Tag: NAU

• June 16, 2013

  Shouting from Rooftops

  

  At the end of most pieces of writing, you’ll find a few lines about the author. In less than 50 words, the writer establishes their ethos. Bios are frequently witty and include an impressive list of accomplishments. They rattle off their awards, their top-tier creative educations, their previous publication credits. This week, I sat down to write a new bio…and got stuck after typing my name. What was I supposed to say?

  I’m not sure how people manage to make themselves sound so good. Maybe they really have done more with their lives and maybe they do have these thriving careers. That’s great for them. But what am I supposed to say about me?

  I’m probably the world’s worst salesman. I couldn’t sell you a solid gold bar even if it was free. So, when it comes to selling myself, I don’t know how to do it convincingly. I’ve never been published. I don’t attend a prestigious writing program. What do I put in my bio?

  Maybe all I need to do is write something passable. Something that sounds like me. I’ll stick to the facts — that I live in a small mountain town, graduated from college and have rather modest writing chops at this point in my life. The awards and publications will come later.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer in Flagstaff, AZ. A graduate of Northern Arizona University, he was the Opinion Editor of his campus newspaper, where a disgruntled reader once threatened to throw him off a roof. You can read his blog or follow him on Twitter: @jonnyeberle.

  Related Posts:
  A Day Without a iPhone
  Paying My Dues
  Greasy Spoon
• May 14, 2013

  3 Things No One Told Me About the Year After College

  

  A year ago, I graduated from college. I was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to take on the world with my fellow grads. Anything was possible. Since then, my optimism has faded. I’m still glad that I went, but I wish I’d known a few things back then that I learned over the past year.

  1) It’s okay to settle for a less-than-perfect job

  For some reason, I thought a bachelor’s degree was my golden ticket to my dream job. I was going to land the perfect gig and work there until I retired (or at the very least, I would get a cool job doing something I was trained for).

  It didn’t happen. I didn’t get into my field. I didn’t even get a job that requires the degree I spent four years slaving over. At first, I was disheartened. But the more I heard similar stories from my old classmates, I realized that our expectations were wrong.

  The economy is bad and getting any kind of work is difficult — even for highly intelligent, highly qualified people. It’s okay to settle for something less than ideal. Getting to the dream job is a long climb and you’ve got to start at the bottom and struggle your way up. Along the way, you might even learn a thing or two they didn’t teach in college.

  2) Some Things Never Change

  I used to believe that the transition from college to post-college was a magic door that would transform me into a “responsible adult.” I had to trade in my screen-printed t-shirts and hoodies for a suit and tie. Fun was forbidden.

  The truth is, there’s no point when you’re “too old” for silliness. Graduating and getting a job may make you feel self-important, but you’re the same person you’ve always been. I’m only as old as I want to be.

  I could take myself seriously, or I can have fun while my joints still allow me to dance and my metabolism still allows me to overeat. Just because I’m in the “real world,” it doesn’t mean that I have to give up on fun. So what if you have to wear dress shoes to work? Go to Denny’s at 3 am with your friends and eat some pie.

  3) You Don’t Know Everything

  You’ve completed a rigorous course of study at a premier institution of higher education. That’s not a license to let your brain turn into mush. College can’t prepare you for everything; it’s important to keep an open mind and be ready to learn new skills (like how to reset a jammed garbage disposal or how to speak sign language or how to design a website). The world is full of things you don’t know.

  Even if you don’t return to formal education, you can still learn a lot. Read articles, travel and talk to people from wildly different backgrounds. You can gain so much from new experiences that you’ll never find in a textbook.

  Education makes us more human. So learn and grow. You’ll be a better and happier person for it.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle graduated in 2012 with a degree in Journalism and Political Science. In his free time, he likes to come up with Top 3 lists, which are easier to write than Top 10 lists. You can also find him on Twitter: @jonnyeberle.

  Related Posts:
  The Sum of Our Genes
  The Thing That Keeps Us Going
  A Time and Place for All Words
• March 10, 2013

  The End of an Era

  

  All things must end. Wind and water erode mountains, rust eats away steel, entropy unravels the universe and my university deletes my email account. I guess it was bound to happen eventually, but I’m not ready to give it up. I still use it for correspondence (and coupons), to use the school’s wireless internet and to impress people at parties (a .edu address makes you look smarter). But in a few weeks, the system will delete me from its databanks and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  Nothing I can do to slow the inexorable flow of time from the past into the future. The only thing I can do is rescue my files and important emails from their digital apocalypse.

  As I forward old conversations, I realize that this is how eras end — they do not come grinding to a halt all at once, they are dismantled piece by piece. This is how my college years end, as a gradual drifting away. Graduation; friends moving away; email account deletion. Bit by bit, it all slips out of my grasp.

