Gratitude

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Ulysses (Kindle edition — verify full work) (1922)

  Words cannot begin to express the profundity of my thanks to Melissa Harris-Perry, who not only served as my mentor for my Woodrow Wilson National Foundation Career Enhancement Fellowship, but also graciously welcomed me as a visiting scholar and fellow at the Anna Julia Cooper Project on Gender, Race, and Politics in the South, of which she is the founding director, at Tulane University. For her constant enthusiastic support, model work, advice, and encouragement, especially as I completed the book revisions and beyond, I am forever grateful. Similarly, special thanks go to Sara Kugler, whose presence and cordial spirit always made work more pleasant. Morgan Franklin, my student researcher at Tulane, and Yolande Tomilson, my graduate research assistant at Emory, deserve my sincere thanks. I also extend enormous heartfelt thanks to the late Rudolph Byrd, Evelyn Crawford, Sandra Duvivier, Melissa Harris-Perry, Cheryl Hicks, Candice Jenkins, Esther Jones, Calinda Lee, and Reanna Ursin for their intellectual generosity and critical feedback on the manuscript. I owe a very special expression of gratitude to Cathy Schlund-Vials, an amazing person and friend, for her always intelligent, deeply appreciated feedback on the manuscript in its entirety, as well as incredible support of this book. I also extend my profound thanks to Robert Reid-Pharr for his brilliant feedback, model scholarship, and enthusiastic support of this project; in each encounter, I have been impressed by his intelligence, approachability, and refreshing humor, which always leave me yearning for more academics like him in this world. Last and certainly not least, I was so very fortunate to embark upon this intellectual journey with Catherine Adams, Stephanie Evans, Adam Linker, and Zebulon Miletsky; for intellectual stimulation, camaraderie, and so many incredibly good times, especially when I needed them most, I express my deep gratitude. Special thanks go to the personal and/or professional friends who have truly made this journey not only endurable but, indeed, pleasant: Tina Alpough, Evelyn Crawford, Durriyyah Johnson, Janaka Bowman Lewis, Carolyn Powell, Cathy Schlund-Vials, Halima Narcisse Smith, Letitia Thompson-Hargrave, Howard Ramsby II, Joy Wilson, and Nazera Wright. Without Kimberly Juanita Brown, Esther Jones, Keisha-Khan Perry, and Reanna Ursin, this "life of the mind" would be far less enjoyable, and so, I thank each of them for inspiring me with her brilliance and enriching my life with their friendships. Also, words (at least none in the English language) cannot even begin to express the profundity of my thanks and respectful affection to Sandra Duvivier, Jamie Gray, and Calandra Tate Moore, my "inner circle" and dearest friends, whom I am eternally grateful the universe saw fit to situate in my life; our nearly half-lifelong friendships are priceless and have provided me with a more balanced, pleasurable, and humor-filled existence beyond the academy.

• From Educated (2018)

  From Tyler’s wife, Stefanie, I would learn the story of this letter, how in the days after my father had threatened disownment, Tyler had gone to bed every night saying aloud to himself, over and over, “What am I supposed to do? She’s my sister.” When I heard this story, I made the only good decision I had made for months: I enrolled in the university counseling service. I was assigned to a sprightly middle-aged woman with tight curls and sharp eyes, who rarely spoke in our sessions, preferring to let me talk it out, which I did, week after week, month after month. The counseling did nothing at first—I can’t think of a single session I would describe as “helpful”—but their collective power over time was undeniable. I didn’t understand it then, and I don’t understand it now, but there was something nourishing in setting aside that time each week, in the act of admitting that I needed something I could not provide for myself. Tyler sent the letter to my parents. That winter I spent many hours on the phone with him and Stefanie, who became a sister to me. They were available whenever I needed to talk, and back then I needed to talk quite a lot. Tyler paid a price for that letter, though the price is hard to define. He was not disowned, or at least his disownment was not permanent. Eventually he worked out a truce with my father, but their relationship may never be the same. I’ve apologized to Tyler more times than I can count for what I’ve cost him, but the words are awkwardly placed and I stumble over them. What is the proper arrangement of words? How do you craft an apology for weakening someone’s ties to his father, to his family? Perhaps there aren’t words for that. How do you thank a brother who refused to let you go, who seized your hand and wrenched you upward, just as you had decided to stop kicking and sink? There aren’t words for that, either. —WINTER WAS LONG THAT YEAR, the dreariness punctuated only by my weekly counseling sessions and the odd sense of loss, almost bereavement, I felt whenever I finished one TV series and had to find another. Then it was spring, then summer, and finally as summer turned to fall, I found I could read with focus. I could hold thoughts in my head besides anger and self-accusation. I returned to the chapter I had written nearly two years before at Harvard. Again I read Hume, Rousseau, Smith, Godwin, Wollstonecraft and Mill. Again I thought about the family. There was a puzzle in it, something unresolved. What is a person to do, I asked, when their obligations to their family conflict with other obligations—to friends, to society, to themselves? I began the research. I narrowed the question, made it academic, specific.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Yet I’ve been blessed with many teachers, formal and informal, who have guided and inspired me to live with more heart each day. Among my formal teachers, I call out Sharon Salzberg, Guy Armstrong, Mark Coleman, and Sally Armstrong for the teachings they offered during a weeklong silent retreat on loving-kindness meditation that I sat in January 2010 at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts. That experience was nothing short of soul-stirring. I also thank Rita Benn, Jeff Brantley, Mary Brantley, Jon Kabat-Zinn, Yun Lu, Sandra Finkel, Libby Outlaw, Jaime Powell, and Sharon Salzberg (again) for helping me to learn, both as a scholar and a human, about the practice of meditation. I’ve also learned so much about love, compassion, forgiveness—and color—through my lifelong friendship with my sister, Jeanne Gallaher. Plus I thank those who shared with me their heartfelt experiences of living with love through difficult passages—Donna, Erika, Laura, and Jeremy. I hope that their stories, which I present in part II of this book, will move and inspire you as much as they move and inspire me. Still my most cherished teachers—my two sons, Crosby and Garrett, alongside my husband and soul mate, Jeff Chappell. We four have now been joined by my boys’ two “kitty boys”—Zeus and Apollo—who seem to know an awful lot about positivity resonance already. Every day I learn something new from my family about how to open my heart to love. Singularly most inspiring and important of all, Jeff has, from the day we first met in that strawberry patch, taught me how love really works and opened my eyes to the poignant limits of my entrenched ivory tower habits. His natural gifts for seeing and acting from his heart, together with his courageous honesty, have taught me, year by year, to fully trust his instincts and wisdom, so much so that he was always the first to read and critique each word and chapter of this book. Just like our beloved ocean, my love for Jeff crests and renews endlessly, reinforcing our lifelong bond. Recommended Reading Brach, Tara (2003). Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha. New York: Bantam. Brantley, Mary and Hanauer, Tesilya (2008). The Gift of Loving-Kindness: 100 Mindful Practices for Compassion, Generosity and Forgiveness. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger. Cacioppo, John T. and Patrick, William (2008). Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection. New York: W. W. Norton. The Dalai Lama (2001). An Open Heart: Practicing Compassion in Everyday Life. Boston: Little, Brown. de Waal, Frans (2009). The Age of Empathy: Nature’s Lessons for a Kinder Society. New York: Three Rivers Press. Ehrenreich, Barbara (2009). Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America. New York: Metropolitan Books. Fredrickson, Barbara L (2009). Positivity: Groundbreaking Research Reveals How to Embrace the Hidden Strength of Positive Emotions, Overcome Negativity, and Thrive. New York: Crown. Germer, Christopher K. and Siegel, Ronald D.

