This is Paradise

If you’ve been to LaGuardia Airport in roughly the last 40 years, odds are you’ve seen John DiCicco.

Mr. DiCicco has been shining shoes for a full 4 ½ decades. He has four stands located at four different terminals in the airport. Before him, the business belonged to his father, John Joseph DiCicco, and before that to his grandfather, John Joseph DiCicco.

“I’m a third,” he told me, applying black polish to my beat up shoes as I sat in his chair in the American Airlines terminal. “My grandfather, when he got off the boat from Italy, he lived downtown in Little Italy. He cleaned shoes on the Staten Island Ferry, so this business now is 105.”

Mr. John Joseph DiCicco III

The DiCiccos have been at LaGuardia 68 years. In 1947, the year his grandfather moved the business to the airport, he moved his own family from Mulberry Street in Little Italy to Flushing. By 1960, the elder DiCicco and his wife had 32 grandchildren within 10 blocks of their house – 17 boys and 15 girls.

According to Mr. DiCicco, his family has the oldest small business in any airport on the planet. I’m not inclined to disagree with him.

“We go in the Guinness Book soon…which is really cool,” he tells me, glancing up from his work as a parade of passengers hurry past his stand. “And no matter what airport you go to in this country, this is the least expensive that you’ll ever see.  This place is paradise.”

Apparently “paradise” was not good enough for his cousins, though. In fact, they considered the work of shining shoes as, well, beneath them.

“My cousins never wanted this business,” Mr. DiCicco explained. “They were embarrassed. They thought it was not the proper thing to do. I found out why – because in the 40s, 50s and 60s, grandpa’s stands were in the men’s room. My first day, they were taken out of the men’s room in 1970. Next Wednesday, I’m working here 46 years.”

He continued: “When they took the stands out of the men’s room, I said ‘Thank you, God.’ I knew this place…I didn’t want to work in there, but that’s where all the men were. My cousins still never came back and I worked through high school. In the 46 years I’m here, I’ve met a million nice people and only 50 idiots in my life. This place is paradise.”

Paradise. He said it again. You might think to yourself, “Ah, he’s just kidding” or perhaps painting a rosy picture. But when you talk to him – when you hear his enthusiasm, the genuine optimism in his voice, you quickly realize he’s not kidding around. He’s totally serious.

Apparently, the price for shining a shoe in paradise is $3. You have to stop and remind yourself this is New York, after all. What is still $3? I know for a fact that a packet of peanut M&Ms at the gift shop some 50 feet from his stand costs about the same.

But because Mr. DiCicco’s rent to the New York Port Authority is grandfathered in, it hasn’t increased since 1990. In those 25 years, he’s kept his price the same. Three bucks. The Port Authority wanted to throw him out and usher in a company that would charge $10 (and justify higher rent for them), but Mr. DiCicco, no doubt channeling the resolve of his father and grandfather, refused to go.

“I told the Port that this is only 4 minutes of work. It’s not a beauty parlor,” he told me. “I can’t justify more money because I can’t justify more time. How much could you actually do to the shoe? You clean them, protect them and move on.”

He proudly explains that former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani came to his defense in his battle with the Port. He credits Mr. Giuliani for why he’s still in business.

I’d say there are other reasons as well, though. You’re likely never going to meet a more genuinely pleasant guy. Mr. DiCicco has a charm, a quite confidence and good sense of humor. As business men walk past, Mr. DiCicco calls out to them in a slightly sarcastic voice, saying, “See, look. No one cares about their shoes anymore.” Or perhaps, as he said to me,  he will suggest, “Your shoes need me more than I need them.”  People smile, as I did. He smiles back.

Amidst the frenetic movement of passengers, rolling bags in tow, smart phones in hand, rushing to catch their flights or striding purposefully for an exit to grab a taxi, the one thing that is not moving is Mr. DiCicco and his business. I expect that will be true for many years to come.

For the record: On Wednesday of this week, May 27, John turned 60 years old. Happy birthday, John. 

When Jazz is Alive (not dead)

One early winter Sunday morning when I was a kid, my father, sporting a slightly crazy look on his face and carrying an overstuffed canvas bank bag, walked through the front door of our home.

He was wearing his trademark blue parka with a bright orange lining and fake fur collar. As he closed the door behind him and stomped the snow off his boots, a rush of cold air rolled across the blue shag living room carpet where I sat, watching him curiously, as he pulled several large stacks of bills from the bag, threw them wildly into the air and yelled with a exuberant smile, “It’s time to play ‘Pick up money!’”

My father owned a jazz nightclub on Rush Street in Chicago in the 1970s so much of this made sense. Around this time, legendary jazz trumpeter Miles Davis is rumored to have declared jazz was dead, but to my father it had actually given him a new life.

