encouraged me, and I wrote for my own pleasure." She especially
remembers her eleventh grade English teacher, who introduced her
students to all kinds of extracurricular activities, including a
memorable visit to a book signing by John Ciardi.
As a poet and a teacher herself, Dove has brought literature
to a large audience, not only through her books and her classes
at the University of Virginia, where she is Commonwealth
Professor of English, but through her appointment as Poet
Laureate of the United States and Consultant in Poetry at the
Library of Congress (1993-1995) and her work with children and
the general public. Dove recalls, "I cannot tell you on how many
occasions I have read poetry in a church basement or high school
classroom, only to have someone come up afterwards and exclaim,
"I never knew poetry could be like that -- why, that was fun!"
In 1987 Dove won a Pulitzer Prize for Thomas and Beulah, a
collection of poems loosely based on her maternal grandparents'
lives. Among her other books of poetry are The Yellow House on
the Corner (1980), Museum (1983), and Grace Notes (1989). She
has also written a book of short stories, Fifth Sunday, a novel,
Through the Ivory Gate, and a verse drama, The Darker Face of the
Earth. Mother Love (1995) is a series of poems based on the
ancient Greek story of Demeter and Persephone.
Although race plays a part in her writings, Dove remarks
that "There are times when I am a black woman who happens to be a
poet and times when I am a poet who happens to be black. There
are also times when I am more conscious of being a mother or a
member of my generation. It's so hopelessly confused that I
don't make a big deal out of it."
In her role as poet laureate, Dove says that she considered
herself as a spokesperson for poetry and literature and also as
an activist, who would "go out and practice what I was
preaching." Not confining herself to college campuses, she
traveled (and still travels) to libraries and public schools, "to
show by example," Dove says, "that it's cool to be a poet."
Dove brought eight Crow Indian students to the Library of
Congress to read the poems they had written about their world and
to visit their representatives in Congress. She arranged to have
students in the District of Columbia come to poetry readings at
the Library of Congress. "The audiences were huge," Dove recalls
with some pride. "The students brought their parents and friends
to hear them read their poems. For many, it was the first time
they had been in the library, even though it was in their home
town."
Dove likes to use television to spread the word about
poetry. "The mass media is not hopeless in this cause," she
says. She has been on Sesame Street, for example, and she
mentions a series of brief poetry spots read by their authors
that appeared on a cable television channel in place of a
commercial message. She also recalls a satellite town meeting in
poetry which went to more than three hundred communities in
western Virginia; students wrote in or called in their questions.
"This showed that long-distance learning could be done in the
arts. It was loads of fun," Dove says. A tape of the town
meeting has been made available through the Virginia Center for
the Book.
"Poetry is not elite," Dove explains. "It speaks to the
soul." She continues the work she began as poet laureate, "to
celebrate art for all people, to raise all voices in the
community."
-- Ellen Marsh
Doris Kearns Goodwin, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in history for
her biography of the Roosevelts, finds herself in the position of
a scholar who has become a familiar face on television.
She branched into television in the early seventies while
she was teaching government at Harvard and working on a book
about President Lyndon Johnson. She did commentaries on politics
and presidents for WGBH and other Boston stations and became
moderator of a Sunday morning discussion show. In recent years
her venue has been PBS's NewsHour, where she and other historians
talk about the state of the presidency. During the 1996
presidential campaign, she explains, "We told the stories about
history that were relevant to current events."
The path to her work in political biography began in 1967
when Goodwin, then a graduate student at Harvard, was named a
White House fellow. At a party at the White House to welcome the
young scholars, Goodwin found herself with a distinguished
dancing partner, Lyndon Baines Johnson. The timing couldn't have
been more awkward: Antiwar activist Goodwin had just co-authored
an article for the New Republic titled "How to Remove LBJ in
1968," which was to appear the following week. Despite the
brouhaha, the acquaintance survived. Goodwin kept her fellowship
and was assigned to the Department of Labor; a year later Johnson
brought her to the White House itself, two doors away from the
Oval Office. When LBJ decided against running for a second term
and left Washington, he invited Goodwin to Texas to help with his
memoirs.