• From Ulysses (Kindle edition — verify full work) (1922)

  I reserve my utmost heartfelt gratitude for my family, whose deep, unyielding love and indomitable support have sustained me throughout this endeavor. My parents, Sterling and Ramona, have never lost faith in my abilities to succeed triumphantly and have been unceasing in their encouragement, optimism, generosity of spirit, and selfless support. I am everything I am, entirely and indubitably, because of them, and words could never begin to express or encompass my profound love for and gratitude to them. My sisters Drs. Trina and Trichelle, by earning professional degrees in fields in which African American women are underrepresented, have defied odds, invalidated stereotypes, and served as both personal and professional models for me. I owe my success, in large part, to their exceptional examples. My younger sister, Trichlyn, has forever impressed me with her vibrance, resilience, intelligence, and professional drive; her fortitude, easy laughter, and professional success continue to inspire me. Furthermore, my existence and this project have been enriched tremendously by the likes and lives, fierce determination, and always welcome presence and good humor of Sepehr Saeedi and Alan Wise. Last, my nephews, Shuwn, Sterling Ramon, Aaron, Ian, Aidan, Caleb, Brody, and Owen have always provided warm, pleasant, loving, and welcome distractions from the tediousness and rigidity of writing; I love and thank them dearly, as well as await all that their promising futures hold. Last and certainly not least, my grandparents-living in this world and "up yonder"-never ever cease to inspire me; their love and impression on me are undeniable, and I hope I have to some extent, if even fractionally, made them proud.

• From Ulysses (Kindle edition — verify full work) (1922)

  Without the generous financial support of several foundations and institutions, this book may well not have seen the light of day. I express my utmost gratitude to the UNCF-Mellon Mays University Fellows Program, especially Cynthia Neal Spence; Andrew W.Mellon Foundation, especially Lydia English and Armando Bengochea; Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship Foundation, especially Richard Hope, Bill Mitchell, and Caryl McFarland; Social Science Research Council, especially Cally Waite; and Fulbright Commission, especially Reiner Rohr. Additionally, this book was made possible by financial assistance from the Ruth Landes Memorial Research Fund, a program of The Reed Foundation. Loyola University New Orleans awarded me two generous sources of funding: a Marquette and a Bobet fellowship. I also thank the staff members at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture at the New York Public Library; the Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library at Emory University; the Moorland-Spingarn Research Center at Howard University; the Schlesinger Library of Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University; and the Amistad Research Center at Tulane University, especially Christopher Harter, to whom I express special thanks for an image, Figure 3.1, used in this book. As I have had the marvelously good fortune of being a visiting scholar and fellow at Emory University's James Weldon Johnson Institute for Advanced Interdisciplinary Studies (JWJI), I am especially indebted to the founding director, the late Rudolph P.Byrd, a trusted advisor, charismatic scholar and human, and model of protocol. A host of individuals at Emory enriched my project and fellowship period: Calinda Lee, Dorcas Ford Jones, Robbie Lieberman, Joshua Price, Tekla Johnson, Mab Segrest, Bill Turner, Evelyn Crawford, Chandra Mountain, Erica Bruckho, and Yolande Tomilson, all in some way affiliated with the JWJI, and Martina Brownley and the Fox Humanities Center. Amy Benson Brown, Randall Burkett, Frances Smith Foster, Brett Gadsden, Bill Gruber, Leslie Harris, Lynne Huffer, Larry Jackson, Mark Sanders, and Kimberly Wallace-Sanders at Emory also deserve my thanks. My most profound and heartfelt gratitude goes especially to Natasha Trethewey, a kindred spirit whose continual encouragement, advice, and unrelenting support have been as welcome and enormously appreciated as her poetics and friendship. I am so incredibly thankful for the crossing of our paths, as she will never fully know that I have traveled and endured this journey far longer, more courageously, and with head and shoulders elevated higher precisely because of her.

