Heart of Chicago

Of Men and Women ... and a Real Mother's Day

2006-04-29T07:51:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about men and women ... and how little I really know. I don't think of myself as "sexist" or especially biased. But I wonder ... here's why I'm thinking this way.

I come from that wonderful generation raised in the 50's and 60's -- ancient history to our children. Maybe even irrelevant to our kids -- except sometimes as bad, bad examples of all that was wrong with America. For them, we are easy to dislike in ways that go beyond the normal distrust of one generation for another.

We are the generation of the racist, the sexist, the capitalist, and the war-monger. We are the bad guys. Watch television for a week -- see how these roles get played out again and again as the source of so much of what is wrong with the world. Maybe this is true. I don't know.

Sometimes I suspect that it is a little over-simplified ... a little too easy ... even a little too smug.

But this is really background to what I've been thinking.

I've been thinking about my Mother. She is 91 years old. She has just put her husband, my Father in a nursing home because his Alzheimer's and Parkinson's have gotten so bad, she could no longer care for him. She could watch over him ... count his pills ... change his diapers ... and even still cook the occasional meal for him ... but when he began eating a paper napkin at the dinner table -- mistaking it for a slice of bread -- that was too much. She had gone beyond what she could understand and endure.

Who could blame her? She'd already done more than anyone could ask.

Now understand for a moment just how much I respect and admire this woman. And trust me when I assert that there are very few of us who are as sweet and loving as my Mother. No, I don't just say that because she is MY Mother ... I say that because I have watched the years of love and patience she has put into her relationship with her husband.

My Father is not a kind man. Though his generation can be tough, rough-edged and even abusive as a matter of course, my Father is beyond that. And his illness has made him no better. He is and was controlling and manipulative in a way that few people will ever experience in their lives. He casually derailed the lives of the people closest to him. He was relentless in the pursuit of "his way" or no way at all.

The point is that my Mother survived all of that abuse.

No ... she is not a perfect person. She has flaws and imperfections. She is scarred by the mistreatment she endured. In many ways, she is not a whole person and this is a terrible, terrible loss. But she HAS endured ... she has survived for nearly a century with her kindness and good will intact. She can still love without bitterness or guile. She cares for me ... for her brother and sister ... and for the people around her.

What man could survive with that much love intact? The men I have know -- myself included -- would long ago have lapsed into bitterness and self-centered regret.

This woman is a hero of love.

And here is the point. Though I have styled myself as different from my father ... as someone who treated women fairly ... who had no part of sexism (and the other -isms as well) I wonder how different I am under the surface.

When I look closely ... really closely I can see the unconscious teaching that was passed to me as a child. Interestingly, it didn't all come from the "society at large." The worst of it was in my family. I learned to think that my Mother was less capable, less intelligent, less wise, less competent, and even less useful than ANY man. I breathed these things as the very air of my family, so that by the age of ten I was speaking them aloud, in my family and in public. Imagine just what that must have been like!

When my mother said something, actually complained to my father, the very man who had taught me all this unkindness chastised me for not "respecting" my mother. I hardly knew what to think. But I knew an order when I heard one. And the unkindness moved out of the public realm and became a shared secret between me and my father ... reserved for a kind of private understanding, layered over with the appearance of care and concern for my "poor mother."

I learned that my Mother was somehow flawed ... to be taken care of ... and cared for in a way that was guaranteed to reinforce her supposed lack of competence. When my father retired, he insisted on driving her to work every day until she forgot how to drive and found herself relying on -- depending on -- him for the transportation she needed to fill her most basic needs. No more, "I'll be right back. I need to run to the store for a gallon of milk." Now it was, "I need a gallon of milk. When can you drive me?" She had completed a circle, going from the first woman on the block to drive -- demonstrating her husband's generosity -- to the first woman on the block NOT to drive -- once again demonstrating her husband's "generosity."

This is subtle. You may disagree with me. Many people have. I submit that you would be wrong. My Father made sure everything went through him. I know, because I've had a long hard look at what he bequeathed to me as a legacy, at what he passed to me as a way of thinking about women and the relationship between a man and a woman. It is not pretty.

