Long Journeys Begin with a Single Step

Every long journey begins with a single step—and for me, that step led to the starting line of the Robie Creek Half Marathon. Ever since moving to Boise, I’d heard whispers about the Race. Colleagues at work, neighbors—anyone who learned I enjoyed trail running—would ask, “Have you run Robie?”

Because of the race’s popularity, bibs are notoriously hard to come by. Registration opens on Presidents' Day in February, and they’re usually gone by the end of the day. Eager to test my limits, I woke up early on February 20 and secured my spot in this iconic event. At the time, I knew I was taking a risk: I was still recovering from a broken ankle I’d injured over Thanksgiving weekend. Little did I know, this race would not only push my physical boundaries but also teach me lasting lessons about resilience and determination.

The Race to Robie Creek

The Race to Robie Creek Half Marathon is renowned for its breathtaking views, challenging hills, and vibrant atmosphere. It is not for the faint-hearted and has earned the nickname "The Toughest Race in the Northwest." As a first-time racer attempting a distance over 10K (6.2 miles) and nursing a hurt ankle, I knew the journey ahead would be anything but easy.

The race begins at Fort Boise Park, situated at an elevation of approximately 2,725 feet. From there, runners embark on a grueling 8.5-mile ascent up Rocky Canyon Road, culminating at Aldape Summit, which stands at 4,797 feet. This climb involves an elevation gain of about 2,100 feet, testing even the most seasoned runners. After reaching the summit, the course descends approximately 1,700 feet over the remaining 4.6 miles to the finish line at Robie Creek Campground. 

The terrain transitions from paved roads in the initial miles to dirt roads as runners approach the summit, offering a mix of urban and rugged landscapes. The race is known for its unpredictable weather conditions, with possibilities ranging from sun and heat to rain and snow, adding another layer of challenge.

Organized by the Rocky Canyon Sail Toads, the event has a rich history dating back to its inaugural run in 1975. Over the years, it has grown in popularity, often selling out within minutes of registration opening. The race not only tests physical endurance but also fosters a strong sense of community, with volunteers and spectators providing unwavering support throughout the course. 

Preparation and Pre-Race Optimism

Looking back, I wish I could say I trained smart: balanced rest and recovery, consulted with a physical therapist, and followed a structured program. But I didn’t do any of that.

Instead, I began walking in March to strengthen my ankle and added short, relatively flat runs in early April. I thought I was ready. With the benefit of hindsight, I realize attempting such a demanding course without proper preparation was a mistake.

Race Day Arrives

Climbing Rocky Canyon
to Aldape Summit

On race morning, I stood among thousands of enthusiastic runners at the starting line, an eager energy pulsing through the crowd—and through me. The atmosphere was electric—charged with camaraderie, purpose, and nerves. Music blared from speakers, volunteers offered last-minute encouragement, and colorful costumes—some serious, some silly—added to the festive chaos. It felt less like a race and more like a community celebration, though the looming mountain reminded me of the task ahead.

From the start, I reminded myself of my only goal: to finish. I settled into a steady, conservative pace, resisting the temptation to chase the faster runners surging ahead. The rhythm of my footsteps became a kind of meditation—each stride a quiet promise to listen to my body, especially my recovering ankle. I paid close attention to the terrain, adjusting with each incline and curve, grateful for each mile that passed without too much pain. Around me, conversations sparked between strangers, cheers erupted from roadside supporters, and the scent of sunscreen and determination hung in the air. I wasn’t racing anyone but doubt...

Pushing Through the Pain

The initial miles were manageable, but as the course climbed into the foothills, the elevation began to test me. My ankle throbbed more each step, and staying focused became a mental challenge.

Though I never seriously considered quitting, I did wonder whether the pain would eventually force me to stop. The cheers from spectators and fellow runners helped tremendously. The natural beauty surrounding the course also served as motivation to keep moving forward.

The Power of Community

One of the most uplifting parts of the Robie experience was the community support. Strangers offered high-fives, encouragement, and even refreshments. As we passed through a foothill neighborhood, parents brought their kids out to cheer, blow horns, hand out orange slices, and offer hose showers. One family was barbecuing hamburgers and even offered me one.

Around mile 8, where the course steepens before Aldape Summit, a runner noticed I was struggling. They offered a few kind words and handed me a Honey Stinger chew. I hadn’t planned to stop, but the gesture—and the sugar—lifted my spirits and fueled my climb.

