For several years I have given up social media (Essentially Facebook..i have no idea what TicTok is, don't know the password to my twitter or instagram accounts, and don't have a SnapChat account) during Lent; a couple of years ago I decided to, with few exceptions, to give up social media completely. Social media is neither good nor bad, but that which I choose to contribute and to consume to a degree defines ME. Quite simply, I found that my consumption too often included things from people of all political thoughts who simply wanted to complain. Rarely did they offer meaningful commentary or contributions..just consumed my time (and too often my thoughts). I felt it, for me, not to be a diversion, but a low-grade cancer of my time and thoughts. This may not be true for you and I am certainly not in a position to judge. There is an evolving body of literature on the damaging effects of social media and our digital lifestyle; for those of you so inclined, I would highly recommend Digital Minimalism: Choosing a focused life in a Noisy Wold (authored by Cal Newton). During the recent crisis, I decided to venture back into the proverbial pool, or more correctly, the alligator-infested swamp. After a few days, I even entered into a couple of short-term attempts at having a discussion with persons with whom I disagreed; I was quickly reminded why I left this medium (and I will not recount the specifics as so doing would serve no purpose). But this is a unique time, and as I once again enter into near social media silence (which I am sure will make many happy, you're welcome), I did want to share a slightly modified letter containing my thoughts, my fears, and my hopes. I sent this to a friend, Eastern Kentucky University President Dr. David McFaddin, a few days ago. Within it are several stories, some light, some serious. And within it are my thoughts on where we are and what we must now do. I apologize not the least for its length...if it is too long, boring, or offends you, simply scroll on to the next posting about someones dog or need for a good breakfast wine. I do reference my father's commencement address at EKU..as thoughtful and true today as it was when delivered 27 years ago; if interested, a copy is found on my website (www.focusforforty.com). Use your time wisely; as this virus has taught us all what the Apostle Paul wrote 2 millennia ago.."Now brothers and sisters, about times and dates we do not need to write to you, for you know very well that the day for the Lord will come like a thief in the night." Tell those you love that you love them, wash your hands, wash your souls, and pray that men and women of all creeds, beliefs, and callings will come together to fight this enemy. Do your part, as there are no small or insignificant roles in life. Our words and deeds can heal or harm, can unify or divide, can inspire or crush. Choose to be a positive influence on those around you. Each of us has invaluable gifts, for each of our lives is an unparalleled gift from Him. and with that, my letter:
Good morning President McFaddin; I hope this email finds you well. I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you and the incredibly difficult tasks that you have had to face in your first few months at the helm of EKU. By all accounts, you are doing an amazing job. Please feel free to reach out to me if there is anything I can do for you. Savannah is an emerging front-line of this war, and it is just that, a war. As an emergency medicine physician I have seen a lot of things over the past 30 years, but this is likely nothing else. Healthy middle-aged adults like myself work one day; cold symptoms a few days later, tell their family they are going to the hospital to get checked, and then never return..no more hugs, no conversations, just death. I saw many more patients with Covid-19 this week than last, and we are still probably two or three weeks from the peak; I hope and pray our efforts to "flatten the curve" have been successful. I am proud to join tens of thousands across the country and even more around the world in this fight, but I would be dishonest if I told you that this wasn't truly frightening. Although I was a resident in the 1980s during the early years of the HIV epidemic (and the resultant panic, fear, and ignorance of the disease transmission and risk to health care workers), prior to Covid19, I never really thought much about my personal safety or danger at work. This has changed; as I prepare for my each ER shift, I have, for the first time, a miniscule understanding of the fear that my uncle Gooch undoubtedly felt as he drove a landing craft onto Omaha Beach on D-day or my Uncle Lon did as he fought on the volcanic mass of Iowa Jima. Though I have a good idea where the enemy is and am fully gowned in PPE, this experience has provided a mere modicum of understanding of the dangers that befall not only our warriors, but our police, our emergency medical personnel, and our fire-fighters (among others) on a daily basis., and But on with the point of this letter.