So yes ... we are an interesting generation filled with flaws. What generation isn't? But these things weren't floating in the air like polio or influenza, waiting to infect us, as unsuspecting innocents. They were passed on personally, in this case Father to Son, and they can and must be dealt with in the same way. I can say "no, thank you" and stop the legacy, the old inheritance right in its tracks as I look at all the things I learned, took on, absorbed ... and want no part of. Period. I'll point no fingers at "society," only at myself.

This is my Mother's Day gift.

How Do You Know What You Want?

2005-10-30T21:59:00.000-06:00

Or what I learned from the most important people in my life.

Please don't laugh at me ... or at least not too much. I know that it is a silly question to ask, especially for a man my age. Surely by now I should have the answer to that question. Most of my friends and colleagues have.

They have wonderful homes, filled with family, moving just now from the second into a third generation. They have plans for their retirements. They have relationships and friendships: some have lasted for years and years, while others have been created and re-created with varying degrees of success, sadness and joy.

They are successful and happy. Not perfectly so ... but they are "successful."

I am not.

I'm not going to complain about the failures in my life. My children -- bless them -- could catalog my failed relationships in gruesome detail. They probably DO behind my back ... and quite regularly. I'm sure that my ex-wife -- bless her -- counts these disasters as proof positive of her former husband's failures as a man and as a human being. She has some point.

But at my age, the heart doesn't do too well with half-truths and near-truths. Even that old standby: self-deception doesn't work so well any more.

I don't know what I want. And that is pretty embarrassing.

Let me explain.

I was raised in an abusive household. And for me, that meant many things. There were physical threats and intimate moments of domination. There was manipulation that presented itself as kindness. There was the daily experience of being the ornament to another's life ... to someone supremely confident that the world was only about and for him. You can imagine the kind of man-child this created.

And of course, I grew up in an environment where my wants were superseded by another's almost immediately.

It didn't matter what I wanted. A new jacket. A new baseball. The clothes I wanted to wear that afternoon he threatened to beat unless I wore the clothes HE wanted me to wear. How to walk. How to talk. How to cough. If I liked it, it was either wrong or it had to be taken away to be modified, improved, or changed in some tedious, dreadful way.

My father -- as they say -- had control issues.

So now, before we all jump to the business of therapizing, let me say two things. First: I'll keep the messier moments of grieving to myself. Second, I accept the responsibility for cleaning up this legacy. So -- for the moment -- I'll have no more to say about this particular brand of cruelty. Except perhaps to note that at 91 and riddled with Alzheimer's, his personality has not improved. It has refined.

Pity my poor mother, his full-time caretaker and wife of 65 years.

What I discovered late in life is that I didn't learn much about my heart ... about the things that really moved me. The things that touched me ... that gave me life ... that gave me heart and made me a human being, in the richest fullest possible way.

I was a shadow person, an imitation of life.

I didn't know what I wanted because I had never learned how to "listen to my heart." And I had some reason to suspect what I thought was my "heart": a series of failed relationships; a history of painful disconnection from my children; a series of mediocre career choices. For the longest time I thought that the mistakes I made in my life were because I had followed my heart.

But I hadn't. I was following some silly half-baked construct of a human heart. I was following something that I had learned to "make up as I went along" during all those long years of being the only child in a much too tightly interwoven family. I was ignorant.

My true heart wasn't in any of the foolish things I'd done, because I HAD NO TRUE HEART.

Now I don't think that I'm all that different from most of us. We probably all aren't entirely satisfied with our lives. We probably haven't raised our children perfectly, or guided our careers to the safe-havens of professional and financial security. I suspect that life is tougher on all of us that we would like to talk about in public. So my experience isn't uncommon. What was uncommon was the amazing stroke of good fortune I had in my 50's.

I found kindness. Pure, sweet, gentle, patient kindness. And it came out of the blue too. I got very, very lucky in friends who saw me better than myself.

How did they do that?

They were patient with me. They listened to me. They coaxed me. They prodded me. They told me deeply unpleasant things about myself looking me in the eye with kindness. They loved me. They loved my flamboyance and my silliness. They made times and places for it to come out and dance. They cherished and celebrated this crazy part of me. They cared for me. And they had faith in my heart.