A late-season storm had blanketed the summit and descent in several inches of snow. By the time I reached the top, the trail was a slick mess of slush and mud. I slipped and fell more than once. Finally, I sat on the trail’s edge to put on my Yaktrax. Another runner stopped to check that I was okay. Despite my weak ankle and growing exhaustion, these moments of kindness reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

A Milestone Achievement

I had assumed the downhill stretch would be easier—that I’d make up some time. What no one tells you is that the post-summit descent is even steeper than the climb. My ankle still hurt, but now my knee was screaming, too.

For the first time, I genuinely questioned whether I’d finish. The issue wasn’t mental resolve—it was the physical pain. Was I doing long-term damage? I didn’t want to quit, but I knew I couldn’t keep running. I chose to walk the steepest sections.

Because I had missed training from Thanksgiving to March and had skipped physical therapy, walking seemed like the safest call. As others passed me, I felt a tug of competitiveness and occasionally jogged—but the downhill grade punished every stride.

Eventually, the slope eased, and I was able to pick up my pace again. As I neared the final stretch, I passed a spectator dressed like a biblical prophet holding a sign: “The End is Near!” I laughed through the pain, carried forward by a mix of fatigue and pride.

Crossing the finish line, I was overwhelmed with emotion. The Robie Creek Half Marathon had pushed me to my physical and mental edge—and I had made it.

Lessons Learned

Running Robie on an injured ankle taught me more than I ever anticipated:

• Perseverance: Progress doesn’t require speed—only forward motion. One step at a time can get you to the finish line.
• Mind Over Matter: A positive attitude is powerful, but it isn’t a substitute for preparation. I deceived myself into thinking I could tough it out—and I paid for that. Still, mental strength helped me endure.
• Community Support: The kindness of strangers—runners and spectators alike—carried me when my own strength faltered. Being part of something bigger than myself made all the difference.

Conclusion

My first Robie Creek Half Marathon was far more than a race—it was a test of resilience, grit, and spirit. Completing it on an injured ankle, with limited training, reinforced a lesson I’ll carry for life: with the right mindset and support, we can endure more than we think—even when our plans fall apart.

Whether you're a seasoned runner or considering your first race, I encourage you to embrace the challenge. The path may be steep, but the view—and the victory—are worth every step.

I’ll be back next year, hopefully better trained and less injured. This time, I’ll bring the lessons I learned with me—about preparation, patience, and the importance of listening to my body. But I’ll also return with the same spirit of determination, ready to take on the mountain again. Because while the finish line marked the end of one journey, it also sparked the beginning of another.

The Middle Seat: On Liberty & Responsibility

There’s a particular kind of discomfort that comes from sitting in the middle seat on a long flight. Wedged between two strangers—one hogging the armrest, the other nodding off on your shoulder—you’re denied both the view of the window and the freedom of the aisle.. You’re stuck. But you’re also, quite literally, in the middle of everything.

That’s where I’ve found myself lately—not on a plane (even if every seat feels like a middle seat today), but in the broader sense of American life. In the middle. Again.

I’ve spent most of my adult life there—ideologically, emotionally, and professionally. Generationally, I’m a “cusper”—born at the tail end of the Baby Boom but raised with the ethos of Gen X. I remember rotary phones and dial-up internet, but I carry a smartphone that unlocks with my face. I grew up with Walter Cronkite and now scroll through newsfeeds that refresh every 30 seconds. I was taught to write thank-you notes by hand, and now I send emojis to express condolences. I’ve seen the world change—fast—and I’m still trying to figure out how to change with it without losing myself in the process.

That same “middle seat” has defined my professional life as well. I’ve built a career as a translator—bridging the gap between fundraising practitioners and the data professionals who support them. I’ve helped frontline fundraisers understand that data isn’t just a report—it’s a story waiting to be told. And I’ve helped programmers understand that “donor intent” isn’t just a field in a CRM—it’s a relationship. My job, more often than not, is to listen to both sides and say, “Here’s what I think they’re trying to say.” It’s not glamorous. It’s not headline-making. But it’s necessary.

Just as I’ve played translator in my career, I’ve also tried to translate—within myself—the often competing values of liberty and responsibility. I came of age with a healthy skepticism of government overreach, a belief in individual liberty, and a deep respect for personal responsibility. Libertarian ideals made sense to me: less interference, more autonomy, and a general wariness of anyone who claimed to know what was best for everyone else.

But some moments test even the most practiced middle-seaters. And for me, that moment came with the arrival of the COVID-19 vaccines.

As vaccines began to roll out last year, I found myself in a strange place. I believe in science. I trust the data. I want to protect my family (my oldest daughter is an ER doctor, after all), my neighbors, and the most vulnerable among us. I also believe in bodily autonomy and the right to make personal medical decisions without coercion. I can’t ignore the reality that public health isn’t just personal—it’s collective.

That’s the tension of the middle seat.