• From Ulysses (Kindle edition — verify full work) (1922)

  Title : Unbought and Unbossed: Transgressive Black Women, Sexuality, and Representation Author: Trimiko Melancon ASIN : B00OZFBONI [image file=img/img0000.jpg] [image file=img/page0001_0000.svg] [image file=img/page0002_0000.svg] Transgressive Black Women, Sexuality, and Representation TRIMIKO MELANCON [image file=img/img0001.jpg] [image file=img/page0002_0001.svg] [image file=img/page0002_0002.svg] [image file=img/page0003_0000.svg] [image file=img/page0003_0001.svg] [image file=img/page0003_0002.svg] [image file=img/page0003_0003.svg] [image file=img/page0003_0004.svg] [image file=img/page0004_0000.svg] [image file=img/page0006_0000.svg] Acknowledgments Introduction: Disrupting Dissemblance 1 "New World Black and New World Woman": Or, Beyond the Classical Black Female Script 2 Toward an Aesthetic of Transgression: Ann Allen Shockley's Loving Her and the Politics of Same-Gender Loving 3 Negotiating Cultural Politics 4 "That Way Lies Madness": Sexuality, Violent Excess, and Perverse Desire 5 "Between a Rock and a Hard Place": Gloria Naylor's The Women of Brewster Place Conclusion: "Without Fear of Reprisals": Representation in the Age of Michelle Obama Notes Bibliography Index [image file=img/page0008_0000.svg] Expressing one's appreciation should never be a meaningless task, but rather a moment filled with heartfelt sincerity. This book has benefited from the cumulative support of so many, to whom I am grateful. For their guidance, generous support, and critical feedback especially during the foundational stages, I extend the profundity of my thanks to James Smethurst, Esther Terry, John Bracey, Andrea Rushing, and Paula Giddings. Words cannot convey how especially grateful I am to Jim Smethurst, whose unwavering support, encouragement, and good humor lifted me at various turns along this journey. No lesser expression of gratitude goes to Paula Giddings, a remarkable source of inspiration and earnest support, as her everwelcome advice, encouragement, unrelenting faith in me, and generosity of spirit-especially during our invaluably brilliant clarifying "book conversations" stateside and abroad-have enabled Unbought and Unbossed to march into fruition. To the W.E.B.Du Bois Department of Afro-American Studies at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, I extend my gratitude for the enormous support-intellectual, financial, and otherwisethat has provided the foundations of my professional and scholarly development, nourished me as a professional and person, and further cultivated my desire for intellectual rigor and social justice. Others have had a remarkably indelible impact in ways that may never be fully transparent to them. For her pioneering scholarship, as well as intellectual and pedagogical influence on me, Mary Helen Washington-who may never know the depth of her imprint on me while I studied with her as a visiting graduate student at University of Maryland and beyond-deserves my thanks. I am especially grateful to Thadious Davis for her "warmest best wishes," intellectual support, model work, and brilliant advice, which was instrumental in my extended fellowship at Emory. Trudier Harris has been not only a constant source of inspiration, but also a model scholar and professional confidante. I also thank Joanne Gabbin and the Wintergreen Collective for paving a path and welcoming me.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  So we invented a water-based bonding agent that gives off no fumes, thereby eliminating 97 percent of the carcinogens in the air. Then we gave this invention to our competitors, handed it over to anyone who wanted it. They all did. Nearly all of them now use it. One of many, many examples. We’ve gone from a target of reformers to a dominant player in the factory reform movement. Today the factories that make our products are among the best in the world. An official at the United Nations recently said so: Nike is the gold standard by which we measure all apparel factories. Out of the sweatshop crisis also came the Girl Effect, a massive Nike effort to break the generational cycles of poverty in the bleakest corners of the world. Along with the United Nations and other corporate and government partners, the Girl Effect is spending tens of millions of dollars in a smart, tough, global campaign to educate and connect and lift up young girls. Economists, sociologists, not to mention our own hearts, tell us that, in many societies, young girls are the most economically vulnerable, and vital, demographic. So helping them helps all. Whether striving to end child marriage in Ethiopia, or building safe spaces for teenage girls in Nigeria, or launching a magazine and radio show that deliver powerful, inspiring messages to young Rwandans, the Girl Effect is changing millions of lives, and the best days of my week, month, year, are those when I receive the glowing reports from its front lines. I’d do anything to go back, to make so many different decisions, which might or might not have averted the sweatshop crisis. But I can’t deny that the crisis has led to miraculous change, inside and outside Nike. For that I must be grateful. Of course, there will always be the question of wages. The salary of a Third World factory worker seems impossibly low to Americans, and I understand. Still, we have to operate within the limits and structures of each country, each economy; we can’t simply pay whatever we wish to pay. In one country, which shall be nameless, when we tried to raise wages, we found ourselves called on the carpet, summoned to the office of a top government official and ordered to stop. We were disrupting the nation’s entire economic system, he said. It’s simply not right, he insisted, or feasible, that a shoe worker makes more than a medical doctor. Change never comes as fast as we want it. I think constantly of the poverty I saw while traveling the world in the 1960s. I knew then that the only answer to such poverty is entry-level jobs. Lots of them. I didn’t form this theory on my own. I heard it from every economics professor I ever had, at both Oregon and Stanford, and everything I saw and read thereafter backed it up. International trade always, always benefits both trading nations.

