Eulogy
Charlie Adair
(1942-2000)
Delivered March 21, 2000
There are no words to describe our
loss. Some of you I can only
acknowledge, having no way to know how your loss touches you.
--Charlie's daughter and sons, his
grandchildren and his family.
--his students, both past and
present.
--his journalistic colleagues in
Buffalo, in Western NY and across the country.
--his colleagues at Buffalo State.
--his friends.
--and Cathy.
Today we can reach into our
experiences and memories and draw a picture of the life we come here to
honor--a life that touched us in ways that compel us so, that we are drawn to
be here to remember. We have come
together to seek comfort in each other’s company, and to take some measure of
what Charlie's life has meant to each of us.
If our roles were reversed,
Charlie would've stood here and said, "Damn it, Ron, this is the dumbest
trick you've ever pulled." Charlie
could be short on patience and high on indignation. The writer Camus described Charlie well when he told his version
of the Myth of Sisyphus. Sisyphus, so
the story goes, was condemned to spend eternity rolling a rock up a hill. When he got to the top of the hill, he
always lost control of the rock and watched it roll down the hill. Then he walked down the hill to roll it up
again. And again. Camus said, "Isn't this what life is
like?" Camus' insight was that
Sisyphus retains his sanity and brings meaning to his life by cursing the
cretins and jerks who put him there. We
all understand that Charlie found a lot of meaning that way too.
When Charlie came into a room he
filled it with his presence. But truly
he didn't come into a room so much as he charged into a room. Wherever he showed up, he was full of excitement,
full of opinions, full of indignation and ideas.
For people who didn't know him,
this appearance was frightening. If
Charlie had arrived because he had lost patience with someone, this appearance
could be terrifying. But that was
because they didn't know him, didn't know how gentle he was.
When all of Charlie came into the
room, he took up a lot of space; and when he made noise, he made a lot of
noise.
Charlie made noise a lot because
he was excited so much. Somehow he had
missed the fashion of being laid back and cool as an indication of
sophistication.
He read books constantly and had
newspapers at hand always. He had that
great mind that never fills up and never forgets--a "garbage can
mind," we came to call it. And
that mind was always busy and always excited about new things learned and
realized, new connections made. When
you went into his office--or when he came into yours because he couldn't wait
for you to come into his--you heard all about his latest excitement.
One special thing a college can do
for its students is to show them a place unlike any they have experienced
before or may after, a place where ideas are taken seriously; a place where
ideas have consequences, where opinions are valued only when they're
defensible. A place where ideas are alive. No one could model this better than
Charlie. No student could doubt that
Charlie carved his world out of his intelligence.
When talking to Charlie,
especially when arguing with Charlie, there were two phrases you heard over and
over:
the first--"There's something
you don't understand"
and the second--"Get over
it."
The two parts go together. For the first, Charlie was willing to
educate you to see what he saw, sometimes against your will. And the second completed it: If you have the courage of your convictions,
you'll follow with action and dedication what you know to be right. The second is harder than the first. Charlie also modeled for all of us, not just
his students, the guts to go his own way when he believed he was right.
Some people thought he was
stubborn. He was. But if you asked him why he was so stubborn,
you were told, "There's something you don't understand..."
Charlie's love of language and his
talent made him a fine writer and editor.
There's something special about being in the presence of talent--you
know it unambiguously. For example, I'd
work on a piece until it felt articulate, clean and tight and I'd give it to
Charlie; and then he showed me things I never could've seen by myself. If you’ve never seen a good editor working,
there's this nifty image of the editor floating above the page, taking it all
in as one piece, and then swooping down to clean, to clarify, to unify, to
harmonize.
But, more than anything else, he
was a reporter. And it was that ken
that made him such a great teacher of students generally, of journalists
especially. To be honest, academics can
get very prissy about their research and they have lots of time, typically, to
check out every detail and lovingly caress every word.
Reporters, Charlie reminded
everyone, have deadlines. He taught his
students the tools to get the information they needed, and then forced them to
write to a deadline. Students often resented
the pressure. Charlie came back at them: “I'm your editor and that's your deadline. You have a problem? Get over it.”
His final exams were
legendary. One interviewing class was
merely given phone numbers to call for interviews. The students discovered people who were blind, who had AIDS, who
were in great distress--all assembled by Charlie for the exercise.
The student evaluations of his
classes comprised enormous variety.
Charlie loved to quote the very nastiest of them. And then there were other
evaluations--evaluations that came from former students writing back as they
practiced their professions. These
letters began with the same profanities as the former and then thanked and
praised him for all he done for them; they noted especially the abuse he had
subjected them to--They said, "You weren't mean enough, the real world is
a cruel place." These letters
brought the biggest smiles, and obviously the most satisfaction.
Did I mention his smile? I have been assured by any number of women
that it was the sexiest smile on the planet.
In these politically correct times, it is not proper to say so, but
In all the years I've known him, in
all the hours we've talked, I have never heard him make any stereotypical
reference at all. About anyone. I found him totally without prejudice of any
kind--except for his intolerance of intentional stupidity or an unwillingness
to work as hard as he did.
In his life, Charlie accomplished
a lot. He touched many lives--ours
among them--and many are better for having known him. There's a rule that says if you have talent and dedicate that
talent with hard work, good things will come.
They did. Charlie was a
respected journalist and then a respected teacher.
He was a good friend, kind and
generous and giving. In the years I
knew him we shared endless confidences and confessions. I respect him
enormously.
Some thought Charlie was merely
stubborn and needed to be right all the time.
He didn't need to be right, although he didn't mind being
right. All he needed was the confidence
that he had done his job well. All he
asked of others was that they have this same respect for themselves.
Charlie Adair came right at you
and didn't blink. He came with the
confidence of someone who knew why they believed what they believed, of
someone who freely challenged everyone to know as much and as well. He intimidated many; he angered a few.
The shock of his passing is that
he was so alive, so full of the obvious enjoyment of life. That he should have died young is a
particular insult of fate. There is a
certain justice that he died suddenly, not diminished by age or disease--that
virtually every moment of his life was vibrant and full.
And now that he's gone there is a
large empty place that he used to fill in our lives. And we miss him.