At the age of 30, Robert E. Hackett, Sr. ditched his 9-year career selling insurance, got a loan and bought The Backroom for $20,000 from a man named Goodie Singh. For the better part of the decade, he managed to support his wife and three children on cash from cover charges, two-drink minimums and last calls  from customers who frequented the tiny club six nights a week, often until the 5 a.m. close.

The Backroom drew musicians like Eddie Higgins, Monty Alexander, Ramsey Lewis, Judy Roberts, Eldee Young, Red Holt, Kim Martell, Shelly Torres and others.  I know he loved it because I talked to him about it years later. He loved being the boss. He loved the music and the night-life scene, where judges, crooks, celebrities (some local, some national) and average Joes sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar.

He said it was like throwing a party every night. Being called “boss” gave him the feeling of respect that he longed for and also – as I look back – a chance to re-live his 20s that he missed being a young husband and then father of three boys starting at the age of 21.

 My father died in July 2011 at the age of 68. It was unexpected to all of us, but I don’t think to him. He was sick – cancer in both of his lungs. Knowing him, the stubborn lifelong smoker, he very likely just didn’t want to tell anyone so he could go out on his own terms. That’s just how he was. He loathed hospitals, having lost his wife (my mother) to cancer 24 years earlier.

The crappy thing for all of us certainly was not being able to say goodbye, thank you or anything for that matter. And in the four years I’ve spent reflecting on how I feel about this, I’ve thought about a lot of things, but I’ve also found myself listening to more and more jazz.

My favorite right now is Bill Evans, widely considered one of jazz’s most influential piano players. He played on 5 of the 6 tracks of Miles Davis’ landmark “Kind of Blue” album in 1958. He broke from Davis a year later, and in 1961, The Bill Evans Trio – featuring bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian – recorded “Sunday at the Village Vanguard,” which is routinely ranked as one of the best live jazz recordings of all time.  

The Bill Evans Trio at the Village Vanguard - 1961

Last week, I was in New York for work and decided somewhat spontaneously to hop a cab from Midtown to Greenwich Village and catch a late set at the Vanguard.  From what I can tell from old pictures, the dank basement space of the Vanguard, which is celebrating its 80^th anniversary this year, does not look like it’s changed much over the years.

As I nursed my drink and listened to the 75-minute set, I thought of the great artists who have played on the tiny stage – Thelonius Monk, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Stan Getz and, of course, Bill Evans. Pictures of many of these artists are on the walls. As I stood to leave, I saw a picture of Evans high up on the wall and snapped a picture.

1970 photo of Evans on the wall of the Village Vanguard

After I paid cash for my $13 drink and $30 cover charge, I walked up the narrow stairway leading to Seventh Avenue South and found myself thinking of that Sunday when my father showered our living room with nightclub money and how my brother and I grabbed at the fluttering bills at first, then dropped to our hands and knees to frantically collect them all.

I found myself as well thinking of Bill Evans leaving this very building on the night of June 25, 1961. He and his bass player, Scott LaFaro probably said a reasonably mundane goodbye, likely shaking hands as they went their separate ways, not knowing that they would never see each other again.  

LaFaro, a brilliant 25-year-old musician who Evans had grown close to, was killed 10 days later in a car crash. “Sunday at the Village Vanguard” captured their final performance together. Evans was devastated. He did not record or perform again in public for many months. As I stood on the street, looking up at the red neon “Vanguard” sign, I knew how Evans must have felt. He was crushed. He had no idea it was coming. And he never got to say goodbye.

Crowd outside the Village Vanguard

If I’m honest, I know my decision to listen to jazz that night was not exactly spontaneous. I know it was and continues to be my way of conjuring up the past. For me, hearing the beauty of the music is my way of breathing life into my father’s memory.

I like to picture his stout frame behind the bar of The Backroom. Jazz music would be reverberating off the brick walls of the cramped room. He’d no doubt be smoking and more than likely having a drink…or two. And he’d certainly be proud to be the boss, keeping track through the night as the till rang – dollar after dollar – filling that canvas bank bag with bills to bring home to his family.

A Blast from the Past

I am getting dressed in the locker room of the gym after my workout. It’s 6 a.m. I’m leaving and a guy next to me has just arrived and is pulling his workout gear out of his bag. All is quiet and sufficiently mundane. Then, he farts.

It’s not a weak, wispy fart, mind you. This is the real deal – a robust, stereophonic, authoritative, almost bellicose fart. It’s equal parts duck snort, a heavy cotton sheet tearing in two and that moist, chaotic reverberation that the last squeeze on a nearly empty plastic ketchup bottle gives up without fail.

