The Truth About 'Nana

My kids are forever bracing against the inevitability that I will embarrass them publicly.  Hockey dinners, a new boyfriend or girlfriend, giving a friend a lift home from the mall---these are all occasions that beg me to recall the most mortifying moments of my children’s youths.   I keep a famous “tush” photo on my dressing table—an explicit nude snapshot of my kids at a very young age lying face down in their Grandma’s bathtub—that serves as an enforcer.  The credible threat that I will produce this “full moon” photo in mixed company will normally motivate the most excellent of behaviors.

When I announced my intention to write a daily blog, my kids’ excitement quickly turned to panic when they realized that they were likely to provide the fodder for many of my stories.  I started receiving text messages suggesting that certain subjects are taboo.  While I have deep respect for my children and their privacy, I just cannot help it that they are a constant source of both inspiration and amusement.  It is with the utmost dignity and respect, therefore, that I tell the tale of my twenty-two year old son’s deepest love and soul mate:  his stuffed gorilla.

My beloved first-born was very large and active in the womb.  His presence in our pre-partum life took on the qualities of an animated cartoon creature, known affectionately as ‘Orca’.   Orca became the scapegoat for all of my nesting excesses.   Every indulgence that followed me from store to car to home was explained by “Orca begged for it.”  The fact that I could never refuse him did not end with birth, or high school graduation, or coming of age.  I am putty in his hands—and he knows it.

During the eighth month of pregnancy, my husband was invited to give a lecture at a meeting in Honolulu.  Having never been to Hawaii I could not refuse the opportunity to accompany him, although by that time the nickname ‘Orca’ could have applied to me.  I do not recommend visiting an island paradise during the third trimester; it is not good for one’s self-esteem!  As beach bathing was not in the cards, we occupied our time sightseeing every inch of the island and, of course, shopping.

At the Dole Cannery—Honolulu’s answer to Faneuil Hall Marketplace—I was drawn as if by magnetic pull to a certain display of stuff animals.  There, ‘Orca’ called out for a snow white plush gorilla holding a Dole-embossed Musa acuminata in his yellow-gloved hand.   The tag revealed his name to be, aptly, “Bananarilla”.  As I examined this toy with the scrutiny only a new parent understands, his outstretched gorilla pose appeared to hug little Orca.  I would swear under oath that there was an electrical connection between this toy and my unborn child.  I went straight to the cash register with credit card blazing.

On the endless plane ride home, Bananarilla rested on my baby bump, his tiny hand stroking the baby beneath.   A few weeks later, when we set up the baby’s crib, I placed Bananarilla in the crib to await the new addition.  On the day that we brought our little son home, his name replaced by a suitable tribute to my husband's late father, we placed him aside his anxiously expectant companion.  This was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.  Bananarilla was the blanket to his Linus.  When my son formed his first words, his trusty companion became ‘Nana.  As he got older we would leave books in the crib while he slept.  When he awoke, he would sit in his crib with 'Nana on his lap "reading" the books to him.

‘Nana and my son spent every day of their lives together.  If my son went to a sleepover, the toy went too.  When my son reached his teens, ‘Nana still went along but would remain hidden among his belongings.   At times when my son was sick, I would take ‘Nana’s temperature and even give ‘Nana medicine.  ‘Nana gave my son the courage to get shots or have blood tests by offering himself up as the first patient.  Once, when we vacationed at Niagara Falls, ‘Nana became obscured by the sheets in the hotel bed and was left behind accidently.  The hotel had to FedEx him back to us. 

Over the years, ‘Nana saw many washings, his painted eyes fading to a white plastic blindness.  The Dole banana, once stitched proudly to the animal’s right hand, is long gone.  The snow-white fur became grey, knotty, and pilled; the stuffing matted and limp.  Nonetheless, my son remained devoted to his plush brother, even if he occasionally obscured the toy between the wall and the mattress when the hockey team came over.

Inevitably, the time came when my son would leave for college.  My husband and I wondered whether ‘Nana would make the three-thousand-mile trip as well.  As our son packed for college I quietly put "‘Nana" on his packing list.  My son gave me a sheepish look, claiming it was ridiculous, although his look seemed to ask the unspoken question:  “Do you think I can bring him?”  In the end, ‘Nana stayed home, tucked comfortably into a pocketed pillow atop the bed they both shared.   For finals week, I snapped a photo of ‘Nana and sent it to my son for encouragement.   It was the best substitute for a mother’s hug.  Over the years, I continue to send him random shots of ‘Nana—sometimes wearing a hat from a favorite team during playoffs, sometimes holding a 'Happy Birthday' sign.

Twice a year my son comes home from college.  Now twenty-two years old, he would have you believe that he is an adult in every sense of the word.  ‘Nana remains displayed in his room among the other artifacts of his youth:  hockey and baseball trophies, an endless collection of baseball hats, more shoes than Imelda Marcos.  It is a joy to have him home.  There is nothing like the warm hugs he gives generously to his mother, holding on a little longer than I should notice.  The vacations pass all too quickly and then he is gone again.

In the aftermath of his last vacation, I picked through his room, finding the things he has left behind that must be shipped to him cross-country, realigning the sport shoes on the floor of the closet, and removing empty Gatorade bottles and the dirty dishes of late night snacks.  When I strip his bed to clean the sheets, I am choked up to find ‘Nana back where he belongs:  deep in the twisted covers masked in the sweet smell of my sweet son.  That’s when I know he is still my baby.

Son Shine

This "sonnet"  is for my beautiful son.  He is my hero.


Son Shine

What joy this child, that only mothers bear

The pain of birth and love; an absent act

As parent, give my soul without a care,

Tho' future benefits remain abstract.

Alas! The job demands I can’t forsake

As toddler you reach out to spread your wings,

The eyes and brain and sense are jarred awake,

So quickly you untie the apron strings.

The more I want to help the less you need,

Was time enough for wisdom to impart?

I beg to take the pain and stop the bleed;

Adulthood intervenes to break my heart.

I can't resist the need to help, although--

The biggest act of love is letting go.


Tomorrow's blog:  The Truth About 'Nana

A Ballade for Uncle Bob

As musicians, we all have a piece that we feel is ours alone, our “signature” piece.  Mine is the Chopin G-minor Ballade.  I did not realize until late in life that this piece is considered a hapless war horse to most pianists.  This is perhaps due to its treacherous difficulty, its uniquely enigmatic character, and the phenomenal overexposure it received in the hands of Vladimir Horowitz.

