The first morning after losing my last brother

A tribute to Tom Walsh and other White Guys I've known

Dawn over the Cedar River, March 17, 2024

I’ve lost two big brothers in just over two years. Tom Walsh died in March, 2024, close enough to greet St. Paddy’s Day - on Ireland time, at least. Bob Hardy died in May, 2022.

Tom and Bob weren’t blood, but by far, they meant more to me than the brother I was born with. As fellow Iowa transplants, they lit my way for 40 years. Tom was my print journalism mentor, a bureau chief at the Cedar Rapids Gazette, while Bob, my first journalism instructor, eventually ran the City Channel for Iowa City. They made Iowa a better place to live through their work. They made my life a better place to live through their friendship.

Receiving the sad news before sunrise that day allowed me time to reflect. I considered writing about it. Then my thoughts took me strangely to how I’d be honoring yet another white guy. Then I asked myself why I thought that was a problem. (This is what dawn looks like to a night owl when the day-old coffee hasn’t kicked in yet.)

So here’s the answer:

A lot of judgement is leveled against white men these days. I myself have been guilty of calling out the “Pale Male Club” when I’ve seen it revving into fifth gear. Yet blasting away categorically at white men makes every white male teacher, letter carrier, carpenter and journalist we know equivalent to modern-day robber barons like Bezos and Koch or to racist vigilantes running down Black joggers. Not to mention that most folks I see lobbing slurs about “white male privilege” have white fathers and a college education. Labels like Racist, Patriarchal and yes, Pale Male Club are diluted by high-altitude inaccuracy. They better describe the system than the people in it, but we seldom take the time to differentiate the two.

Tom taught me to make every word count. He discouraged labels. He was an old school journalist who instilled a tenacious pursuit of the truth. He was also a stubborn, passionate, generous father, husband and friend with a hearty laugh that always felt good to earn. His brilliant scoops at the Gazette raised the bar at the mediocre Press-Citizen in the days before healthy, competitive journalism found itself on life support. His feature stories could make you weep.

Tom took a job at the Hoover Presidential Foundation in West Branch when the Gazette refused his requests for a science beat. There he dug through Herbert Hoover’s life to bring a president lost to history back to relevance, reviving Hooverball, naming Herbert Hoover Highway and winning national historic site designations for most downtown West Branch buildings. Still, journalism always called him back.

Tom was no social justice warrior, yet his reporting comforted the afflicted and afflicted the comfortable, a phrase aptly attributed to a fictional Irish bartender. He was not wealthy, though being a white man in America meant his hard work rewarded him better than others who were equally deserving. He was proud of his Irish heritage, yet never distorted its challenges. He lived as authentically as any person I’ve ever met.

I don’t write this because the white men I’ve known were superior or even more important to me than other people. In fact, Black and Jewish women have had a greater influence on my life at pivotal moments. It did take the proverbial village to get me this far.

I do it because these men deserve recognition without shade on their race and gender. As much as anyone, they’ve made the daily effort to treat their life partners with respect, raise good kids, engage in meaningful work, be decent citizens, provide a home for their families and make their parents proud. They tried their damnedest and they did it while attempting to live up to an unrealistic expectation of provider and protector that stubbornly endures in American culture. They may never fear walking home in the dark or getting beaten by a cop at a traffic stop, but they deserve to be distinguished from the social and political cesspool that this country’s power elite has spent centuries building to serve itself at everyone else’s expense.

Labels harm our efforts to expose and dismantle a system that hurts the many to serve the few. Today’s identity politics infestation on the Left is as lethal as any divide-and-conquer technique used by the powerful - from Hitler to the U.S. Government. It’s a distraction from the fight against who’s causing the greatest harm to the most of us. (Hint: It’s not the guy who forgot to refer to you as “they” or the woman you called a “Karen.”) And the Right is using it to amplify fear of our differences instead of pride in America’s Melting Pot among straight White working people.

Get it together, folks - the world is burning. Respect each other’s differences without detracting from our common cause. The men in power march on stronger than ever, thriving in ever-darkening shadows because we haven’t even been able to continue the legacy of journalists like Tom and Bob to the fullest. There’s much to do.

So after 40 years of friendship and a lifetime of fighting for racial and economic justice, I honor Tom by dedicating this moment to just the white guys who helped me rise each day to face the struggle that never ends.

As the sun rose over the hills on the far side of the river that morning, eagles rode the thermals and a pair of geese honked as they flew overhead. I wrapped my robe around me, put my feet up, sipped coffee and quietly thanked Tom and Bob, Paul and Tim, Bill, Jerry, Dan, Les, Bruce, Lyle, Jim and so many others who used their speck of time on this earth to build a better world, to be of service to others and to love something greater than themselves.

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And just for Tom, this Irish farewell: Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.

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