• From Ulysses (Kindle edition — verify full work) (1922)

  At Loyola University New Orleans, I am incredibly fortunate to have not only a vibrant, supportive, and affable cadre of colleagues, but also an intellectual home. To former Provost Ed Kvet; former Dean Jo Ann Cruz; Dean Maria Calzada of the College of Humanities and Natural Sciences; my department chair, John Biguenet; and my colleagues in the Department of English, I extend my deepest thanks. I owe a very special expression of gratitude to Katherine Adams-my former chair and an absolutely marvelous person and colleague-for her steadfast advice, enthusiasm, and good humor; Kate has showered me with much support, which has helped garner fellowships, and I am deeply appreciative. Many thanks go to Barbara Ewell and especially my faculty mentor, John Mosier, a generous and dedicated advisor, for professional support, goodwill, and necessary good laughs over countless good meals, and to Chris Schaberg for his incredibly jovial, intelligent, and ever-willing support and inspiration as I completed this book. I also benefited from colleagues and institutional support at St. Lawrence University, Auburn University, and Freie Universitat (Free University) in Berlin, Germany, during my time as a J.William Fulbright Scholar of American Literature and American Studies. For that amazing intellectual and personal experience, I am thankful to my colleagues in the Department of Literature: Ulla Haselstein especially for serving as my mentor, as well as Catrin Gersdorf, Andrew Gross, and MaryAnn Snyder-Korber, who were incredibly welcoming and brilliant-inviting me to present my research at the colloquium, while also providing an international venue in which to engage, research, and teach race and black feminist theories, literary studies, and African American studies. Sehr vielen dank!

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  “I saw the hype around your book. I remember walking into the hospital and seeing people reading it in waiting rooms. I even saw someone reading it at the grocery store once. Pushing her cart and reading like she couldn’t put it down. I was proud of you.” I don’t know how I feel about him being proud of me. He barely knows me. It feels condescending, but then it doesn’t. Isaac isn’t really a condescending guy. He’s equal parts humble and slightly awkward about receiving praise. I saw it in the hospital. As soon as anyone started saying good things about him, his eyes would get shifty and he’d look for an escape route. He was all clickety-clack, don’t look back. Sixty two pieces. “So how did that get me here?” “Thirty minutes,” he says. “What?” “It’s been thirty minutes. Time for a shot.” He stands up and opens the cabinet where we keep the liquor. We keep finding hidden bottles. The rum was in a Ziploc bag in the sack of rice. “Whiskey or rum?” “Rum,” I say. “I’m sick of whiskey.” He grabs two clean coffee mugs and pours our shots. I drink mine before he’s even had time to pick up his mug. I smack my lips together as it rolls down my throat. At least it’s not the cheap stuff. “Well?” I demand. “How did it get me here?” “I don’t know,” he finally says. He finds the piece he’s looking for and joins it to the ear of his deer. “But I’d be stupid to think this wasn’t a fan. It’s that or there is one other option.” His voice drops off and I know what he’s thinking. “I don’t think it was him,” I rush. I pour myself a voluntary shot. I don’t have much of an alcohol tolerance and I haven’t eaten anything today. My head does a little flipsy doosey as the alcohol runs down my throat. I watch his fingers slide, clip into place, slide, search, slide… 100 pieces. I pick up my first piece, the one with the bulldog. “You know,” Isaac says. “My bike never did grow wings.” The rum has curbed my vinegar and loosened the muscles in my face. I fold my features into a version of shock mock and Isaac cracks up. “No, I don’t suppose it did. Birds are the only things that grow wings. We’re just left to muck through the mire like a bunch of emotional cave men.” “Not if you have someone to carry you.”