A few weeks after my "booster" dose, I had a long phone call with a dear friend—someone I’ve known for years, someone I trust and admire. She told me, gently but firmly, that she and her family would not be getting vaccinated.

She asked, so I told her the reasons I decided to get vaccinated. Because of my work, because I believe in the science and the data, because I want to protect the people I love. I told her that I made the decision not because I was mandated to do so, but because I truly believe that doing so is for the collective good.

She shared her concerns about the speed of development, about long-term effects, about what she saw as government overreach. She spoke with conviction, and I listened—really listened—because that’s what I do. I heard the fear in her voice. I heard the protectiveness. I heard the love. And in that love, I heard the echo of my own concerns—quiet, but present.

And still, I couldn’t find the middle ground.

That was new for me. Unsettling. I’ve made a life out of standing in the space between opposing views and building bridges. But this time, the gap felt too wide. I couldn’t meet her halfway—not because I didn’t want to, but because the stakes felt too high. Because this wasn’t just a difference of opinion—it was a difference in how we understood risk, responsibility, and reality itself.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t try to change her mind. I set the phone down with a heaviness I couldn’t shake.. Not because we disagreed, but because I realized that sometimes, the middle seat doesn’t offer a clear view. Sometimes, it’s just a place where you sit quietly, holding on to the armrests, hoping the turbulence passes.

It’s not easy.

Because the middle seat, uncomfortable as it is, gives you a unique vantage point. You see both sides. You hear both conversations. You learn to navigate tension, to mediate, to hold space for complexity. You learn that progress doesn’t always come from shouting the loudest, but from listening the longest.

In civic life, the middle seat is often dismissed as indecision or weakness. But I think it’s where the real work happens. It’s where compromise is forged, where empathy is tested, where democracy either stretches or snaps. It’s where we ask hard questions without easy answers. Where we resist the pull of extremes and try, however imperfectly, to hold the center.

And yes, it’s exhausting.

But it’s also hopeful.

Because I still believe that liberty and responsibility are not opposites—they’re partners. This isn’t a new tension—it’s embedded in the fabric of our democracy, from the Constitutional Convention to the civil rights movement. 

I haven’t come to this belief easily. I wrestled with it. I read. I listened. I asked questions. And in the end, I chose to roll up my sleeve—not because I was told to, but because I believe in doing my part. Because I believe that freedom isn’t just about what we’re allowed to do—it’s about what we choose to do for each other.

So here’s to the middle-seaters—the bridge-builders, the skeptics who still believe. We may not have the best view or the most legroom, but maybe that vantage point is exactly what the world needs right now.

Liberty in Three Acts: My Fourth of July Tradition

There are fireworks, there are flags, and there's always something grilling on the Fourth of July—but for me, Independence Day wouldn't feel complete without a familiar duo of movie musicals, now made into a trio. Each year, like clockwork, I settle in for a binge that spans the centuries of American spirit and song: 1776, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and now, Hamilton.

It all starts with 1776, the spirited (and yes, dramatized) story of the Continental Congress and their march toward independence. I first saw the film in college, but its roots in my heart go back even further—to 1976, when I was in middle school and the country was awash in stars, stripes, and a very particular kind of patriotic fervor.

Living in Pennsylvania in 1976, I was surrounded by history—not just the kind in textbooks, but the kind etched into buildings, monuments, and local pride. That year, our social studies lessons were laser-focused on the Revolution. We didn’t just learn about 1776—we practically lived it. Our classroom projects involved hand-drawing the Declaration of Independence on parchment-style paper. We staged mock debates about taxation and liberty. Field trips took us to Independence Hall and Valley Forge, places that felt suddenly alive with meaning.

And it wasn't just school. The Bicentennial bled into pop culture and everyday life. Cereal boxes had red-white-and-blue logos. Gas stations handed out commemorative coins. ABC aired "Schoolhouse Rock" segments that made civics catchy, and I still remember the thrill of seeing the Liberty Bell featured in commercials and TV specials. Everywhere you turned, there was this sense that America was not just looking back, but trying to understand itself in real time.

That summer, parades were filled with fife and drum corps and colonial reenactors in full regalia. I remember feeling that I was witnessing something big—like history had its own gravity and I was standing in its pull. That Bicentennial year didn't just make me aware of America's founding; it made me curious. It made me care. And when I eventually discovered 1776 in college, it gave all those half-formed impressions a voice, a cast, and a score.

While no historian would recommend the film as a primary source, 1776 brought the story of independence to life. It showed me that history isn't made by marble statues, but by flawed, passionate people wrangling over ideals in hot rooms. Watching it each Fourth of July has become my own secular ritual—less barbecue, more parchment and powdered wigs. Even now, every time I hear the opening drumbeat and that call for "a resolution for independence," I'm that Bicentennial kid again, filled with curiosity, awe, and patriotic pride.

