Joe Saliba
2009 Recipient of the Lackner Award
Acceptance Speech
Good evening. I will say many things this evening, perhaps too many. I want, therefore, to begin with the most important: thank you. Thank you to the Marianists, to the Rector’s Council, to the University of Dayton, to President Curran. I thank all of you, my friends, my colleagues, my family. Above all, I celebrate Bro. Elmer Lackner, whose dedication to this university lives on in the daily work of so many of you. I am humbled to join those truly remarkable individuals who have come before me as recipients of the Lackner Award. Many of you are here this evening. It is also a gift to share this award with Susan Ferguson. Susan is a friend among a room of friends; her impact at UD is beyond measure. Thank you, Susan, for your heartfelt remarks. The deep imprint of your Marianist self resonates across our entire University and reaches well beyond our walls. It is particularly apparent in the lovely family that you and Dick have nurtured and shared with us.
I really am surprised by my selection for this honor, especially as I look out and see so many more deserving than I. I’ll tell you that soon after I received word of the award, I called my dad. I fully expected dad to say something like "congratulations son,” "good job Joe,” “we always knew you had it in you,” or “how nice that UD recognized what your mother and I have always known.” That would have been nice. Instead, dad spoke the honesty of his all too honest Lebanese mind: “They gave you an award? Tony, yes. Hanane, that would make sense, Ramona a sure bet, and George, maybe, but you? At times like these I’m actually glad that my dad speaks very little English; he would have been of no use in consultation with the Rector’s Council. It is good that they didn’t call him to discuss the Lackner nominees. In all truth, if a member of the committee had been able to speak Lebanese—and the award was for Tony, Ramona, Hanane, or even, even George—this is a little of what dad, and mom too, might tell you about our family. This is a story about my brothers, my sisters, and me.
We grew up in a large and extended family. And we were always together. Ours was a small mountain village about one hour northeast of Beirut. The town’s name was Bteghrine. Even the sound of it takes me home in a flowing river of images and emotions. Our family had settled there centuries earlier to escape the persecution of the Ottoman Empire. My grandpa on my father’s side was a charcoal maker, constantly traveling, barely literate. My grandma died when my dad was only four years old. My grandpa could only afford to send one of his sons to school beyond the second grade, and so he took my dad with him to work at the tender age of 7. Dad worked for his father until he was a teenager. He then worked the fields of a Byzantine Catholic monastery. There he learned the art of maintaining a vineyard. Soon he was hired to make wine; later he became the master winemaker of a very big winery in a neighboring town. In time Dad built his own winery, and my mom worked every day by his side. No achievement of my own—absolutely no achievement— will ever match what my father and mother created for all of us in Lebanon.
The Salibas were—and are—people of the land, of the vine, and of few words (my remarks this evening an exception.) By contrast, my grandpa on my mother’s side, the Sawaya family, was a renowned poet and a school teacher. Grandpa Sawaya spoke seven languages; my grandma was equally well educated. She was beautiful, gentle, and nurturing. She was just like my mother.
The Salibas, my dad’s family, can trace their history to the centuries before the birth of Christ. They originated from Sparta, lived in Italy, and came to Lebanon toward the end of first century AD. I’ve always understood that they were converted to Christianity by a follower of St Paul. Unlike the Salibas, the Sawayas, my mother’s family, were recent arrivals to Lebanon. They moved there only a few centuries ago from the Savoie region of France. The Salibas were Greek Orthodox, the Sawayas Byzantine Catholics. The two families could not have been any further apart; they rarely if ever intermarried. But when my dad met my mom at a spring far away from our village, he immediately fell in love. After numerous diplomatic interventions, my parents were married. I suppose that when my dad told his dad that my mother had accepted his proposal of marriage, Grandpa Saliba said something like this: “What, she accepted you? No, maybe Moussa, your more handsome brother, but not you.” It takes a Lackner Award for a son’s sweet revenge.