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Likewise, for question 2, find the total number of minutes, across all your waking hours, that you meaningfully focused on others, and so on. Odds are the gap between these two numbers is large. This gap represents your untapped potential, in a typical day, for creating conditions conducive to positivity resonance. Next, continue on to find the total number of minutes, across all your waking hours yesterday, that you sensed either the gestalt sense of positivity resonance (question 3) or one of three facets of it (questions 4 and 5, followed by questions 6 and 7). The gap between each of these numbers and your total number of minutes spent in the presence of others (question 1) represents your untapped potential for love, a number likely to be quite large. By contrast, the more modest gap between each of these numbers (for questions 3 through 7) and your total number of minutes spent with respectful and meaningful focus on others (question 2) represents how easily you were able to convert these opportunities into micro-moments of love. With this rundown before you, consider now the opportunity costs for self-absorptions like surfing the Internet. That kind of behavior is normal and inevitable, and at times even rejuvenating. But think about what other kinds of experiences you are crowding out. What do you miss out on? More love? Jeremy’s Story In my home office, I have three framed letters—two from my own sons and a third from a couple of children whom I may never meet. The two from my boys are cherished Mother’s Day gifts. Each lists what it takes to be their mom, ranging from “make the best pancakes” and “cheer me on” to “enjoy talking to me” and “teach me about what she teaches.” The third is written in blue marker on green construction paper and decorated with glitter glue and cartoon drawings. It reads: “Dear Dr. Fredrickson, Thank you for teaching Mr. Wills to be + [positive], [heart] Tisha and Kelly.” Mr. Wills is Jeremy Wills, one of my former students. A few years back, he’d enrolled in an upper-level undergraduate seminar of mine, on positive psychology, before which he’d never given a second thought to positive emotions. A few months ago, as I was thick into crafting part I of this book, I ran into Jeremy as I was walking across campus at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He was back in town for a short stretch between jobs. He’d been a wonderful contributor in my class years back, so open and thoughtful, and I enjoy catching up with him when I can.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  The five thousand employees at the world headquarters in Beaverton are housed on an Edenic collegiate campus, with two hundred acres of wooded wilderness, laced by rolling streams, dotted by pristine ball fields. The buildings are named after the men and women who have given us more than their names and endorsements. Joan Benoit Samuelson, Ken Griffey Jr., Mia Hamm, Tiger Woods, Dan Fouts, Jerry Rice, Steve Prefontaine—they’ve given us our identity. As chairman I still go most days to my office. I look around at all those buildings, and I don’t see buildings, I see temples. Any building is a temple if you make it so. I think often of that momentous trip when I was twenty-four. I think of myself standing high above Athens, gazing at the Parthenon, and I never fail to experience the sensation of time folding in on itself. Amid the campus buildings, along the campus walkways, there are enormous banners: action photos of the super athletes, the legends and giants and titans who’ve elevated Nike to something more than a brand. Jordan. Kobe. Tiger. Again, I can’t help but think of my trip around the world. The River Jordan. Mystical Kobe, Japan. That first meeting at Onitsuka, pleading with the executives for the right to sell Tigers… Can this all be a coincidence? I think of the countless Nike offices around the world. At each one, no matter the country, the phone number ends in 6453, which spells out Nike on the keypad. But, by pure chance, from right to left it also spells out Pre’s best time in the mile, to the tenth of a second: 3:54.6. I say by pure chance, but is it really? Am I allowed to think that some coincidences are more than coincidental? Can I be forgiven for thinking, or hoping, that the universe, or some guiding daemon, has been nudging me, whispering to me? Or else just playing with me? Can it really be nothing but a fluke of geography that the oldest shoes ever discovered are a pair of nine-thousand-year-old sandals… salvaged from a cave in Oregon? Is there nothing to the fact that the sandals were discovered in 1938, the year I was born? I ALWAYS FEEL a thrill, a shot of adrenaline, when I drive through the intersection of the campus’s two main streets, each named after a Nike Founding Father. All day, every day, the security guard at the front gate gives visitors the same directions. What you wanna do is take Bowerman Drive all the way up to Del Hayes Way… I also take great pleasure in strolling past the oasis at the center of campus, the Nissho Iwai Japanese Gardens. In one sense our campus is a topographical map of Nike’s history and growth; in another it’s a diorama of my life. In yet another sense it’s a living, breathing expression of that vital human emotion, maybe the most vital of all, after love. Gratitude.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  They’ve even formed a discussion group, an informal think tank, to preserve that original sense of innovation. They call themselves The Spirit of 72, which fills my heart. But it’s not just the young people within the company who honor the history. I think back to July 2005. In the middle of some event, I can’t recall which, LeBron James asks for a private word. “Phil, can I see you a moment?” “Of course.” “When I first signed with you,” he says, “I didn’t know all that much about the history of Nike. So I’ve been studying up.” “Oh?” “You’re the founder.” “Well. Cofounder. Yes. It surprises a lot of people.” “And Nike was born in 1972.” “Well. Born—? Yes. I suppose.” “Right. So I went to my jeweler and had them find a Rolex watch from 1972.” He hands me the watch. It’s engraved: With thanks for taking a chance on me . As usual, I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. It wasn’t much of a chance. He was pretty close to a sure thing. But taking a chance on people—he’s right. You could argue that’s what it’s all been about. I GO OUT to the kitchen, pour another glass of wine. Returning to my recliner, I watch Penny needlepoint for a while and the mental images come tumbling faster and faster. As if I’m needlepointing memories. I watch Pete Sampras crush every opponent at one of his many Wimbledons. After the final point he tosses his racket into the stands—to me! (He overshoots and hits the man behind me, who sues, of course.) I see Pete’s archrival, Andre Agassi, win the U.S. Open, unseeded, and come to my box after the final shot, in tears. “We did it, Phil!” We? I smile as Tiger drains the final putt at Augusta—or is it St. Andrews? He hugs me—and holds on for many seconds longer than I expect. I roll my mind back over the many private, intimate moments I’ve shared with him, and with Bo Jackson, and with Michael Jordan. Staying at Michael’s house in Chicago, I pick up the phone next to the bed in the guestroom and discover that there’s a voice on the line. May I help you? It’s room service. Genuine, round-the-clock, whatever-your-heart-desires room service. I set down the phone, my mouth hanging open. They’re all like sons, and brothers—family. No less. When Tiger’s father, Earl, dies, the church in Kansas holds fewer than one hundred, and I’m honored to be included. When Jordan’s father is murdered, I fly to North Carolina for the funeral and discover with a shock that a seat is reserved for me in the front row. All of which leads me back, of course, to Matthew. I think of his long, difficult search for meaning, for identity. For me. His search often looked so familiar, even though Matthew didn’t have my luck, or my focus. Nor my insecurity.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  Kobe. Tiger. Again, I can’t help but think of my trip around the world. The River Jordan. Mystical Kobe, Japan. That first meeting at Onitsuka, pleading with the executives for the right to sell Tigers... Can this all be a coincidence? I think of the countless Nike offices around the world. At each one, no matter the country, the phone number ends in 6453, which spells out Nike on the keypad. But, by pure chance, from right to left it also spells out Pre’s best time in the mile, to the tenth of a second: 3:54.6. I say by pure chance, but is it really? Am I allowed to think that some coincidences are more than coincidental? Can I be forgiven for thinking, or hoping, that the universe, or some guiding daemon, has been nudging me, whispering to me? Or else just playing with me? Can it really be nothing but a fluke of geography that the oldest shoes ever discovered are a pair of nine-thousand-year-old sandals... salvaged from a cave in Oregon? Is there nothing to the fact that the sandals were discovered in 1938, the year I was born? I ALWAYS FEEL a thrill, a shot of adrenaline, when I drive through the intersection of the campus’s two main streets, each named after a Nike Founding Father. All day, every day, the security guard at the front gate gives visitors the same directions. What you wanna do is take Bowerman Drive all the way up to Del Hayes Way... I also take great pleasure in strolling past the oasis at the center of campus, the Nissho Iwai Japanese Gardens. In one sense our campus is a topographical map of Nike’s history and growth; in another it’s a diorama of my life. In yet another sense it’s a living, breathing expression of that vital human emotion, maybe the most vital of all, after love. Gratitude. The youngest employees at Nike seem to have it. In abundance. They care deeply about the names on the streets and buildings, and about the bygone days. Like Matthew begging for his bedtime story, they clamor for the old tales. They crowd the conference room whenever Woodell or Johnson visits. They’ve even formed a discussion group, an informal think tank, to preserve that original sense of innovation. They call themselves The Spirit of 72, which fills my heart. But it’s not just the young people within the company who honor the history. I think back to July 2005. In the middle of some event, I can’t recall which, LeBron James asks for a private word. “Phil, can I see you a moment?” “Of course.” “When I first signed with you,” he says, “I didn’t know all that much about the history of Nike. So I’ve been studying up.” “Oh?” “You’re the founder.” “Well. Cofounder. Yes. It surprises a lot of people.” “And Nike was born in 1972.” “Well. Born—? Yes. I suppose.” “Right.