I first heard this piece played live as a fifteen year old.  I was at music camp; another student—an older boy who was among three musicians there I would meet again in college—was being driven mad by the final pages.  The piece is simple and melancholy in its melodies, but each turn of the page brings a new dimension of expression until it explodes with virtuosity—one hopes—at the end.  I had been accustomed to playing bombastic pieces; even as a young girl I had the ability to master difficult technical passages.  The challenge in this Ballade, however, is the forward momentum of the line.  A pedestrian approach leaves it sounding like a limp waltz.

The appeal of the G-minor Ballade was not in its technical challenge, but rather the way it spoke to me at a particular time in my life.  That same summer I lost a beloved uncle.  My family did not tell me of his passing, as it occurred just as I left for music camp.  What they did not realize is that I already knew, or more specifically, I sensed that something had happened to him. 

This uncle was my father’s younger brother.  Born into a difficult family, each of the boys had their own way of coping.  My father found his outlet through the violin.  My uncle, on the other hand, had many different dreams that he chased.  I discovered one day when I was very young that he had a love for the piano.  During a visit, he sat down at my piano and began to play.  I do not know what he played, but it was as if someone tapped him and the music came pouring out.  Because he had lost most of his little finger in a childhood accident, pursuing the piano had never been an option for him.  Still, he loved to make music.  We talked about how we each got a rush in our chests at the way the spacious sounds from the piano could envelope us.  He encouraged me to keep playing no matter what.  In a way, I was living this dream for him, he said.

Thoughts of my uncle pre-occupied me during the six weeks at music camp.  I kept seeing shadows of him everywhere.  When I returned home, I discovered a memorial notice in a stack of papers that confirmed what I had already known in my heart:  he was gone.  It was many more weeks before anyone told me what had happened.  In the meantime, I turned to the G-minor Ballade, very much against the wishes of my piano teacher.  I had been directed to work on a different Chopin concert piece that summer, the B-flat minor Scherzo, but as its name suggests a “joke”, I was not in the mood. 

I have always found something unique in the character of G-minor, perhaps a result of “even tempering” centuries ago. (Even tempering was the practice of forcing a consistent interval between notes.  This is how pianos are tuned in the modern day, allowing pieces to be composed in every possible key.) G-minor, to me, has a deeper hue than other minor keys as well as a precarious tonal quality.  If we believe that composers are purposeful in their choice of key signatures, we must consider the rarity of G-minor across the literature.  Is it a key reserved for making a particular musical statement?  Mozart wrote only two of his forty-one symphonies in minor keys, both in G-minor:  the “little” G-minor Symphony and the “great” G-minor Symphony.  Schumann’s  G-minor Sonata is perhaps the darkest in the mainstream romantic piano sonata literature.  Would Rachmaninoff’s famous Prelude Op. 23, No. 5 have the same predatory quality if it had been composed in E-minor?  Or C-sharp minor?

G-minor brought to the enigmatic Chopin Ballade the perfect balm for my teenage despair.  Chopin himself was expressing the longing of an expatriate, the pain of a tumultuous love affair, the struggle of one searching for his own identity, the agony of a crippling illness.  Inside the mechanics of this piece I came to terms with mortality, both my uncle’s and my own.  I explored the travails of swimming upstream against the current, concluding at last that it was better to have taken the journey after all.  I found solace in meeting unspeakable tragedy with unbearable beauty. 

After a twenty-year absence from the concert stage, I used the Chopin G-minor Ballade as part of my program for the 2001 Van Cliburn Amateur Competition.   It had been a rite of passage for me as an artist; I thought its presence would be bolstering.  It was suggested to me later that had I not programmed this dreaded piece in my program I might have reached the final round.   In the end, I was happy with the choice I made.  The pieces in my repertoire are like photos in an album; each captures an important part of my life’s story.  I was glad to take my uncle with me on this particular journey.  He helped me to further my own dreams, and I hope I did the same for him.

Trivial Pursuit

Every once in a while you have to let your brain recharge.  Today is such a day.

I confess that when I committed to doing a blog-a-day for a full year I did not think it through.  In fact, I deliberately posted my intentions quickly in order to keep myself from chickening out.   There is a woman who follows this blog (and I think she will recognize herself in this) who used to tell me, “You push yourself out on a limb and then work to pull yourself back in.”  Of course there is also the wisdom that warns “Act in haste, repent in leisure.”  (OK, that expression is really about marriage, but you get my point.)  Now that I have been writing for twenty-seven days straight, even continuing to spew content while on a week-long vacation in the Pacific Northwest, I am beginning to realize that there may have been alternatives to this aggressive plan.  For example, would you have thought any less of me had I said I would do a blog per week for a year?  Could I satisfy you with the occasional recipe, rather than a fully-formed thought?

On the other hand, I am happy with how this is turning out.  True, not every blog is noteworthy or pressworthy, but I am getting more comfortable exploring the reaches of my eye, my voice, my opinions, and sometimes my courage.  They say that the best writing comes from talking about what you know.  What “they” don’t tell you is how difficult it can be to speak honestly about your own pain or culpability.  I think some of the best stories are born of conflict; those can be difficult to write, and I’m guessing, to read as well.  There is poignancy to being human that is not unique to me.  Some of you have shared with me how my experiences resonate with your own.  If these tales help you resolve feelings, relive memories, or remind you to call someone with whom you have lost touch then it is all worthwhile.

I promised myself that if I reached a thousand “hits” I would stop and reflect on this experience.  Many of you may have noticed that I remarked about this milestone a couple of days ago; this is because I try to write at least a day or two ahead to give me a cushion in case I need it.   I have a rule that I always post my blogs in the order in which I write them.  One day I considered re-arranging blogs because I thought the titles looked too similar, but then I realized that this introduced an endless variability that could have me second guessing myself for weeks.   One reader asked whether I was really posting at 3am.   I am able to set the times in advance for each blog.  I’ve been using 6:00-6:30am as a posting time, but the Blogger tool is owned by Google, which I am guessing is nestled comfortably in Silicon Valley; hence Pacific Standard Time. 

Despite my public scorn for technology (or perhaps it is really my nostalgia for the past) I have come to realize how powerful social networking can be.  I doubt that without it I would be in active contact with 1) former classmates from grade-school through grad-school, 2) former clients, 3) musicians with whom I attended music camp at the age of 15, 4) co-workers from California and Atlanta (many of whom no longer live in either place), 5) offspring of my parents’ friends, 6) ex-relatives, 7) ex-boyfriends, 8) high school teachers, 9) former professors, and 10) geographically dispersed nieces and nephews.

