As the year 1776 unfolded, American colonists were confronted with the question of independence. Some favored it, others rejected it, and a third group remained uncommitted.

This political question caused hard feelings between colonial Americans. More and more colonists were forced to take sides in this bitter conflict. Some chose. Some refused. Battle lines were drawn. The question divided families, communities, churches, schools, and local governments.

Those who spoke out in favor of separating from England’s political system—some 30 to 40% of the population—took the name of Patriot, even though they were rebels, committing treason against King George III and Parliament, and if caught, tried by jury, and found guilty, were subject to execution.

Ben Franklin said, “We must all hang together, or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately.” He understood fully the possible tragic consequences when he signed the Declaration of Independence.

Then, those who remained faithful to the British government—some 20% of the colonies’ existing population—took the name of Loyalist, or Royalist, or Tory.

Thus, some 40 to 50% of the remaining population considered themselves neutral, uncommitted. “Some neutrals did not much care who governed them, so long as the government left them alone. Others did want to be on a losing side. It was a great risk to stake out a position.”

A recent arrival from England, known only as “an Englishman,” published a pamphlet that he entitled Common Sense on January 10, 1776, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Readers quickly learned that the author’s name was Thomas Paine. His pamphlet sold 150,000 copies, a run-away best-seller.

In it, he argued for independence, and based his argument upon two ideas.

First, that “the nature of the British monarchy and constitution was so corrupt that the only solution was immediate and complete separation.” And, second, that “the resources of the colonies were sufficient to defeat any military force that the British might dispatch to the colonies.”

Many colonists read his words and agreed. They dared to hope for independence, and in their ability to govern themselves. Others were appalled. Whereas Paine saw a quick and easy military victory, others saw “rivers of blood,” and where he saw democracy, others saw a mob’s chaotic rule.

For two months no one dared to step forth and argue for loyalty to the British government.

Then, on March 13, 1776, a short pamphlet entitled Plain Truth appeared in bookstores. Its author identified himself as “Candidus.” In recent years, historians have determined that the author was James Chalmers, a wealthy landowner then in Kent County, Maryland, on the eastern shore.

In Plain Truth, Chalmers said of Paine, “His first indecent attack is against the English constitution, which, with all of its imperfections is, and ever will be, the pride and envy of mankind.”

Second, Chalmers did not believe that “the colonists could ever defeat Great Britain’s might army and navy. The English outgunned the colonists’ rag-tag militia. Alone, they could not win. They must join forces with a great European power, like France or Spain, in order to gain even a slim chance.”

Then, on April 17, 1776, “Candidus” published a second pamphlet, Additions to Plain Truth, and in it, Chalmers warned the colonists of the high price of an ugly war.

“Should this war prove unsuccessful on the part of Great Britain, we cannot imagine that it will terminate, e’er many bloody fields are lost and won; I say, it will not end in less than ten years.”

Actually, the war for independence spread across six and half years, from Lexington and Concord, in April of 1775, to Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown, Virginia, in October of 1781.

The colonists now had three pamphlets in front of them to read. They could agree with Thomas Paine and fight for independence, or side with “Candidus” and hope that the British will defeat the colonists with little loss of life and property, and that the British will reconcile with the colonists.

Historians since 1776 have searched in vain for reasons to explain why one colonist would chose the Patriots’ cause and another the Loyalists’ cause. The choice was not due to “a person’s educational level, occupation, social class, or economic status.” It was individual, made at a personal level.

Some Loyalists, who could see that Paine, Jefferson, and other Patriots would win the propaganda war, gave up and fled to Canada or to England, but only between 80,000 and 90,000 did so.

One Patriot, Benjamin Franklin, remained forever bitter about one Loyalist’s choice, that of his son William Franklin, then the Governor of New Jersey. In his will, dated July 17, 1788, Ben left to William, “all the lands I hold in the province of Nova Scotia,” 2,000 acres of forest.

Ben then says, “The part he acted against me in the late war will account for my leaving him no more of an estate [than] he endeavored to deprive me of.” Much to William’s regret, he chose King and Parliament, rather than his dad’s experiment in self-government and independence.