The one organ I had all but given up on.

Somehow ... I'm not sure how ... they saw into my true heart and helped me see into that place too. They did it with kindness. And I am still a little stunned with all I have learned from these friends and helpers.

As a way of saying thank you, I thought I would pass along what I have learned from watching them ... from being at the receiving end of their kindness. Believe me, few folk have been as big a mess as I was.

Here are the Three Rules I learned from my friends and helpers.

Rule Number One: Look for the delightful. Every person has in them a quality, attribute, personality trait -- call it what you will -- that is close to the core of who they are. Look for this ... cherish it ... think of it whenever possible when you are with this person. You will honor them deeply. This will change their live ... and yours.

Rule Number Two: Tell the truth with kindness. Not everyone is their best self at all times. Heck, who can be? But there is something about telling the truth -- especially if the conversation is about a failure or weakness -- to a person with kindness that makes all the difference in the world.

Rule Number Three: Move the center of your conversation to the other person. Move your heart to their place ... to what this wonderful other human being is feeling. Be gentle with this. There's no need to go all messy and emotional. It's not always the right time and place for great emotional contact. Sometimes, just holding an awareness in your heart will make all the difference in the world.

Those are my three rules. Try them ... try them for a month ... try them for a week ... and let me know what life is like afterwards. I'd love to know. Seriously.

We are All Meant to Be In Love ...

2005-07-31T08:54:00.000-05:00

Thinking about my friend Sam -- the courageous one -- I went out on a date the other night. It was one of those after-work things that ended up in a delightful walk back to the car while light rain turned the sidewalks black.

It had been a lovely evening. I drank beer -- my middle-class roots were showing -- she drank white wine. The date was a surprise ... I really liked this person! Who knows -- I found myself thinking -- with a little luck we might get to be a couple.

We talked about the day and I enjoyed those sweet, swift glances you steal ... the ones where you get to catch the other person ... get to see just how lovely they are. The hair that goes awry and gets pinioned back. (My goodness! Someone still uses bobby pins!) The way she rummages in an over-full purse to find, and then ignore a ringing cell phone.

At one point, her daughter meets us with an early birthday present. She is 19, bouncy ... more connected to her cell phone than anything else ... and one of those wonderful kids who haven't quite figured things out yet ... but they sure are enjoying every moment.

I get to watch my date read the book her daughter has bought her. It's one of those "Me and You" inspirational kinds of books. Think "Hope for the Flowers" and you get the idea. It's a book to say something the daughter really wants to say ... but couldn't say any way else.

It's an important moment for the two of them.

I get to watch the two of them be shy with each other.

The daughter insists that Mom read ... Mom hesitates ... starts to read ... turns the pages ... pauses ... mists up a bit ... gets a catch in her voice ... and the daughter leans in until the two of them come together. It's the first time they've really connected like this and Mom is crying a bit now.

Leaning together, their outline against the bright windows behind them makes the shape of a heart.

I have to turn a way for a moment. I have a tear or two in my eye too. Mom is pretty special ... Mom and her daughter in this moment ... well, it's a little more than I can handle. And it's pretty private. And it just squeezes something in my heart ... just a bit.

I suppose this is really the way we "fall in love." It's high voltage stuff ... these special moments ... these little things that excite us, charm us, turn our heart this way and that. The totally unexpected ... the glimpse into these private parts of someone's life ... where we see them at their very, very finest.

This -- ladies and gentlemen -- is REAL living. It is marvelous.

It is one of the advantages of dating ... even at my advanced age. You get to fall in and out of love regularly. At 50-something these experiences are real treasures. These times touch our best selves. And I think we ought to fall in love regularly. At least once a week if possible.

I know that some would call this "immature." Therapy -- religion's modern replacement -- would all look down its nose at some of this behavior and probably suggest that I change my ways or mend my "dysfunction." Well ... I'm not so sure about that.

There was a time in my life when I was very religious, and I had all the answers. There was a time in my life when I "dealt with my stuff" and I had all the answers, And there was a time in my life when I studied the right ways to have a relationship, and again I had all the answers.