Goodwin's own version of the events of that time, Lyndon
Johnson and the American Dream, was published in 1976, followed
by The Fitzgeralds and the Kennedys: An American Saga in 1987.
Her Pulitzer Prize-winning No Ordinary Time: Franklin and
Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II appeared in
1994.
"I had gotten interested in the war during my work on the
Kennedy family because of Joe Kennedy's involvement in Britain,"
Goodwin explained in a 1995 Humanities interview. She learned
that Roosevelt's leadership of the war at home had not really
been examined in depth. "And then, once I got into it, Eleanor's
critical role as his partner in making sure the war was a vehicle
for social justice came out.... It was a great added treasure."
Goodwin writes for a general audience, but her scholarship
is meticulous. "I do a kind of research that is solid and
disciplined, and I buttress the book with footnotes. In that
way, the book becomes valuable for academics, and the facts
become the foundation of an interesting story."
In addition to her writing and television appearances,
Goodwin has a heavy lecture schedule. "I give one or two
lectures a week during the academic year," she says. "It's a way
of getting back to teaching, which I loved." She speaks at
colleges, public libraries, and historical societies. "Many in
the audiences have read my books or seen me on televison. I
answer questions and we talk," Goodwin explains. "The
interaction with people is terrific."
Goodwin has a short-term project in the works, which she
describes as a book "about growing up with the Brooklyn
Dodgers" -- a side of her life she talked about in the Ken Burns
documentary, Baseball. The book is an homage to her father, an
ardent baseball fan, and tells the story of her first fourteen
years. "My mother died when I was fourteen, which was the end of
my childhood."
Goodwin has also decided on her next presidential biography,
which will be about Abraham Lincoln. "Historians," Goodwin
muses, "are drawn to Lincoln like Captain Ahab to Moby-Dick."
Her book will concentrate on the years 1861-65. "James
McPherson, who wrote Battle Cry of Freedom, noted that most
scholars have focused on Lincoln's presidency and his relations
with his generals, with little emphasis on Lincoln and how he
mobilized the home front," Goodwin says. "This follows the same
topic as my book on the Roosevelts and the war effort." The
Lincoln book will be a five-year effort, four of those years
devoted to research. Goodwin emphasizes: "You need the
foundation."
-- Ellen Marsh
Daniel Kemmis is that rare breed, a philosopher-politician. The
humanities have shaped his ideas of civic virtue and community
life, ideas that he has tested in real-life situations as a
Montana legislator and mayor of Missoula.
As a boy -- "a hopelessly reclusive" child, Kemmis describes
himself -- living on a small family farm in the high, arid plains
of eastern Montana, he developed a fascination with politics,
perhaps inspired by the example of his uncle, who served ten
terms in the Montana legislature. Young Kemmis read political
biographies of the Roosevelts and the Adamses, and determined,
like them, to attend Harvard University. That was the key to
political success, he thought -- even though the East was like a
foreign land to him. He would be the first in his family to
attend college.
Kemmis was graduated from Harvard in 1968 with a degree in
political theory. All the action in politics, it seemed to him
at the time, was on the national level. However, while on a
visit to the Montana state capitol one weekend, Kemmis
experienced a kind of epiphany: He recalls that the architecture
of the rooms, the paintings on the walls, and the sense of
history that seemed to permeate the building combined to give him
a clear feeling that "This is where I belong."
Kemmis enrolled at the University of Montana law school and
received his degree in 1978. By this time he had already become
a member of the Montana House of Representatives, where he would
serve for eight years, eventually becoming minority leader and
speaker of the house. In 1988 Kemmis was elected to the Missoula
city council and subsequently served two terms as mayor.
Currently he is director of the Center for the Rocky Mountain
West at the University of Montana.
Kemmis's first book, Community and the Politics of Place,
was published in 1990. The Good City and the Good Life appeared
in 1995, and he is at work on another, this one about the West.
"The Civil War closed off serious exploration of regionalism," he
says. "I hope my book will reopen this topic."