So I grew up in a small village, the son of a wine maker and his beautiful wife. Together they desperately wanted their sons and daughters to get a good education. When I was in second grade it became obvious that the culture in the village did not support my parents’ dream. Even my relatives on my father’s side ridiculed my parents’ decision to waste their money on education. “He knows how to read and write and he can add and subtract,” they pointed out. What else does he need to take over the winery?” Dad, they argued, should invest in the winery rather than in education. What they didn’t know was that Dad and Mom had already borrowed money and mortgaged the house and winery to send all of us to the best schools in the country. The options for my parents were two schools in far-off Beirut, the big city: one was a top notch Jesuit school; the other was the very famous College de la Sagesse that was run by French Sisters. With the encouragement of my Uncle Emile and my Aunt Marie, my parents settled on the College, and there I was educated very well from 1963 to 1975. Tony and George went there too; Ramona and Hanane went to another boarding school for girls. I am honored that one of my classmates from the College is here with us tonight. Allow me to introduce one of my best friends Dr. Robert Chami. Believe it or not, Robert practices plastic surgery right here in Dayton.
As it happened, the very year that my parents sent me to boarding school in Beirut, a new school opened up much closer to my village. The name of this school was St. Joseph, and it was none other than a Marianist school. Now don’t get me wrong: I loved my non-Marianist school in Beirut. But had I known where my life would later take me, I wonder whether I might have felt a bit like the poor kid who signs on to play basketball at Xavier and then finds out he could have played at Dayton. I’m sorry. I suppose Lackner speeches are not the right places for the trash talk of basketball rivalries.
In all seriousness, the Marianists and their school of St. Joseph had a tremendous influence on our part of Lebanon. I still marvel that hundreds of Lebanese students educated by the Marianists actually ended up here in Dayton. This may surprise you since today there are few Lebanese around our campus. Most of the Lebanese you know are named Saliba, and all of them are smarter and better-looking representatives of my humble family. But in the late 1970s we were thick on the ground, enough to field several soccer teams, literally.
Back to Lebanon for a moment. I graduated from the College de la Sagesse at a very difficult time in the mid 1970s: it was the beginning of the Lebanese Civil War. The options before me were essentially two: I could stay in war-torn Lebanon or escape and seek another, unknown future outside my home country. My father convinced me to flee. He knew that I would certainly be killed if I remained. So Dad gave me what money he could and sent me over the mountains east of our village through the very dangerous Bekaa Valley. From there I went through another chain of mountains into Syria. My beloved uncle Joseph, for whom I am named, drove me over those mountains. Like the biblical Joseph, who guided his holy family into Egypt and into safety, my uncle Joseph truly saved me. I cannot possibly describe the depth of my love for my Uncle Joe. I owe him my life.
I ended up in France after some time in Brazil. In France I tried out for a professional soccer team in Bordeaux, the home region of Father Chaminade. There I often passed by “La Madeline Chapel.” I obviously knew of the Marianists from Lebanon, but now I regret that I never engaged with them in Bordeaux. My mind was fixed on something other than religion: my ambition was to play soccer. Although I had been a good footballer in Lebanon, I was not of the same caliber (not even on the same planet) as the Brazilian players with whom I was competing for a job on the Bordeaux team.
So there I was in France, my soccer ambitions soon dashed, and I was living literally hand to mouth, first alone, and then later with my younger brothers George and Tony. When I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I turned my attention to my education. I made many applications to many American universities. I was accepted at none. You see, I didn’t speak a word of English. But somehow from Bordeaux I managed to get myself to, you won’t believe this, Kalamazoo, Michigan. No, I didn’t have a “gal” in Kalamazoo, as the old American song goes; they just happened to have an English program at Western Michigan University. Friends from our village also happened to be on the Economics faculty at Western, and they got me my I-20. That was all it took for me to board a plane and arrive in snowy Michigan in January, 1977! I don’t really recall what English I learned there, but I’m sure there were phrases like “when does it get warmer?” “Does it get warmer?” and “where can a guy get a good dish of humus in this one horse town?”