I am overwhelmed by the amount of time you all spend on your computers!  Don’t you have jobs, lives, families?  Seriously, though, without this connection to all of you I doubt I would have the determination and energy to keep the blogs coming.  I realized a long time ago that I am an audience-driven person.  This is a warped manifestation of my competitiveness.   I seem to be missing the gene that drives others to work for their own gratification.  I need the burning gaze of a crowd to keep me engaged and motivated.  For this reason, I am so thankful to those of you who take the time to follow my blog and leave the occasional comment. 

Finally, there are 338 days left in this year.  I have stories to tell, but I can really use some stimulating ideas.  Feel free to challenge me, or toss me a random topic upon which to rant. 

Tomorrow's blog:  A Ballade for Uncle Bob

Whose Beer Is It Anyway?

Weddings are very stressful; mine was no exception.  That hot August day, and the week leading up to it, all play back in my memory like a Monty Python rendition of “Clash of the Titans”.  If that does not provide a vibrant enough visual image for you, I can offer no further help.  Suffice it to say that the night before, when my husband and I headed out to a romantic dinner to mark our “last date,” we came very close to running off and eloping.  I still wonder if we made the right decision.

I have a few specific memories of the day, the rest of it “resolving itself into a dew.”  Those that I can recall, however, are forever etched into my brain.  I remember being particularly impressed that my about-to-be husband heeded my wishes and memorized his vows.  We did not do anything fancy or creative, however, I felt we should say our vows to each other rather than repeat them from a third party.  My husband turned to me, holding my eyes with his while he conveyed the obligatory promises with an impressive amount of feeling—for  a guy.  Kudos, babe!

I remember a number of friends who traveled long distances to be with us that day.  I remember how beautiful all my bridesmaids looked—each a friend that held secrets from my youth.  I remember my friend Richard playing the harp as I walked down the aisle, filling the hall with heavenly sounds.  I remember our friend Andy grabbing someone’s guitar and the microphone to fill the band’s Union break.

Then there was the ‘other’ wedding:  the party for my parents and a hundred or so of their closest friends.  Early in the evening, as I was wending my way through the guests who were each recalling the last time they saw me, my husband of fifteen minutes approached, asking me to talk to my father on his behalf.  Apparently, a couple of his friends—well north of the legal drinking age—had asked the bartender for a beer and were refused.   I agreed to intervene, but wondered if this was foreshadowing a deeper divide in the father/son-in-law dynamic.    

Trying to be graceful while balancing atop four-and-a-half inch heels, I sought out my father.  I explained that the bartender needed approval from him to serve beer to my husband and his friends.  What I thought was a miscommunication turned out to be by design.  My father, it seems, felt that beer would degrade the occasion.  He had provided the best in top-shelf liquor for the guests and would not lower his standards.  Let them drink Scotch!

This was his last word on the subject.  It did not matter that my husband and his friends had no taste for hard liquor (if only that were still the case!); he would not compromise on this point for anyone. After all, it was his party and not mine.  I returned to greeting his friends.

Sometime later it became apparent to me that my husband was missing.  Here I was at my own wedding and I could not find the groom anywhere.  A six-foot-four redhead was hard to misplace, especially as my mother, disregarding my selection of a stately grey morning coat, (again, NOT my party) had ordered him a hideous white tuxedo.   He looked like the “Man From Glad.”

Fortunately, there were a few fonder memories that helped save the day.  There was the way my husband removed my garter with his teeth.  And the indelicate way my brother’s girlfriend dove like a Navy Seal to grab the bouquet (although to no personal avail!)  There was also a huge bouquet of balloons delivered to the reception from a dear friend who could not get out of Chicago to attend.   When we later retreated to the honeymoon suite, the balloons were tied cheerfully to the headboard.

A few days after the wedding we left on our honeymoon, and then slowly made our way back to the real world.   Weeks later we got an angry call from my father.  In the aftermath of the wedding, as he was sifting through the paperwork, he found a charge for $84 on the bill for our hotel room.   He insisted that we pay for whatever it was that we ordered.  I assured him that we had not ordered any room service, nor had we eaten in any of the hotel restaurants.  It had to be a mistake.

He called the hotel, telling them that these charges were invalid.  The following month they billed him again.  Once again, he called me demanding that I pay for our room service charges.   I continued to assure him that we had not ordered anything.

This $84 charge plagued my father to distraction.  He considered it harassment; he took up matters with the hotel manager and then followed it up the food chain through corporate management.  He was so relentless that they finally wiped out the charge, but not before he spent at least nine or ten glorious months fighting it tooth and nail.  It became his cause celebre; he would call me just to share his pride in each scathing new letter he drafted.     

Twenty-five years later, I made a big party for my husband’s fiftieth birthday.  For the occasion, I reached out to many of his high school and college friends.  Three of his four groomsmen still lived in the area and attended the party.  After a little lubrication, one of them began reminiscing about our wedding.  He remembered how my father refused to allow them to drink beer.  It seems that when my husband went “missing” from the wedding, it was because this cadre of buddies dragged him to the hotel bar to have a beer.  Then the final piece of the puzzle snapped into place.  After my husband rejoined me at the wedding—and  the guys downed a couple more rounds--his friends gave my father’s name to the bartender to close out the tab.  This was the mysterious bill that was charged to the honeymoon suite.  All those years, our friends thought they had tricked my father into buying them beers after all.  Little did they know, he always got his way.  Even without knowing it, my father had the last laugh. 

It is an interesting footnote that my husband never said a word, even when my father went to such lengths to obliterate the charge, even though he alone knew the charge to be legitimate.  When I asked him why he did not speak up his answer was simple: my father never asked him.

Tomorrow's blog:  Trivial Pursuit

Caught by the Short Hairs

My parents were relentlessly committed to having perfect, obedient children.  I do not fault their intentions; however, I often took issue with their approach.  Ours was a tight ship:  there was a clear chain of command, carefully delineated rules and responsibilities, and when “warranted”, stiff punishments.   It was not a child’s place to think outside the box or to color beyond the lines.   High on the list of crimes and misdemeanors was lying, cheating, and acting out in public.  Punishment was immediate and decisive; it did not wait for the privacy of home.

It was a different era then, one where corporal punishment was widely practiced.   Penalties could include humiliation, immobilization, and the ever popular ‘washing your mouth out with soap.’  Punishment wasn’t restricted to parents;  teachers, clergy, babysitters, neighbors were all permitted to spank an unruly or disobedient child.

I am certain that all kids take issue with their parents’ parenting.  I have been informed many times by my children what I am “allowed” and “not allowed” to do as a parent.  My father used to tell us that he complained bitterly to his mother that she was a terrible parent; she simply told him to have his own kids and do a better job.   Such was the impetus behind my father’s parental leadership.  We kids would be the proof that he knew better.

