Jet Blue, Good for You

I have been wondering whether air travel will ever be pleasant again.  After eleven years of heightened security with a series of increasingly humiliating restrictions—confiscate your liquids, take off your belt, put your hands over your head, submit to pat down—I am afraid of what will happen next should there be (G-d forbid) another “event.”  Of course there has been little improvement in the usual and customary variables of travel.  The airlines still lose baggage, overbook, and understaff the ticket counters.  I try to avail myself of all the new technologies that are designed to streamline travel.  Despite advance check-in and barcodes on my iphone, I still find endless lines at the “bag-drop” while agents insist on issuing a paper boarding pass.

Today I was pleasantly surprised to board a Jet Blue plane for the opposite coast only to find that my low expectations were vastly exceeded.  The head flight attendant greeted us with an extemporaneous outpouring of enthusiasm and welcome.  Rather than the expected vapid airline script, he just spoke to the passengers.  He let us know that there were two other airlines with planes leaving for the same destination at the same time and that he was glad that we chose his airline.  Furthermore, he indicated that it was his personal goal that the 150 passengers on this flight would never choose to fly those other guys.

How did he expect to earn our loyalty?  With fabulous service and an array of amenities.  He described the entertainment system, including the wide range of movies and TV shows.  He indicated that most of the food items on board were free, and that we were entitled to as much and as many of the choices as we pleased.  To facilitate this they would serve us in the early hour of the flight, and then he would set up bar carts at either end so that we could simply help ourselves.  He made these announcements while making strong eye contact with passengers throughout the cabin.

As the flight attendants passed through the cabin to ensure that personal items were properly stowed, they were pleasant and personable, carrying on conversations that brought passengers together in a convivial way.  It was infectious.  Late boarding passengers were polite, apologizing when they required an aisle passenger to stand to allow them to squeeze into an interior seat.  My neighboring passengers, as well as those in the rows ahead and behind me, were all exchanging pleasantries as they helped one another to stow items safely and comfortably. 

I contrast this with other flights I have taken lately.  I am a Million Miler on Delta, which tells you something about my allegiance to that airline—particularly in their non-unionized, pre-9/11 glory days.  But my last Delta flight horrified me.  They have replaced the human touch with video deliveries of all pertinent information, allowing the flight attendants to busy themselves with paperwork and other administrivia in the cabin.  The passengers all but ignored the video, which starred a sad looking botox-and-collagen-injected creature of indeterminate age.

Maybe I am just slightly elated because the serendipity of strong tail winds has our flight arriving a full hour early.  Maybe the inconvenience of air travel has hit such a low that any ray of sunshine seems like a meteor shower.  Or maybe we are so starved for real customer service these days that any effort to make a human connection is a salve to the spirit.  All I know is that it feels good to be treated like a valued customer.  The next time I need to go somewhere I will start with Jet Blue.  And if they don’t go where I am heading, perhaps I will consider a different destination.

Politically Wise, Potentially Foolish

Election seasons are complicated times.  Party lines divide friends and families like the Mason-Dixon Line divided a much younger nation during the Civil War.  Despite deep-rooted differences in philosophies, we are still fortunate to live in a country that embraces the concept of “one man-one vote.”  I lament the number of people who choose not to exercise these rights, whether out of ignorance, indifference, or a perceived sense of futility.  Frankly, those who opt out have no right to complain.

This time around we are seeing divisions over women’s issues, healthcare, how and where to cut taxes, the right to marry, the debt ceiling, and foreign policy.  There are also dramatically different approaches being proposed for energy.  What surprises me is the fact that these proposals are being touted as economic issues.  One camp suggests that we have enough domestic sources of fossil fuels to be energy independent.  Open the pipelines, drill the wells, and we can control our own supply and subsequently lower prices at the pumps.  The other camp wants us to think long term, investing in alternative energy—hydroelectric, wind, solar—in order to break our addiction to fossil fuels.  Proponents of this approach are too quick to concede to detractors, allowing their plan to be characterized by their opponents as “increased spending.”