And I was DULL. And self-righteous to boot.

In the end -- after lots of successes and failures -- I had to admit that I had NO answers. I knew how to fight, how to partner, how to work on my dysfunction, how to ask for what I wanted, and how to take care of myself.

But I had totally and completely forgotten how to love. I had no joy in my life.

Back then, the scene between Mother and Daughter would have propelled me into thinking about who needed what therapy ... and what baggage was showing and what was not. I would have been "correct" -- I guess -- but totally un-human. Love was process and a list of "dos and don'ts."

Today, I'm pretty sure all that stuff is hooey.

I think we are meant to be lovers. Here's why.

I had more delight and joy, I saw more to treasure, more of true love and kindness in five minutes on my date last week, than I had in years past of doing things right. Further ... I think we are meant to live this way. We are meant to live "in love." And I think this is what it means to "love one another." To stand and observe the delight an joy around us.

I think we are hard-wired to want someone to look at us with devotion in their eyes. We are hard-wired to enjoy seeing it in others. And when it happens something comes alive in us. Something that has been quiet, dormant, and sometimes even dead. It is healthy, wonderful, inspiring -- in the sense that it breathes life into our souls. It is also just one of the best things in human living.

We have no business wanting our dates to be charmed by us and perhaps no business wanting the people around us to have these wonderful rich moments in front of us ... but it sure is wonderful ... and rich ... and zesty!

Breaking up is hard to do ...

2005-07-06T21:11:00.000-05:00

I got a call from my friend Sam the other night ... one half of Sam and Suzanne. (Not their real names.) It was one of those calls that you really don't want to get ... and one that you can see coming, long before the participants pick up the phone and actually call you.

Sam and Suzanne had broken up ... Sam had "done the breaking" and he was pretty miserable about it. Guilty ... sad ... scared ... but mostly guilty and hurting. When you get to our age -- Sam and I are the near side of 50 -- breaking up means only one thing: that you've failed again.

And at 50 ... you're not sure how many more "agains" you have left in you. You're pretty "sure" you aren't "supposed" to fail anymore. You're "supposed" to get this relationship business right ... what ever that means.

And I know something about that. There are tons of books, thousands of hours of therapy, hundreds of theories, and plenty of wisdom from friends and neighbors. I've tried lots of this stuff myself. It hasn't worked for me either.

On the other side of the break-up, Suzanne is 40-something and one of the few of her friends not married. I really like her. And I'm worried about her too. Her friends will "support" her, but I'm afraid that they may make her "feel small" in the process. They will have seen what she missed ... known all along that it was a bad match. Take all the love out of the time she had with Sam.

They might even hold her hand, whisper the equivalent of "there ... there" once too often. Not aloud -- but silently -- they may wonder what went wrong after two years ... what Suzanne did wrong to cause the break-up... or to be with Sam in the first place! He was NOT good enough for her.

Can these things really help Suzanne?

Sam's side has his own pain. He has been through this before ... more than once. When he brought Suzanne "home for the family Thanksgiving dinner," his children were pretty blunt. The teenager sitting across the table from Suzanne announced: "So this is the new girlfriend. How long will SHE last?"

Imagine what that felt like ... what happened to Sam's heart! Another expert with another sure answer. Did a little of Same die when his son said that? Sam hadn't dated in two years ... and bringing Suzanne to see his kids was a big thing. We talked about it. I wonder if he'll be able to do that again any time soon.

Like Suzanne's friends I suppose some of us will tell Sam that we could see this coming. Something was missing. Sam was giving himself up ... not being the person he wanted to be ... not enjoying life the way he wanted. In at least one large part of his life ... the two did not connect at all. The details aren't important.

I watched and listened to Sam try to talk himself into marriage. She was "everything he ever wanted." She was "the perfect woman" for him. She was "compassionate and sweet." And she was "beautiful," with that wonderful "hidden patch of grey under blonde" hair.

Make no mistake ... Sam loved AND loves Suzanne. He still has it bad.

But I learned from Sam. I got to see how hard it was for a good man to say "no" to the right woman who was wrong for him. I got to see him hurting up close ... in every phone call ... in the fact that he hasn't slept well for a month ... in his sense that he did something wrong.