I’m standing, pulling on my pants. He’s sitting down, dressed only in his boxer briefs and white socks, wrestling his microfiber t-shirt overhead when his blast rattles and ricochets off the wooden bench, snapping my otherwise drowsy head into rapt attention.

No one else is around. It’s just us. I look over at him. He does absolutely nothing – just keeps getting dressed, sliding on his shirt, shorts and begins lacing up his Nikes. No acknowledgement of me or of the fart. It’s as if nothing happened at all.

A Two-Part Dilemma

So, as I dress, I now have a dilemma – the first of my young day, which until this point has been decidedly routine. This is not a simple dilemma either. It’s a two-part dilemma.

First – do I call out the elephant in the room – or more accurately the elephant fart in the room? Should I acknowledge this profound act of flatulence, or should I just let it slide – write it off as just something men do occasionally in a locker room without any acknowledgement, let alone discussion?

The second part of my dilemma is trickier. I know this guy – the farter. Yet by his passive disregard of me, it appears he’s entirely forgotten who I am. We’ve met before – in fact, multiple times. Let me explain.

His name is Larry. We went to the same high school together – a Jesuit, all-boys school. He was 3 years older than me and served as one of two student aides in my freshman theology class. Mr. Joyce was our teacher, a man of slight stature and a  calming yoga-instructor voice who had impeccably combed wavy brown hair and an impressive array of brightly colored sweaters that he wore regardless of the temperature or season.

I was impressionable then, I guess. Prior to the locker room blast, Larry burned a spot in my cerebral cortex that stores my long-term memory. I, on the other hand, apparently did no such thing to him. I know this because a few years earlier I saw him standing by the coffee lady at the commuter rail station. I shook his hand, introduced myself and reminded him of high school, Mr. Joyce and our mutual theology class. His response was a foggy, polite and a quite perfunctory, “Oh, right…” as he weakly shook my outstretched hand.

While I was nonplussed, I figured, “Well, whatever.” It was 30 years ago. He’s a lawyer now, I learned, during our short chat. I cut him some slack. He’s been busy, plus lawyers need to remember a lot of stuff. We parted ways at the train station that day, yet here we were again, both half-naked in a locker room at 6 a.m. and seated a mere four feet away from me, he unleashes the mother of all farts, then proceeds to pretend it didn’t happen, leaving me with the dilemma I’ve just described.

"Did You Say Something?"

Seconds after Larry’s fart, I felt compelled to speak. Somehow the first response that came into my head was Shrek’s simple but profound, “Better out than in, I always say.”  But I kept quiet.

Then I thought of saying, “Sorry….did you say something?” I held off, though.

I then considered saying, “That’s my point exactly!” but I backed off because it seemed out of place and somehow rude.

Larry was a slow dresser. This afforded me some time to think things over, actually. He was in no hurry. Fortunately for both of us, this atomic gastrointestinal event was curiously odorless. Had it not been, I suspect it would have hastened both of our departures.

As the awkward silence continued, I came to realize quickly that Larry could care less – not just about the fart, but about me. There was no, “Excuse me,” or “Sorry, those Brussels sprouts get me every time” He didn’t come out with even a slightly boastful claim of, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”  Nothing.

Any of these phrases would have been fine, but he was like a Trappist monk seemingly reflecting in his own mini mental monastery, focusing exclusively now on making the most perfect knot possible in his white shoelace.

My desire to interject faded. I realized that if I were I to speak, I’d need to remind him of our common past. I’d have to mention high school and then the train station. It seemed like a long, burdensome conversation, one entirely not worth having. So, I left.

It’s just as well. I’d heard enough. I needed to start my day. I had no desire to dredge up the past – at least with an unrepentant, flatulent attorney with an aloof demeanor and a sketchy memory to boot.

#LearningFromMistakes

I admit it. I might have jumped the gun calling for ESPN to fire reporter Britt McHenry.

The month-long drumbeat of Tweets calling for #firebrittmchenry has been strong and steady. To her detractors, glamorous blonde Britt has become the most hated reporter on TV, the consummate mean girl and the embodiment of snobbery.

I jumped into the fray with:  

Quick background: 28-year old Washington D.C.-based McHenry had her car towed. In retrieving it, she was spitting mad and unleashed a tirade of judgmental, caustic, insulting remarks at the female tow company employee. She basically told the lady she was fat, stupid and ugly and characterized herself as the brainy girl with looks and skills who has made it to the big time on TV.

McHenry’s tongue-lashing was recorded by the company (Advanced Towing) and, by the magic of our smart phone, social media world, the one-minute security cam footage was posted on April 16 and quickly went viral.