What is missing from the debate is a more fundamental dialogue about the environment.  Energy is not just a real-time economic issue; it is an environmental one.  The decisions we make now will affect our children and our children’s children.  There are compelling reasons why we should bite the bullet and fund the development of clean energy sources.  We should have done it a generation ago.  Economic recession notwithstanding, I would think that investing in the environment would go hand-in-hand with pro-life doctrine.

I am disappointed that the environmental rhetoric is being drowned out by partisan rancor.  We cannot allow the economic crisis to obfuscate the importance of environmental impact embedded in the proposed solutions.  It is time to set alternative energy development plans in motion as part of a comprehensive economic recovery plan.  If we succumb to “quick and dirty” increased domestic oil production, we will commit our nation to a future of continued environmental hazards.  Furthermore, we will continue to reinforce the dominance of the automotive industry by Big Oil.

Prudent investment in a cleaner future is not optional.  We should not allow it to be categorically shot down with a pejorative cry of “government spending.”  The environment is a social good that has long fallen victim to corporate profit mongers, who have allowed production short cuts to threaten the future of the planet.  Their actions have traded environmental safeguards for executive bonuses.  This is more than an argument of self-reliance over big government.  This is a matter of whether or not we have a future.

We will continue to argue about the size of government and the role of government.  When the free market favors profit over planet it is time for a little nudge.  If existing corporate giants cannot make a profit by doing the right thing, maybe it is time to let someone else have a try.

 

A Tiny Rosebud Blossoms

To my beautiful and talented daughter,

Today you are twenty years old.  I get a lump in my throat just thinking about it.  You came into this world such a tiny and vulnerable thing, the cord wrapped so tightly around your neck that we feared we had lost you.  But with one barely audible cough, you shook off your trauma and charged onward.  Since then, this has been your way.  You stare down obstacles and prove you are made of stronger stuff.  Doubters eat your dust.

A lot of people like to compare us.  I suppose it is natural, because we look so much alike.  I have never wanted or needed you to follow in my footsteps.  I know you to be an original of your own crafting.  I envy your ability to know your own mind, to pursue your own interests, and to push yourself to your own high standards.  I love sitting on the sidelines watching how you approach choices and challenges.  You are inquisitive, analytical, tenacious, and adorable.

I will always think of you as the little girl who was armed with “girl power”—the confidence that there were no limits and that everything was possible.  I hope you always retain a bit of that juvenile spirit.  I am happy for you that you are growing up at a time when girls really can consider anything they wish.  It is a good time to be you. 

I wish for you never to doubt yourself or your abilities.  You take our breath away with the depth of your knowledge and the multidimensional power of your mind.  You are wired differently than most, but the world has enough people stamped out in the traditional mold.  You have the ability to see what isn’t there, to imagine complex solutions, and to bring them out to the concrete world.  This is a gift that is begging to be used. 

If I could do one thing for you, I would give you a magic carpet.  You are at your best when you explore new worlds, meet new people, and expose yourself to different cultures.  Every place you visit becomes a part of you, expanding your intellectual capacity and your cultural vocabulary.  You see everything and forget nothing.  Everything that touches you makes you bigger and better, enriching your innate powers of insight and synthesis.  There is a special purpose meant for someone like you.  I expect you to make your mark on the world in a very unique way.  And I expect you to have the time of your life doing it.

Please be careful always.  You are very trusting and sweet to the point that you are sometimes careless.  I still see flashes of the time you crossed the street in downtown Boston, nearly getting struck by the speeding, turning taxi.  You need to look both ways—not just in traffic, but in life, too.

Please don’t sweat the small stuff.  Keep your eye on the big picture, knowing that some of the smaller battles are not worth fighting.  Focus on the milestones, measuring your progress against the steep steps you have set in place for yourself.