I have always had long hair.  As a young girl, my mother did not permit me to wear it loose or wild like my friends; it had to be secured in one of several approved hair styles.  Most commonly, she pulled all of my hair to the crown of my head and tied it in a ponytail with a rubber band.  Before reporting for hair duty each day, I was to wet my hair in the sink, making all the frizzy little ringlets around my hairline lay down flat.  I remember the torture of those rubber bands; it was years before the world was graced with covered “pony-tail holders” or the soft stretchy bands we use now.  I can still feel the way my face and skin pulled outward and upward, caught in a face lift by the unforgiving elastic.

One day before school, on a particularly humid day in South Florida, my mother was struggling to corral my curly tresses.  Every time she brushed back, my hair bounced forward.  Even with the tap water “glue” my hair would not behave.  Suddenly, she spun me around and used the edge of her brush to push a bunch of little hairs down on my forehead.  “What is this?” she demanded.  I did not know what she was talking about.  “You cut your hair, didn’t you?” she accused.  I strained up on my toes to look in the mirror that stood above her dresser.  There was a row of short downy hairs along my hairline.  It seemed to me that they had always been there.    I assured her that I had not cut my hair. 

She turned to my father, who had been dressing for work.  “Look at this!” she showed him.  “She cut her hair!”  I reiterated that I had not cut my hair.  “Yes you did,” she insisted.  “You just wanted bangs like all your friends, so you cut your hair.”  I blinked at my image in the mirror.  It didn’t look like bangs to me.  Again, I insisted that I had not cut my hair.

Faced with what my parents believed was evidence to the contrary, my crime shifted from my unauthorized severing of a lock of hair to telling a lie.   I was assailed with chapter and verse on lying.  The problem with telling a lie, they explained, is that it makes you a liar.  Once you are a liar, you can never be believed again—even if it is to protest that you are telling the truth.  I implored them to believe that I was telling the truth—I had never cut my own hair.  

Having already condemned me as a liar, my continued pleas of innocence only deepened my crime in their mind.  I was standing there, with my hair undone, trying my best to end the situation so that I could get to school.  Finally, I could bear no more.  I looked up, whimpering, and said, “Fine.  I cut it.  Now can I go to school?”

If I thought copping a plea would end this, I was sadly mistaken.  The trial then moved into the punishment phase.  My father informed me that lying was the worst of all crimes, that it would require a special brand of punishment.  Thus, when my beloved grandparents arrived from New York for their much anticipated holiday visit, I would be required to stand before them and proclaim myself a liar. 

A few weeks later my grandparents were due to arrive.  No one had mentioned the hair incident, so I was hopeful that all had been forgotten.   They arrived with a flurry of excitement, laden with gifts and wrapped in the fabulous smell of winter woolens from up north.  There were hugs and tears as I draped myself in their loving arms, happy for the joy their presence would ensure for the coming weeks.  Suddenly, my father stopped the celebration and pointed his finger at me, suggesting in a most emphatic tone that I had something to say.

“No!” I whispered, barely able to utter a sound, my breath squeezed from my chest by fear.  I could not believe the horror, my happiest moment dissolving into this pit of emptiness.  My father had a compelling way of insisting that, yes, he meant what he said.  I would not get out of this.  The punishment would take place. 

“No!” I said again, appealing to my grandparents for relief, hoping they would laugh it off and it would all be over.  My father clasped his hands on my shoulders, holding me facing them so that I could not turn away.   I cannot say for sure how long this scene played out, the father demonstrating his unbending will and the audience of family members playing along.

It took the longest time for me to get the words out.  “ I . . . am . . . a . . .a . . . a . . . liar,” I finally whimpered.    My grandparents exhibited shock—I was not able to discern whether it was feigned or not.   My memories after that are expressions of disappointment from them, clouds of shame and emotional exhaustion for me.  The repercussions seemed to last forever. Years later, if I said it was five o’clock, my brother would mock me, saying, “How can I believe you?  You are a liar!” 

Obviously this event weighs heavily in my childhood memories.  My parents were so intent on teaching their ‘liar’ lesson that I forgot for many years to come that I had not actually cut my hair.  I admit that,now as an adult, I have a zero tolerance policy for lying.  I have tried to impress upon my kids that it is better to suffer the consequences of the truth than to resort to a lying cover up.  In fact, I have often refrained from harsh punishment of poor choices--which are often punishments in themselves--in order to encourage open and honest dialog with my children.

Thirty-five years later, I became the mother of a second grader—a beautiful girl with long curly ringlets.   Now, it was the school that insisted that her hair be tied up for safety reasons.  One day, somewhat uncharacteristically, she decided that she wanted a big ponytail up high on her head rather than her usual long braid.  I started to gather her long locks when suddenly, I was struck with that sensation of déjà vu.  The memories of the short hairs incident that had lay dormant for decades came flooding back, reminding me once again of the shame and humiliation that surrounded my forced pronouncement.

Suddenly, I was pulled from my recollections by my daughter.  “Ew, Mommy—look!” she said.  She was bending over toward the mirror, trying to flatten out a row of tiny hairs that congregated along her hairline.  “I can’t make them go up!  What should I do?”

I dropped the brush and wrapped my arms lovingly around my daughter, squeezing her extra tight.  She never knew why I could not speak or why my eyes filled with tears.    How could she understand that she had just touched me as no one ever had?  How could she comprehend the power of her innocent observation to set me free—vindicating me once and for all from a moment of childhood shame?

“Oh, how cute,” I said.  “Little baby hairs, just like mine.”

Tomorrow's blog:  Whose Beer Is It Anyway?

Outcome Measures for the State of the Union

On the way to the dentist this morning, I heard an interesting interview on NPR.  Julian Zelizer, a history professor from Princeton, was pointing out the importance to the Obama presidency of tonight’s Constitutionally-mandated State of the Union (SOTU) Address.  As a political virgin myself—never having said or done much that can be construed as political beyond exercising my right to vote—I had overlooked the significance of this specific occasion.  The third SOTU speech is, effectively, the sitting president’s launch of his re-election campaign.  I was fascinated by the examples cited of former presidents—notably Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, and Bill Clinton—who set the tones for their re-election bids during their third SOTU addresses.   