The story soon hit CNN and other major news outlets. McHenry Tweeted an apology. ESPN suspended her for a week, and she then resurfaced asking for people (via Twitter) to “give me a second chance to prove to you how much I value integrity, character and treating people with respect.”

Britt had a bad day. Her life blew up big time. But I’ve been doing some thinking around two things:

1.  People deserve second chances (because they can learn from their mistakes)
2.   We all have a chance to learn a great deal from other people’s mistakes

Second Chances

We are a country of second chances. Nothing makes that case better than the late Marion Barry.  Barry, as you’ll recall, served as Washington D.C.’s mayor in the 1980s. In 1990, he was videotaped smoking crack cocaine, arrested by the FBI and eventually put in jail for 6 months. After he got out in 1992, Barry was elected to the Council of the District of Columbia running on the slogan, "He May Not Be Perfect, But He's Perfect for D.C." Clever and it worked. In 1994, he was elected mayor again and served in that role until 1999.

I could make a pretty good case that the crimes of Britt McHenry don’t rise to the level of Marion Barry’s. So, on that basis alone, I’d say she’s worthy of a second chance.  If I’m honest with myself, I can say I’ve had some less than stellar moments. I can recall an event from my past in which I lost my temper a bit and had a few choice words for someone who I thought treated me unfairly.

When I was in my 20s, I was a reporter working with the now defunct City News Bureau of Chicago as a crime reporter. One night, my car was towed by “Lincoln Towing,” notorious on the city’s north side for its aggressive practices. I was pissed. It cost me over $200 to reclaim my 1983 Buick Regal, and I’m pretty sure I let the tow employee have it with a few choice words through the foot-thick dirty Plexi-glass window while I signed the credit card receipt and he dropped my car keys down into the dingy, dented metal tray.

It wasn’t my best moment. I was worked up. No video of the incident exists that I’m aware of (granted it was the late 1980s), but if one was taken and it made its way with the speed of light to my boss, my family, my friends and the general public, I am sure I’d have been equally contrite and embarrassed, wanting people to cut me some slack and give me a do-over.

Learning from Britt

When you listen to the video and consider McHenry’s statements, it’s hard to have much empathy for her.  She said a lot of bad things. Here’s a quick sprint through her quotes.

•  “I’m in the news, sweetheart.”
• “I will f#*&ing sue this place.”
• “That’s why I have a degree and you don’t.”
• “I wouldn’t work in a scumbag place like this.”
• “Makes my skin crawl even being here.”
• “Yep, that’s all you care about is just taking people’s money. With no education, no skill set, just wanted to clarify that.”
• “Do you feel good about your job?
• “So I can be a college dropout and do the same thing?”
• “Why? Because I have a brain? And you don’t?”
• “Maybe if I was missing some teeth they would hire me, huh?”
• “ ‘Cause they [the employee’s teeth] look so stunning … ‘Cause I’m on television and you’re in a f&*%ing trailer, honey.”
• “Lose some weight, baby girl.”

So, if we’re going to extract a few lessons learned here and move on, what can we agree are the salient points? I’d offer the following:

1.  Elitism – Don’t ever think you’re better than someone else because of education or because, in your view, you have a better job. Worry about yourself.  Avoid being condescending and disrespectful to other people. It almost always results in making you look bad. 
2. Classism – Don’t insult what someone does for a living. People make snap judgments too often without knowing any facts.  A lot of circumstances combine to lead to what someone does to get by in the world. If you’ve accomplished something in your life, be humble, grateful and proud, but don’t define yourself or elevate your image by stepping on someone else’s head whom you feel is inferior. That just sucks. 
3. The Ugly Truth – Our society puts entirely too much value on physical beauty and appearance. Criticizing someone’s weight or missing teeth, for example, says more about your own insecurity and distorted sense of what’s important than it does about the other person. As writer and poet Dorothy Parker once said, “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes right to the bone.”

The reaction against Britt McHenry has been intense. But I think more than hating her, people really hate what her comments represent. They speak to being entitled, classist, judgmental and self-focused. These kinds of topics get reactions - big time. 

Now, full disclosure, my prior Tweets on this matter have led to @BrittMcHenry blocking me. I get that. If you’re trying to rebound and patch things up, you don’t want to hear the haters. But to her, to ESPN and those still rallying for her termination, I’d suggest the following are worth considering:

• #ForgiveBritt
• #LearnFromMistakes

Or in her own words:

• #IntegrityCharacterRespect

What Makes a Great Teacher?

 In 2013, Ayad Akhtar won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama for his play “Disgraced.” When he was asked during an interview about his play and his other writing, Akhtar, a 44-year-old New Yorker, said, “I’d had a wonderful high school teacher who made me want to be a writer. Everything I do is an homage to her.”