  You and I both know this is about more than just losing my email. It’s about moving on from a phase in my life that is finished. And I think letting go of that is ultimately healthy. Time to let go. Time to log out.

  — 30 —

  I’m a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ, the town where I went to college. When I’m not getting all nostalgic about my inbox, you can find me on the Twitter machine: @jonnyeberle. Please feel free to follow me there and leave your thoughts in the comments.

  Related Posts:
  Life is a Question Mark
  Best Birthday Resolutions Ever
  Torn Sleeves: 5 Things I Learned About Writing in 2012
• February 5, 2013

  A Tale of Two Parking Tickets

  

  I received my first parking citation at the university almost five years ago. It was my first day of work at the Office of The Bursar. I was eighteen, a recent high school graduate in the awkward summer months before starting college. I had no idea what lay before me. I was starting my first real job.

  The Bursar’s Office was on the ground floor of the old university library. It was a stately building of Coconino sandstone. It was sweltering in the summer. The fans ran nonstop from when we opened at 7 to when we closed at 4:30. Flies buzzed under the copper ceiling panels.

  Fast forward nearly five years later. The night of the 2013 Super Bowl. I’m a college graduate, twenty-three years old, in that awkward year after finishing school and having little to no idea of how to spend my future. I had been watching the game (and making fun of the blackout) with my girlfriend and a few of our friends (all but one of whom I didn’t know five years ago).

  I can’t help but be amazed by how far I’ve come in the span of two parking violations. That eighteen-year-old kid could never imagine my life now. My education, my friendships, my interests and my career path have evolved and changed radically in the last half-decade. That’s the nature of growing older — our plans are always in flux.

  But some things haven’t changed. I still don’t know where I’m allowed to park.

  — 30 —

  When I’m not occupied ignoring posted warnings about required permits, you can find me on the Twitter machine: @jonnyeberle.

  Related Posts:
  Death of a Goldfish
  Smooth Sailing: My Toast to the Happy Couple
  Curse You, Netflix
• January 27, 2013

  Winter Rains Fall

  

  January is not a time for rain. Not in the mountains of Northern Arizona. January is a time for snow and ice, for freezing winds and frosty trees. But the rain came anyway. It turned the days grey and the nights cool.

  Gutters sloughed off their winter vestments of brittle ice. Running water collected in pools on top of old, pockmarked snow and burrowed down to the dead grass. Snow that hid in shadowy corners melted away and ran downstream.

  The streets turned into lustrous mirrors. The night skies burned yellow.

  

  — 30 —

  I’m a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ, where it does not rain in the dead of winter. Join me in hiding inside and posting on Twitter: @jonnyeberle.

  Related Posts:
  Flash Fiction: Roasting Chiles
  View from the Bottom of a Glass
• May 24, 2012

  Leupp’s Famous Onion Rings

  

  You can see Leupp from miles around, where it’s perched on a small plateau overlooking the high desert. Surrounding the town are dozens of small houses, each spread over several acres. Cows look up from grazing on small patches of yellowed wild grass to watch my car speed down the rough, two lane road leading into town.

  On Leupp Road — the only named street in the tiny town of 1,605 — across a two-and-a-half foot deep trench filled with rainwater, sits an 18-foot trailer with a flashing LED sign in the window reading “Open.” Behind it, the Leupp Boarding School looms like a fortress and the spire of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints pierces the clear blue sky. In comparison, the trailer looks insignificant, but it is the home of an unlikely success story. The smell of hamburgers and deep fried onion rings wafts over the whole area around the trailer, attracting several dogs. One car after another braves the deep puddle to get there. I follow suit, figuring that the locals know best.

  Inside, Chris Begay and Genevieve Gonnie are busy preparing a brown bag special for a customer. In between orders, we chat about their business.

  “We’ve been doing this for what? Three… Four… Four-and-a-half years?” Begay says, looking to his business partner.

  “Yeah, four-and-half years,” Gonnie confirms.

  Begay and Gonnie are the co-owners of L.A. Fresh Grill. They started by offering free fry bread to people who filled out credit applications back when they both sold cars. They soon found that they could make more money selling their food than they could on commission and so they set up on the side of the road one day with some fry bread. Three hours later, they sold out. Eight months later, they had enough money to buy their trailer.

  They consider themselves fortunate to have done so well for themselves. Some of the other vendors parked around here have been selling the same thing for 20 or 30 years and still drive the same broken down vehicles, Begay says.

  L.A. Fresh Grill has become a staple in Leupp. Regular customer Jonathan Yazzie is quick to inform me that the onions rings are “the best.”