You and I, and all others who claim American citizenship, now have reason to celebrate a new Federal holiday, Juneteenth, our 12th legal public holiday.
Last week, on Tuesday, June 15, the Senate unanimously passed legislation to make June 19, or Juneteenth, a national holiday. On Wednesday, June 16, the House passed it with only 14 “no” votes.

On Thursday, June 17, President Joe Biden signed into law the Juneteenth National Independence Day Act in the White House’s East Room. In his remarks there, Biden said, “Great nations don’t ignore their most painful moments. They don’t ignore those moments of the past. They embrace them. Great nations don’t walk away. We come to terms with the mistakes we made. And in remembering those moments, we begin to heal and grow stronger.”

On Friday, June 18, federal workers enjoyed a day off, to reflect upon slavery’s extinction.

The last time Congress and a president brought into existence a new federal holiday was in 1983, almost four decades ago, when Ronald Reagan signed Martin Luther King Jr. Day into law.

Today is Saturday, June 19, and I am writing this column now. You and I now recognize Juneteenth as, “A holiday celebrating the emancipation of those who had been enslaved in the United States.”

On June 19, 1865, a Union Army major general named Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston, Texas, to inform all Texans, both free and slave, that slavery was over, finished, an ugly and painful memory, and that he will enforce Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation of 1862.

Two months before, on April 9, 1865, the Civil War had ended, when Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant. Five days later, on April 14, John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln in the back of his head, and he died the next day. Lincoln was dead, but so too was slavery. He had set free four million slaves.
Granger issued General Order Number 3, a document now housed in the National Archives Building in Washington, D.C. The major general delivered just four sentences, split into two paragraphs.

First sentence, “The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free.” One can only imagine the wild joy that tore across the Texas prairie, once the slaves heard the welcome news that President Lincoln had freed them.
Second sentence, “This involves an absolute equality of personal rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves, and the connection heretofore existing between them becomes that between employer and hired labor.”

In terse words, Granger states that no man or woman can henceforth buy, sell, or claim to own another person, that each citizen is “absolute” equal to another, and that each retains “personal rights.” Granger then replaces the idea of “masters and slaves,” with “employer and hired labor.”
That distinction in the changed relationship between management and its work force is immense. A slave would receive little compensation for her or his work, had no opportunity to leave an employer and find work elsewhere, and suffered the most brutal beatings if tempted to run away.

Now he or she is free to find work and opportunity wherever. Gone are the chains, the leg irons, the whips, the ropes, and the merciless whipping post that kept a slave in bondage forever.

Third sentence, “The freedmen are advised to remain quietly at their present homes and work for wages.” Granger suggests that the former slaves should stay, for the moment, where they live now, refrain from seeking revenge, and that if they work, their former masters must pay them money.

Fourth sentence, “They are informed that they will not be allowed to collect at military posts and that they will not be supported in idleness either there or elsewhere.”

Granger fears that the former slaves will seek protection from their former masters’ cruelty by congregating “at military posts,” and that they will then expect the U.S. Army to support them “in idleness either there or elsewhere.”

Granger dashes that notion. Although he will set the Texas slaves free and will grant them a set of astonishing political rights, he expects the former slaves to work. Granger knows that an economy will not function without a work force, that management needs to hire workers, and that workers need jobs.

Last April, the historian Annette Gordon-Reed, a native Texan and a descendant of slaves, published a slim volume she entitled “Juneteenth.” She writes that, “she remembers Juneteenth celebrations from her childhood, drinking red soda and setting off firecrackers that her grandfather bought for her.”

As of last week, Juneteenth is no longer just a Texas holiday, but a national holiday, an attempt to “embrace” our “most painful moments, “to come to terms with the mistakes we made,” early in our history, and “to heal and grow stronger.”

How does one recognize great writing in a novel, a work of history, or a scientific treatise? The typical answers include: if it sells 5,000 copies, if it makes the “New York Times Best Seller” list, if it wins a literary prize, if a literary critic gives his or her stamp of approval, or if it is printed for decades.