When I heard him say this, a series of images in passed through my head about what his teacher must have been like, how she ran her class, what she must have felt like when she learned her student won the Pulitzer Prize. Through these images, though, I found myself staring at the face of my 7^th grade teacher at Springman Junior High School – Mrs. Stephan.

She was a kind, matronly woman who kept wadded up tissues in the sleeve of her sweater. Her reddish brown hair sat like a beehive on the top of her head. She had a pleasant, understated smile, unusually warm hands and she smelled like the fragrant soap balls my grandparents kept in a seashell dish in their master bedroom.

Ayad Akhtar - (Photo by Nina Subin)

I thought of how through her quiet confidence in me she managed to fill me with more energy and enthusiasm than I thought possible. Granted, I was only 12, my voice cracked with startling regularity. I had not quite discovered deodorant, had persistent acne and was stumbling awkwardly into my early teenage years.

This started me thinking about great teachers. Truthfully, I actually think of this subject often. But let’s just say this comment from Akhtar and my mental tumble back in time to Mrs. Stephan's classroom prompted me again to ask myself the question, “What makes a great teacher?”

Like you, I have my opinions, but I was curious what others thought. To get answers, I posted this question to a few discussion groups on Linked In. It’s a great place, Linked In – full of thoughtful, well-spoken people, I’ve found. I asked the educators, “What qualities make a great teacher?”

I received many replies. Here are a few that I thought hit the mark.

• Professional trainer Jason Sturges of Alexandria, Virginia wrote that great teachers “focus on the participant needs (versus) just getting through the content.”

•  It’s a simple thing, but he’s totally right. How many instructors have you had that seem bent on plowing through the content come hell or high water? I have had more than a few. Great teachers focus on what the students need first. 

• Ann Adler, a learning designer and facilitator from Cumbria, England wrote several things that I loved. She noted that great teachers “understand what it means to be a learner and how to develop learning capability in those they teach”. She also stated that great teachers “draw out, rather than pour in, learning.” 

• I agree completely. You can’t forget what it is to learn and expect to be a great teacher. We can all tell when teachers have lost the desire to learn. They become jaded, lecture and frankly dial it in. Old-school lecturers attempt to generically dump information into our head – with alarming inefficiency.  Great teachers, in contrast, draw out – they draw us out, draw out our energy, our curiosity, our capabilities. 

• Dr. Martin Carnap, a longtime educator and coach in Costa Rica, wrote that you can best define great teachers by focusing on their students. Do the students take initiative during class? Do they make decisions? Do they feel the importance of what they’re doing? Do they look for alternative points of view and modify ideas, focus and strategies? If so, he wrote, you have a great teacher. 

• Well said, Martin. All I can add is that to great teachers, it’s truly all about the students and less about the teachers. Their own ego fades into the background. I wish more of the teachers I had (and continue to have) subscribed to this idea, don’t you?

• Kathy Miller, head of the English Department at Coulsdon Sixth Form College in the UK had many great thoughts, but the two I liked the best were: (1) Be open to and ask for feedback from your students and (2) Love the students- care about them- there are many ways to demonstrate this.

• What can beat this? Teachers, first off, should never stop learning, so feedback is a must no matter how many years they’ve been in the classroom.  In my view, someone who is not open to feedback likely has a distorted sense of his or her own effectiveness or is afraid to hear what he or she already expects or knows.

• Second – we all realize when someone cares about us and when that person does not.  If a teacher cares, you know it right away and you’re very likely to care more about learning. It’s like my friend Tammy Berman told me recently, “Kids won’t care what you know until they know that you care.” I would only add that in addition to kids, we can include adults as well.   

So, was Ayad Akhtar’s teacher all of these things? My bet, quite honestly, is yes. Did she focus on his needs? Did she act as a learner, draw out instead of pour in? Was her ego in check and did she love and care for him as a student?

I would say absolutely. If she hadn’t, would he still have been a writer? Would he have won the Pulitzer Prize? It’s impossible to say, but it’s a question worth considering as we think about the power teachers have and the influence they can have in people’s lives and their importance to the broader success of our society.

Mother's Day 1987

Exactly twenty-eight years ago today was Mother’s Day, and I saw my mother for last time. She died 5 days later, on May 15, 1987, after a painful 19-month battle with an aggressive form of cancer. She was 43 years old. I was 21.

I don’t need Mother’s Day to arrive to think of her. That’s a daily occurrence. For years, though, Mother’s Day and the passing of the anniversary of her death have been both grueling and inevitable – an annual return to the raw, unwelcome emotions of the past. 

This year the calendar lined up just so that the same dates from 1987 happened again – all these years later. Sunday May 10 – Mother’s Day. Friday May 15 – Death.  I am sure this timing has happened before. Maybe for some reason this year I just noticed it.