>
> April 3rd and April 4th are difficult days for me; please indulge me as I recount why. You are not old enough to remember April 3, 1974, but I'm sure your parents do. It began like any other spring day in Kentucky...bright skies, blustery winds, and as I walked up the hill to Model, I thought primarily (okay, exclusively) about the promise of an afternoon tennis match with Henry Clay. Not quite 14, I had managed to make my way to the upper part of the lineup for Model tennis, and due to some other conflicts, was schedule to play #1 singles. I was probably 5 foot nothing and weighed about 90 pounds...my opponent, a senior, was simply Goliath...one of the top 18 year-old players in Lexington. The match was played on the old "Coliseum" courts (long gone, but they were snuggled between the east side of Alumni Coliseum and the intramural/baseball field. On a normal day these courts were a wind-tunnel (and as a tennis player you can appreciate the foolish design...six courts side-by side...a ball from court one could go unimpeded to court six (and in this wind tunnel it happened a lot)), but this day was ridiculous. To say things weren't going well for me in the match was an understatement...I was ill-equipped to play this giant. Half-way or so through the beating I looked up and saw my father talking to the coach. This was a bit unusual, as Dad almost never made it for singles. My mother never missed a match, even through college, but Dad obviously couldn't put the business of the University on hold to watch his son (or one of his three daughters) compete. Matches on the now defunct Martin Hall courts were easier (he really like my Little League games at the park...he could almost watch from his office), but he made it to the match. I recall smiling and then went on about receiving my beating. A few minutes later I glanced back at Dad and saw that his conversation with my coach had obviously intensified and my coach was getting what my sisters and I referred to as the "over the glasses" look...Dad would pull his glasses down a bit and look over the top of them into your soul. It was an intense look and ALWAYS signaled the end of any discussion. Moments later, the coach came on the courts and cancelled the match. More specifically, he came out and said Dad cancelled the match. When asked why, he murmured something about "Dr. Rowlett doesn't like the way the skies look and he is sending us all home...ask him."
>
> I could pivot this story at this point and tell you how my Dad had vision about the coming storms and opportunities in education, and how his decisive actions when he saw storm clouds and opportunities led to the creation of what are now the Colleges of Nursing and Law Enforcement, but that is not where I'm going with this. This is simply about a storm and recognizing its impending arrival in advance of others.
>
> Dad grew up in north Texas; a child of the depression, the youngest of 5 boys in a home smaller than my kitchen and living room. By necessity, he spent a lot of time outside and was always fascinated by the weather. He learned, like mariners of old, to read the clouds and anticipate the coming storm. And that is what happened 46 years ago today. Dad looked at the clouds, queried his memory bank of storms as a child, and decided long before the national weather service that this was a problem. In 1974 there was no Weather Channel, no cell phones, no internet...just the morning newspaper and the 6 and 11 pm news broadcasts. Dad dispersed the players and I remember the walk home...short but confusing. By the time we got home, news reports were coming in from Louisville about the destruction of Cherokee park by a strong series of tornadoes...headed our way. Shortly thereafter, Dad told us to get our school books, Mom made sandwiches, and we dutifully followed him back to the Coates building. And it was within the fortress of the administration building that our family, including my sister who would have been a junior at EKU, literally weathered the storm. We had a picnic, did our homework, and waited. In time, the storm with all of its fury hit...13 Madison Countians would perish that night. Mom watched over each of us, kept us calm (I now know how frightened she must have been), and we gradually and intermittently slept as the power too could not stay awake. And it was from my recumbent position, looking up at the massive desk behind which sat the smartest man I have ever known, that I saw what EKU was all about. By his desk was a large cart stacked with diplomas. Literally by candlelight, Dad, his family safely ensconced asleep in the concrete walls of his office (the glass windows could have been a problem, but I'll give him a pass on that), began hand signing the diplomas. His signature adorns tens of thousands of EKU diplomas, including yours and mine. Dad fought bitterly (and eventually lost) the movement to stop actual hand- signing the diplomas in lieu of electronic signatures. His words on this were clear "If a student can come to school here for years, pay tuition, pass classes, and qualify for graduation, the least I can do is sign the diploma." Sometime in the early 80s the University abandoned this; it was a mistake that I would love to see corrected, but that is yet again another subject. We awoke safely on the morning of April 4th, diplomas signed, Dad drinking coffee from a vintage Stanley thermos, and a town decimated. In a single day and night, visions for a young teen of dreams achieved, dreams deferred, and dreams destroyed.