Each generation of young people discover for themselves the wealth of ideas that they can dig out of Plato’s Dialogues, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Essays, or Shakespeare’s plays. Those works have lasted.
Another question. How does one recognize a great teacher?

Years ago, I attended a University of Northern Colorado alumni meeting and met UNC’s president then, Hank Brown. He asked a series of questions: how does a university train a teacher to teach? What variables make a teacher great? How can a school district evaluate their teachers?

We brainstormed for a moment, and came up with some quick answers: effective presentation of content, wise selection of a well-written text, maintain class order, challenge the lazy, direct the smart, and include a fun factor, that is a teacher must present neat and intriguing ideas everyday.

How does one recognize great art, or a great preacher, or great politics, or a great religious faith? Harold Bloom, Yale’s long-time English scholar, wrote a book thirty years ago, The American Religion, and in it he stepped away from literary criticism to write as “a self-appointed religion critic.”
Here is an appropriate question for today. How does one recognize great parents? By a casual look at the calendar, we see we are midway between Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day.

Great parents endure many hours seated in a gym / stadium / theater, watching their daughters and sons perform, either a musical or theatrical performance; or a football, volleyball, or basketball game; or a wrestling match; or a cheerleading contest; or a gymnastics meet.
A comment I heard years ago, “The best gift that a dad can give his son or daughter is that he loves his child’s mother.” And, to a child, “TIME = LOVE.” A child measures the depth of a parent’s love by the amount of time that that parent devotes to that child, or at the least, pays attention.

It might make our jobs easier if a scientist could reduce any number of human activities to an equation. If we add x, y, and z, the good things in life, and then subtract out the sum of a, b, and c, the bad parts, we might get q, a successful writer, teacher, preacher, parent.
Is an equation for these items even possible? I wonder, “is there a mathematical law that predicts these kinds of human achievement?”

Three hundred years ago, people did not know that mathematics directed the universe’s motion of planets around the sun, until Sir Isaac Newton, an English scholar and scientists, published Principia Mathematica, System of the World.
His law of gravity states that if a mathematician multiplies the mass of one body times the mass of a second body, and then divides that product by the distance between the two bodies, squared, she or he will get F, the attractive force called gravity. He gave the world an equation that measures gravity.
Newton’s Law of Gravity “tells us that the motion of bodies within the solar system is determined by a mathematical law.” What other mathematical laws exist that we know nothing about?

In recent days, I have worked my way through a book I found, In Pursuit of the Unknown: 17 Equations That Changed the World. Ian Stewart, mathematician at University of Warwick in Coventry, England, divides his book into 17 chapters, a chapter for each equation.
The first chapter / equation is Pythagoras’s theorem, the second is the logarithm, the third is Isaac Newton’s calculus, and the fourth is Newton’s law of gravity.
I find the seventh chapter most interesting, “Patterns of chance, normal distribution.” Men and women are individuals. No one knows what each will do or say, but Stewart points out, “people en masse behave more predictably than individuals.”

Scientists in the last two hundred years learned of a bell curve when it came to variables of a given group of men and women. Some of those variables include height, weight, crime, births, deaths, test scores, IQ. “No one expected these variables to conform to any mathematical law,” and yet they did.

The equation states, “the probability of observing a particular data value is greatest near the mean value, the average, and then dies away rapidly as the difference from the mean increases. That difference from the mean is called standard deviation.”
For example, out of a given classroom, one or two students get an A, one or two get an F, because they are distant from the classroom average. They are outliers. The majority get a B, a C, or a D.

We all can look forward to a modern-day Isaac Newton who will devise an equation that will guide each of us to perhaps, write a novel that will win a Pulitzer Prize, to win accolades as a great teacher, or to parent exceptional boys and girls. Alas, we are too average.

The 1921 race riot in Tulsa began on Monday, May 30, Memorial Day, when a young black man stepped into an elevator, tripped, and either grabbed a young white girl’s arm to steady himself, or stepped on her foot. She screamed. No one else witnessed what transpired on that elevator.