It’s an unfortunate association – Mother’s Day and death. Unfortunate and ironic certainly because perhaps nothing in many of our lives says “life,” “love,” “gratitude,” “happiness” and a plethora of other positive things than mothers and motherhood.

For me, though, this so often has not been the case. I’ll be honest – I’ve struggled. It’s funny how memory works, too. You can try not to think of something, and a memory will rush in on you. Smell does this for me, specifically the smell of blossoms on the trees every spring. That wonderful smell is inextricably linked to my mother and Mother’s Day 1987.

Tree Blossoms

That Sunday was a beautiful spring day. It was quite warm, and a breeze was sending the fragrant scent of the newly blossomed trees through the air. Our entire family was gathered on the 2^nd floor of my grandparents’ home in Golf, Illinois – in a room that used to be my mother’s bedroom when she was a teenager. The windows were open, letting in the breeze. The heavy smell of blossoms poured in around the 30 or so of us in that room like a cloud of incense.

May 10, 1987 - Mother's Day

We held two baptisms that day – for my brother’s daughter (my mom’s first grandchild) and for a newly arrived nephew. After this, the priest from our local parish administered last rights – or as us Catholics call it, The Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick.  Whatever we called it, we knew it was a crushing sign of her inevitable death. She was on morphine. Her organs were shutting down. She was dying.

I was brought back to this moment recently on a walk home from my daughters' elementary school. It was a beautiful morning – warm, sunny – just like that Mother’s Day 1987. As I left the playground after the 9 a.m. bell, another parent introduced me to her mother who was visiting from out of town. We shook hands cordially, and after exchanging a few words I began my short walk home.

I walked along the sidewalk under a canopy of trees – all just blossomed. Like a blow to the head, the weight of the beautiful fragrance overwhelmed me. I literally stopped and stood paralyzed – sobbing, more tears rolling off my cheeks that I can ever recall. It was the trees and that scent that brought me back to that bedroom on May 10, 1987. But it was also the simple realization that introducing my mother to someone – a new friend, another parent, my daughters – was something I’d sorely missed and would never experience again.

Trying to "Move On"

Christmas 1965 - Mom and Me

Grief and loss are topics that bring an entire universe of emotion and discussion. I’ve learned more over the years. But in the three years that followed my mother’s death, my coping mechanism was to run – with reckless abandon. I traveled to the Pacific Northwest, to Canada, then to Australia where I hitchhiked the entire perimeter of the country. I meandered through Asia, hiked to the Annapurna Sanctuary in Nepal and spent time trolling through the Philippines.

My plan was plain and uncomplicated: I did anything I could to distance myself from any shred of familiarity that would force me to confront the pain I felt at losing my mother.

Fortunately, something wonderful happened – several things, in fact. I married a wonderful woman, and in 2006 and again in 2008 we became parents through the adoption of our two daughters. Our lives have changed – like all people’s do when they enter parenthood. For me, Mother’s Day has changed too. It’s joyful again. We have new traditions: a lazy morning, flowers, cards, possibly a brunch. It’s a day of smiles and optimism.

Nothing ever changes the past, of course. There’s no replacing a lost mother. The pain sits beneath the surface of my skin every single day. I don’t expect that will end. But what I’ve learned in a very tangible way is the truth about being present in my life.

The Time to Be Happy

Being conscious of loss – and how people we love most in the world can and will leave us, quite often before we want them to – has made me better at focusing on and being present with those I love. Amidst the numerous other distractions in my life, I try (and do struggle at times) to focus on what’s most important, which is the people that I love.

Loss has also made me strive to live by a phrase that my mother used often. She would write it in cards that she gave us. She had a thing for cards, my mom. Her writing desk was filled with them – thank you notes, birthday cards,  envelopes, pens of all colors, stickers and stamps. She was famous for her notes of appreciation and, quite often, inspiration.

She wrote to my 2 brothers and I, “The time to be happy is now.” It’s absurdly simple, but poignant for me, particularly as I approach 50 years old. So often we say to ourselves that happiness is coming. It’s down the road a bit or just around the next corner – when we pay off the house or take that special vacation. That's when we'll be happy.

It’s just not true. Happiness is not a destination. It’s an attitude we adopt. Sitting here 28 years from the last day that I saw my mother fills me with sadness still – no question. But sitting down at the desk where she wrote all of her notes to now write down these thoughts, I’m smiling.

Thanksgiving Dinner 1985

I am looking at a picture of her and me from Thanksgiving 1985, a few months after she got sick.  I’m smiling at this picture of us, thankful for her life and the 21 years I had with her. I’m grateful for the many gifts that she gave me, particularly in telling me repeatedly that the time to be happy is now.

