COLUMN: Let us praise obscure men

From Daniel Septimus', "I know My last Name is Septimus," Fall '00 From Daniel Septimus', "I know My last Name is Septimus," Fall '00As is the case for many upperclassmen, my trips home to my relatives and friends back in New York are often met with questions about the future. What are you going to do after you graduate? What can one do with a Religious Studies degree? And of course, are you ever going to shave more than once a week? There, on January 8, was a headline which informed me about an occupation I had never seen advertised in e-mails from Career Services. It read: "Robert McG. Thomas, 60, Chronicler of Unsung Lives." Though I didn't remember this occupational option from high school career day, visions of business cards marketing the services of "Daniel McG. Septimus, Chronicler of Unsung Lives" flashed through my mind. Mr. Thomas was an obituary writer, a position he held at The New York Times since 1995. According to his own obituary, he "saw himself as the sympathetic stranger at the wake listening to the friends and survivors of the deceased, alert for the moment when one of them would tell a memorable tale that could never have made its way into Who's Who or a resume but just happened to define a life." Thomas chronicled the lives of balloon sculptors, underachieving artists and the inventor of kitty litter. His wit complemented his ability to give readers nuanced insight into the lives of his subjects. For example, in an obituary he wrote about Jack Wetson, a character actor, he referred to Wetson as "the quintessential New Yorker, which is to say he was born in Cleveland and lived in Los Angeles for 18 years, hating every minute of it he wasn't actually in front of the camera." Why have I chosen to share Thomas' life with the Penn community? For all intents and purposes, Thomas -- a Tennessee native who flunked out of Yale and began his career as a copyboy with the Times in 1959 -- lived an unsung life. Could there be a better way to kick off my own career as a chronicler of unsung lives than by chronicling the life of an unsung life who happened to be a chronicler of unsung lives? (Now say that 10 times fast.) Recently, my Education class was assigned to write ethnic autobiographies. We were required to share with our classmates intimate details about our religious, cultural and sexual identities. I think each member of my class was impressed and amazed by each one of the autobiographies. Rams quarterback Kurt Warner's life is inspiring; Bill Clinton's life is dramatic; Regis Philbin's life is, well, annoying. However, as a chronicler of unsung lives, one need not travel to St. Louis, Washington, D.C., or New York. Who are the people in your neighborhood? They're more than just the people whom you meet each day. Obituaries are not the only medium used by chroniclers; a chronicler of unsung lives may need to develop new formats for expression. To sing an unsung life, one must be prepared to write new music. There is a depressing side to this job as well. To chronicle unsung lives, one must celebrate, document and fight for the lives of the normally overlooked citizens of the world. Chronicling unsung lives may mean writing an article about Barirwanda, a 10-year-old boy from war-torn Rwanda who is forced to spend his days picking through charcoal pits. Selling charcoal pieces found in this way is his family's only source of income -- about $2.50 a week. I may need to document the bigger picture and focus on his sister, Alphonsina, who at age 15 is the head of her family, which includes four younger brothers. Alternatively, I may be asked to report on the life of Kubusimana, a Rwandan boy convicted of genocide at the age of six. The lives of these children have remained unsung because, for the most part, we don't see individual names, faces and stories in the news. We are shown numbers -- 80 percent of Rwandan children have lost a family member, 95 percent have witnessed massacres, 500,000 Rwandans are dead. Statistics are powerful, but to chronicle unsung lives one must appreciate people, not percentages; struggle, not symmetry; reality, not romance. Robert McG. Thomas was a chronicler of unsung lives. He found stories where most people saw nothing. But the stories were there. And guess what? They still are.