“On the Necessary Narratives website, we say, “Narratives foster social belonging, celebrate student diversity, and raise awareness about adversity.” And I stand by that. I have heard stories of empowerment and stories of despair, and the power of these narratives has written itself into my teaching philosophy. I bring narrative into every class—from personal essays in college writing to an exploration of “self as reader” in literature classes, to the very personal (though often metaphorical) work of poetry and fiction to written and oral narratives in first-year seminar.

I teach through narrative, and I learn. ”

“Like each of you, I took an alternative path to my high school diploma, and there were many moments along the way when graduation wasn’t guaranteed. My adolescence was—at best—turbulent and—at worst—pretty bleak. I didn’t think I’d ever emerge into an adult life where I had my own home, my own family, my own career, that list of accomplishments Matt just read. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be around at all. I lived with my mom and dad; I had some friends, good ones even, and still—I felt deeply and utterly alone. ”

“There are places we protect because of their natural beauty and pristine trails and incredible views—the South Hills are an obvious treasure. But there are also places we protect that are less obviously open land. Places that are embedded in communities and easily accessible to people who don’t otherwise utilize our public spaces. The Boggy Creek Greenbelt was that kind of land. The Ten Mile Creek Park here is, too, and we have the opportunity to do something similar in East Helena along Prickly Pear Creek. By investing in these less-obvious, more imbedded areas, we raise up their often-overlooked beauty and trails and views, and that increasing the value of open space everywhere.

Though vastly different, all these spaces serve the same purpose. They connect land to people.”

“I am guilty of romanticism, but I don’t think I’m misguided. Listen: “– she could not cherish anything sanely. She couldn’t stand in her doorway and watch a pretty bird flying above a green hedge, and admire it for the gleam of its brilliant wings in the sun, and let it go. She must run out – leaving her door standing open and tea-and-cakes untasted – and follow where the bird flew, through mire and brier, round the world –”

That is my Mary, and she is beautiful. ”

“Ursula was recently inducted into the Library of America, what the New York Times calls “the closest thing to immortality between hardcovers.” Usually restricting itself to dead, male greats such as Melville, Twain, and Hawthorne, Le Guin is only the second living writing to receive the honor. The library wanted to re-issue some of her well-known and much-loved science fiction, but Ursula fought for a collection of more obscure work. “There’s some innate arrogance here,” she says in an interview with The New York Times. “I want to do it my way. I don’t want to be reduced to being ‘the sci-fi writer.’ People are always trying to push me off the literary scene, and to hell with it…. I won’t be pushed.””

“First-time novelists are often faced with questions about the truth of their books. There seems to be an unfair assumption that first books are inherently autobiographical in nature. I’ve watched colleagues and friends struggle against this phenomenon, but I’ve managed to avoid it nearly entirely. I believe this is because my debut novel is set in Alabama in the 1920s and 30s, at the dawn of rural electrification. It takes place on a farm and in a prison, and it’s written predominantly from the perspective of a man. On its face, it’s obviously not autobiographical. . . . That said, I am still there. My life—the deeply personal details of the thirty-seven years I’ve been around—imbues this book. I am everywhere, in fact, a subtle, pervasive haunting.”