She’s right. I’d give a million dollars to tell her this in person today – to tell her that I get it now. But since that’s not an option, I’ll choose to pass it along to you – hoping that your day has been happy like mine and that days after today are filled with as much joy as you can possibly create.

Thinking Outside the P.O. Box

About a year ago, the U.S. Post Office reported that it lost$1.9 billion in the second quarter. Like you, my first reaction was, “Really? Are you kidding me? How is that even possible?”

Apparently it’s true – and therefore quite possible. But it’s hard for me to comprehend such a thing. That's crazy. I’m a guy who gets upset when I incur a $2 fine at the library. I tend to think small when it comes to finances, so it’s hard for me to wrap my brain around such big budgets and staggering losses.  It’s also hard not to be perturbed when I consider taxpayers fund the Postal Service.

However, despite being equal parts aghast and outraged, I’m going to take the high road here. Sure, the more obvious play would be to unleash a rant of how the Postal Service is a dinosaur – how it’s inefficient, poorly managed and hemorrhaging cash like many other government entities (i.e. states and the federal government itself) because they have not yet truly grasped the weighty concept of how spending more money than you take in over time will get you in trouble.

I know, these things take time to understand. No rush. 

I am thinking perhaps a little creativity here might be just the ticket to help out the U.S. Postal Service. You know, a little brainstorming. There has to be some way to bring in some extra cash.  Apparently, they really need it given that in total they owe about $100 billion in benefit payments to current and retired workers. Apparently a sizable chunk of this money that it owes is congressionally mandated by laws drafted and passed by our sage elected officials.

So, I’ve come up with a few ideas that may have some financial promise.  Maybe others can think of some ideas as well. Before you know it, we can get that red ink on the balance sheet to dry up.

Here goes.

1. Mail Truck Ads – This seems like a no-brainer, right? Plaster the Postal Service trucks with ads. Cities already do it with buses and trains to bring in cash. The possibilities are endless, and those trucks are all over the place. Picture ads for Dr. Scholl’s insoles, sun-block, sunglasses, weather-related apparel. It could rake in millions.
2. Throw-Back Uniforms – Take a tip from the National Football League and Major League Baseball and start issuing “throw back” uniforms. MLB and the NFL are printing money with all the different jerseys, caps and other merchandise they sell, so why not try it with postal uniforms? I’ll grant you, letter carriers don’t have the same status in our society as star athletes, but it’s all in the marketing. Who wouldn’t want a sweet pair of 1980s era postal shorts? Stylish, comfortable, durable. 
3. Postal Premium Service – When I travel for work or if our whole family is gone on vacation,  like many of you, I worry about my house. Will someone rob it? Will it flood? If only there were some trusted person who could check on it and send me a text to tell me all is OK. Wait! What about a postal employee? They’re at my house 6 days a week. What if the Postal Service set up some premium service -- say for $9.99 a month – and did a quick residence check for me?  Who needs ADT and these silly alarm companies that really don’t do much of anything anyways? Bang – millions of dollars.
4. Elderly Visits – So, let's keep going with this. Consider that by 2030 there will be upwards of 70 million people in the US over the age of 65. These seniors get lonely. Plus they have needs. I’m not talking about a social work project here, but how long can it take to drop in and say hi? Boost their spirits? The Postal Service can just roll this into the monthly premium service. Heck, if these seniors are living on Social Security, then the taxpayer funds flow from the Social Security Administration right over into the Postal Service coffers. This assumes, of course, that the SSA is not bankrupt by 2030. That might be a big assumption, I realize. 
5. Music Video – This might seem outlandish, but think about the 1985 Chicago Bears and their Super Bowl Shuffle. They Bears crank out a zany song, "dance" a bit and it hits No. 41 on the Billboard Charts and is nominated for a Grammy (best rhythm and blues performance by a duo or group). I'm thinking, have postal workers create the “Postal Shuffle.” There have to be many talented singers and dancers among our nation’s 300,000 letter carriers. Think of the positive marketing potential. The video goes viral. They sell ads, plus they could take the act on the road -- sort of a goodwill tour. 

                Plus, I’m thinking they could build on the Bear’s lyrics, but go with something like:

“We know that we’re in financial trouble

So we’re digging out doing the Postal Shuffle”

Who knows, maybe this last one is far-fetched. They might hit a copyright infringement too. But, still, it’s an idea.  

What ideas do you have? Let’s think outside the P.O. Box and help them shore up their finances.

The Perils of "Live" Learning

Recently I was staring at my computer screen waiting for a live interview to begin. It was 1 p.m. and the interview was with Salman Khan, the founder of Khan Academy.