Then there's Yankee Doodle Dandy. Sure, it's a full-throated piece of WWII-era propaganda, but that's not all it is. In its own way, it's a tribute to a very American kind of optimism—the kind that sings and taps and waves a flag without irony. James Cagney's George M. Cohan is a showman's showman, full of brash energy and patriotic fervor. And somehow, despite the bombast, it always hits the right tone for the day. It's a celebration of performance and pride, and it reminds me that love of country doesn't have to be loud or naive—it can be knowing, complex, and deeply felt.

That’s part of what keeps me coming back to it year after year. But I think the deeper reason has more to do with how musical theater, in all its forms, became a language of connection in my life—first through my mom, and later, through my daughters.

My affection for musical theater didn't just materialize one Independence Day. It was passed down, the way the best traditions are. My mom was the one who first gave me an appreciation for musicals. She loved the genre—not just the catchy tunes and elaborate staging, but the way music could tell a story straight to your soul. While her talent for performance didn't quite make it to me (though it clearly resurfaced a generation later in Faith), I did my part in high school by working behind the scenes with the stage crew. Painting sets, running lights, helping with props—I may not have been center stage, but I was there in the wings, soaking up the energy, the teamwork, the transformation of a bare auditorium into a world of its own.

That experience, paired with a college course I took on the history of musical theater, helped me see the genre as more than just entertainment. Musicals, at their best, don't just reflect culture—they help define it. They distill big ideas into melody, character, and story. And in America, perhaps more than anywhere else, the musical has evolved as a uniquely democratic art form: built on collaboration, born from diverse influences, and often focused on who gets to tell the story of "us." That context helped me place Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1776, and Hamilton not just as three shows I love—but as touchstones of how Americans have chosen to remember, reimagine, and reclaim their history. 

Editor's Note: Here's a link to a post where I've written more about how these three films work together as a musical portrait of American identity.

Faith at the Hollywood Pantages
in December 2017 for Hamilton.

It was with this deeper appreciation for the form that I later found myself sharing these same passions with Faith. She's always been a theater kid through and through, with a deep appreciation for not just the story being told, but how it's told. So it was no surprise when she was captivated by Hamilton. Like so many in her generation, she was swept up by the phenomenon—listening to the cast album on repeat, quoting lyrics in everyday conversation, diving deep into the lives of the Founding Fathers. She knew every word, every harmony, every historical reference. Her passion was infectious, and soon I was listening too, hearing echoes of the same stories I'd grown up loving—but now pulsing with a fresh, urgent rhythm.

That Christmas in 2017, "Santa" delivered something extraordinary: two tickets to see the touring production of Hamilton in Los Angeles. She hadn't expected to actually get to see it live. The show was a cultural phenomenon and seats were hard to come by. So when she unwrapped that gift, the look on her face—part disbelief, part pure joy—was a highlight of the holiday season, and of fatherhood.

And then there was the afternoon itself. Sitting next to her in the darkened theater, watching the story unfold not just in song but in movement, light, and staging—it was electric. Even though she knew the entire score by heart, seeing how each song was brought to life within the full framework of the book gave her a deeper understanding of the story and its historical context. The choreography, the way scenes transitioned, the layering of narrative—she was fully immersed. And so was I.

Truth be told, I wasn't expecting Hamilton to hit me the way it did. Lin-Manuel Miranda's reimagining of the Founders, filtered through hip-hop, R&B, and unapologetic modernity, struck a chord I didn't know needed striking. It captured the ambition, contradiction, and grit of early America in a way that felt new and yet deeply familiar. It spoke to both our nation's promise and its imperfections. And that night, sharing the experience with Faith, I felt the beautiful convergence of our shared passions—for history, for storytelling, for truth told in harmony and rhythm.

So when Disney+ released the original cast recording, it wasn't even a question. Hamilton joined the July 4th lineup without hesitation.

Now, every Fourth, I travel through time—from 1776's congressional chambers, to Cagney's Vaudeville stage, and finally to the turntables and duels of Hamilton. It's a deeply personal tradition, stitched together from family, history, and a little Broadway sparkle. What began as a childhood fascination with the Bicentennial has evolved into a kind of secular ritual of its own—less about fireworks and more about reflection. A quiet act of remembrance, through song and story, of who we were, who we are, and who we still might become.

Each film reminds me that the American story isn't finished—it's still being shaped, sung, and rewritten by each generation.

It's a small tradition, but it connects me to family, to history, and to the imperfect, ongoing story of America itself.