Someone suspected a possible assault and called the police.

He was 19 years old. His name was Dick Rowland. He shined shoes on Main Street. A number of Tulsa’s lawyers knew Dick, because he shined their shoes, but none believed him capable of assault. He had stepped into the elevator because he wanted to use the restroom on the top floor.

She was 17 years old. Her name was Sarah Page. She had a job operating the elevator that day.

Dick and Sarah were teenagers, but he was black, she was white, and this was Oklahoma in 1921. They might have known each other before this day. Only Dick and Sarah knew what occurred on that elevator, and Sarah refused to press charges.

The next day, Tuesday, May 31, Tulsa police detained Dick Rowland, questioned him, and placed him in a jail cell atop the Tulsa County Courthouse. He sat there, alone, feeling terrified.

That afternoon the Tulsa Tribune published a sensationalized account of the incident that incited Tulsa’s white citizens. “Lynching is feared if the victim is caught,” the newspaper reported. A mob of one, perhaps two, thousand white men gathered around the courthouse by sundown.

Tulsa’s Chief of Detectives James Patton later said, “If the facts in the story, as told to the police, had only been printed, I do not think there would have been any riot whatsoever.”

Sheriff Willard M. McCullough positioned his deputies around the courthouse, but three white men, members of the mob, dared to enter the courthouse and demand that the Sheriff turn Rowland over to them. The courageous Sheriff stood up to the mob and refused to comply.

A number of blocks away, on Greenwood Avenue, a smaller group of black men met to decide how best to protect Dick. Carrying firearms and ammunition, they marched to the courthouse to confront the white mob. By then, many of the whites had rushed home to get their guns. A shot was fired.

“Throughout the early morning hours, on Wednesday, June 1, groups of armed White and Black people squared off in gunfights.” Facing an increasing number of white attackers, the blacks fled their homes and raced north on Greenwood Avenue to the town’s very limits, in a mass exodus.

Many called their section of Tulsa, “Little Africa,” or “the Black Metropolis of the Southwest.”

It was then that the white mob moved in to loot and cart off whatever they could grab. Then, they began to set fires in Tulsa’s Greenwood district, torching a series of now-empty homes and businesses.

After sunup, the whites ramped up their attack. They headed to the airport to fly planes over the burning town, several square blocks of now incinerated debris. From the air, riflemen shot down the desperate fleeing people, while others dropped “burning turpentine balls,” onto several buildings.

By mid-morning, the National Guard had arrived to declare martial law and to restore order, but by then some 35 square blocks of Tulsa had been converted into burned-out rubble. “Black Wall Street,” “at that time the wealthiest Black community in the United States,” was gone, destroyed by a mob.

No one with reasonable certainty can determine the exact numbers injured or killed: at least 39 dead, perhaps as many as 300; and upwards of 800 injured.

Of the homeless black people, evicted from their homes, “thousands, however, were forced to spend the winter of 1921-22 living in tents.” The whites then claimed for themselves the former black section.

No jury or judge ever convicted one perpetrator of the devastation and atrocities that the victims had witnessed, felt, and endured. Reparations, yet today, are frequently called for.

Within a year of the riot, a survivor named Mary E. Jones Parrish published her account, calling it, Events of the Tulsa Disaster. In it, she said, “When mob violence first began, it originated in the South, and its victims were Black men and women. Today the hand of King Mob is being felt in all parts of the United States, and he is no respecter of person, race, or color—not even sparing white women.”

And just as quickly, all of Tulsa’s residents refused to talk about what had happened in their town. Few wanted to know how and why? They preferred to ignore it. They chose silence for decades.

In recent years, people in Oklahoma are more open about the riot. They have set up commissions, conducted investigations, and identified the murdered and dispossessed. Today it is known as “the single worst incident of racial violence in American history,” and it happened one hundred years ago this weekend.