I was intrigued about this interview for two reasons. The first reason:  I’m a big fan. Khan, the 38-year-old founder of Khan Academy, is a pioneer and many regard him as a leading thinker in education. I read his 2012 book, “The One World School House” and found it inspiring. I was interested in what he was going to say during this one-hour interview.

The second reason I was intrigued was that the interview was live. I found this, well, ironic. Dating back to 2003, Khan has recorded over 5,000 videos and created exercises on a wide range of topics that are all delivered via YouTube for people to consume wherever and whenever they want. Time and place are not a factor – which is a big part of what’s made his approach to learning so revolutionary and effective. So, the idea of a “live interview” with Khan seemed not only odd, but also kind of unnecessary.

 KZO Innovation's "live" interview with Sal Khan

1:08 p.m. Still nothing. I’m wolfing down a plate of mini-carrots and hummus because I skipped lunch to fit in a conference call. Now I’m staring at a screen of old fashion TV color bars and the words on the screen read, “offline.” That’s it.

I grumble, still amused by the irony at hand. I instant message a colleague of mine in Texas to make sure I don’t have the wrong link. He quickly confirms he’s staring at nothing as well. We’re both waiting and we aren't alone. The Twitter feed embedded into this interview launch screen is popping with Tweets – questions like, “What’s happening?” “Is there a problem?” “Does anyone hear anything?” All very logical questions.

Biting into a mini carrot, I wonder how they heck they make these carrots so small. Do they pull them out of the dirt early or do they cut them up and shave them down? I honestly don’t know. I also wonder what it must be like at K-ZO Innovations, the Reston, Virginia company running this live – yet to be aired – event.  They must be totally freaking out.  Almost 10 minutes in and it’s complete crickets.   Finally, K-ZO, a technology company that delivers video via the web, sends an e-mail stating that they are having technical difficulties and that the event will begin  “shortly.”

I'm annoyed, but decide to stick it out. After all, it’s Sal Khan – king of the recorded lesson, the guy who has over 15 million students watch his videos and take over 4 million lessons every single day. It’s a compelling model not simply because of the convenience of learning at your own time, but also your level and your own pace.

I think of how teachers in live classrooms struggle to meet the needs to students on the high ability end and the low ability end at the same time. With 25-30 kids, it’s hard to reach them all. But through his videos, lessons, feedback and tracking, Khan's system does this really well.

There is also no stigma for students of asking the teacher to repeat something because they don’t "get it." It’s a video. They can rewind and watch again. They take the lesson again until they get it right. They spend as much time as they want and then move onto another lesson that follows or select a different one that intrigues them.

What they do on Khan Academy is done on their own time, outside of school – and in their own language.  Khan’s approach has been proven to boost student performance – both when it's used in a school setting and outside of school.

Oh, one additional thing. It's all free.

1:10 p.m. Scraping the last hummus from my plate with a nub of baby carrot, I chuckle at the Tweet by learning luminary Allison Rossett as she replies, “What exactly do they mean by ‘Soon?”  We all wait until finally, K-ZO Innovations lets us all know they are pulling the plug on “live” and will send out a recording in a few hours.

It was as it should be. Much more convenient. Whatever happened was a colossal collapse and quite embarrassing for a company that delivers video via the web. To K-ZO's credit, though, they were humble, contrite and quickly churned out a white paper detailing the event, calling it, "When Live Goes Wrong." I will say, I really like their approach using video for learning, by the way. Very smart design. These guys appear to have something compelling.

As I was watching the recorded interview of Khan, of course I was impressed with him. Video is powerful. It's can work on the job and in schools. Hearing him talk, my mind kept going back to a recent meeting I attended at my daughters’ elementary school. The district’s superintendent, on the job less than a year, had just finished talking to about 30 parents in the school’s library about the painful $2.2 million in cuts they were planning for next year.

Salary costs are rising along with transportation costs and other operating expenses. Meanwhile, revenues are not keeping pace. Unless something changes, the deficit in our relatively small 17-school district will climb to nearly $9 million in 4 years. This was not happy news to me, a parent of a 9 and 6-year-old.

A parent seated behind me asked the superintendent: “How does the district plan to use technology?” The superintendent, who is a bright, caring guy doing a very good job thus far,  provided a “we’re open to ideas…” answer. I thought of Khan, his 5,000 videos, lessons and quizzes and scribbled in my notebook, “Send link to recorded "live" interview to superintendent.”

Clearly a future in which our education system more fully embraces technology needs to come sooner rather than later. Thoughtful, integrated, well-executed technology has stopped being a “nice to have” in schools. Universities have gotten the message – at least some have. Businesses have known this for a long time.

Even at the elementary level, a blended-learning approach, combining technology with live classroom instruction – needs to start being simply how children today learn.