  “We had a couple older ladies drive all the way from Ship Rock just to come to our food stand,” Begay says with an air of pride. “We’ve sent fry bread to Miami —”

  “—And Canada,” his aunt, who often comes to visit, interjects.

  

  When asked about the state of the state of the economy in the area, though, their smiles fade a little. L.A. Fresh Grill has seen a decline in its clientele over the past year.

  “It’s the economy,” Gonnie says, shaking her head bitterly.

  Still, things are looking up for the pair. They have hopes of opening a permanent cafe, but it’s hard to get around the bureaucratic red tape.

  “There’s a lot of favoritism with the Navajo Nation,” Gonnie says. She leans a little closer to the small window. “There are a lot of people who want to start things, but it’s hard to get permission to do it.”

  

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer, filmmaker and social media manager in Flagstaff, AZ, where he enjoys referring to himself in the third person. You can follow him on Twitter at @jonnyeberle.
• May 13, 2012

  The Sum of Our Genes

  

  Yesterday morning, I was an undergrad; today I am an alumnus of Northern Arizona University. The word itself — alumnus — comes from Latin, and respectable sources inform me that it derives from the verb alere, which literally means “to nourish.” I have been nourished, fed, and not just in my classes. I have been nourished my entire life.

  Among my friends, I have a reputation for confidence that some say borders on arrogance. Sure, I’m proud of my accomplishments, but I’m under no illusions about how I got here. I have been fed intellectually, emotionally and spiritually by many people: Professors, friends and family all got me here.

  No one is a one-man or one-woman show. We all require nourishment from others to succeed. From the moment we leave the womb, we’re dependent and though we learn to do many things on our own (I make a mean guacamole, for instance), we never grow out of our need for companionship and support.

  Perhaps it’s no coincidence that so many university commencements fall on the same weekend as Mother’s Day. I wouldn’t be alive without my mother’s generous donation of genes, food and love — let alone graduating from college. In fact, it occurs to me that I’m indebted to all the generations of my family who came before me — to the humble printers who founded a newspaper in a small town at the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers in western Pennsylvania around the time of the Civil War and to the peasant farmers who braved the passage from Europe to build a better life for their children in a strange new land around the turn of the century. I would not exist without their sacrifices (and I wouldn’t be so dashingly handsome without their good looks).

  I am the product of centuries of hardship and perseverance. I am the result of generations of fateful decisions and fantastically good luck. I am the sum of my genes and I owe my ancestors a debt of gratitude. I’ve been nourished by all of them. Before I try to take credit for all of my success, I think it’s important to acknowledge that.

  — 30 —

  Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there, congrats to the grads and if you’re so inclined, I’d love to hear from you in the comments or on Twitter, where I go by the pseudo pseudonym @jonnyeberle.
• May 5, 2012

  Writing in Thin Air

  

  When we’re in the womb, we learn about the outside world through our sense of hearing. The sound of our mother’s heartbeat; her voice — it’s all deeply ingrained in us before we’re even born. So, it’s no surprise that auditory stimuli are so powerful and why paintings of sound evoke such strong emotional responses.

  On Thursday night, I had one of those experiences. I was standing in the Applied Research and Development building on the NAU campus, listening to a composition by my friend Drew Worden and taking photos. The ARD building is a sleek arc of glass and concrete with a large, open lobby. Musicians were stationed throughout the building, on the ground floor and spread along the upper level. Each was playing a piece that seemed unrelated, but as you moved through the space, the music combined in new ways to form new melodies. I could almost see the notes hanging in the air, swirling and mingling in the ether. And it was beautiful.

  

  There were so many whispers of half-formed words in the notes that sailed above my head. I couldn’t help but be swept up in them; to try to listen to the fragments and build a narrative in my imagination.

  There is something primal about music. It’s raw; it’s instinctual. But I won’t bore you by making it a metaphor for life or anything — you’ve heard that before. Suffice it to say that I think to be human is to be musical. And as human beings, we love to tell stories, whether through words or pictures or music. That’s just what we do.

  So, here I sit, guitar in hand, practicing a very basic chord progression. This is my third attempt to learn an instrument (having summarily given up on piano and violin). My fingers can’t always find the right frets and the callouses are slow to form.

  But I keep at it anyway, because there’s something gratifying about telling stories in a language that is understood the world over. And while I’m a long way from being able to play anything resembling a song, I like the challenge and I love the feeling of getting it right and being swept away…if only for a moment.

  — 30 —

  My lyrical thoughts on anything and everything can be found on Twitter at @jonnyeberle, if you’re so inclined to follow me.
• May 1, 2012

  One Small Step for Grad

  

  There are some strange goings on in the world this week. When I woke this morning, I looked out my window, where I discovered that the willow in my backyard had grown leaves overnight. Birds were sitting on telephone lines, singing. For the first time this year, I cracked open the window above my bed to let a crisp breeze flow through the room.