Most of all, do not forget that your father and I are here for you—not just to pay the bills, but also to love you, to laugh with you, and to offer you the unconditional support that you have earned.  We are your biggest fans.  We hope to be cheering you on as you cross the finish line, arriving at your life’s destination.

And finally, remember that the thing in your pocket is a phone.  It allows me to hear your voice, which, more than anything, tells me that you are just fine.

I hope you have a wonderful day, sweet girl.

All my love,

Mom

The Joan Luck Club

My mother, Joan, was a professional housewife.  It was a status symbol of sorts, but it was also a tough job.  Personally, I would be unable to find happiness from a life that centered on dirty clothes, dirty toilets, and having to make meals that catered to my father’s particular tastes.  But my mother thrived on being a domestic goddess, thanks in large part to a few choice diversions.  For one thing, she was a slave to that mid-century throwback—the beauty parlor.  For as far back as I can remember my mother had a standing Friday morning hair appointment where she was rolled, dried and teased into a perfect pouf.  By noon, she was suitably coifed for whatever the weekend held. 

Her other diversion was a weekly game of Mah Jongg.  A tile game with origins in China, Mah Jongg played an important role in Jewish communities in the US, bringing women out of their homes into midday social gatherings.  The National Mah Jongg League was established in 1937—the year of my mother’s birth.  Paid members receive an annual card that specifies the legal hands for the year, which also handicapps the hands for betting according to statistical difficulty.  My mother learned to play at the age of 5 in the shadows of her own mother’s weekly game.  She and the other kids would interrupt the adults as they played, pointing out the dragons or chrysanthemums on the pretty bakelite tiles, thus destroying the competitive advantage of their mothers.  As a self-defense mechanism of sorts, one of the mothers brought an old Mah Jongg set, engaging the children in their own game.  My mother has been rattling May Jongg tiles since.

During my youth, my mother was always part of a regular “game,” which included four other women in addition to her.    Seats at their table were highly coveted.  The game rotated among the homes giving each woman an equal chance to host.  They played every Wednesday for as far back as I can remember, beginning mid-morning and playing until after school got out—around 3 or 4 o’clock.  There was a bit of excitement every five weeks when the game came to our house.  I do not think the women ever stopped for a lunch break per se.  There was a buffet of food where one simply noshed during the rounds when they were “out.”  I remember helping my mother make cute little sandwiches from canned date-and-nut-bread.   I loved removing both ends of the can and pressing out the bread, then making an even number of thin slices and spreading them with Philadelphia cream cheese.  This was also an occasion for a bowl of peanut M & Ms, or those wonderful Hershey’s miniatures.  If I was lucky, when I got home from school I would be able to choose from the leftovers before helping to clean up.

The best part of Mah Jongg for me was the sound.  There was a particularly glorious sound when the tiles clicked against each other while being mixed on the quilted cover of the old card table.  I always tried to do my homework as close to the action as possible just to indulge in that sound.  If my mother set up for her games the night before, I begged to be able to help mix the tiles around and around on the table.  It was fun to dump the tiles out of the fancy felt-lined case and then race to turn them all face down.  After mixing, it was important to set up properly, building a two-story wall of tiles, two rows thick, against each player’s tray. 

It was rare to be able to watch the women play; they were fiercely cutthroat and did not suffer intruders or spectators.  But it was mesmerizing to tune into the rhythm of the game as each player called their tile and discarded, depleting the stacked wall tile by tile as if unraveling stitches on a knitted sweater.  As the last tile was snatched from one wall, another player would instantly push her tray out to introduce a new wall, always going in a clockwise direction.  This was professional quality play without so much as a sip of coffee to contemplate the next move.  If a woman could not keep up with their pace, she was unceremoniously replaced by someone else.  There was always a waiting list.

