Childhood Hunger

Bill Shore’s Letters

Letter From Baton Rouge: Old Speech, New Feeling

April 2003

Dear Friend,

Turning off of Interstate 10 and into the One Hundred Oaks neighborhood of Baton Rouge, is like turning into a place where time is measured not by familiar digital devices but by the graceful hundred-year-old oaks whose massive branches spread protectively over homes, lawns, and the memory of a lifestyle all but gone. This is where my cottage sits, near the large man-made lakes they say Huey Long built next to LSU so that no competing university could encroach upon his creation. At the back of the cottage a screened-in porch with a beat-up old couch, perfect for reading or writing, is even more perfect for napping. Either southern hospitality is all it's cracked up to be, or everyone is nice because they know I work closely with that popular hometown girl, Amy Zganjar. From boiled peanuts to bread pudding, I am treated to local delicacies throughout my visit. Each time I open the front door of the cottage; another bag of treats has been left by my hosts.

Each year the Baton Rouge Area Foundation sponsors the Marcia Kaplan Kantrow lecture, named for their first program officer who died young from cancer. I didn't know her but I've read about her, and the foundation staff speaks with real emotion of her spirit and commitment to community. Her family gathers for this annual lecture, traveling from other parts of the state and as far away as Chicago. On this night I meet her parents; her mother, whose white hair is offset by a regal purple dress, and her father, whose eyes beam through large rimmed glasses. As they walk arm in arm, slowly down the side aisle, leaning on and into each other, it is difficult to tell who is supporting who. Also present are her brother, sister, daughter and even grandson.
The lecture is held on LSU's campus at the Lod Cook Alumni Center with its floor-to-ceiling windows on one side and a large arched view of the lake. The podium is flat on the floor, instead of elevated, making it easy to come out from behind it and closer to the audience. The standing-room only crowd has less to do with my presence and more to do with last year's catastrophe: fewer than 25 people showed up and the organizer was fired on the spot. Whoever organized it this year wasn't taking chances.

I don't know if you can teach old dogs new tricks, but old speakers can feel new emotions. I gave the speech I often give, about community wealth and cathedral building. I didn't say anything I hadn't said a hundred times before. I talked about how each of us have as great a role as our military in keeping America united and strong, about how nonprofits are worth more than they think they are. I described the success of nonprofits that have created wealth for themselves.

But despite saying what I always say, it was not an evening like any other. As I neared the end of my remarks and started to talk about the ancient cathedral builders who did not live to see their work finished, Marcia Kaplan Kantrow's parents came into focus in the first row. The central truth of the evening became obvious. A family had gathered, and a community had assembled, in memory of a woman they knew, not a distant mythic figure, but a real woman they loved and remembered for the way in which she labored with energy and passion yet was denied the gratification of seeing the results of her efforts. Stepping from behind the podium while I spoke, I took a few steps toward the first row seats of Marcia Kantrow's parents, acknowledging her and gesturing toward them with out-stretched hand.

Literary metaphor sprang to life. Without taking her eyes off of me, the elderly Mrs. Kantrow, reached over and gripped the forearm of her husband. It was a swift motion, synchronized to my words, charged with intimacy. I don't pretend to understand for even one moment the swirl of emotions that engulf a parent who has buried a child, or the test of faith and search for meaning one endures. Five years or even five lifetimes might not be enough to come to terms with it. But I thought I saw in the grip of that mother's fingers on her husband's sleeve, a fleeting respite of peace, a flicker of affirmation that Marcia's brief life and eternal aftermath made sense. It was something to clutch at and not let go.

After the speech, Marcia's mother was one of many to walk up and thank me. But I was the grateful one. The Kantrow family reminded me of something we too easily forget: people are strong. They can endure the unimaginable. They can persist beyond all reason. They can toil without resource or recognition. So long as they have hope. It need not be hope they will prevail. Only that their efforts matter, that their caring will amount to something, that they can make a difference.

Of all we seek to impart to those we deign to serve; money, laws, grants, programs, policies, conferences, technical assistance; all are necessary and valuable, but hope alone is indispensable. The hunger for hope is the greatest hunger of all.

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