A Wedding Toast for Faith and Will

Dad and the Bride

Good evening. For those of you who haven’t met me yet, I am Joe, the bride’s father. You are each here because you touched Will and/or Faith in a very special way, and I would like to welcome you and thank you for coming.

Not everyone who wanted to be here could make it tonight. Most of my extended family is stuck on the East Coast after testing positive for COVID. So, for those watching or reading this afterward—we miss you, love you, and look forward to a time when we can be with you again.

This has certainly been a heck of a couple of years, and although this is my second pandemic wedding, being together still doesn’t feel completely normal…

Preamble aside, if you are enjoying yourself, I’d like you to know that I have had nothing to do with tonight (well, almost nothing).

Really, I want to thank and acknowledge Faith’s Mom, Amy, her husband, Kent, and Faith, who have done all the hard work to plan this wedding. Thank you for making this a special night for everyone.

While I was preparing tonight's toast, someone in my office told me a funny joke that I really wish I could take credit for, but even if I didn't write it, I have decided to use it…

Father of the bride toasts and raising children have a lot in common, both are a lot more fun to conceive than to deliver!

As the father of the bride, my job is threefold:

1. Stand up here, and welcome the assembled friends and family.
2. Keep the agenda moving, and
3. Offer the bride and groom unsolicited advice.

#1, check. However, because #2 and #3 conflict with each other, and history tells me Faith won’t listen to my advice for at least a year—I’ll try to keep my pontificating to a minimum…

That said, I do have some stories to share, as well as advice for the newlyweds...

When a couple decides to start a family, they have many hopes for their children… Will they have all their fingers and toes…? Will they look like my partner or her parents? Later on, those hopes turn into: Will they ever move out of the house…?

However, chief among those hopes is that she will find a soul mate, a family-oriented person with a dialed-in moral compass and high character and integrity. Faith has found that in Will. To Alan and Vicky, thank you for choosing to raise a son with these qualities.

Life is a series of choices; some are important, and others are trivial. Besides choosing to become a parent and devote your life to another human, there isn’t a more important choice than selecting your life partner.

Our Boeke Clan

No matter how seemingly consequential (at the time), other choices pale by comparison…

For instance, Faith announced to her mother and me (at age 14 or 15) that she didn’t need to go to college and was simply going to go to Hollywood and become an “actor…” Hours and hours of family counseling later, Faith decided college was a better idea. However, she insisted on majoring in Theater… (I hope you can imagine how worried her father was that she’d be able to make a living afterward).

When she graduated last month, she received a Bachelor of Arts in History, with a minor in Geospatial Information Systems… CHOICES…

Every choice, the small and the large, seemingly consequential or the not-so-consequential, add up and lead you to the most important ones… choosing your soul mate isn’t only important, but a reflection of who you are.

I have benefited so from seeing Faith mature and grow into adulthood; her choices have made me a better person. Similarly, Will’s qualities have made Faith a better person, and I believe that Faith’s qualities will also make Will a better person. As a couple, they are more than the sum of their parts and even better still.

Saying their vows

I have seen how Will looks at Faith. He is kind to her, cares for her, and is passionately and deeply in love with her—and there is nothing more important to a father than knowing his child has that kind of love. For that, Will, I can’t help but love you too and welcome you into our family.

Faith once told me she and Will were “saving themselves for marriage.” Surprised, I was silent. She followed with, “We are good kids… would you rather it be any other way?” Well… not really… CHOICES.

Will is polite and respectful. Faith is polite (in public), respectful, and strong-willed. When she was young, she couldn’t be separated from her mom… I was her bottle-fetcher until her mom left town one night. That night, we became closer. Each choice led us here tonight.

Will & Faith, now that you have joined each other to begin a new chapter in your life, I do have some fatherly advice:

• In searching for meaningful purpose in life, don’t seek outside experiences—you will find it at home, where your family will be.
• Continue to communicate with one another.
• Continue to fight life’s battles together.
• Continue to love, and more importantly, grow your love and build your family.

Because nothing of any value or magnitude tops your family.

Now, if everyone will join me in raising your glasses…

To Faith and Will, Lieutenant and Mrs. Witherow… our collective wish is that you remember this day with these people as you build your wonderful life together.

Cheers!

When Satire Becomes History

In a world where civic education is increasingly marginalized and political discourse seems dominated by soundbites and social media posts, the loss of comic strips like Doonesbury represents more than just the death of a medium. It's the loss of a particular form of civic engagement, one that combined entertainment with education, irreverence with insight, and daily habit with long-term perspective.