Since we know the outcomes of past elections, it is interesting to relate the strategy of the third SOTU speech to each president’s eventual success or failure in seeking re-election.  Jimmy Carter, for example, was reeling from the Russian invasion of Afghanistan and the Iran hostage situation; his third SOTU address was dismal, to say the least.  He was brutally honest about economic conditions, spelling out each quandary in agonizing detail.  He offered little hope that solutions could be imagined, let alone executed.    By contrast, Ronald Reagan, after a term emphasizing military build-up and reinvigorating the arms race, realized that the public had grown weary of the cold war.  He borrowed from Eisenhouser’s rhetoric to introduce the theme of “people against war”.  Thus, he went from pushing Star Wars to being characterized as a peacemaker, taking re-election in a landslide.   Midterm, Bill Clinton lost his democratic majority in Congress and saw Newt Gingrich installed as Speaker.  His third SOTU uncharacteristically decried big government.  He then offered a selection of small and decidedly uncontroversial measures, such as seatbelts and V-chips, in his address.  Despite a hostile government stage and a parade of personal indiscretions, Clinton won re-election by a comfortable margin.

Given that tonight’s speech will set the tone for Obama’s re-election campaign, what specific goals must it deliver?  I thought it would be fun to think about the SOTU as a marketing event rather than a political one.  This allows me to look at it in a more comfortable light, asking what tangible and intangible buttons it needs to push in order to be considered successful for Obama.  I am not endorsing one candidate; nor am I discussing the relative merits of his policies or his performance of his stated agenda.  Rather, I want to consider tonight’s SOTU Address simply as an opportunity in the public eye by a candidate seeking re-election.  By setting benchmarks or expected outcomes in advance, I can avoid becoming entangled in the emotional webs the speechwriters spin.   After the speech, I wonder whether Obama's overlap my expected outcomes will give a good prediction of whether or not the President will succeed in his re-election bid.

These are my expected outcomes, or things I would expect candidate-Obama to accomplish in his SOTU speech: 

SET THE RIGHT TONE:  I believe that many Americans get more vibes from the president’s tone than from his content.  I expect a tough room—the “aisle” sharply dividing those who cheer and those who sit among the crickets.  In the past, the president could always expect polite decorum in these august chambers, but in Obama’s administration, even this rule has been broken.  Given the killer cocktail of weak economy and low approval rating, Obama must reach a pitch that is definitive and authoritative.  Most importantly, he must resist the temptation to explain to America what went wrong or why it has been difficult to accomplish what he promised accomplish.  No excuses; Americans need hope.  Through his tone, Obama must say, “I have the answers.  Follow me.”

TRANSCEND PARTISANISM:  The public is sick of partisan politics.  It is a worthy exercise for every American to Google George Washington’s resignation speech.  Read the section where he warned of the dangers of political parties, not just because of the domination of one party over the other, but also for their tendency to exact revenge on their opponents.  Obama must avoid the trap of engaging in either party’s rhetoric.  If he panders to one side he polarizes; to the other he is disingenuous.  He needs to cherry-pick ideas that can be fully embraced, otherwise the public will fear that an Obama presidency will bring four more years of gridlock.  A large share of Obama’s disapproval comes from those who believe in what Obama stands for, but have come to realize that he lacks the wherewithal to get it done.

DISPLAY SEASONED LEADERSHIP:  While Obama has no shortage of intelligence, he betrays his lack of inexperience.   Joe Biden was the answer to this during the last election—the senior Senator who would balance out Obama’s inexperience on both the international stage and inside the Beltway.  Today, Obama needs to show that he has garnered wisdom along with all the distinguished gray hair.  The SOTU Address must convey how much Obama has matured during his three years in office so he can be perceived as a senior statesman.  Our country cannot afford to endure any more on-the-job training.

GIVE US SOMETHING NEW ON TAXES AND THE ECONOMY:  The rhetoric of 2008 will not satisfy.  Even if there are no new ideas, they must be framed in a different light.  As soon as Obama says, “People who make above $250,000 will pay a little more in taxes” the game is over.  Nor will sweeping generalizations about jobs and the deficit win the fight.  There need to be specific job-creating policies with well-vetted price tags that can be implemented with offsetting cuts in non-essential areas—all without increasing taxes.

TALLY THE CONCRETE ACCOMPLISHMENTS:  While the State of the Union is not what we hope it can be, there are many positive indicators from the last three years.  As President, Obama is the only candidate who has such accomplishments to offer.  These should touch on homeland security, ending the war in Iraq, Osama Bin Laden, and as many economic upticks as can be marshaled credibly.  He should not over-stretch, however, as every disputed “fact” will serve to discredit him on the campaign trail. 

LEAVE US FEELING BETTER OFF:  One of Ronald Reagan’s most powerful re-election tools was the ability to ask: “Are you better off than four years ago?”  Obama does not have this luxury.  However, he has an opportunity here—in a non-campaign setting—to present evidence (if it exists) that perhaps things are not as bad as they have been perceived.  Is it possible to find a gap between where people feel they are and where they really are?  That’s for the politicians and economists to decide.   I always assume that the truth is being inflated; if the State of the Union is presented as bleak, things are probably much worse.  I will be looking closely at the evidence used to indicate that things are looking up.  If this does not pass muster, I will know that Obama and his team cannot get us where we need to go.

APPEAL TO OUR HUMANITY:  The world has become infected with a virus of disrespect, disregard, power mongering, and unrelenting evil.  Our resources are being consumed for defense and counter-terrorism to a greater extent now than during the arms race of the Cold War.  The era of terrorism has introduced a value system where the lines of good and bad and right and wrong are twisted and indistinguishable.  I fear for my children—not for their safety per se, but for their ability to live comfortably and happily in a world this overstressed with conflict and complexity.  A good president must be willing to lead us to peace as well as to war.  He must stick out his neck to uphold integrity, fairness, and human values.  I want a candidate who is not afraid to think independently and say, “Hey, we have to do the right thing here.”    I know this is oversimplifying, however, when I listen to the President tonight I will be scrutinizing his commitment to humanity.  

I have done my best to be bi-partisan, or maybe anti-partisan, here.  Feel free to share your thoughts on what you look for in a SOTU speech.  What do you think Tuesday’s speech will say (or said—I’m writing this before the speech) about Obama’s message for his presidential re-election campaign.  Did he aim at the right target?  Did he set himself up with the message Americans want to hear in the coming year?  Which past President did his approach most resemble?  Did he turn a corner on his presidency, or re-hash the same campaign message?   Can we tell which Republican he believes he will be facing?

God bless America.  God bless the children of the world.