But I also got to see WHY Sam said "No." He finally talked about it the other afternoon, and I learned, or re-learned something.

Some part of Sam had to be really loved by Suzanne. He wanted her to see him and have stars in her eyes for him and for his dreams and passions. He wanted to be admired by her. While we bystanders were busy with our wisdom about them not "being a good match," Sam beat us all. He just wanted to be seen and loved.

Don't we all want that? Don't we all want the love of our lives to admire us ... to have their eyes sparkle at the mention of our names... to shine the bright light of their love into our hearts?

Has therapy helped us get this ... or has it taught us to "grow up" ... that relationships "demand work," ... that love can be "dysfunctional."

I'm not arguing with the truth of all these things ... and neither is Sam. I'm just asking if this wisdom is what we want?

I've decided that Sam is one of my heroes. He told the truth at a difficult time. He learned what he wanted. And he's holding out for what he wants. Breaking up may have been hard to do ... but it just might have been a really really good thing.

I met an Angel on the Train

2005-07-03T07:03:00.000-05:00

I met an angel on the train the other day. She was sitting to my right with her grocery cart filled with her life's possessions, and of course it was one of those conversations your not really sure that you want to be a part of.

The streets of Chicago are filled with all kinds of characters ... some of them wield cell phones ... others offer Streetwise. You're not always sure which is safe to talk to.

But there she was. White straw hat on top of her head, grocery cart wrapped in plastic, a heavy winter coat hanging from the front, and a toothless smile on a face that actually glowed. How did she do it?

In front of me ... standing and waiting to get off at the next stop -- Ravenswood -- is "Go-Go Boots," talking about her break-up, about how she was needing to get out of the apartment as fast as possible. She's a lovely lady too, and in a different way. I've seen her before: red hair and 60's boots walking away from the train and off to new adventures. The wonderful sweet excited confidence of people in their late 20's. Part swagger, part charm, lots of adventure.

There's something about that time in life that makes them almost immortal. So much is before them ... they know the way ... at least roughly. And their confidence is good-hearted and open handed. They like people ... love Chicago ... and are often not afraid to show it. This generation of Chicagoans is a treasure. Their warmth is genuine. Their vision confident. We should all spend more time with them.

But occasionally youth misses something ... like the angel in front of
them. Here I was talking with this wonderful lady ... and I was making
people nervous. I had broken a Metra rule: I was talking to a crazy
person ... and God knows what can happen once you start that. She
could could embarrass us all ... she could wake us out of our commuting
slumber.

And that she did.

She was a beautiful lady. She has two grandchildren livving in Lake
Country. She is -- she says -- dying of cancer. Though she has
out-lived the doctors' predictions. She has almost no top teeth, and
she is talking about how she has the same kind of cancer that Walter
Payton has ... and how she'd like to see a Lake County Cub Scout Troop
named after him.

My train neighbors are right. She HAS embarrassed us. She has passion.

She talks about how wonderful it would be to have a troop named after
Payton ... wouldn't it be good? And there is no insistence ... none of
that street-person over zealousness. She just means it.

And you know what ... she is right. It WOULD be a good idea. I
suppose there are reasons and regulations why this won't happen, but
she still is right. She has me thinking now ... and I'm not used to
doing that on the way home. Much madness is divinest sense.

The conversation lags now. She is quiet. I'm not sure where this is
going, so I sit quietly. I think I'm in love. This woman has a great
heart. Where does she live? What brought to this train at this time?
Where is she going? How did she get to be so kindly ... and not
crazy? I'm also concerned. When will this conversation go bad?

She tells me how she is planning to decorate her cart for the Fourth of
July ... to put some flowers on it. She loves flowers. I suggest
lights ... but lights aren't quite the right thing. She knows what she
wants. "I've been to Mayor Dailey's office of special events" she
tells me, to ask the city to sponsor a contest for best decorated
cart. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

How does she do it, I wonder? Her life can't be easy ... it's
certainly much tougher than mine. What does her family think of her?
Imagine the playground talk at school: "My Grandma pushes a cart in the
city ...." But her face lights up when she talks about them. It shines
... it fills with love. She is actually beautiful. She is a full
rich, lovely human being. And just a little embarrassed when I tell
her how lovely her hat looks. My goodness ... she knows that I am
flirting with her. And am I fortunate to have her turn that beautiful,
loving face to me!

