Good novels aren't a dime a dozen

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Wrestling with the idea of white privilege

A former co-worker was the first I saw charge that all Caucasian employees have the advantage of white privilege. I laughed and labeled it as the latest wave of thought designed to find perpetrators for victims. I laughed because of my upbringing. I was born in The Dalles, Oregon, which isn't an epicenter of wealth and status. It's a town of about 10,000 residents on the banks of the Columbia River. It is known for cherries, wheat, winds funneled through the Columbia River Gorge, and a key historic spot for Lewis and Clark and the pioneers who ventured west on the Oregon Trail. It was a good place to grow up, at least for me. It was small enough that you had the feeling all residents were neighbors. A downside was that you were often known by who your parents were. I was often introduced as Eldon's boy, or Virginia's boy. I was the third child of three, so I also was known as Steve's little brother, or John's little brother. It also was a town with a racist
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Western boy adjusts to the South

I must apologize for the lengthy time between posts. You see, I have pulled up stakes in Colorado and settled into the beautiful Upstate region of South Carolina. It's more than merely a new location. This is a different culture, weather routine, foods, way of life. I am not going to be so presumptuous to believe I understand it all, but I have had time to form opinions about my new home. Here are a few: 1) The South doesn't believe in pretenses. Maybe it's different in Atlanta or Charlotte, but my new hometown of Anderson, South Carolina, is as comfortable as an old shirt. No one is expected to act one way, dress accordingly, show off the signs of status, or spend time telling people how good you are. One of our friends in our new home is Mykel, an African-American man who just moved with his wife into a new home from the apartment complex where we currently live. His reaction to his new home and car on the same day? "That's a blessing," he says. Walk down
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On being out of journalism for one year

April 24 marked the one-year anniversary of Kevin Dale calling me into his office and notifying me that my job at The Denver Post was being eliminated in a reduction of workforce. I won't write about that decision today. That is so last year. But I learned a lot in those intervening months, so it's time for an update. It is a situation in which there is good news and there's bad news. People given the option of what to hear always take the good news first. I will reverse that order. Those bad things sit deeper in my soul, as they should for anyone who put decades of effort into his or her craft or profession. So here are the three worst parts of leaving journalism. 1. I have so much to offer and no opportunity. I am a skilled journalist. I have numerous writing awards. I was a good copy editor who worked on some of the best newspapers not only in the West but in the world. What was that worth in the job market? Not a darned thing. I applied for any job that had the word
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