In his guest post last week, Michael Graff said that when the idea of teaching memoir via Zoom first came up, “Beth was skeptical.” A very generous description there. Had I been editing his rough draft, it’d look like this :

Beth was skepticalstubborn.

Even before COVID, many people were suggesting I offer online courses in addition to in-person ones. “You could get people from all over the country,” they’d say. “You could charge a lot, and you wouldn’t even have to leave home.” Not leave home? Being with my writers is what I love most about teaching memoir. You’re right there, sensing the emotion from writers as they read personal essays out loud. As the class continues, you feel a certain trust develop in a room of people who once were strangers. You witness friendships growing.

”Thanks for the suggestion,” I told those computer-screen addicts back then. “It just won’t work for me.”

But they wouldn’t give up. “You can see everyone,” they’d continue, describing how an online class works. “You can watch their reactions right from home”

“But I can’t see!” I’d remind them. And that’s where the conversation would end.

But then, COVID happened.

When Wanda’s Wednesday class was cancelled in March, Sharon Kramer, a writer in that class and a graduate of the Beth Finke Memoir Teacher MasterClass, stepped up to the plate. She volunteered to teach her fellow writers how to use Zoom, and she’s been leading that class via Zoom ever since. I could hug her for keeping that class going.

Not now, though. Sigh.

Writers in two other classes I lead generously offered to stand in and lead classes via Zoom for me during COVID, too. Then Michael Graff (last week’s guest blogger) and his classmate Hugh Brodke lobbied to have me lead a trial Zoom class for Village Chicago. The trial class would be a good way to determine if it’s possible for people who are blind to teach using Zoom, they said. Writers could sign up to see if they’d like Zooming enough to commit to a six-week session.

I passed the audition.

Months later, I am leading three classes a week from home via Zoom. How does a person who can’t see manage to give writing prompts, interact with the writers, field questions, and keep tabs on who is (and isn’t) paying attention? Here’s how:

• Zoom has a dedicated accessibility team. Thanks to the efforts of people on that accessibility team, Zoom services are compatible with the standard screenreaders I use: VoiceOver on my iPhone, and JAWS on my PC
• When each writer arrives at the meeting, JAWS barks out their name in my headphone, a la “Alfred E. Newman has joined the meeting,” which allows me to keep track of who hasn’t arrived yet.
• Ditto when people sneak out early, as in “Alfred E. Newman has left the meeting.”
• I use keyboard shortcuts to mute and unmute myself.
• Most writers were in class when we were meeting in person, so I am familiar with — and can identify them by — their voices.
• Writers I have never met in person email their essays my way for editing before class, going over their written work ahead of time gives me an idea of who they are, and I’m learning to match their speaking voice with their writing voice.
• Limiting the essays to 500 words helps class, ahem, zoom by.
• Participants are far less likely to get bored or restless or make unnecessary noise when class zooms by like that.
• The high-quality headphones I use allow me to hear each writer clearly as they read their essays.
• The microphone attached to those headphones is high-quality, too, so everyone can hear me.
• Writers in my classes are not shy about telling me to raise or lower my screen so they can see my entire face rather than only my chin or forehead.

But if you want to know the real reason I’ve been successful leading Zoom classes, it’s this: a writer in each Zoom memoir class I lead volunteers to act as host and moderator. They set up the Zoom class, they know how to mute everyone in class while simultaneously unmuting the writer who is reading their piece, and can contact me in-between classes to rat out anyone who was taking a catnap or filing their nails or reading the paper or watching TV while a fellow writer was reading their essay. Writers in my Zoom classes: consider yourselves warned!

So a huge thank you to my hosts and moderators: Ellen Schweri, Regan Burke, and Michael Graff. I couldn’t do it without you. Zoom is working, yes, but I do look forward to sharing our stories in person again. And to that hug with Sharon, too.

First, apologies for the absence last week. To be honest, stuff got to me.

Second: The stuff.

Beth and I have faced a lotta stuff. What distinguished us early in our lives is that we experienced medical stuff pretty early in our lives. We did not have contemporaries who grasped it. But we were young. Resilient.

Now, it’s like the Doors song: “No One Here Gets Out Alive.” Or without a health crisis. And man, it’s hard watching.

We’ve had two friends diagnosed with serious forms of cancer during this COVID thing. And a relative who also entered the hospital for less dramatic, but trying, circumstances.. We’ve reached the point where there  are now visiting hours, once a patient is admitted to a room, but early on there was not. And in the ER, people are still their own. You watch them march off with a stranger.