  It’s spring — and while I’m not ruling out the possibility of a freak blizzard — it’s increasingly clear to me that a lot of things are ending. In 11 days, I walk across a little stage, get a handshake and step off into the next chapter of the novel of my life. It’s too bad I don’t have the rest the plot outlined.

  When I was young, I believed in the popular myth that one day, by magic, I would be transformed into an adult in a blinding flash of light and credit card statements. Instead, I’ve found that growing up is a gradual, imperceptible process. We mature little by little without even noticing it, like red wine in a cellar. Then, one day, we realize that we became an adult years ago and that it’s an unending process of refinement.

  And then, you stand in your driveway, dumbfounded and wondering how you got here. Still, it’s not like I’ve been sleepwalking through life. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes. I’ve loved and I’ve lost and I can proudly say that I was conscious for all of it.

  In 11 days, a significant part of my life ends, but I’m not ready for the nursing home just yet. I’ve got more mistakes to make and I can’t wait to get started. Here goes nothing.

  That’s one small step for grad, one giant leap for grad-kind.

  

  — 30 —

  Wow, that was sappy. If you thought that was bad, you ain’t seen nothing yet. My Twitter feed will make you cry: @jonnyeberle.
• April 1, 2012

  An Examined Life: In Memory of Dr. Joel Olson

  

  “For the unexamined life is not worth living for men.”
  – Socrates

  During the first week of his classes, Dr. Joel Olson would hand out a pink sheet of paper outlining his theory of education. “Education is uncomfortable,” he said. “It makes you think about new things, challenges old beliefs, forces you to reevaluate the world, and makes you do work you wouldn’t ordinarily do. But remember, there is a payoff. You are learning how to think, read, write, and speak critically… You are on your way to leading the examined life.”

  Joel was one of those rare educators who actually got his students to think critically and get excited about political theory. In the tradition of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Marx, Nietzsche, and Du Bois, Joel challenged everything I thought I knew about the world. He made me dizzy — and that dizziness was the birth of wisdom.

  “We live in an age of information, but not one of ideas. We need to learn to think big.”
  – Dr. Joel Olson

  For those of us who knew him, Joel was much more than a professor. He was a friend and a mentor. He was a radical, eloquent, vegetarian punk rocker with illegible handwriting and a fire in his eyes who took his students out for a beer after the final. He was passionate about teaching; equipping us to think our way out of times of crisis. He was also passionate about changing the world through his activism. Joel was an enemy of the status quo. He vocally opposed SB1070 and criticized racial inequality and questioned authority. He sought out truth and justice with ferocity.

  “The formulation of a question is its solution.”
  – Karl Marx

  I never had the chance to tell him what an inspiration he was to me; that will haunt me for years to come. I was perfectly happy in the cave, but he dragged me into the light and showed me that there was more to education than memorization and regurgitation. With Joel, politics was daring and deliberation; a quest for enlightenment; a struggle to achieve the good life for all of humanity.

  Now, I don’t know why people die young. I don’t know why husbands and fathers are snatched away from their families without warning. I don’t know why great minds are taken from us when we need them most. But I do know that Joel did not leave us empty handed. He left us with the tools to remake the world.

  I’m more determined than ever to take up the fight. Because of Joel, we are no longer ignorant. We can think for ourselves and see the things that need to be fixed. Most importantly, we can ask the hard questions.

  “Does it make every one — unhappy when they study and learn lots of things?”
  He paused and smiled.
  “I am afraid it does,” he said.
  “And, John, are you glad you studied?”
  “Yes,” came the answer, slowly but positively.
  She watched the flickering lights upon the sea, and said thoughtfully, “I wish I was unhappy,—and—and,” putting both arms about his neck, “I think I am, a little, John.”
  – W.E.B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk

  Words cannot do justice to the man, but this is the only tribute I know how to give, the only way I know how to give it. I didn’t know him as well as I would have liked, but I do know this: Joel Olson was a great man and it was my great honor to know him and learn from him. He was a visionary thinker, a mentor, an educator, a political animal, a truth seeker, a defender of the oppressed, a shaper of minds and one of the few people I have ever known who truly lived an examined life.

  We’ll miss you, Joel.

  

  — 30 —

  Joel Olson was an assistant professor in the Department of Politics and International Affairs at Northern Arizona University, where he specialized in political theory, racial politics, social movements and extremism. He was a well-known figure in the anti-racist and pro-immigrant movements in Arizona and was the author of The Abolition of White Democracy.

  Update: You can learn more about how you can help the Olson-Creed Family by visiting the Remembering Joel Olson Facebook page.