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  I thought of that phrase, “It’s just business.” It’s never just business. It never will be. If it ever does become just business, that will mean that business is very bad. TIME FOR BED, Penny says, packing up her needlepoint. Yes, I tell her. I’ll be along in a minute. I keep thinking of one line in The Bucket List . “You measure yourself by the people who measure themselves by you.” I forget if it was Nicholson or Freeman. The line is so true, so very true. And it transports me to Tokyo, to the offices of Nissho. I was there not long ago for a visit. The phone rang. “For you,” the Japanese receptionist said, extending the receiver. “Me?” It was Michael Johnson, the three-time gold medalist, holder of the world record in the 200 meters and 400 meters. He did it all in our shoes. He happened to be in Tokyo, he said, and heard I was, too. “Do you want to have dinner?” he asked. I was flattered. But I told him I couldn’t. Nissho was having a banquet for me. I invited him to come. Hours later we were sitting together on the floor, before a table covered with shabu-shabu, toasting each other with cup after cup of sake. We laughed, cheered, clinked glasses, and something passed between us, the same thing that passes between me and most of the athletes I work with. A transference, a camaraderie, a sort of connection . It’s brief, but it nearly always happens, and I know it’s part of what I was searching for when I went around the world in 1962. To study the self is to forget the self. Mi casa, su casa . Oneness—in some way, shape, or form, it’s what every person I’ve ever met has been seeking. I THINK OF others who didn’t make it this far. Bowerman died on Christmas Eve, 1999, in Fossil. He’d gone back to his hometown, as we always suspected he would. He still owned his house on the mountaintop above campus, but he chose to quit it, to move with Mrs. Bowerman to a Fossil retirement home. He needed to be where he started—did he tell someone that? Or am I imagining him muttering it to himself? I remember when I was a sophomore, we had a dual meet with Washington State, in Pullman, and Bowerman made the bus driver go through Fossil so he could show us. I immediately thought of that sentimental detour when I heard that he’d lain down on the bed and never got up. It was Jaqua who phoned. I was reading the paper, the Christmas tree blinking blinking blinking. You always remember the strangest details from such moments. I choked into the phone, “I’ll have to call you back,” then walked upstairs to my den. I turned out all the lights. Eyes shut, I replayed a million different moments, including that long-ago lunch at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Deal? Deal.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  Sure, sure, we said, we’d love to have that quick infusion of capital. Oh, the things we could do with that money! The factories we could lease! The talent we could hire! But going public would change our culture, make us beholden, make us corporate. That’s not our play, we all agreed. Weeks later, strapped for money again, our bank accounts at zero, we took another look at the idea. And rejected it again. Wanting to settle the matter once and for all, I put the subject at the top of the agenda for our biannual gathering, a retreat we’d taken to calling the Buttface. JOHNSON COINED THE phrase, we think. At one of our earliest retreats he muttered: “How many multimillion-dollar companies can you yell out, ‘Hey, Buttface,’ and the entire management team turns around?” It got a laugh. And then it stuck. And then it became a key part of our vernacular. Buttface referred to both the retreat and the retreaters, and it not only captured the informal mood of those retreats, where no idea was too sacred to be mocked, and no person was too important to be ridiculed, it also summed up the company spirit, mission and ethos. The first few Buttfaces took place at various Oregon resorts. Otter Crest. Salishan. Ultimately we came to prefer Sunriver, an idyllic spot in sunny central Oregon. Typically, Woodell and Johnson would fly out from the East Coast, and we’d all drive out to Sunriver late Friday. We’d reserve a bunch of cabins, seize a conference room, and spend two or three days shouting ourselves hoarse. I can see myself so clearly at the head of a conference table, shouting, being shouted at—laughing until my voice was gone. The problems confronting us were grave, complex, seemingly insurmountable, made more so by the fact we were separated from each other by three thousand miles, at a time when communication wasn’t easy or instant. And yet we were always laughing. Sometimes, after a really cathartic guffaw, I’d look around the table and feel overcome by emotion. Camaraderie, loyalty, gratitude. Even love. Surely love. But I also remember feeling shocked that these were the men I’d assembled. These were the founding fathers of a multimillion-dollar company that sold athletic shoes? A paralyzed guy, two morbidly obese guys, a chain-smoking guy? It was bracing to realize that, in this group, the one with whom I had the most in common was... Johnson. And yet, it was undeniable. While everyone else was laughing, rioting, he’d be the sane one, sitting quietly in the middle of the table reading a book. The loudest voice at every Buttface always seemed to be Hayes. And the craziest. Like his girth, his personality was ever expanding, adding new phobias and enthusiasms. For instance, by this time Hayes had developed a curious obsession with heavy equipment. Backhoes, bulldozers, cherry pickers, cranes, they fascinated him. They... turned him on, there’s no other way to say it.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I ’ve spent a fair portion of my life in debt. As a young entrepreneur I became distressingly familiar with that feeling of going to sleep each night, waking up each day, owing many people a sum far greater than I could repay. Nothing, however, has made me feel quite so indebted as the writing of this book. Just as there’s no end to my gratitude, there seems no proper, logical place to begin to express it. And so. At Nike, I wish to thank my assistant, Lisa McKillips, for doing everything—I mean everything—perfectly, cheerfully, and always with her dazzling smile; old friends Jeff Johnson and Bob Woodell for making me remember, and being patient when I remembered it different; historian Scott Reames for deftly sifting facts from myths; and Maria Eitel for applying her expertise to weightiest matters. Of course, my biggest and most emphatic thanks to the 68,000 Nike employees worldwide for their daily efforts and their dedication, without which there would be no book, no author, no nothing. At Stanford, I wish to thank the mad genius and gifted teacher Adam Johnson for his golden example of what it means to be a working writer and a friend; Abraham Verghese, who instructs as he writes—quietly, effortlessly; and numberless graduate students I met with while sitting in the back row of writing classes—each inspired me with his or her passion for language and craft. At Scribner, thanks to the legendary Nan Graham for her steadfast support; Brian Belfiglio, Roz Lippel, Susan Moldow, and Carolyn Reidy for their bracing, energizing enthusiasm; Kathleen Rizzo for keeping production moving smoothly forward while always maintaining a sublime calm; above all, thanks to my supremely talented and razor-sharp editor, Shannon Welch, who gave me the affirmation I needed, when I needed it, without either of us fully appreciating how much I needed it. Her early note of praise and analysis and precocious wisdom was everything. Randomly, in no order, thanks to the many pals and colleagues who were so lavish with their time, talent, and advice, including super agent Bob Barnett, poet-administrator extraordinaire Eavan Boland, Grand Slam memoirist Andre Agassi, and number artist Del Hayes. A special and profound thank-you to memoirist-novelist-journalist-sportswriter-muse-friend J. R. Moehringer, whose generosity and good humor and enviable storytelling gifts I relied on through the many, many drafts of this book. Last, I wish to thank my family, all of them, but particularly my son Travis, whose support and friendship meant—and mean—the world. And, of course, a full-throated, full-hearted thanks to my Penelope, who waited. And waited. She waited while I journeyed, and she waited while I got lost. She waited night after night while I made my maddeningly slow way home—usually late, the dinner cold—and she waited the last few years while I relived it all, aloud, and in my head, and on the page, even though there were parts she didn’t care to relive. From the start, going on half a century, she’s waited, and now at last I can hand her these hard-fought pages and say, about them, about Nike, about everything: “Penny, I couldn’t have done it without you. ”