From really cold and not very Lebanese Kalamazoo, I came to Dayton at the urging of a first cousin on my mother’s side. But here’s the kicker. The very day I arrived in Dayton, my cousin—let's call him the “recruiter”—went back to Lebanon. So I was stuck. Aside from some distant cousins I really didn’t know, I was basically alone within hours of arriving in this city.
Without any other option, I went to school at the one place that would have me even with my atrocious English—The University of Dayton. I studied engineering. Fondly I recall that my professors, the late Roger Weiss and Elmer Payne, kindly drew pictures of the problems they wanted me to solve. One day my philosophy professor noticed that I wasn’t understanding his lectures. Aware that I was fluent in French, Professor Robert Thomson (a Canadian) stayed after class each day and repeated all of his material in French; he even allowed me to write my papers and exams in French. For years I have thought a lot about what interdisciplinary teaching, research, and service are all about at this comprehensive University of Dayton.
But what I shall never forget is that I first comprehended the idea of a comprehensive university not as an academic idea. Rather, I understood it as a simple gesture of human kindness from these gifted and giving Marianists educators to one lost and grateful student from Lebanon.
Many other vowed religious played a critical and caring role in my education, and even my survival at UD. Fr. Cy Middendorf came to our Lebanese Community and said Mass to us on Sunday evenings. Fr. Cy loved a party. He always brought an abundant amount of food and drink for us all to share after mass. In reality, he basically stocked our fridge single-handedly with pizza and wine. Pizza and wine—let me tell you, this is just about all a Mediterranean needs to survive. It is true that we were all struggling, and times were very tough. We were all broke (the Lebanese lira was tanking and our parents could no longer afford to send us money; Father Cy knew this and joyfully did everything he could to ease our difficulties).
I fondly remember Bro. Klein. He employed me to move furniture, knowing full well that I barely spoke the language. I can assure you: lifting and walking doesn’t require much of a dialogue. In that job I had the pleasure of working side by side with Willie Tyson. Many of you remember Willie. A kind of lay Marianist without the title, Willie was actually the first recipient of the Marianist Service Award in 1987. I learned a lot about being Marianist from Willie. Willie knew that while I was making some money moving furniture—without dialogue—the money wasn’t enough to pay for both tuition and food. So he talked to someone in the cafeteria. They agreed, and I was put to work on the dish machine. Let me tell you, that was great. The dish machine and I actually had a lot in common: neither it nor I spoke English.
One day, I ran into a young engineering professor on the first day of classes. He asked me where I was going. Because I couldn’t easily explain my needs in English, I simply showed him my schedule. Without a word, he took me directly to my class. His name was Bro. Raymond Fitz. Sometime later he was appointed our new president. I actually wrote my parents and told them that the president himself had once escorted me to class. And I wasn’t even in trouble. And I wasn’t even particularly interested in leadership in community!
That chance meeting with Bro. Ray was a gift. The Marianists continue to enrich that gift in my life. I could mention many of those enrichments, but I will confine myself to just a few. When I became the dean of Engineering, I asked Fr. Chris Conlon and Bro. Phil Aaron to join our staff. They both did so, both coming back from retirement, and daily they are transforming the entire school. I am also thankful to Fr. Paul Marshall, Bro. Ray, and Bro. Tom Giardino for the wonderful formation I received in becoming a Marianist Educational Associate. Finally, I am blessed to meet regularly with Fr. Bert Buby, whom I am proud and humbled to call my spiritual advisor. Generously he shares with me his time and his wisdom. He also leads the Marianist Lay Community to which my wife Dorothea and I belong.
