“For someone who does [podcasting] because you kinda wanna expand—you wanna leave the universe in people’s heads a little bigger than where you find them. And then to actually meet them and they say, ‘I’m bigger. I listened to this thing and I’m bigger. And thank you.’ That’s the nicest thing, the nicest thank-you there is.” — Robert Krulwich
In the past week, I’ve listened to two podcasts as they process through some turbulent changes: Robert Krulwich, one of the co-hosts of Radiolab, is retiring from the show, and The Nod is morphing into a TV series. Perhaps it's a little strange that I care about these changes as these two shows are not in my top tier of podcasts. They are ones whose feeds I scroll through when This American Life is airing reruns and Heavyweight’s season has ended and Reply All is stuck in the purgatory of researching stories. Nevertheless, I wanted to be a part of their reminiscences and bittersweet celebrations.
Towards the end of “The Bobbys,” where Radiolab recognizes Robert’s contributions to the show (and public radio) through an award that Robert created himself—The Bobbys—Robert says the line I quoted above. In the car by myself, I muttered, "Yes, exactly" and glanced at the timestamp so I could find it again when I wasn't hurtling down Fulton Avenue. I knew at that moment that Krulwich had put into words an idea my subconscious had already accepted.
Last weekend, we at Nizhoni had our house retreat. I was able to leave all my grading at home as we drove an hour to a tiny cottage five minutes from Lake Michigan. The house is tucked behind other expensive summer homes so all you can see through its large walls of windows are hills covered in snow, trees and occasionally speckled with does. It has a spiral staircase that leads to a loft that gets absurdly hot and light switches that never turn on the light you assume they will turn on. It was magical.
The goal of the retreat was to intentionally spend time getting to know each other. We spent every second together for two days and dished out all our feelings about families, friends, and what level of cleanliness we need. One of the activities we did to stimulate this sharing was to take our house Jenga set and write questions on them for each other. One of mine was “What do you want your legacy to be?” Even then, I wasn’t exactly sure what my answer would be.
Like Krulwich, I want the people who interact with me to be bigger—to have more wonder, to explore more, to know more. But most importantly, I want them to be bigger in their hearts.
I recycled the legacy question for a brainstorming worksheet to help my students write a personal essay. During class, one of them who didn’t really want to fill it out shot at me, “Well, why don’t you answer these questions?” I obliged, rattling off answers. When I got to my answer about my legacy, I said, “I want to be remembered as caring.”
She laughed derisively and said, “You aren’t doing that now.”
As much as I tried to grin that one off, her comment stung.
Legacies, by definition, are written by the people who come afterward. Krulwich hopes that his work on Radiolab made people think more, but it's only his audience members who can confirm for him that yes, that one episode about parasites was a slow gateway into a love of podcasts. I can hope all I want that I will leave a legacy of strong relationships and selfless actions, but the jury is still out.
And maybe this is all too much to consider for a 23-year-old who is not on the verge of death (as far as she knows). And maybe this is all too negative a piece for someone who knows that kind of legacy is possible. I’ve seen it throughout the past year; I saw it in the bathroom when I looked and found her face in the mirror. I blinked and then smiled as my features became my own again. “I guess she’s still there,” I thought and then turned off the light.
In the past week, I’ve listened to two podcasts as they process through some turbulent changes: Robert Krulwich, one of the co-hosts of Radiolab, is retiring from the show, and The Nod is morphing into a TV series. Perhaps it's a little strange that I care about these changes as these two shows are not in my top tier of podcasts. They are ones whose feeds I scroll through when This American Life is airing reruns and Heavyweight’s season has ended and Reply All is stuck in the purgatory of researching stories. Nevertheless, I wanted to be a part of their reminiscences and bittersweet celebrations.
Towards the end of “The Bobbys,” where Radiolab recognizes Robert’s contributions to the show (and public radio) through an award that Robert created himself—The Bobbys—Robert says the line I quoted above. In the car by myself, I muttered, "Yes, exactly" and glanced at the timestamp so I could find it again when I wasn't hurtling down Fulton Avenue. I knew at that moment that Krulwich had put into words an idea my subconscious had already accepted.
Last weekend, we at Nizhoni had our house retreat. I was able to leave all my grading at home as we drove an hour to a tiny cottage five minutes from Lake Michigan. The house is tucked behind other expensive summer homes so all you can see through its large walls of windows are hills covered in snow, trees and occasionally speckled with does. It has a spiral staircase that leads to a loft that gets absurdly hot and light switches that never turn on the light you assume they will turn on. It was magical.
The goal of the retreat was to intentionally spend time getting to know each other. We spent every second together for two days and dished out all our feelings about families, friends, and what level of cleanliness we need. One of the activities we did to stimulate this sharing was to take our house Jenga set and write questions on them for each other. One of mine was “What do you want your legacy to be?” Even then, I wasn’t exactly sure what my answer would be.
Like Krulwich, I want the people who interact with me to be bigger—to have more wonder, to explore more, to know more. But most importantly, I want them to be bigger in their hearts.
I recycled the legacy question for a brainstorming worksheet to help my students write a personal essay. During class, one of them who didn’t really want to fill it out shot at me, “Well, why don’t you answer these questions?” I obliged, rattling off answers. When I got to my answer about my legacy, I said, “I want to be remembered as caring.”
She laughed derisively and said, “You aren’t doing that now.”
As much as I tried to grin that one off, her comment stung.
Legacies, by definition, are written by the people who come afterward. Krulwich hopes that his work on Radiolab made people think more, but it's only his audience members who can confirm for him that yes, that one episode about parasites was a slow gateway into a love of podcasts. I can hope all I want that I will leave a legacy of strong relationships and selfless actions, but the jury is still out.
And maybe this is all too much to consider for a 23-year-old who is not on the verge of death (as far as she knows). And maybe this is all too negative a piece for someone who knows that kind of legacy is possible. I’ve seen it throughout the past year; I saw it in the bathroom when I looked and found her face in the mirror. I blinked and then smiled as my features became my own again. “I guess she’s still there,” I thought and then turned off the light.