The closest I get to Mah Jongg today is the solitaire game on my Kindle.  It uses the familiar tiles but bears little resemblance to the actual game.  I regret never learning to play Mah Jongg, if only to keep this tradition of my mother’s and her “Wednesday ladies’” alive.  It is something that my mother continues to do to this day, after 70 years, with sanguineous greed.  But ladies beware.  She is a shark with a bun and readers, ready to take the money of anyone who will dare sit at her Mah Jongg table.

Stone-Faced

It has been five days since I returned from a storybook trip to Italy, and five days of doing humdrum chores as I fight my way back to reality and to responsibility.  I do not want to clean and fold an endless supply of laundry.  I do not wish to sort through the stack of mail to find the bills in want of payment.  I do not care to apply the software updates that will grant me access to the network where my day job awaits.  I want to wake up far from here, where my greatest dilemma is to choose upon which priceless work of art I will cast my eyes.  I have stood in the presence of everlasting greatness; I just cannot bear to clean toilets or take out the trash.

While my ethereal self lingers a bit longer in the memories of relics and fresh pasta, I drag my lazy ass back to work.  In my mind’s eye, nonetheless, I am still standing before Michelangelo’s Pieta, its backlit glow rising up behind the bulletproof glass to caress the Carrera marble.  By my mother’s report, I have seen this sculpture before.  It was transported from Italy only once since Michelangelo himself placed it in St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican.  It was displayed at the New York World’s Fair in 1964.  I have only a bare wisp of the memory of visiting this masterpiece; a 5-year old Jewish girl would have attached no meaning to such a vision.

Today, however, this sculpture beguiles me and will not leave my mind.   Having had the opportunity to explore several Michelangelo works up close in the last couple of weeks, I have a fresh understanding of the art of sculpture, of the choices that are made deliberately, and of the challenge of communicating through the form and composition of the work itself.  There is a reason that we use the expression “set in stone” to mean something that is permanent and specific.  Sculpture takes more careful planning and execution than painting, and it is because of this that it is unique among vehicles for artistic expression.

‘Pieta’ is a term applied to all artistic representations of Mary grieving over a dead Jesus.  Michelangelo’s Vatican Pieta is remarkable for the choices that the master made, conveying multiple meanings. It is almost editorial in nature.  For example, Mary, who was in her fifties when Jesus died, is depicted with the face of a young girl.  Many critics hypothesize that this symbolizes her virginity.  Perhaps Michelangelo is representing her as she appeared at her moment of motherhood, underscoring the unique loss that is hers alone.   On her right side, she is grasping the lifeless body of her son, her grief evident through the tight grip on his rib cage.  It is a heart-wrenching portrayal of that greatest of all sorrows: the loss of a child.  For her, this is a private moment.

On the other hand, Mary’s left side tells a different story—one of her sacrifice.  Rather than clutching the body, her left palm is stretched upward, resigned.  On this side, the legs of Jesus do not hang lifelessly across her lap; rather, they are carved in full relief, floating unassisted, as if weightless.  Perhaps Michelangelo means to represent Jesus’ own divinity.  Or perhaps through her stoic acceptance, Mary’s burden is at last relieved.

You need no religious faith to appreciate this masterpiece of storytelling in stone.  The beautiful depiction captures the conflict of this central figure whose own human life is caught in the divine birth of a new faith.  She maintains a visage of humility and a gesture of sacrifice even while indulging her private moment of loss.  She looks neither left nor right, concealing to the observer whether her own inclination is toward one or the other.

Many artists, both before and after Michelangelo, have created interpretations of the Pieta.  Some have tried to emulate the gestures of Michelangelo’s sculpture (he actually created 3 different Pietas) but fall short of capturing the grace of this masterpiece.   This is a work of art that speaks to all, whether you are looking for the religious inspiration of martyrdom, or simply feeling the bonds between mother and child.  It is a testament to the power of art to move, and to the power of genius to be everlasting.