"Good news, kiddies! Time for another exclusive WBBY 'Watergate Profile!' Today's obituary—John Mitchell! John Mitchell, the former U.S. Attorney General, has in recent weeks been repeatedly linked with both the Watergate caper and its cover-up. It would be a disservice to Mr. Mitchell and his character to prejudge the man, but everything known to date could lead one to conclude he's guilty! That's guilty! Guilty, guilty, guilty!!"

— Mark Slackmeyer, Doonesbury, May 29, 1973

---

One year ago today, our democracy faced its most serious test since the Civil War. As I watched the events of January 6, 2021 unfold—the breach of the Capitol, the Confederate flag carried through the halls of Congress, the threats against elected officials—I found myself thinking about a comic strip from nearly fifty years earlier, and how it first taught me that paying attention to politics isn't optional for citizens in a democracy.

I discovered Doonesbury the way most teenagers discover the things that shape them: accidentally, and at exactly the right moment.

It was fall of my junior year of high school, and I was taking an American Foreign Policy class—one of those electives that seemed sophisticated and important, the kind that made you feel like you were finally learning about the "real world." Our teacher, Dr. Alan Sheffer, was the sort of educator who believed current events should be current, not relegated to dusty textbooks. He'd bring in newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and political cartoons to supplement our discussions about détente, the Cold War, and America's role in the world. He taught us via simulation and was the first adult I knew who played board wargames.

One day, I read a comic strip I'd never seen before. Four panels of a character named Mark Slackmeyer doing a radio show, gleefully declaring former Attorney General John Mitchell "guilty, guilty, guilty" of Watergate crimes. It was dated May 29, 1973—I was old enough to remember Watergate and Nixon's resignation—but Dr. Sheffer relayed how this single strip had caused such controversy that more than a dozen newspapers, including The Washington Post and The Boston Globe, refused to run it, concerned that such a statement of Mitchell's guilt would compromise their journalistic integrity even on the funny pages.

That strip was my introduction to Doonesbury, and through it, to the radical idea that comic strips could be more than just entertainment—they could be journalism, commentary, and history all wrapped up in four panels. More importantly, they could teach civic responsibility through irreverence, showing me that democracy works best when citizens think critically about power, hold leaders accountable, and aren't afraid to call out wrongdoing—even when it's uncomfortable.

I was hooked.

The Daily Ritual

Throughout the rest of high school and into college, I developed what became a lifelong habit: checking the comics section first. Not just Doonesbury, but a carefully curated selection that formed my daily media diet alongside the news and sports pages. Peanuts for its philosophical depth disguised as childhood simplicity. Calvin and Hobbes for its perfect marriage of intellectual curiosity and pure imagination. Bloom County for its satirical edge and cultural commentary. Shoe, that wonderfully cynical bird-filled newsroom satire that felt like a master class in both journalism and gallows humor. And later on post college early-career, Dilbert for its dead-on corporate satire (this was the early 1990s, when Scott Adams was still just a brilliant observer of office life rather than... well, whatever he has become).

Each strip served a different function in what I now realize was my civic education. Peanuts taught me about resilience and the quiet dignity of persistent failure—essential qualities for any democratic citizen. Calvin and Hobbes showed me how imagination could transform the mundane into the magical, but also modeled the importance of questioning authority and thinking independently. But Doonesbury did something unique: it made current events feel immediate and urgent, and taught me that citizenship requires paying attention, especially when the news makes us uncomfortable.

As cartoonist Garry Trudeau noted, because electronic media bring the harshest realities into every home, there was no need to avoid a satirical, humorous approach to these same topics in the comics. What he created was something unprecedented: a comic strip that refused to stay safely in the realm of make-believe, one that engaged directly with the messy realities of politics, war, and social change.

Learning History Through Satire

In college, I began reading Doonesbury differently. What had started as entertainment became a form of historical education. I'd haunt the campus bookstore, drawn to the collected Doonesbury volumes like "The Doonesbury Chronicles" and "Dare to Be Great, Ms. Caucus." I should have been reading assigned chapters about détente and Cold War diplomacy, but instead I'd find myself absorbed in Trudeau's take on the same events, learning about Nixon's presidency through Uncle Duke's gonzo antics and Vietnam through B.D.'s tour of duty.

Just this week, Browse through a bookstore bargain bin, I stumbled across "Dbury@50: The Complete Digital Doonesbury"—a massive compilation celebrating the strip's 50th anniversary. Reading the back cover brought back vivid memories of those college afternoons when I'd choose Trudeau over my political science textbooks, often learning just as much (sometimes more) from his irreverent commentary as from whatever academic analysis I was supposed to be absorbing.