>
> Jump forward to EKU graduation 1993. My father was the commencement speaker; President Whitlock (for whom we must also pray that he and his bride are safe in this storm) (addendum: Dr. and Mrs. Whitlock are safely back in the United States) presented him with his degree, making Dad the final member of his family to get an EKU degree (he met mom there in the early 50s..she was actually his student (pretty sure that is not allowed any more) and all of their 4 children graduated from EKU). Dad then delivered the defining address of his storied career; a copy of it is attached to this email. He summarized his faith in God, in EKU, in Education, in opportunity, and in EKU's commitment to being a school of opportunity. He defined EKU's mission to be true to the citizens of Appalachia and to not seek to be a watered-down version of UK. And as you will see about midway through on page 6, he then started what may be his defining legacy at EKU. He asked of the assembled graduates that if they were to soon become the first person in their family to graduate from college (as were he and my mother), that they stand. I vividly remember the surge of pride that rushed through my veins as young and occasionally not-so-young men and women across the field proudly stood as their families cheered. THAT defines our university. It is my understanding that this tradition, replete with similar pride, has continued at EKU graduation for nearly 30 years. In my humble opinion, we need to be sure that these 2020 first generation graduates, get this moment. Obviously it is equally important for all of the graduates to have "their moment," regardless of generational heritage. Although an assembled graduation will not be possible in May, it is my hope that many of these graduates will choose to proudly stand in a future graduation (August or December), as it is within that moment that one truly understands what and who we are at EKU. My father's mentee and one of my treasured mentors, Dr. Aaron Thompson, also a first-generation graduate and copied on this email, summed it up to me quite simply one afternoon "Without EKU, I would have been just another poor black kid from Clay County."
>
> And now for tomorrow, April 4, a day of equally intense emotions, as it will mark the 16th anniversary of my Father's passing. Fittingly, April 4, 2004 was Palm Sunday; the day celebrating Christ's entry into Jerusalem was the day my father entered heaven. And now, from that glorious heavenly spot, he no doubts sits with my mother, with Drs. Donovan, Martin, Powell, and Funderburk, and hosts of others and gazes upon EKU and smiles, knowing that the university to which they and so many others committed their time, talents, and treasure, is continuing to grow and thrive. EKU, the postbellum vision of a school to train elementary and secondary school teachers for Kentucky, has weathered many storms and will survive the Covid-19 crisis. I can state with great confidence that proud EKU faculty, staff, and graduates will continue to ensure that EKU remains a school of opportunity for the sons and daughters of not only Kentucky and the southeast, but now the nation and the world. We will rise to the challenge, as citizens of Kentucky, the USA, and the world. Colonels will work with Hilltoppers, Volunteers with Wildcats, and here in Georgia, a Bulldog might even work with a Gator (okay, that might be a stretch). The heroes of Brokaw's "Greatest Generation" rode in Jeeps, Bradleys, Higgins and flew P-38 lightnings, B-17 bombers; the heroes of this war will drive ambulances, delivery trucks, police cars, and the simple transportation that moves our "essential personnel" to and from work. Rifles will be replaced by video laryngoscopes, combat helmets by PPE and n-95, the Manhattan project morphed into the greatest collection of scientific minds, technology, and data-sharing in the history of the world. The world may have not seen a virus like this for sometime, but NO virus has ever seen a world like this. Churchill's infamous words, "Never in the field of human conscience was so much owed by so many to so few," failed to acknowledge the collected efforts of all those on the ground who worked and supported the men flying over and defending London. This victory will be won by everyone, and I mean everyone, doing his or her part. There are no small contributions; everyone's effort is paramount to this success
>
> April 3rd and April 4th are difficult days for me; please indulge me as I recount why. You are not old enough to remember April 3, 1974, but I'm sure your parents do. It began like any other spring day in Kentucky...bright skies, blustery winds, and as I walked up the hill to Model, I thought primarily (okay, exclusively) about the promise of an afternoon tennis match with Henry Clay. Not quite 14, I had managed to make my way to the upper part of the lineup for Model tennis, and due to some other conflicts, was schedule to play #1 singles. I was probably 5 foot nothing and weighed about 90 pounds...my opponent, a senior, was simply Goliath...one of the top 18 year-old players in Lexington. The match was played on the old "Coliseum" courts (long gone, but they were snuggled between the east side of Alumni Coliseum and the intramural/baseball field. On a normal day these courts were a wind-tunnel (and as a tennis player you can appreciate the foolish design...six courts side-by side...a ball from court one could go unimpeded to court six (and in this wind tunnel it happened a lot)), but this day was ridiculous. To say things weren't going well for me in the match was an understatement...I was ill-equipped to play this giant. Half-way or so through the beating I looked up and saw my father talking to the coach. This was a bit unusual, as Dad almost never made it for singles. My mother never missed a match, even through college, but Dad obviously couldn't put the business of the University on hold to watch his son (or one of his three daughters) compete. Matches on the now defunct Martin Hall courts were easier (he really like my Little League games at the park...he could almost watch from his office), but he made it to the match. I recall smiling and then went on about receiving my beating. A few minutes later I glanced back at Dad and saw that his conversation with my coach had obviously intensified and my coach was getting what my sisters and I referred to as the "over the glasses" look...Dad would pull his glasses down a bit and look over the top of them into your soul. It was an intense look and ALWAYS signaled the end of any discussion. Moments later, the coach came on the courts and cancelled the match. More specifically, he came out and said Dad cancelled the match. When asked why, he murmured something about "Dr. Rowlett doesn't like the way the skies look and he is sending us all home...ask him."