In recent days, an editor at the New York Times asked readers to send in their wise words that they try to live by. The best responses appeared in two Sunday editions in April. A few examples follow.

A Missouri resident named Dave Dillon said, “Always behave as if someone were watching.” Kristy McCray, of Ohio, said she lives by the Platinum Rule. “Treat others as they wish to be treated.” Norma Douglas, of Idaho, quoted her dad. “You are not better than anyone, but no one is better than you.”

Ronald W. Pies, of Massachusetts, said that he follows Marcus Aurelius’s words, “There is but one thing of real value—to cultivate truth and justice, and to live without anger, in the midst of lying and unjust men.” He also likes the Dalai Lama’s words, “Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.”

David Pastore, of New Jersey, quoted John C. Maxwell, a leadership expert, who said, “You cannot overestimate the unimportance of practically everything.”

Thomas P. Roberts, of North Carolina, says that he subscribes to H. Richard Niebuhr’s essay, “The Grace of Doing Nothing.” Roberts admits that “In personal relationships, I have found the wisdom in sometimes doing nothing. It’s incredible how well those interactions go by saying nothing.”

Alexander Von Nordheim, of Maryland, said, “Find what makes you happy, do it, and do what you can to help others find their own happiness.”

A favorite is from William Dock of Seattle, who saw a small sign on the end of a dock that warned all boat owners, “Your Wake Defines You.” He writes, “No matter what I am doing, I always pay attention to the impact my choices have on others. If my impact is too destructive, I change course.”

Graduation season is upon us. Last Saturday morning, a windy day, officials at my alma mater, University of Northern Colorado, in Greeley, read off the names of well over a thousand graduates.

I am curious. What should any graduate hear at their graduation? Here are some ideas.

David Foster Wallace, a college professor and novelist, delivered the commencement address to Kenyon College’s class of 2005, and in it, he said,

“The cliché that any college teaches students how to think means that you will learn how to exercise some control over how and what you think. You will learn to choose what to pay attention to.” To that I would add: what to ignore, and what to shout down as wrong, bigoted, or unjust.

A graduate should also hear words about perfecting his or her communication skills, and also with numbers. Lee Iacocca said, “there were a lot of people smarter than me when we all graduated in 1945, but I surpassed them all. How? My communication skills, my ability to speak and write.”

He added, “The discipline of writing something down is the first step toward making it happen.”

Although Iacocca died in 2019, if he could, he would encourage you, a graduating senior, to study numbers and words. Learn to decipher numbers, and never pass up an opportunity to speak in public, to teach a class, or to draft a letter, an essay, or an article. Take advantage of the opportunities that appear.

To all the above, I would add, a graduate might strive to develop ambitious curiosity. An idea strikes and a typical person will dismiss it, lay it aside, but another may dig deep, work toward a better understanding, and in that process learn a new vocabulary and details that will prove most rewarding.

For example, right now, I am trying to learn of a connection between two alternative numbering systems, the hexadecimal and the binary. The former is based upon the number 16, and the latter is based upon just two numbers, 0 and 1.

Computers use the binary system, 0 for switched off, and 1 for switched on, but the 0’s and 1’s can then be converted into the hexadecimal system, an easier method for men and women to read. I still have much to learn. More about this later.

Last Friday, May 7, I noticed that the lilacs had bloomed on the corner of my property. This brought on a startling memory, of a poem I read years ago, Walt Whitman’s poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” from his book Leaves of Grass.

He wrote it in the spring of 1865, after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, when the nation was in deep mourning. He writes of “lilacs,” and of “a drooping star,” the planet Venus that was there but then had disappeared in recent nights. “O powerful western fallen star!” he cried out, voicing his grief.

A biographer described a young Ralph Waldo Emerson as a “mind on fire.” Because so many ideas rushed through Emerson’s mind, that on occasion he would give up composing sentences in his journal and just draft a catalog of nouns, without verbs, a list that would run for multiple paragraphs.

Ambitious curiosity, communication skills, finesse with numbers, elements of justice and kindness and our effect upon others: all of these a college graduate might work on in the days ahead.