His contention is that region, place, and locality
ultimately mean more to people than the more abstract concept of
nation. He likes to quote the preamble to the Montana
constitution, which reads, "We the people of Montana, grateful to
God for the quiet beauty of our state, the grandeur of its
mountains, the vastness of its rolling plains, and desiring to
secure to ourselves and our posterity the blessings of liberty
for this and future generations, do ordain and establish this
constitution." Kemmis explains that, to the authors of this
document, the place they inhabited was an essential part of "we
the people." This is true for all of us, he believes: The
landscape, the topography, and the environment of our cities
influence our civilization and quality of life.
The sources of Kemmis's thinking range from Thomas
Jefferson, Plutarch, Machiavelli, Hannah Arendt, Martin
Heidegger, and Jane Jacobs to the poets Robert Frost and T. S.
Eliot. Kemmis likes to explore the relationship of words
relating to city life: civility, citizenship, and, most
important, civilization, which Kemmis defines as "a good city,
one which enables its inhabitants to live good lives together."
He draws a distinction between "taxpayers" and "citizens."
"Taxpayers," he says, "pay tribute to the government and receive
services from it." But so do the subjects of totalitarian
regimes. "What taxpayers do not do, and what people who call
themselves taxpayers have long since stopped even imagining
themselves doing, is governing." As a politician and as a
citizen of the West, Kemmis wants to encourage communities to
learn from one another and to work together, to govern
themselves.
-- Ellen Marsh
His family has been on American soil since 1603 -- before the
Mayflower landed -- but he has spent much of his life insisting on
access to the American mainstream. He is Arturo Madrid, an
educator for the past thirty years and a Latino who refuses to
let himself be deflected by others' expectations or by the
Spanish language.
In a television interview some years back, Madrid reflected
on the situation minorities face, a situation he calls "defining
out": "It meant that by virtue of the fact that my name was not
Smith or Jones, my presence had no validity in American life,
that what I had experienced and what my family and the people
around me had experienced was marginal to what took place in the
larger society. We were not seen as part of the American nation
but as an accretion to the American nation."
Madrid, whose family had migrated from Spain to Mexico in
the early 1500s, is the third generation to have a college
education. "In the 1860s, 1870s my great-grandfather got hold of
a Spanish-language bible along the Santa Fe trail. That was rare
and the Protestant missionaries became interested -- Hispanics were
supposed to be Catholic. His second son -- my grandfather -- went
into the theology seminary to become a minister, but that never
happened. He became a schoolteacher instead."
Madrid has followed in the teaching tradition. He grew up
in New Mexico and was graduated with honors from the University
of New Mexico. He earned his Ph.D. in Modern Languages at the
University of California. He taught at Dartmouth and Minnesota
and, after a hiatus in Washington, D.C., as director of the
Department of Education's Fund for the Improvement of
Postsecondary Education, he returned to Minnesota.
In the spring of 1984, a friend and colleague, Tomas Rivera,
died, and Madrid was called to take over an institute for policy
studies Rivera was just beginning in Claremont, California.
Madrid would remain there for nine years, turning what became the
Rivera Center into a gathering place for Hispanic writers and
scholars.
These days Madrid is the Norine R. and T. Frank Murchison
Distinguished Professor of the Humanities at Trinity University
in San Antonio and happy to be back in university life -- "I died
and went to heaven." He teaches two honors courses, and each
summer he escapes back to his native New Mexico to write.
The business of language and, more important, the business
of literacy continue to concern Madrid. Too many Latino kids, he
says, still wind up in unattractive, overcrowded schools with
teachers who resent being there. The youngsters get the message
very quickly, he says, as did he.
"The signals are that you're not wanted in the institutions
of the society, that there's room for only so many folks in the
society, and that particularly people of a different national and
linguistic background don't belong."