>
> I could pivot this story at this point and tell you how my Dad had vision about the coming storms and opportunities in education, and how his decisive actions when he saw storm clouds and opportunities led to the creation of what are now the Colleges of Nursing and Law Enforcement, but that is not where I'm going with this. This is simply about a storm and recognizing its impending arrival in advance of others.
>
> Dad grew up in north Texas; a child of the depression, the youngest of 5 boys in a home smaller than my kitchen and living room. By necessity, he spent a lot of time outside and was always fascinated by the weather. He learned, like mariners of old, to read the clouds and anticipate the coming storm. And that is what happened 46 years ago today. Dad looked at the clouds, queried his memory bank of storms as a child, and decided long before the national weather service that this was a problem. In 1974 there was no Weather Channel, no cell phones, no internet...just the morning newspaper and the 6 and 11 pm news broadcasts. Dad dispersed the players and I remember the walk home...short but confusing. By the time we got home, news reports were coming in from Louisville about the destruction of Cherokee park by a strong series of tornadoes...headed our way. Shortly thereafter, Dad told us to get our school books, Mom made sandwiches, and we dutifully followed him back to the Coates building. And it was within the fortress of the administration building that our family, including my sister who would have been a junior at EKU, literally weathered the storm. We had a picnic, did our homework, and waited. In time, the storm with all of its fury hit...13 Madison Countians would perish that night. Mom watched over each of us, kept us calm (I now know how frightened she must have been), and we gradually and intermittently slept as the power too could not stay awake. And it was from my recumbent position, looking up at the massive desk behind which sat the smartest man I have ever known, that I saw what EKU was all about. By his desk was a large cart stacked with diplomas. Literally by candlelight, Dad, his family safely ensconced asleep in the concrete walls of his office (the glass windows could have been a problem, but I'll give him a pass on that), began hand signing the diplomas. His signature adorns tens of thousands of EKU diplomas, including yours and mine. Dad fought bitterly (and eventually lost) the movement to stop actual hand- signing the diplomas in lieu of electronic signatures. His words on this were clear "If a student can come to school here for years, pay tuition, pass classes, and qualify for graduation, the least I can do is sign the diploma." Sometime in the early 80s the University abandoned this; it was a mistake that I would love to see corrected, but that is yet again another subject. We awoke safely on the morning of April 4th, diplomas signed, Dad drinking coffee from a vintage Stanley thermos, and a town decimated. In a single day and night, visions for a young teen of dreams achieved, dreams deferred, and dreams destroyed.
>
> Jump forward to EKU graduation 1993. My father was the commencement speaker; President Whitlock (for whom we must also pray that he and his bride are safe in this storm) (addendum: Dr. and Mrs. Whitlock are safely back in the United States) presented him with his degree, making Dad the final member of his family to get an EKU degree (he met mom there in the early 50s..she was actually his student (pretty sure that is not allowed any more) and all of their 4 children graduated from EKU). Dad then delivered the defining address of his storied career; a copy of it is attached to this email. He summarized his faith in God, in EKU, in Education, in opportunity, and in EKU's commitment to being a school of opportunity. He defined EKU's mission to be true to the citizens of Appalachia and to not seek to be a watered-down version of UK. And as you will see about midway through on page 6, he then started what may be his defining legacy at EKU. He asked of the assembled graduates that if they were to soon become the first person in their family to graduate from college (as were he and my mother), that they stand. I vividly remember the surge of pride that rushed through my veins as young and occasionally not-so-young men and women across the field proudly stood as their families cheered. THAT defines our university. It is my understanding that this tradition, replete with similar pride, has continued at EKU graduation for nearly 30 years. In my humble opinion, we need to be sure that these 2020 first generation graduates, get this moment. Obviously it is equally important for all of the graduates to have "their moment," regardless of generational heritage. Although an assembled graduation will not be possible in May, it is my hope that many of these graduates will choose to proudly stand in a future graduation (August or December), as it is within that moment that one truly understands what and who we are at EKU. My father's mentee and one of my treasured mentors, Dr. Aaron Thompson, also a first-generation graduate and copied on this email, summed it up to me quite simply one afternoon "Without EKU, I would have been just another poor black kid from Clay County."