The infamous "Guilty, guilty, guilty" strip wasn't just a joke—it was a snapshot of a moment when American journalism was grappling with how to cover an unprecedented political scandal. The character of Mark Slackmeyer became a kind of tour guide through five decades of American political culture, from Watergate to Iran-Contra to the War on Terror to Trump.

Through Doonesbury, I learned about events that textbooks either glossed over or hadn't yet had time to process. The strip pioneered coverage of issues like Vietnam War protests, AIDS, gay rights, and premarital sex—often years before mainstream media was ready to address these topics openly. Reading through collections of old strips was like taking an alternative history course, one where the perspective was irreverent, unfiltered, and surprisingly insightful.

I began to understand something that traditional news coverage often missed: that political events aren't just about policy and process, but about human behavior, ego, and the often absurd theater of power. When Trudeau lampooned the "bloodlust" surrounding Watergate with Mark's gleeful pronouncement of Mitchell's guilt, he wasn't commenting on Mitchell's innocence or guilt—he was satirizing those who were obsessed with seeing justice done. It was a level of meta-commentary that went over my teenage head initially, but gradually taught me to look beyond the surface of political coverage and think critically about how we process democratic discourse.

This kind of media literacy feels more crucial than ever. In an era when misinformation can fuel actual violence against democratic institutions—as we witnessed one year ago—the ability to think critically about what we read and hear isn't just useful; it's essential for the survival of our republic.

The Disappearing Daily Ritual

But here's the thing about discovering your civic worldview through newspaper comic strips: you're depending on an ecosystem that was already beginning to crumble. And when that ecosystem collapses, we lose more than entertainment—we lose a shared foundation for democratic discourse.

The golden age of newspaper comics—when strips like Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes could command massive audiences and cultural influence—was built on the foundation of daily newspaper readership. In 1931, George Gallup's first poll had the comic section as the most important part of the newspaper. Comics sections were often arranged at the front of Sunday editions, and comic strips were created by editors and publishers for a very good business reason: to attract and hold readership and, by extension, create an informed citizenry.

That shared civic foundation has largely vanished. Newspaper chains like Lee Enterprises have cut back comics pages across nearly 80 newspapers, with many transitioning to "uniform sets of offerings" rather than the diverse, locally-curated selections that once defined different papers. In Australia, major chains like News Corp have eliminated comic strips entirely from over 100 newspapers, citing "changing readership habits" and focusing instead on puzzles and games.

The economics are brutal and undeniable. While small-town newspapers still get sufficient revenue from local advertising, large metropolitan papers have lost both national advertising (which moved to television) and classified advertising (which moved online). As newspapers shrink, comics sections are often among the first casualties—seen as expendable entertainment rather than essential content.

What We've Lost

The decline of the daily comics page represents more than just the loss of a few laughs with morning coffee. It's the erosion of a shared cultural experience that once connected generations of readers—and more importantly, generations of citizens. As cartoonist Patrick McDonnell, creator of "Mutts," observes: "Over time, the characters are like family. Newspapers should consider this bond before they decide to make drastic changes."

But the deeper loss is one of civic cohesion. When we all read the same comics section each morning, we shared not just entertainment but a common reference point—a set of cultural touchstones that helped us navigate the complex realities of democratic life. In an era when we increasingly retreat into information silos and echo chambers, that shared foundation feels more precious than ever.

Perhaps no moment captured this better than the final Peanuts strip, published on February 13, 2000—the day after Charles Schulz died peacefully in his sleep. That last Sunday strip featured Snoopy at his typewriter atop his doghouse, with panels showing remembered scenes from nearly 50 years of the strip, and Schulz's own farewell message: "Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Linus, Lucy... how can I ever forget them..."

What made that final strip so poignant wasn't just Schulz's death—it was his insistence that the strip die with him. "There's a clause in my contract that says if I retire or die, the strip ends," he had said just months before. In an era when comic strip properties are often handed off to other artists to continue indefinitely (think Garfield or Wizard of Id), Schulz understood that authentic artistic voice can't be corporately maintained. His family honored his wishes: no new Peanuts strips would ever be created, only reruns of the nearly 18,000 strips he had drawn over five decades.

The contrast with today's comics landscape is stark. For someone like me, whose understanding of current events was shaped by the interplay between news reporting and comic strip commentary, the loss feels particularly acute. Doonesbury still exists, still comments on current events, still maintains its edge after more than 50 years. But it no longer reaches the broad, diverse audience it once did through daily newspapers. Instead, it exists primarily online, reaching people who already know to look for it rather than discovering new readers through the serendipity of flipping through a newspaper.