Global Warning

I can endure harsh winters, three feet of snow, ice-driven power failures, plowing and high energy bills because of the October beauty in New England.  Growing up in Miami, I had little understanding of what fall was all about.  It was not until I came to college in Boston that I experienced my first color show of autumn foliage.  There is something so poignant about the mighty oak trees as they begin to yellow—leaf by leaf.  Finally, a delicate dried leaf is captured by a cool breeze, plucked from the branch and floating gently and circuitously to the ground.  One by one other leaves follow suit until they coat the walkways and gutters.  But first, before the quickening of the season, there is an all-too-brief moment of unequalled yellows and reds that gives us pause. 

Fall is a reminder of the persistence of Nature to mend its wounds and to nurse itself back to vibrant health.  It represents the orderly shut down of Nature’s production cycle, shedding the excess of its busy season in order to regroup, renew, and reseed.  Before it turns inward on itself and disappears for the winter, Nature gives us one last appeal for respect and kindness.  Remember me, it begs, so that I may continue to feed you and shelter you and live harmoniously in your presence.   No one who is witness to a New England autumn can doubt that the Earth is a delicate, organic being.

Those who argue that there is no perceptible climate change, or that Global Warming is not a scientific fact, do not deserve to enjoy the bounties of this beautiful planet.  There is a certain ignorance implicit in the argument itself.  Why try to prove that we have not systematically destroyed the Earth unless you plan to justify its continued desecration with toxic waste and depletion of its resources?  The Earth is not here to service our needs; we are all part of a larger closed biosystem.  We have what we have until there is no more.  I fear for a world where increasing populations, increasing industrialization, and increasing ignorance cause us to outstrip Nature’s ability to renew itself.  

Already, I see my trees do not grow as full each spring as they did 15 years ago.  Beautiful Walden Pond is not as high as it was when I swam in it as a college student.  The majestic Multnomah Falls on the Columbia River was a trickle this summer compared when I first saw it nearly 30 years ago.  The glass Farnsworth House in Plano, Illinois now floods frequently—not because there is more water, but because there has been so much concretization of the surrounding lands that the natural run off has become choked off.  When Mies van der Rohe first built this structure over 60 years ago, he situated it over 12 feet above the 100 year recorded high water mark.

The beautiful cycles of Nature fool us into believing that we can do anything to this planet with impunity.  Not so.  Like other forms of disease that attack from the inside out, the outward manifestations of life continue even as the foundation shrinks from within.

Nothing in my life has taught me a more important lesson about the environment than a simple family trip we took in 1993.  It was the 150^th anniversary celebration of the Oregon Trail.  My husband is a descendant of Oregon Trail pioneers, so we returned to his ancestral home in Baker, Oregon, once a terminus for the Trail itself.  We visited many sites where ruts from the covered wagons are still visible today.  There are places where these wagon ruts run through private farms, and farmers have tried again and again to plow under them to reinvigorate the soil.  It begs the question:  If something as simple as wagon trains crossing the plains can create such an indelible scar across the Earth, what hope do we have for the planet as we pour toxic waste into our rivers, and blight our forests? 

We have all seen police dramas on television where a child has been kidnapped and forced to live in a basement or boiler room in her own filth.  Or post-apocalyptic dramas where survivors are left to ration the small supply of remaining food products.  These are not extreme stories; they are lessons for the here and now.  We are already living on a planet that has more people than it can reasonably sustain.  We have a partner in Nature that we have shortchanged to our own detriment.  We need to do a much better job taking care of the environment around us.  We do, indeed, live in our own filth.

No Short Cut to College

The other day I read a news story about parents in Hong Kong who are suing a Boston-based college consultant for $2 million dollars.  The consultant promised to set up their 2 children with prestigious high school educations and to make introductions that would guaranteed their subsequent admission to Harvard.  He solicited the parents before the children were high school aged, representing himself as a Harvard professor with ties to the admissions office.   Over the years, the parents paid the consultant $2 million dollars, purportedly to be used to make large donations to the target institution.  This is a glimpse at a growing cottage industry that is being fueled by ever-larger applicant pools for admission to the top schools.  Though extreme, it is an extreme example of the lengths to which parents will go to see their children hit the college jackpot. 