Tomorrow's blog:  Caught by the Short Hairs

Mason-Dixon Whines

My son, who is studying sociology, was discussing with me how prejudices become so lodged in society that over many generations they become part of the cultural DNA.  This thinking is normally applied to our ancestors' abhorrent behavior towards certain minorities, but it made me consider whether there are other outward manifestations of this phenomenon.  We have made several dramatic relocations in the last thirty years, having begun our relationship in the northeast then moved to San Francisco, then Atlanta, and then back again to New England.  With this interesting perspective we began to realize how, and perhaps why, our interactions with people in each of our ‘homes’ were so very different.

Moving to San Francisco took very little adjustment for us.  People were welcoming to strangers and open to us as individuals.   We mixed and mingled with people from every conceivable backround; ethnicity and religious affiliation were rarely an issue.  The cultural ethos was very much akin to the fusion style of California Cuisine:  anything goes.   I remember meeting a particular woman at a healthcare executive networking meeting, herself a transplant from the East many years before.  I was still sad about moving across the country, leaving my friends and my life behind.  She touched me gently on the shoulder, saying, “Now, you have a friend!”  I know she follows this blog.  I hope she recognizes herself in this story so she knows how much that one gesture of unconditional acceptance and friendship continues to mean to me. 

A funny quirk that we discovered in San Francisco was the inability on the part of many people to give a direct answer to a direct question--especially yes or no.  One Thanksgiving weekend we planned to drive north over the Siskiyou pass to visit my husband’s family in Oregon.  It was important to determine in advance whether chains would be required.  I made a phone call to the DOT to ask this very specific question.  The person spoke in circles for ten minutes about roads, weather, plowing, what happened in years past.  Frustrated, I said, “Sorry to cut you off.  I just need to know—yes or no—are chains required on the pass or not?”  This was not unusual.  It was just as likely that a store clerk could not say the word ‘no’ when you asked for kitty litter, or that someone could not say ‘no’ when you asked for directions to your destination.  This behavior became so predictable that we tended to find these encounter amusing rather than annoying.

Perhaps our move to the deep South would have been less jarring had it not been preceded by our glory years in San Francisco.  The earthquake, however, (see posting from 1/5/12: The Yellow Tag List) was enough to shake us loose; otherwise we might have stayed in California for many years.

Atlanta was a big challenge to our liberal attitudes toward equality and inclusiveness.  It did not hit us right away, as we chose to live in an in-town neighborhood close to Emory University.  We loved its quirky cafes and family-run restaurants, the ability to stroll with the children on weekends to a nearby bakery or ice cream shop, and the interesting mix of people who made up our close friends.  I soon discovered, however, that I had made a provocative choice by settling in this charming historic neighborhood.   Several people at work bristled at my response when they asked where we were living.  Some mentioned defiantly that they chose to live “where MARTA did not run.”  Others simply preferred to send their children to schools where “everyone looked like them.” There were members of my department who refused to bring their families to parties at my house.  I was assuaged in my choice by the knowledge that such bone-headed people would never be my neighbors. 

My company, unlike my home, was located in the “great, white North”—the suburbs north of Atlanta where one finds such luminaries as Newt Gingrich.  Although the work was very satisfying, the behaviors and attitudes of some of the people baffled me.   Apparently, it is common in the South to display your “labels” in full view.  Your religious and political affiliations are made outwardly clear; if not, they are sought and outed by others.  With a decided lack of “people of color” employed in our corporate headquarters, I seemed to represent the fringe element.  My reputation as [choose your label: female, Jewish, ivy leaguer, city dweller, or all of the above] made me the subject of outward speculation and sometimes derision.  People assumed that because I was educated in Boston I was a “Yankee” (is that a crime?), which made me suspect.  For the record, I was born in rural central Florida; my first language was Southern—but this did not matter.   The common knowledge (and why was this common knowledge?) that I am a Jew caused people I did not know to seek me out in my office in order to get my take on the movie Schindler’s List "on behalf of the Jews."  On a few occasions, I was detained in offices by people who felt it was their responsibility to save me, right then and there.

Pollsters who have difficulty understanding why Newt Gingrich prevailed so surprisingly over Mitt Romney in this week’s South Carolina primary neglected to consider the embedded value system endemic across the South.  After generations of drawing a line between “us” and “them”, there is a cultural tendency to take the measure of a man (or woman) according to how and how much they overlap with one’s own beliefs or culture.   Newt Gingrich and Mitt Romney each have a variety of strengths and virtues, but one thing Mitt Romney will never be is Southern.

After living in Atlanta, we returned to New England.  As home-owners with school-aged children we began to see a very different side of life in Boston than we did as unencumbered students.  The issues that were social touch-points in the South were gone, but we discovered that New Englanders had their own brand of embedded cultural values.  I began to see it more clearly when I re-read the Scarlet Letter with my kids.  I had forgotten that Hawthorne framed the story with a contemporary point of view, narrated by a customs house worker who took a critical look back at the rigid, unrelenting community standards of the Puritans—the same people who took it upon themselves to declare as witches those who possessed any outward form of individualism.  With this story resonating, I began to reinterpret the local traditions and social norms that I was encountering, realizing that the Puritan traditions, though to a much lesser extreme, were very much embedded in the present day . 

I had a very bizarre experience along these lines that disturbs me still.  Some years ago I was prescribed a medication that required periodic blood tests.  The doctor set a standing order at the lab so that I could get these tests with little inconvenience.  I had been doing this regularly for more than a year when one day there was no order when I arrived.  I asked them to call upstairs to the doctor’s office, convinced it was an oversight that was easily remedied.  Two hours went by as I waited patiently to have the order reinstated.   The lab manager kept calling to speak to the physician’s office manager, but there was no order and no explanation.

Since I was required to fast for these tests, after a couple of hours my patience dissolved into impatience.  I headed upstairs, thinking that it would be easier to resolve matters face to face.  There, I explained that I had been waiting several hours in the lab for their office to put through a lab order.  The office manager came out to the waiting room and scolded me: “What makes you think you can just demand blood test?”  I explained that the doctor ordered it, and that there was supposed to be a standing order on file downstairs.   I also mentioned, quite emphatically, that since it was now 11am and I had not eaten (having checked in at 8am), that I would appreciate it if we could do this quickly.  But for some reason she was fixated on what she perceived as my audacity for ordering my own test.  I asked to see the doctor—my doctor, any doctor—but as gatekeeper she simply cut off all access: “I am not going to let you see anyone.”  She then took out my medical record and proceeded to write all sorts of notes in it, to justify, I suppose, why she was endangering my health.  I felt like a school girl in the principal’s office being written up for bad behavior.   This caused me to lose my cool; I was angry, I was hungry, I was dizzy, there were tears streaming involuntarily down my cheeks.  She looked up at me and said, “I don’t like you.  I am not going to do anything for you.  You cannot walk in here and order your own tests.”