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  Joan Benoit Samuelson, Ken Griffey Jr., Mia Hamm, Tiger Woods, Dan Fouts, Jerry Rice, Steve Prefontaine—they’ve given us our identity. As chairman I still go most days to my office. I look around at all those buildings, and I don’t see buildings, I see temples. Any building is a temple if you make it so. I think often of that momentous trip when I was twenty-four. I think of myself standing high above Athens, gazing at the Parthenon, and I never fail to experience the sensation of time folding in on itself. Amid the campus buildings, along the campus walkways, there are enormous banners: action photos of the super athletes, the legends and giants and titans who’ve elevated Nike to something more than a brand. Jordan. Kobe. Tiger. Again, I can’t help but think of my trip around the world. The River Jordan . Mystical Kobe , Japan. That first meeting at Onitsuka, pleading with the executives for the right to sell Tigers … Can this all be a coincidence? I think of the countless Nike offices around the world. At each one, no matter the country, the phone number ends in 6453, which spells out Nike on the keypad. But, by pure chance, from right to left it also spells out Pre’s best time in the mile, to the tenth of a second: 3:54.6. I say by pure chance, but is it really? Am I allowed to think that some coincidences are more than coincidental? Can I be forgiven for thinking, or hoping, that the universe, or some guiding daemon, has been nudging me, whispering to me? Or else just playing with me? Can it really be nothing but a fluke of geography that the oldest shoes ever discovered are a pair of nine-thousand-year-old sandals… salvaged from a cave in Oregon? Is there nothing to the fact that the sandals were discovered in 1938, the year I was born? I ALWAYS FEEL a thrill, a shot of adrenaline, when I drive through the intersection of the campus’s two main streets, each named after a Nike Founding Father. All day, every day, the security guard at the front gate gives visitors the same directions. What you wanna do is take Bowerman Drive all the way up to Del Hayes Way… I also take great pleasure in strolling past the oasis at the center of campus, the Nissho Iwai Japanese Gardens. In one sense our campus is a topographical map of Nike’s history and growth; in another it’s a diorama of my life. In yet another sense it’s a living, breathing expression of that vital human emotion, maybe the most vital of all, after love. Gratitude. The youngest employees at Nike seem to have it. In abundance. They care deeply about the names on the streets and buildings, and about the bygone days. Like Matthew begging for his bedtime story, they clamor for the old tales. They crowd the conference room whenever Woodell or Johnson visits.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  Randomly, in no order, thanks to the many pals and colleagues who were so lavish with their time, talent, and advice, including super agent Bob Barnett, poet-administrator extraordinaire Eavan Boland, Grand Slam memoirist Andre Agassi, and number artist Del Hayes. A special and profound thank-you to memoirist-novelist-journalist-sportswriter-muse-friend J. R. Moehringer, whose generosity and good humor and enviable storytelling gifts I relied on through the many, many drafts of this book. Last, I wish to thank my family, all of them, but particularly my son Travis, whose support and friendship meant—and mean—the world. And, of course, a full-throated, full-hearted thanks to my Penelope, who waited. And waited. She waited while I journeyed, and she waited while I got lost. She waited night after night while I made my maddeningly slow way home—usually late, the dinner cold—and she waited the last few years while I relived it all, aloud, and in my head, and on the page, even though there were parts she didn’t care to relive. From the start, going on half a century, she’s waited, and now at last I can hand her these hard-fought pages and say, about them, about Nike, about everything: “Penny, I couldn’t have done it without you.” More from the Author [image file=image_rsrc3K9.jpg] Shoe DogABOUT THE AUTHOROne of the world’s most influential business executives, PHIL KNIGHT is the founder of Nike, Inc. He served as CEO of the company from 1964 to 2004, as board chairman through 2016, and is currently chairman emeritus. He lives in Oregon with his wife, Penny. [image "Logo: Scribner" file=image_rsrc3KA.jpg] MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT SimonandSchuster.com www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Phil-Knight [image "Icon: Facebook" file=image_rsrc3KB.jpg] [image "Icon: Twitter" file=image_rsrc3KC.jpg] [image "Icon: Instagram" file=image_rsrc3KD.jpg] @ScribnerBooks We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook. Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox. [image "Logo: Scribner" file=image_rsrc3KE.jpg] SCRIBNER An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com Certain names have been changed. Copyright © 2016 by Phil Knight All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Scribner Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. First Scribner trade paperback edition May 2018 Scribner and design are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, LLC. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Interior design by Kyle Kabel Cover design by Jaya Miceli and Jonathan Bush Swoosh Courtesy of Nike Library of Congress Control Number: 2016010080 ISBN 978-1-5011-3591-0 ISBN 978-1-5011-3592-7 (pbk) ISBN 978-1-5011-3593-4 (ebook)