While this article focused on the deception and possible fraud perpetrated by the college counselor, I found myself judging the parents.   Who lays out millions of dollars for a college certainty before their children have refined their interests?   I have difficulty viewing these parents as victims. They seem more interested in buying an outcome to their children’s education than in participating in their upbringing.

College consultants are very popular in our area.  When my children were in high school, I received solicitous marketing materials by mail on a regular basis (none from the personal named in this case and none that seemed disreputable).  Almost all touted the past titles (admissions officer, dean) and institutional connections (Harvard, Yale, Princeton) of their consultants.   Parents begin in their student’s sophomore and junior year to use these consultants, helping them to make choices about high yield extracurricular activities, courses (which lead to the “right” letters of recommendation), and other aspects of their academic record.  By the summer after junior year, the consultants are working on the “packaging” of the student and the application essays.

I have never used these consultants; nor have I read an application produced under their supervision.  On the other hand, I spent 14 years conducting interviews for my own alma mater, which imparts a certain insight into the admissions process.  I have heard college admissions officers complain about college counselors, bemoaning the effect they have on the admissions process.  They suspect many applications of being produced by a third party.  When I conduct an interview, I always make the assumption that a student’s greatest area of expertise is himself.   Therefore, I try to ask questions that let the student reveal the depth of her academic interest, demonstrate how she uses what she learns, and show what vision she has for herself.  I try to get at what really motivates a student's academic achievement rather than what she has been taught to say.  For many applicants, it is difficult to crack that shell.

I am not exaggerating when I say that every student I have interviewed has a similar resume.  I have seen consistently excellent GPAs coupled with 4 to 6 AP exams.  All have done community service, as it is a requirement for graduation in our town.   There are a few predictable variations:  science or arts, athlete or musician.  Just as common are those who have no focus among their many interests.  All are seeking an Ivy League school. 

After conducting dozens of interviews, I came up with a few questions that I use routinely as an assay of a student’s scholarly potential.  One of my favorites is to ask the student to describe their favorite term paper or research project.  Remarkably, many are unable to recall their 10^th grade history project or are unable to explain how they got the idea for their Science Fair project.   Only a few students have ever given a detailed response to why they are interested in attending the specific school for which I was interviewing them.  Sadly, more students report being motivated by the need to get good grades or amass credentials than by a true passion or an interest developed from in-depth study.  When you find a true scholar, it shoes.  The conversation is easy.  It demonstrates a joy of learning.  It floats from topic to topic, referencing moments of keen awareness, reveals moments of revelation with literature, or other "aha" events in the student's own development.

The irony to the burgeoning college consultant industry is that college admissions officers see through the packaging.  A college application is not a corporate business plan; it is an opportunity for the student to exercise her voice.   It should read as something that was composed by a 17 year old, while showing depth of thought and a point of view.  A good essay will reveal rather than tell.  If you consider that there are zillions of applications for every available slot, nothing is more important than a clear and distinct voice.  Many college consultants do the opposite, driving the student away from themselves and toward their company’s style.

A lot of people ask me to talk to their kids about their college applications.  I always give the same advice:  be yourself.  The goal of applying to college is for the student to find a good match to her abilities and her life’s goals.  If the student does not reveal herself honestly, she runs the risk of not matching with the best fit institution.   Not all roads lead to Harvard, and that's OK, too.

There is an important role for parents, teachers, and counselors in the college application process.  There are many practical and financial considerations in choosing a school.  Brainstorming, pitching ideas, and proof-reading are all critical to producing a well-considered application.  And it is important to be supportive about a wide range of great schools, no matter where the application leads.   But the process, like its consequences, should be owned by the student.