This extreme example is one of several times when emotion—whether sadness, frustration, exhilaration, anger, pride, fear—received a strangely unsympathetic response.   I have been scorned for limping from a knee injury, disparaged for using a wheelchair after Achilles tendon surgery, and ridiculed for passing out in public.  Over the years I’ve learned not to cheer for my children, not to cry in physical or emotional pain, and not to laugh out loud.  The embedded cultural standard in New England is a stiff upper lip.  An action that gets noticed or does not conform is perceived as calling attention to one’s self, which is social taboo that can result in exclusion. 

These observations are just an intellectual diversion; it is important to note how much we enjoyed living in each of these cities.  In the end, we have always found our own “tribe”—a group of like-minded and open-minded people with whom we have been able to share hockey games, holidays, restaurants, plays, or just the occasional cold beer.  As we moved from place to place, our family of friends was fortified by the old and enhanced by the new.  From all of you, we only get richer.

Tomorrow's blog:  Outcome Measures for the State of the Union Address

Sole Mates

My grandparents were much beloved in my family.  They met on a street in the Bronx in 1924.  My grandfather was a seventeen year old student at Fordham; my grandmother was taking her infant brother for a walk.  Instantly infatuated, she lied about her age, telling this college boy that she was sixteen when in fact she was thirteen.  Thus began a very long courtship.  They finally married when she was twenty-one—after she completed teacher’s college and he finished dental school at Columbia.

I always remember my grandfather as a hopeless romantic.  He loved my grandmother to distraction.  Their relationship was a zero sum game; my grandfather approached each day as if he had not already proven his love the day before.  He was driven to spontaneous bouts of generosity, occasionally coming home with jewelry in his pockets for no reason at all.  My grandmother was reluctant to take him shopping because faced with a choice of dresses he would simply buy them all for her.

Their generosity was not reserved for each other.  It applied to family, in-laws, friends of friends, new boyfriends or girlfriends.  My father always called them his parents, even though they were his in-laws; they regarded him as their son.  They welcomed my husband to the family as if he had always been their grandson.  But although their hearts were big enough, it seemed, to embrace the world, my grandfather always made it clear that my grandmother rose above everyone else.  To him there was simply no other woman in the world who was her equal.

Even as a child my grandparents inspired me.  It was like living in a real life fairy tale.  What little girl wouldn’t want to believe in true love and happily ever after?  Yet as beautiful as it was to be an extra in their love story, so it was unbearably sad as the years took their toll.  Late in her 70s my grandmother suffered an illness from which she never really recovered.  Following sustained high fevers, her physical health improved but she began a steady decline that included the loss of her mental faculties.  The doctors denied that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s, nonetheless it became more and more difficult for her to remain in the present day.  She mistook me for my mother.  She spoke as if expecting events to occur that happened decades earlier.  Eventually, she was no longer able to function appropriately in public places, such as restaurants or the hair salon.

Putting her in a nursing home was tough love.  My grandfather was no longer able to manage her around the clock; my mother was stripped bare negotiating a constant stream of home caregivers.  It was a difficult adjustment for everyone.  I believe my grandmother never spent a peaceful night in that place alone.  My grandfather rushed each morning to her side where he stayed until they sent him home, depressed, at the end of the day.  Such was their life for the next four years.

Not long after ‘celebrating’ their 61^st anniversary, my grandfather, who had never been sick a day in his life, was rushed to the hospital.  The doctors called it ‘congestive heart failure’ but we knew he was suffering from a broken heart.  The daily visits to the love of his life were becoming too painful for him to bear and had no foreseeable end.  He slipped away quietly, even as the doctors declared him out of danger. 

The funeral was a couple of days later.  My mother was exhausted.  Not only had she managed all of the arrangements, but the trauma of the unexpected loss also triggered a delayed response to all that she had been carrying for years.  She mentioned to me that she was considering not bringing my grandmother to the funeral.  After all, she was mostly incoherent, rarely recognized the people around her, and could behave inappropriately in public.  It would be very difficult to have to handle her on top of everything else.

I had a visceral reaction to my mother’s plan.  “Mom, you must let her attend,” I implored.  “This is her husband.  It’s not your place to make that call.  Everyone will understand no matter how she behaves.  I think she will know on some level what is happening and needs the closure.  Besides, what is she to think when he stops coming to see her at the nursing home?”

Against her better judgment, my mother relented.  She went to the nursing home to explain to my grandmother about my grandfather’s passing and to get her dressed, then brought her over to her own home where everyone was assembling.  Having arrived from out of town, I walked in with my newborn daughter.  My grandmother took one look at me and smiled to my mother, “Look, Ellen is here with the new baby!”  There was a hush across the room.  I sat down and introduced my grandmother to my daughter, who was the third “only daughter of an only daughter”.  I said, “This is Emily Rose.”  She said, “Yes, I know; you named her for my sister Rose.”  She took my baby in her arms and held her like the treasure that she is.  Girls are rare in our family; I was the only granddaughter among her eight grandchildren.  Emily was the fifth great grandchild yet only the first girl of her generation.  My grandmother looked up at my mother, triumphant, “Look, Joan, we finally got our girl.”

When we arrived at the funeral home, my grandmother continued to amaze us with her lucidity.  My mother coached her subtly through the mourners and well-wishers, gently prompting: “Mother, you remember Sid and Jeannette.” “You remember Harry and Pauline.”  My grandmother snapped back indignantly, “Stop telling me who these people are!  I’ve known them since well before you were born!”  She approached the open casket where my grandfather laid at peace.  Calmly and with purpose, she kissed him as you would a sleeping child, then said, “Good-bye, my love.”

At the cemetery, my grandmother said Kaddish and then scolded the hired hand who carelessly let the casket bobble as it lowered into the ground.  We returned to my mother’s home to sit Shiva.  From her place on the sofa my grandmother transformed, looking at the crowd of people through suddenly vacant eyes.  Occasionally she would speak, but the contents were oddly disconnected from the time and place the rest of us inhabited.  Back at the nursing home she was agitated and belligerent, running through the halls crying.  But when the nurse asked her why she was so upset, she answered, “Today I buried my husband of sixty years.  I’m entitled.” 

That was the last time I saw my grandmother.  She survived another couple of months until her birthday.  On that day in March, as was tradition, her sons called from out of town to wish her a happy birthday.  When she had heard from the last one she closed her eyes and went to sleep, never to wake again.