A friend lost a mother in assisted living and hadn’t been able to spend quality time for months. A friend has a father in assisted living and sees the father through glass. We have not seen our son Gus since February.

These policies that keep us apart, I’m certain, are wise.

These people, who act irresponsibly about masks and the like, are not.

Yesterday, August 28, was the 57th anniversary of The historic March on Washington, where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech. Today’s Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger Rita Sussman was there that day, and she generously agreed to let us publish her memories of that historic event.

by Rita Sussman

A few months after I’d graduated from Cornell, my friends and I took the train from New York City to march with thousands of others through Washington streets. Heady with empowerment, we urged bystanders along the way to join us in this historic crusade.

Dangling our feet in the cool of the Reflecting Pool at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, we were flush with the excitement of merging our individual selves in the ocean of bodies sprawled on the mall. I strained to hear the voices of amplified civil rights activists, while laughter and conversation — even some guitar music — threatened to drown out words of incitement and inspiration.

Masses of people extended far beyond the few small spaces we occupied. There was constant movement within the throng, greetings bubbled among comrades unexpectedly reunited, couples leaned against each other, and friends lounged on laps. Alongside demonstrators from all over the country, I was saturated with this moment’s importance and the impressive force for change we represented.

In the heat of that August afternoon, a hush settled as Dr. King took the podium, beginning his speech with a reference to the Emancipation Proclamation:”One hundred years later, the Negro still is not free.” Towards the end of his speech, prompted by Mahalia Jackson’s cry: “Tell them about the dream, Martin!”[Dr. King veered away from his prepared notes to describe his dreams of freedom and equality. The “I have a dream” part mesmerized his listeners.

In 1960, when I was a college freshman, I had ridiculed President Kennedy’s ”My fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country” inaugural address. Sitting by the Reflecting Pool three years later in 1963, my friends and I scoffed at King’s stentorian delivery and dismissed the idealism which inspired it. Not having the benefit of historical hindsight or schooling in public oratory, we were singularly unimpressed. We’d heard words like that before, promising a new birth of freedom even though Negroes were being beaten and discriminated against and still were segregated throughout the South.

Fifty-seven years later, I am tolerant of young progressive activists just embarking on their political journey, not yet comprehending the full scope of a nation’s political landscape. I remember my dismissive attitude towards Kennedy and King and the years I voted for Dick Gregory (rather than the “apologist” Hubert Humphrey who ran against Richard Nixon) and for the candidate affiliated with the Socialist Workers Party — all in order to register my disaffection with mainstream politicians. Like me, a 21-year-old college graduate who thought society needed to be restructured rather than reformed, some young people today think deciding not to vote — even if it contributes to a Trump electoral victory — is worth it. Better that than cast their ballot for Joe Biden, a middle-of-the-road liberal who would “sell out“ their radical agenda for true change in this country.

Looking back on King’s speech, much has changed for Black Americans. His dream of full equality in a just society, however, is still that: a dream. Could we, the young people of yesterday and protesters of today be right? Gradual reform is not enough!

Todays guest blogger, Michael Graff, and their dog Lana.

Back in march I wrote a blog post explaining why online memoir-writing classes wouldn’t work for me. Five months later, I’m leading three classes a week via Zoom.

What happened? I learned to accept help from writers who were offering to help make it work.

Sharon kindly volunteered to lead the Wednesday “Me, Myself & I” class virtually, and a writer in each of the other three classes stepped up to handle Zoom details while I teach from home. Today’s guest blogger, Michael Graff, is one of those generous souls. He hosts and moderates Zoom for the weekly class I lead for Village Chicago, and his encouraging words early on helped build my confidence. Here he is with his take on Zoom:

by Michael Graff

For several years I’ve taken classes at Northwestern’s Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, or “OLLI.” One class I participate in is a political discussion group. This spring, just after our semester’s first class, word came out that all OLLI programs were indefinitely cancelled.

It made sense. The entire world was shutting down. All the activities I participated in and places I frequently visited were closed. I was profoundly disappointed.

My wife and I had just begun adjusting our lives to social distancing when I received my first invitation for a Zoom chat. I’d never heard of Zoom before, but my wife had. She’d attended a class through the vehicle.

Suddenly, I was using Zoom a lot. I met with friends, family, and my condominium association on Zoom. A friend from my OLLI class texted to ask if I wanted to join a weekly Zoom chat with other class members. I did, and at that meeting someone raised a question: Why doesn’t Northwestern temporarily reestablish class via Zoom?

The initial response was that it would never work. Undaunted, our groups moderators scheduled a practice session to give it a try. The idea spread throughout OLLI, and within a couple of weeks many of the Northwestern OLLI classes were up and running on Zoom.

