Over the past 192 hours or so, and as the sad news of the passing of Ron V. Bettig filtered into our consciousness through several phone calls, email messages and coverage by the news media – local, regional and national – I received enquiries from people who were either seeking confirmation or wanted quotes about the life of this enigmatic colleague and friend. I sent confirmation notes to former students of his who were astonished that such a gruesome act could visit Happy Valley.

One such student could not wait – he called at 11:30 p.m. without offering apologies. All of us who shared time and space with him remain dazed. We found ourselves oscillating between consternation and grief as the impatient chores associated with kick starting a new semester beckoned.

I turned down – better, ignored – early requests by media practitioners for quotes. I simply could not wrap my head around the task of reducing to few words the life of a 56-year old man who spent more than 25 of those years in the academy; a professor who stepped boldly into the classroom filled with young people who come to us at about the same age bracket every year so as to profess unfamiliar and counter-cultural concepts; an author and activist who challenged received knowledge; a man who defended the underdog.
 

Ron V. Bettig did not harbor herd mentality, he was a consummate skeptic. He did not carry elitist airs, he befriended people that others would consider beneath them. He had no racist bone in him, he was brilliant enough to recognize the commonality of the human struggle for self-actualization. Yet, he was not clairvoyant; but who is?

When Ron introduced himself to me after a faculty meeting in the fall of 1994, his words were: “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced!” Of course I knew who he was. Though I was the new hire, his multifaceted reputation preceded him. We nailed down an open invitation to his house before the end of that first conversation.

Thus began years of interactions that – until December 23, 2011 – included his former and late wife, Jeanne Hall, and a host of others who were engaged in a loose association of cohorts in what was then a School of Communications.

My association with Ron assumed a different dimension in 2006 when I became, in his words, “one of the administrative types.” He arrived at our first annual review meeting in the spring of 2007 with a long list of items that he brought out of his shirt pocket – in the fashion of that Hollywood actor at an award ceremony who comically steps to the podium with an ever-unfolding piece of paper containing a list of people that he plans to appreciate.

The exception: Ron brought me a long list of things that he thought were not working as they should in the Department and College. For example, he wanted to know why one of his advisees – an international graduate student – had not been assigned to teach a class during the outgoing semester. If he had 10 items on that list, nine were about others that he wanted us to provide with better opportunities. At the tail end of that conversation, during which we floated ideas and implementation plans, I sensed a discomfort but could not immediately tell if it was a physical discomfort or otherwise. So I asked him. He gently folded his long list, placed it back in the front pocket of his white shirt – worn over faded jeans – and calmly answered: “I fell off the ladder. I was trying to rescue my cat from the roof.” I asked him what he had done about the pain. He muttered an excuse that bordered on his distrust of doctors. He assured me that he’ll be fine and would rather not be bothered by the conspiracy of unnecessary tests.

As a teacher across undergraduate and graduate classes, Ron was that self-appointed “prophet” whose “sermon” was to perpetually warn about the hoax comfort associated with accepting the status quo. His animated representation of the way he ran classes brought to mind the image of a fisherman who took on the task of asking fish brought directly out-of-the stream to analyze the condition of the stream. Ron knew that his approach would divide his student audiences into at least two categories. He expected that one category of students – frequently in the minority – would revel in his attempt to prick their consciousness and, hopefully, live forever after as critically-thinking consumers of “corporatized” media messages. He was aware that the second category of students would fight his efforts with all they had – including via silence and mental arguments in the classroom.

Ron refused to merely regurgitate shop-worn explanations that would justify the “capitalistic status quo.”

He posed more challenges to his students beyond that counter-cultural approach to course content. He insisted that it was not his job to entertain. He did not use the latest technological gizmos simply to sustain students’ interest in the course material. Yet he assured them – typically on the first day of classes – of the validity of his position by distributing along with course syllabi a recent piece by Rebecca Shuman titled “Your Professor Isn’t a Lazy Luddite.” He let them know that he was going to give essay assignments and essay mid-term exams, coupled with a final term paper – all in a course that was not designated as writing-intensive. His SRTE numbers went up-and-down like a yo-yo. The qualitative portion was typically filled with pointed responses that would scare a lily-livered instructor. While some respondents thanked him for a great semester of rude awakenings, others called him a ‘nutty professor.’ Yet others assailed him for being a “Marxist-communist” who should be reminded that he lived in America. Ron’s typical response: “I’m cool with those names so long as they leave my class with a different set of eyes when they contend with corporatized media.”

Ron took similar provocations to scholarship via research and service engagements – challenging the status quo with the power of his pen. Until his last days he wrote first in long hand. The same approach was evident in his collaboration with others to groom the Union for Democratic Communications. In the latter case and as others would attest, he poured years of passionate efforts and personal resources into co-developing a space for democratized conversations that would challenge status-quo thinking and “build bridges to those involved in non-academic cultural and labor-oriented work.”