While the eighties have made the Latino community more
visible -- he ticks off the names of Gloria Estefan, Placido
Domingo, Jose Carreras, Julio Iglesias, Ruben Blades -- Madrid
wants to see a presence in all facets of American life. He sees
the issue for the younger generation as lying not so much in
bilingualism as in literacy. His concern is for what he calls
"literacy connected to the understanding of institutions." It is
a problem, he says, not just for the Latinos but for Anglos as
well. "There are an inordinate number of illiterate people whose
only language is English." He reflects: "For my
great-grandfather becoming a literate person meant he could defend
himself in the institutions of the new society."
Meanwhile, Madrid continues to speak out. "If I have a
public voice, it's not simply because I'm a literate person. I
feel that it's important for me to participate in the larger life
of the society, and I've found ways to get the larger society to
listen. I become stronger, and my voice becomes more compelling,
because I can draw on two different experiences, two different
cultures, two ways of knowing and being. If I were to be denied
one or the other, I would not feel as empowered."
-- Mary Lou Beatty
God and Politics.
A World of Ideas.
Creativity.
A Walk through the Twentieth Century.
Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth.
Genesis . . .
The titles roll off the tongue, as sonorous and
stately as the ideas themselves. They are the work of Bill
Moyers, who tilts at the central questions of our civilization on
public television.
In a television career spanning twenty-six years, Moyers has
won more than thirty Emmys as well as an honorary doctorate of
fine arts from the American Film Institute and the Nelson Mandela
Award for his work. He was elected to the Television Hall of
Fame in 1995.
Moyers has talked to poets, to philosophers, to sports
heroes, to evangelists, to mathematicians, to music makers, to
zealots -- to people in all walks of life -- as he pursues his search
for a symmetry in life, a meaning.
"This is a country that's always struggling for its soul,"
he has said. As a young man in Texas, he earned a theology
degree from Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, and
although he never practiced as a minister, the cadence and
philosophical framework still come naturally to him. He grew up
in the small Texas town of Marshall; at sixteen he became a cub
reporter on the Marshall News Messenger; at twenty-one, an honors
graduate of the University of Texas. After the seminary Moyers
took another path: to the Peace Corps, then to the Lyndon
Johnson White House, newspaper publishing, and television.
Moyers served as President Johnson's special assistant and
press secretary in the midst of the Vietnam war. In 1967, he
left to become publisher of Newsday. He jumped from print to
television three years later to do the Bill Moyers Journal and
has never looked back.
In the introduction to his TV-series-turned-bestselling-
book, A World of Ideas, Moyers writes that "in the laboratory of
the scientist, the vision of the poet, the memory of the
historian, the discipline of the scholar, the imagination of the
writer, and the passion of the teacher . . . I found a kingdom of
thought, rich in insights into our times."
Moyers sees the necessity for philosophical input into
public life. "Democracy," he has written, "with all its risks,
must be a public affair. Ideas cry out for an open hearing, and
the true conversation of democracy occurs not between politicians
or pundits but across the entire spectrum of American life where
people take seriously the intellectual obligations of citizenship
and the spiritual opportunities of freedom."
He welcomes computer technology as still another way of
opening up the country's thought process; in fact he sees a
democratizing of the creativity itself. "Every time you get more
technology and more access to people, they are creative with it.
Take poetry. It's been taken out of the academy, and people
themselves are writing their poetry, performing their poetry,
with the small presses, the niche publishing, the newsletters. I
think the computer will democratize communications, if we make
sure that there is public access to it and it's not controlled
just by a handful of powerful corporations."
As his series go on, the themes grow larger and larger. In
Genesis, the most recent, the questions are of the nature of good
and evil, of temptation and the necessity of free choice, of the
differing accounts of the creation and what they tell us about
the relationship of creator and created, of creature to creature.
What subject can be next? Moyers has not yet said. But there
appears to be a structure.
A few years back, Moyers underwent a heart bypass, an
experience that put life into perspective. As he tells it, about
six weeks afterward while he was "fragile, feeling uncertain,
scared," he ran across a poem called "The Art of Disappearing" by
Naomi Nye. He quotes the last three lines: "Walk around feeling
like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what
to do with your time."
--Mary Lou Beatty
Humanities, January/Febuary 1997, Volume 18/Number 1