I have no doubt that my grandparents each were keeping the other alive.  I like to believe that my grandfather willingly folded his hand in order to release my grandmother from her painful struggle.  Without his daily visits, it was easier for her to let go, ending the suffering that had usurped her life.  We were all baffled by the dignity of her presence at his funeral.  She had clarity in those hours that she had not possessed in years.  And the memory of her joy and recognition while holding my tiny daughter—just that once—is the most precious memory that I hold. 

The hidden powers of the brain continue to challenge doctors and researchers.  Who knows where our memories go when we are no longer able to conjure them?  I confess that I think of this as I write my blogs, hoping that my children will preserve and cherish my memories as part of their own family lore.  Even more mysterious than the brain is the power of love.  Together, my grandparents created something palpable out of love that transcended them both.  The doctors cannot explain it, but everyone who knew my grandparents was witness to its existence.   It sustained them in sickness and in health, and made poignant their deaths.

In Praise of Ira and Marshall

The song Over the Rainbow from the Wizard of Oz features prominently in our family’s history.  It was a long-standing tradition when my kids were younger that I would sing this song to them at bedtime.  It started as a mother’s desperate act to soothe a sick child, diverting her from her febrile misery with sweet dreams of rainbows and bluebirds.  It then became a command performance to delay slumber: “Mom, sing the rainbow song!”  Later, when my ten-year old daughter was becoming well known locally for her figure skating, she chose the heart-rending Eva Cassidy version of the song as her first invited solo program in the annual ice show.  It was a fitting backdrop to her first public performance of a double Lutz.

This beautiful song was written by the great Harold Arlen, with lyrics credited to Yip Harburg.  It is a lesser known fact that the writing team was stuck, unable to find a suitable ending for the song that would anchor Victor Fleming’s epic film.  A chance meeting with Ira Gershwin (brother and co-collaborator to composer George Gershwin) got the song off the ground and onto the screen.  Gershwin encountered Arlen and Harburg at the studio; they played the song for Ira unsure of how to close it out.  Off the top of his head, Ira made a bold suggestion.  Why not just go—‘if happy little bluebirds fly/beyond the rainbow/why, oh why can’t I?’  Thus, Ira Gershwin became an uncredited lyricist for Over the Rainbow, saving the song that made the Wizard of Oz legendary.

I have always had a particular love for Ira Gershwin because of the 'lyricism' of his lyrics.   Though recognized for the purity of his rhymes (he would never sink to rhyming the word ‘time’ with ‘line’), it is the combination of both rhythm and rhyme that distinguishes the Ira Gershwin lyrical signature.   This complexity satiates the listener on multiple levels, much like the way you taste a meal with your eyes and your nose as well as your tongue.  Consider this passage from my most favorite Gershwin song, Someone to Watch Over Me:  “Although he may not be the man some/girls think of as handsome/To my heart he carries the key./Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed/Follow my lead,/oh, how I need/Someone to watch over me.”  Gershwin’s style of building internal rhymes on variable length phrases is songwriting at its best.  One hardly needs to hear the melody to feel the lilting pulse of the song.

Ira’s genius went hand in glove with that of his brother, himself a master of constructing great musical stanzas.  But Ira’s talent survived George’s by almost half a century, forcing the lyricist to find others with whom to create songs.  Most notably, Harold Arlen turned to Ira again when his collaboration with Johnny Mercer in the 50s failed to sizzle.  Their resulting torch song, The Man That Got Away—immortalized by Judy Garland in A Star is Born—showcases the illustratively vivid rhyming cadence of an Ira Gershwin lyric:  “The night is bitter/The stars have lost their glitter/The winds grow colder/And suddenly you’re older/And all because of /The man that got away.”

This quality of song writing is a lost art.  Today’s song writers may succeed in capturing the lights and sounds of today's lifestyles, but they are missing the qualities of craftsmanship that unite music and lyrics.  For example, consider this verse from a top song by Lady GaGa:  “I’m gonna lace up my boots/Throw on some leather and cruise/Down the streets that I love/And my fishnet gloves/I’m a sinner.”  Or this hit song by LMFAO: “When I walk on by girls be looking like damn he fly/I pimp to the beat, walking down the street in my new la freak, yeah/This is how I roll. . .”   In both cases, the lack of unity between music and lyrics (and one could even argue, a lack of interest) renders the lyrics almost irrelevant in the context of the song.  I am reminded of a Nirvana parody by Weird Al Yankovic that helps make this point.  Nirvana might have rendered a comparable odor of teen spirit by substituting Weird Al’s lyrics: “Now I’m mumblin’ and I’m screamin’/And I don’t know what I’m singing’/Crank the volume, ears are bleedin’/I still don’t know what I’m singin’”?  Today's recording technology is capable of simulating instruments and making singers sound like they can sing in tune, yet it is interesting how many recordings leave lyrics unintelligible.  Lyrics are no longer regarded as a selling feature of popular songs.

Despite my disappointment with the general state of modern songsmanship, I have found hope in the most unlikely place: Eminem.  Marshal Mathers, the rough, vulgar, violent rapper from Detroit, blows me away.  Unlike anyone on the music scene today, this dude gets it.  When I first heard Lose Yourself some years ago I was distracted initially by the gaps in the radio broadcast and my son’s apparent knowledge of what went into those gaps.  As I listened, however, I became impressed by the way this guy harnesses language, conjuring the desperation and yearning of his life’s predicament.  And he does this with all manner and lengths of internal rhyme sequences.  Sure, there is the occasional word that doesn’t pass the censors, but the vulgarities are honest representations of his setting.  The f-words are not gratuitous.

Take, for example, this opening passage:  “His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy/There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti/He’s nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready/to drop bombs. . .”  This verse paints a vivid picture of the young man who has hit rock bottom; he knows that he is at a turning point, but fears for his life if he is unable to rise to the occasion. 

Later, the lyrics capture the visualization of his dreams: “The soul’s escaping, through this hole that is gaping/The world is mine for the taking/Make me king, as we move toward a new world order,/A normal life is boring. . .”  Ira Gershwin would be proud.  Certainly this is no love song, but the rhymes, while imperfect by Gershwin standards, are clever, emanating organically from the emotion of the song to create a lasting image.  The rhythms of the phrases, consisting of short embedded rhymes built into larger rhyming stuctures, are classic Gershwin.  Most notably, he incorporates the minutiae of his life with details that touch the listener’s senses, compelling us for the moment to stand in his shoes.  His is not a world of “happy little bluebirds,” but he too hopes to use his wits and awareness to transport himself to a life far, far away from where he started.