On June 8, 2016, and before an overseas trip, I visited Ron – as things turned out – for the last time. We sat on plastic chairs located on his back porch. His expansive yard was newly manicured. He pointed to a tree that he recently asked others to help him plant. His neighbor’s yard and the portion of Lemont visible from that vantage point was in the horizon. He brought cold cans of soda from his kitchen and we poured them into plastic and – soon enough – sweaty cups. Our quick-paced conversation covered issues that ranged from a trio of mother and two sons – one a baby few months old – that he rescued from near-homelessness and housed in his basement to his ongoing writing. He was “penning” an extensive review of extant literature on copyright culture which, by his reckoning and unlike the era preceding the publication in 1996 of his famous book on the subject, had attracted multi-disciplinary scholars. He reminded me that the world awaited his thoughts on the subject. Conversation meandered through his plight over inability to go see a friend – I believe in California – who suffered from a debilitating ailment in addition to losing employment and vital insurance coverage. He spoke with pride of the growing independence of his cat – which had recently strayed out of the house into a corner of the yard to enjoy the warmth of summer.
 

When in his elements, Ron presented you with animated conversation. He talked very fast in those moments and covered varying topics; slowing down for effect along the way. You witnessed his view of the world of a sub-discipline that he wanted to question and challenge in the context of ever-changing contemporary developments. You got a sense of his fierce loyalty to old and new friends who were very few but connected to him by common factors: his commitment and compassion.

You understood that beneath the veneer of toughness was a man who mourned and could not move past love lost on multiple and – in some cases – irretrievable ways. You didn’t have to be a lover of animals or a cat-keeper to be impressed by the fact that the cat in Ron’s house was allowed to co-exist with great panache.

Ron’s last message – left on my office voice mail late in July or early August – was calm and evenly paced. He was looking forward to returning to Carnegie Building in the near future. He had earlier notified me that he was going to put students and colleagues on notice that he was more than Ron Bettig. He would prefer Ron V. Bettig: with the initial – V – (I believe for Vincent) mentioned when he is introduced specifically to honor his father, a German emigrant who worked very hard and was an Alzheimer patient. He taught Ron, a brother and cousins to work hard. He engaged them in the construction of the family home “with bare hands.” After inserting globally-awaited commentary about the current status of copyright culture, Ron planned to write a memoir about his family’s struggles in those early post-emigration years. And so on.

Like all of us, Ron had dreams. Now, the dreamer will live on only in the hearts and minds of those who knew one dimension or multiple facets of his enigmatic life and work. The world will not get to read his view on contemporary issues associated with copyright. Because of the alleged manner of his death, he left a probing question for those who might query his “freedom of association” to ponder: What manner of world do we live in where it has become a capital offense to provide shelter for the homeless?

Fair well Ron V. Bettig. May your gallant soul rest in peace. I am glad that we were introduced.

Exactly 10 years ago, I started my doctoral degree at Penn State. Having left journalism, I was unsure of how I would fit in and exactly what I would learn as an older learner and returning student.

One of my first doctoral classes was Ron Bettig’s course on political economy. Within the first hour of Bettig’s introductory lecture, I felt my world transforming. His eyes danced with excitement as he connected the dots of media ownership with his fingers in the air, emphatically demonstrating how corporations had undermined the notion of democratic media.

Within the first two classes, our entire class was hooked. Some of us didn’t agree entirely with Bettig’s position, but they were captivated by his lecturing style and passion for teaching. He also encouraged free and open dialogue among his students, watching intently as some debated key topics. Simply put, Ron Bettig was a populist, and his ability to connect with his students without using abstract terminology or tangential philosophical explanations endeared him to his students. Of course, Bettig’s rebelliousness also made him a cult hero.

Bettig was one of the professors who had a tremendous influence over my academic development. He challenged my preconceived notions about the world, and both he and his late wife Jeanne Hall, an inspirational professor in her own right, gave my girlfriend (now wife) and me support and counsel during my first year as a graduate student. He seemed to relish helping former journalists “unlearn” what they knew. Many of his students went on to become academic stars in their own right.

I lost touch with Bettig after I got my Ph.D in 2009, but through mutual friends, I was up to speed on his life. Much of what Bettig taught me helped shape my approaches to my post-academic career as a civil rights advocate.

Like any person, Bettig had his flaws, but no one doubted his passion for teaching and love for his students. He was the sort of person who could challenge your preconceptions without getting in your face, but he could still get extremely animated over a single issue.

When I got the call last week notifying me that Bettig had been murdered, it felt like an anvil drop. Those of us who knew Ron are devastated by his loss and indebted to his guidance. Penn State lost a true teacher, someone whose passion for his craft inspired many.

We’ll miss you, Ron.