At about that time, I learned that The Village Chicago suspended all classes. Our upcoming series of memoir classes would not meet. I suggested to Beth that we hold a Zoom reunion with our group. Beth was skeptical. Then I contacted classmate Hugh Brodkey, and between the three of us we proposed trying a Zoom gathering to see if enough people had an interest. After that, Beth and The Village decided to re-establish our memoir class on Zoom. So far we’ve completed two six-week sessions since the pandemic began.

Meanwhile, when my Socially Distant Olli class neared its end, one of my group’s moderators asked class members to express our feelings about online learning and how Zoom had affected us. I emailed my assessment of Zoom:

Dear………

I’m impressed how well our class adapted to Zoom. In fact people are more cooperative and more respectful in tone to one another because we’re all making sure that each of us can be heard. On the other hand, I miss some of the animated discussion and occasional bickering that bubbles up, but there are certainly fewer fist fights.

However, the day I led our group in a discussion about prison reform, I felt awkward addressing my laptop instead of live people. Several times I lost my place and train of thought. I knew that I’d have done a better job live, but I’m learning and I’ll do better next time.

Zoom makes it easy to come to class, but I miss my routine of riding my bike or taking the bus to Northwestern’s downtown campus, running an errand, stopping to have lunch before class, or simply stopping at OLLI’s cafe to pick up coffee or a snack.

But I’m a social person, so most of all, I miss the time before and after class when we all visit with each other.

This past semester, we lost one of our dear classmates. She was a lot older than I am, but often she sat near me and we’d talk before class began. Her obituary revealed she’d lied to me about her age last fall when she told me it was her 90th birthday.

She was 95!

This woman was such an animated person, I’d have believed her if she’d claimed she was eighty five or younger. I appreciated her sharp wit, the deep depth of her intelligence, and her lifetime of experiences. I’m grateful to have had that chance personally to know her. Had I only known this woman through the lens of Zoom I wouldn’t have had that opportunity. It would have been my loss.

Zoom, along with other venues, has brought a lot of us back together again, but it’s not perfect nor is it the complete package. I’m glad we’re continuing our group on Zoom. I look forward to the day when we can meet again in person, but I appreciate having what we have.

Back to me: stay tuned for Part Two next week, when I describe Zoom from a Blind Teacher’s Point of View.

I am pleased to introduce Hank Bliss as our featured Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. I’d intended to wait until November to publish the essay he wrote for my “When I Ceased to be a Child” prompt, but after the Democratic National Convention this past week I decided now is the time.

by Hank Bliss

LBJ being sworn in on Air Force One, November 22, 1963.

I was in my second year of graduate school at MIT and was leaving a classroom around noon at the end of a lecture. In the hallway someone exclaimed that the president had just been shot. It took a few moments before I realized that she was talking about the President of the United States. The rest of that day and the ensuing Thanksgiving weekend are a blurry mix of walking around in a daze, talking to people I knew and didn’t know, and simply trying to make sense of what had happened.

Most people appeared to be genuinely in shock but some seemed not to care, and a few even seemed happy. The latter was a surprise which remains with me to this day.

Before that rifle shot I was (I think) a typical kid. Where I lived, the concept of domestic vs international didn’t exist. World War II was over by the time I was 6. Korea was a matter of checking the front page of the Chicago Tribune to see the shrinking Pusan Perimeter before turning to the sports section for the real results of interest. I did bicycle around Europe with three friends between high school and college but to me it still seemed like visiting someplace close to Chicago, except for one thing: it took longer to get there.

I came of voting age in college and my parents sent me literature claiming a vote for Kennedy was a vote for the Pope. I voted for Nixon, giving little thought about the significance of voting.

At the time of Kennedy’s assassination, most Americans, including me, had never heard of Vietnam and had no idea where it was. That weekend marked my emergence as an adult. It was not an “aha” moment. I did not purchase a T-shirt advertising it. In fact, it wasn’t until this weeks prompt that I thought about it in these terms. But I began to be interested in what was going on in the world.

Vietnam became a household word and I eventually became anti-war. I had a commitment to serve in the military — and maybe go to “Nam” — and I determined that one must honor a commitment. As much as we may disapprove of the conduct and actions of our elected President, we mustn’t applaud his (or her) removal by other than constitutionally allowed means.

After all this, I better understood my discomfort with members of my own family who cheered at the death of Eleanor Roosevelt in 1962. And so the story and progression grew. I am an adult and a better person today, in part, because of that terrible Thanksgiving weekend in 1963.