The same is true for all those strips that once formed my daily media diet. Peanuts ended with Charles Schulz's death in 2000. Calvin and Hobbes concluded in 1995 when Bill Watterson chose to end it rather than let it overstay its welcome. Bloom County has had various revivals but never recaptured its original cultural impact. Only Doonesbury soldiers on, still sharp, still relevant, but increasingly invisible to all but the faithful.

The Enduring Power of Satirical Truth

What strikes me now, looking back on that high school classroom where I first encountered Mark Slackmeyer's gleeful proclamation of John Mitchell's guilt, is how prescient that moment was. Mitchell was indeed found guilty of conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and perjury in 1975, and served 19 months in prison. The "Guilty, guilty, guilty" line became such an iconic piece of political satire that Trudeau recycled it decades later during the Trump administration, demonstrating his ability to connect past and present political scandals.

The lesson wasn't just that satirists can sometimes see truth more clearly than straight journalists—though that's certainly part of it. The deeper lesson was about the power of sustained, honest observation. Trudeau has been watching American politics for more than five decades now, developing the kind of institutional memory that allows him to spot patterns, call out hypocrisy, and provide context that 24-hour news cycles often miss.

That's what we lose when newspapers abandon their comics sections: not just entertainment, but a particular form of cultural memory, a way of processing current events through the lens of humor, irreverence, and long-term perspective. The comics page once served as a kind of national conversation, where different strips offered different viewpoints and approaches to making sense of the world. When we lose that shared conversation, we lose part of what holds a diverse democracy together.

Digital Displacement

The strips I grew up with have found various forms of digital afterlife. Doonesbury maintains a strong online presence. Classic Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes strips circulate endlessly on social media. New webcomics have emerged that tackle political and social issues with the same fearlessness that once characterized the best newspaper strips.

But something profound has been lost in translation. The daily ritual of sitting down with a physical newspaper, the shared experience of readers across a community encountering the same strips on the same day, the serendipitous discovery of new perspectives while flipping through the paper—these created a kind of cultural cohesion that fragmented digital consumption struggles to replicate. When everyone reads different things at different times in different ways, we lose the common ground that healthy democratic discourse requires.

Moreover, the economic model that supported comic strip creation has largely collapsed. Modern newspaper comics often prioritize licensing and merchandising over actual storytelling, leading to what one critic describes as "inane, artless garbage" that bears little resemblance to the medium's greatest achievements. We've traded civic engagement for corporate branding, sharp social commentary for safe platitudes. The result is a comics landscape that entertains but doesn't challenge, that comforts but doesn't educate.

The Classroom Connection

I've pondered Dr. Sheffer's decision to bring that Doonesbury strip into his classroom. He understood something that many educators miss: that learning about civic life requires more than just studying institutions and policies. It requires understanding how citizens actually process and discuss political events, how humor and satire shape public opinion, and how comic strips can sometimes capture truths that straight journalism misses.

That single strip opened up a way of thinking about politics that has stayed with me through decades of elections, scandals, wars, and social changes. It taught me to look for the human drama behind political theater, to appreciate the power of persistent observation, and to understand that sometimes the most serious insights come wrapped in humor.

The Legacy of Looking

The comics section taught me how to read—not just literally, but how to read between the lines, how to spot patterns, how to find humor in darkness and hope in absurdity. Doonesbury showed me that politics is fundamentally human drama, full of the same petty motivations, grand aspirations, and comic failures that characterize all human endeavors. But more than that, it taught me that paying attention is a civic duty.

As newspapers continue to struggle and comic sections continue to shrink, I find myself grateful for that accidental education I received through the funny pages. It was an education in media literacy before that term existed, a lesson in critical thinking disguised as entertainment, and an introduction to the idea that democracy works best when its citizens are informed, engaged, and just a little bit skeptical of those who claim to lead them.

Forty-four years after Mark Slackmeyer first declared John Mitchell "guilty, guilty, guilty," Trudeau recycled the gag for Donald Trump, demonstrating how certain patterns in American politics seem to repeat themselves. The medium may be dying, but the need for that kind of sustained, satirical observation remains as urgent as ever—perhaps more so after what we witnessed one year ago today.

Maybe that's the real lesson of Doonesbury: that paying attention is a civic duty, that humor can be a form of resistance, and that sometimes the most important truths are hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone brave enough—or foolish enough—to point them out in four panels or less. In an era when lies can incite violence against the very foundations of our republic, we need voices willing to stand up and say, clearly and without apology: "This is wrong."

So thank you, Garry Trudeau, for fifty years of fearless truth-telling. Thank you, Dr. Sheffer, for showing a sixteen-year-old that citizenship begins with paying attention. And thank you, Doonesbury, for proving that sometimes the most important lessons come disguised as entertainment, hidden in plain sight on the funny pages where we least expect to find them.