• From Educated (2018)

  Gashes the size of football fields would appear at the mountain base, leaving a desolation of broken roots and upturned trees where once there had been a forest. He was probably chanting, “Got to be self-reliant” the day he climbed into a crawler and tore into the fields of satin wheat. —GRANDMA-OVER-IN-TOWN DIED ON MOTHER’S Day. I was doing research in Colorado when I heard the news. I left immediately for Idaho, but while traveling realized I had nowhere to stay. It was then that I remembered my aunt Angie, and that my father was telling anyone who would listen that she had put his name on a terrorist watch list. Mother had cast her aside; I hoped I could reclaim her. Angie lived next door to my grandfather, so again I parked along the white picket fence. I knocked. Angie greeted me politely, the way Grandpa had done. It was clear that she had heard much about me from my mother and father in the past five years. “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “I’ll forget everything my dad has said about you, if you’ll forget everything he’s said about me.” She laughed, closing her eyes and throwing back her head in a way that nearly broke my heart, she looked so much like my mother. I stayed with Angie until the funeral. In the days before the service, my mother’s siblings began to gather at their childhood home. They were my aunts and uncles, but some of them I hadn’t seen since I was a child. My uncle Daryl, who I barely knew, suggested that his brothers and sisters should spend an afternoon together at a favorite restaurant in Lava Hot Springs. My mother refused to come. She would not go without my father, and he would have nothing to do with Angie. It was a bright May afternoon when we all piled into a large van and set off on the hour-long drive. I was uncomfortably aware that I had taken my mother’s place, going with her siblings and her remaining parent on an outing to remember her mother, a grandmother I had not known well. I soon realized that my not knowing her was wonderful for her children, who were bursting with remembrances and loved answering questions about her. With every story my grandmother came into sharper focus, but the woman taking shape from their collective memories was nothing like the woman I remembered. It was then I realized how cruelly I had judged her, how my perception of her had been distorted, because I’d been looking at her through my father’s harsh lens. During the drive back, my aunt Debbie invited me to visit her in Utah. My uncle Daryl echoed her. “We’d love to have you in Arizona,” he said. In the space of a day, I had reclaimed a family—not mine, hers. The funeral was the next day. I stood in a corner and watched my siblings trickle in.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  Out of the sweatshop crisis also came the Girl Effect, a massive Nike effort to break the generational cycles of poverty in the bleakest corners of the world. Along with the United Nations and other corporate and government partners, the Girl Effect is spending tens of millions of dollars in a smart, tough, global campaign to educate and connect and lift up young girls. Economists, sociologists, not to mention our own hearts, tell us that, in many societies, young girls are the most economically vulnerable, and vital, demographic. So helping them helps all. Whether striving to end child marriage in Ethiopia, or building safe spaces for teenage girls in Nigeria, or launching a magazine and radio show that deliver powerful, inspiring messages to young Rwandans, the Girl Effect is changing millions of lives, and the best days of my week, month, year, are those when I receive the glowing reports from its front lines. I’d do anything to go back, to make so many different decisions, which might or might not have averted the sweatshop crisis. But I can’t deny that the crisis has led to miraculous change, inside and outside Nike. For that I must be grateful. Of course, there will always be the question of wages. The salary of a Third World factory worker seems impossibly low to Americans, and I understand. Still, we have to operate within the limits and structures of each country, each economy; we can’t simply pay whatever we wish to pay. In one country, which shall be nameless, when we tried to raise wages, we found ourselves called on the carpet, summoned to the office of a top government official and ordered to stop. We were disrupting the nation’s entire economic system, he said. It’s simply not right, he insisted, or feasible, that a shoe worker makes more than a medical doctor. Change never comes as fast as we want it. I think constantly of the poverty I saw while traveling the world in the 1960s. I knew then that the only answer to such poverty is entry-level jobs. Lots of them. I didn’t form this theory on my own. I heard it from every economics professor I ever had, at both Oregon and Stanford, and everything I saw and read thereafter backed it up. International trade always, always benefits both trading nations. Another thing I often heard from those same professors was the old maxim: “When goods don’t pass international borders, soldiers will.” Though I’ve been known to call business war without bullets, it’s actually a wonderful bulwark against war. Trade is the path of coexistence, cooperation. Peace feeds on prosperity. That’s why, haunted as I was by the Vietnam War, I always vowed that someday Nike would have a factory in or near Saigon. By 1997 we had four.