Dorothea. I met Dorothea, the love of my life, when I was a student working a second job downtown at the Stouffer Hotel. Dorothea and I were soon married, and together we enjoyed the arrival of three babies, each a miracle. I finished my Bachelors, pursued my Master’s and then a Ph.D. in engineering. All of these were from this wonderful University of Dayton that accepted me when others would not.
So this is the story of a young and scared kid from Lebanon who managed, more or less by the skin of his teeth, to get an education and then a job. He then has a career and a vocation. He meets and works with all of you, and then through someone’s good grace he arrives at the point of this evening, standing here receiving the Lackner Award. All along it has been my joy to marvel at what all of you and so many others have done and continue to do for our University of Dayton. Reluctantly, I guess, I agree with you Dad. This does seem unbelievable that I am receiving this award.
But it is believable. It is believable because the Marianists made it happen. The Marianists and this special Marianist place, and all you truly Marianist people have made my life possible. You have shared your charisms with me. This has been true from those first, tongue-tied moments of my arrival to this evening, when still I can’t do anything but stumble over my text and continue to tie up my tongue up in your praise.
Yet I am grateful to you for something much more personal. I am grateful for something I have never spoken about until now. I’m not even sure I can. What I have just told you is my story, but my story has not been mine alone. I love the University of Dayton, like I love my homeland and that beautiful mountain town of Bteghrine, because mine is a story of how the Marianists and this University saved my family. This is a story of how a midwestern University restored a broken family, their bonds threatened by war. Yes, this University gave me and all of my brothers and sisters an education. But that isn’t even the half of it, not even close: this University brought us together again, allowed us to bring our parents to safety; this University allowed us to meet our spouses, for us to have children, for us to live our lives. This University read the signs of our own troubled times in Lebanon and embraced us in the full, warm, and loving mantel of Mary.
A photograph of my home town hangs in my office. Now, when I look at that image, I no longer see just a town, a place that is not too distant from where Mary herself grew up; I also see a place that once was called Nazareth and now we know it as the University of Dayton. Here Mary’s spirit lives, just as she also lives through my restored family. Here I am home again.
Allow me to introduce you to the family you lovingly helped to survive, to thrive. Here is the family that you brought home again. First, my parents, Elias and Emilie. (Please stand, Mom and Dad). My sister Ramona and her husband Michael Keller, their children George and Michelle. Please stand with Mom and Dad. My brother George, his wife Bev. Their son Richard, and their daughter and son-in-law, Emily and Dave Kasselman could not be with us this evening. Please stand. My brother Tony and his wife Susan, their children Joey, Justin, and Alaina. My sister Hanane and her husband Doug Eisentraut. My father-in-law, Frans Liem. My brother-in-law, Frans Liem and his wife Dana. My brother-in-law, Ray Liem, and my brother-in-law, Bryan Leed. My children, Elias, David, Maria, and Maria’s friend Christopher Kozak. And finally, my Uncle Joe and Aunt Dounia. They came all the way from Lebanon this week to support me as they always have. I live for all of these people standing before you; these people are here because of you.
It is customary for Lackner recipients to close by indicating how they would like their precious portion of the award money to be distributed. What I have sought to communicate this evening—awkwardly but sincerely—is that through their investment in me, a student from abroad, the Marianist’s provided a transformative education that made a vocation. That vocation restored a family, and created life anew in a generation of children. The lives and futures of these, our children, were inconceivable, absolutely inconceivable in the eyes of that lone Lebanese boy who arrived here from Kalamazoo in 1977. I receive this award in their name and in celebration of you who made them possible in my life. So I humbly ask that a Marianist scholarship be established to provide an opportunity for a student from a troubled quarter abroad. I would ask that the scholarship be named the Father Cy Middendorf Scholarship and that it be given to a student whose chances are slim but whose prospects are good. This is what the Marianists gave me and my family. Nothing would please me more than to see others appreciate, as the Saliba family has so fully, the life saving and nurturing grace of the Marianists and the University of Dayton.
Allow me to end where I began: Thank you.