William Shakespeare passed away on April 23, 1616, at the age of 53, leaving behind some 39 plays that he wrote alone or assisted in writing, for his acting company, the Kings’ Men. Two others in that company, John Heminges and Henry Condell, published in 1623, 36 of his plays in the First Folio.

Of the 750 copies of the First Folio, only 235 remain in existence today. Heminges and Condell’s heroic editorial work preserved and saved from extinction the better of Shakespeare’s plays.

We all wonder and ask, “What is the big deal about Shakespeare?”

Isaac Asimov, a twentieth-century American author, answered that question best. “Shakespeare has said so many things so supremely well that we are forever finding ourselves thinking in his terms.”

For example, the English playwright coined dozens of new words, including: accessible, addiction, assassination, batty, bedazzle, catlike, disgraceful, eventful, fitful, lackluster, lonely, moonbeam, pious, outbreak, quarrelsome, stealthy, useless, watch-dog, and well-read.

English speakers have adopted countless numbers of his expressions: one fell swoop, primrose path, bated breath, brave new world, break the ice, for goodness’s sake, foregone conclusion, full circle, heart of gold, wild-goose chase, tower of strength, snail paced, sorry sight, and spotless reputation.

People still repeat certain of his sentences today: “When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.” “What fools these mortals be!” “There is a tide in the affairs of men.” “All the world’s a stage, and all men and women merely players.” “What a piece of work is man.”

“The lady doth protest too much.” “Neither a borrower nor a lender be. “A plague on both your houses.” “The quality of mercy is not strained.” “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” “To be or not to be, that is the question.”

In recent days I came across a passage from Hamlet that spurred me to investigate further. “Your bait of falsehood take this carp of truth, / And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, / With windlasses and with assays of bias, / By indirections find directions out.” What did Polonious mean here?

The first phrase—bait of falsehood and carp of truth—refers to “making sure that your little lie brings out the truth.” The second phrase—wisdom and reach—means, “We’re doing this wisely.”

Now a windlass refers to “a horizontal cylinder, a barrel, which men on a ship or atop a mine rotate by a crank, and wind a rope or cable around it and draw up fishing nets or boxes of ore.” When Polonious mentions windlasses, he means he wants to see “roundabout or indirect methods” used.

And when he says, “assays of bias,” he refers to “a game of bowls, when a player must allow for a curving surface, in order to get his bowl to the mark.”

Then, “By indirections find directions out,” Polonoius means he will work in a roundabout manner, after he has examined the lay of the land. He will research and test first, and then apply himself.

Not all of Shakespeare’s passages require this degree of laborious investigation to understand the bard’s meaning. For example, in Cymbeline, John of Gaunt says, “Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.” He means that death will take us all, even the young and beautiful.

Shakespeare wrote mainly in blank verse, or iambic pentameter. Blank verse refers to poetic prose, or unrhymed poetry. Iambic pentameter refers to “five pairs of syllables, the first unstressed, and the second stressed or accented.” This is key to understanding Shakespeare’s skill with quill and ink.

For example, in The Tempest, here are three of Prospero’s lines: “Our revels are now ended. These our actors / (As I foretold you) were all spirits, and / Are melted into air, into thin air.” Count the syllables of each line, and you should get ten in each. (The word “revels” counts as one syllable.

Last Friday night on PBS’s “Great Performances,” I watched Romeo and Juliet performed on one of London back stages, a different approach.

Most viewers of the play, enjoy the balcony scene, the most famous scene in Shakespeare’s canon. It is young love, forbidden love, between a Montague, Romeo, and a Capulet, Juliet. Their families have disintegrated into a bloody feud, and yet these two star-crossed lovers fall for each other one night.

Yet, I am drawn to the final scene when both Romeo and Juliet are dead. The Prince charges the heads of the two families. “Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague! / See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, / That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings, / The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head, / Go hence to have more talk of these sad things; / Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished: / For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” Here, Shakespeare ended his best play.

Can you count ten syllables in each of the Prince’s lines?