There are tears is my eyes and I have to look away.

Of course, "Go-Go Boots" and her friend have now picked up on the
conversation and are interested now, looking at me oddly. They
probably not quite sure if I'm safe either. Heck, I don't blame them.
City life has rules. I've just broken one of them. But hey ... I talk
to street people all the time. Some of them are much better folk than
I am!

But I've seen the face of an angel this afternoon and I can't help it.

Angel speaks up one last time before Boots and I get off at
Ravenswood. "It's like old times. People actually talking to each
other on the train. And things are getting better on the CTA too!"

She's right ... my day certainly improved on the ride home.

Boots and I get off. Boots walks away to make a course correction to
her life and move on to well-deserved better things. I have to pause
... to think about Angel and wait a moment or two on the platform.

Grammy Ride

2005-06-26T17:02:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine -- he lost his wife to cancer a few years back -- has a disabled son.

He is ten and was born prematurely, so Joshua (not his real) name has had a number of "developmental issues." ANd you can see it when you look at him. He is a sweet-hearted boy with genuine interest in life. I really like him. But his prematurity is marked on his face and it will probably always be the first thing you notice about him.

He stands outside my cubicle one day when his dad brings him to work and I am so glad to see how he has grown and matured over the last four years. About four years ago his mother died, after a long a difficult struggle with cancer. Janet (again, not her name) was one of my favorite people.

She loved Joshua and cared for her husband with that love for "faults and all" that only a true partner can bring to a marriage. We should all be so lucky. He is tidy (I'm being polite) ... and she was a mess. Her kitchen drove him crazy ... but it was the messiness of love that she brought into his life. He needed it and she knew it.

But Joshua looks good now and at 10 is finally getting his feet on the ground and starting to find his way in the world. School is improving. Next Fall he'll be mainstreamed and in the classroom with his "peers." His Dad has re-married to a lovely lady ... and the combined households are doing well. They've moved together into the city and into one of my favorite neighborhoods.

And I admit that I'm jealous. New home, loving partner, great neighborhood, and ten years younger, I wouldn't mind being Josh's dad. But that's not the point ...

Josh's Dad is going on a retreat. There's been a lot of change in his life over the last few years and he knows it. He's a smart man. Of course, it's always the kids who become the "complication" at times like this. I still think our generation hasn't figured out how to handle these things. We know that "we need to take care of ourselves," and we seem to do it "on our own," outside the context of the family. I wonder if that's right ... and I wonder what we'll think about it in another 30 years.

But that isn't the point either ...

The point is Grammy. Grammy has come to the rescue -- as generations of grandparents have -- and has offered to have Josh come visit. And when he hears this ... Josh totally and completely forgets that Dad is going to be gone. He can only think about Grammy.

Grammy is going to fly to Chicago from Cleveland -- starting at 6 her time -- meet Josh at O'Hare and take the next plane back to Cleveland. Then, when Dad returns, she is going to repeat the process ... all over again. Both times she does this, she'll get back to where she began at ... what ... 8? When all is said and done she'll spend something like 20 hours in the air and around airports ... all for her grandson.

And that is only part of her care for him. What time will she get up those mornings? When will she go to bed? How much will she have done and been for Josh before she finally rests herself?

Think of it all for a moment. A 70 something woman flying back and forth to care for and love a little boy who truly needs her. A boy whose face lights up at the thought of her ... for whom every moment will be an adventure because ... Grammy is there.

He'll feel little or none of the inconvenience, none of the fret. He'll feel the excitement and adventure of it all. He might not even notice that it is his "first flight." He'll come and go wrapped in love and care. And for someone like him, these are extra-special gifts!

As he gets older, the excitement and the memory will fade some. He may even get to an age where he forgets all or part of the story, But I'm thinking that he'll never really lose the memory of his Grammy ride.