>
> And now for tomorrow, April 4, a day of equally intense emotions, as it will mark the 16th anniversary of my Father's passing. Fittingly, April 4, 2004 was Palm Sunday; the day celebrating Christ's entry into Jerusalem was the day my father entered heaven. And now, from that glorious heavenly spot, he no doubts sits with my mother, with Drs. Donovan, Martin, Powell, and Funderburk, and hosts of others and gazes upon EKU and smiles, knowing that the university to which they and so many others committed their time, talents, and treasure, is continuing to grow and thrive. EKU, the postbellum vision of a school to train elementary and secondary school teachers for Kentucky, has weathered many storms and will survive the Covid-19 crisis. I can state with great confidence that proud EKU faculty, staff, and graduates will continue to ensure that EKU remains a school of opportunity for the sons and daughters of not only Kentucky and the southeast, but now the nation and the world. We will rise to the challenge, as citizens of Kentucky, the USA, and the world. Colonels will work with Hilltoppers, Volunteers with Wildcats, and here in Georgia, a Bulldog might even work with a Gator (okay, that might be a stretch). The heroes of Brokaw's "Greatest Generation" rode in Jeeps, Bradleys, Higgins and flew P-38 lightnings, B-17 bombers; the heroes of this war will drive ambulances, delivery trucks, police cars, and the simple transportation that moves our "essential personnel" to and from work. Rifles will be replaced by video laryngoscopes, combat helmets by PPE and n-95, the Manhattan project morphed into the greatest collection of scientific minds, technology, and data-sharing in the history of the world. The world may have not seen a virus like this for sometime, but NO virus has ever seen a world like this. Churchill's infamous words, "Never in the field of human conscience was so much owed by so many to so few," failed to acknowledge the collected efforts of all those on the ground who worked and supported the men flying over and defending London. This victory will be won by everyone, and I mean everyone, doing his or her part. There are no small contributions; everyone's effort is paramount to this success
In an era of zoom meetings, I would far prefer to have written this letter by hand. I have many favorite pens, including one gifted to me by my sister at the time of her son's wedding; it is made from the wood of one of the great Oaks that lined the yard of our Richmond home. More probably I would have opted for an old-school fountain pen of which I have many; I love the beauty and the feel of writing with ink. For our anniversary this year my wife gave me an ornate ink well, probably of the same era as EKU. Were I using that, the paper would be stained with the tears which now unashamedly freely flow as I bring this to a close--tears of pride in my parents, my home and our university; tears of longing for those with whom I can only recall through fading pictures and memories; tears for hands which can no longer be held or hugs not given or received; tears of sadness for those who have lost opportunities financial security, jobs, and yes lives due to Covid-19; tears of solace for those who died alone because of the forced isolation of this monster, tears of fear, for there is a part of me that is truly afraid, not only for myself and my co-workers, but for all of those engaged on the multiple fronts of this war--this fear is attenuated, albeit not completely by my daily reading of the 23rd Psalm before I exit my truck to start my shift (my sister Virginia once told me that Dad read the 23rd Psalm together with his mother just before he left for WW2, fully well knowing that inasmuch as his mother had an aggressive breast cancer, he would never again see her alive); and the powerful tears of hope, knowing that across the globe millions, including thousands of EKU graduates, are working together to ensure that man's humanity will emerge victorious over man's frequent inhumanity and this unseen monster.
In this moment, I could not possibly care less about a person's politics or persuasions. I care about their commitment to working together to defeat this enemy. All of us, me, you, our politicians, our President, our international partners, are flawed. Now is not the time to focus on that. Now is the time to shepherd our resources, our resolve, our commitment. Now is the time to focus the energies and talents of a country that has done more good for more people in its brief history than any country in the history of Earth. This is our moment, and the sons and daughters of Eastern will join those of schools across the south, the country, and the world to face this mammoth obstacle. For make no mistake, this is a moment where we will define ourselves not only now, but for future . Through this we will together endure, survive, and once again thrive. And when we do, and we will, I pray, put aside our differences and respect the gift, the fragility, and the Giver of life. I pray that we can learn to disagree without being disagreeable; that rather than the incessant focusing on the few percent of items upon which we disagree, we can embrace the 90% of the issues on which most agree. We need to wash not only our hands but also our souls. We need to talk with friends and colleagues, share our thoughts, our fears, our tears, and our love. We need to have not only the easy conversations, but the difficult ones as well. We need to exchange the partisan pettiness for collective preparedness. And as we shepherd our resources and energies to combat this enemy, we must thank and remember our Shepherd who paid the ultimate price and in whom we find our ultimate peace and victory.
> May God bless you, yours, and our EKU during these difficult times.
> May God bless you, yours, and our EKU during these difficult times.
John D. Rowlett, MD, FAAP, FACP
EKU Class of 1982
