Legacy


It’s been 67 years since my paternal grandparents posed for this wedding photo. When I sit for mine, I won’t be as young as they were and I doubt I’ll be serving in the military. But I hope I’ll express their energy and integrity — I hope to this day I have, and will continue to do so, regardless of nuptials. What an honor that would be, and what a blessing to have benefited from my grandparents’ (and parents’) examples.

My father, their proud son, wrote the following biography for the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center in Skokie (the city in which all four of my grandparents resided for decades, and my parents went to high school):

Eleanor Harris of Chicago, IL, enlisted in the Marines with her best friend, Mary Arkes, in 1943, when they were both 19 years old. Eleanor left Roosevelt College in Chicago and was sent to Washington, DC, as a Private 1st Class, where she worked in a clerical capacity believed to be in the Department of Maps. Justin Felt enlisted in the Navy in 1942, even though it represented a hardship since he was the sole support of his mother. He was first sent to the University of Minnesota for special courses based upon his initial entrance exam scores. Upon completion, he was assigned, as an Electrician’s Mate 3rd Class, to a secret project in Virginia involving torpedo guidance systems. Eleanor and Justin met in Chicago while both were on leave, the result of a blind-date “fix-up” from a mutual friend. They continued to correspond by mail and met when they could since both were stationed on the East Coast. They married in July 1945, while both were still in the service, just before both were returned to civilian status. Eleanor became an elementary school teacher and Justin returned to his position in the composing room of the Chicago Sun (later to become the Sun-Times). They were married for 45 years until their passing 5 months apart in 1990. They are survived by 2 sons, Richard and Robert, 3 grandchildren, and 2 great-grandchildren to date.

I remember the day my grandpa died. It was the first time I’d seen my father cry. This is what Dad emailed today to my uncle, brother, sister, and me:

Today was the 22nd anniversary of my father’s (Yosef ben Moshe) passing. I chanted the haftorah and associated prayers in his memory at shabbos services today, and also told a story about him to the congregation. I’m not sure if you ever heard it, but Mom had not, so here it is.

It goes back to the 50’s when dad worked for the Chicago Sun (later to merge with the Daily Times to become the Sun-Times) in the composing room. Television was in its youth then (we got our first, a Motorola floor-cabinet model in 1951), and dad and his printer-friend Jack Vrtjack decided that there could be a bright future in radio/TV repair. They were both very handy and soon became quite proficient (self-taught) in electronic repair. They dreamed of their own business, free from the shackles of corporate employment. But they decided on a trial-run, before they quit their day jobs.

One day, dad got a call from a woman whose set did not work. She turned the ON knob but to no avail. Dad came home from work and drove right to her house in Chicago. She showed him the problem, and he moved to the back of the set while she watched him work. There was high-voltage danger associated with the picture tube, and so the set had to be unplugged from the wall even to remove the back panel. Dad traced the cord to the wall and saw that the plug was already ajar. Before doing anything with the back panel, he pushed the plug all the way into the outlet and retried the set. It worked. That had been the problem.

He put his tools away and informed the lady that the service-call charge was whatever. She refused to pay. She said that apparently there had actually been nothing wrong with the set, and he had only spent 2 minutes or so without having had to “fix” anything. He argued with her for awhile about his travel time, gasoline, etc, but upon realizing just the sort of mind that he was dealing with, he let it go and left without having been paid. Plans for a business based upon dealing with the public were scrapped, and Dad (and Jack) remained at the newspaper, Dad for 45 years.

I learned from Dad via this episode that there are times to dig-in one’s heels, stand firm, and fight. And there are other times when, after appropriate consideration of the issues and the relative merit of a hard line, it is better to disengage and live to fight another day for something really important. This lesson served me well during my years dealing with the public professionally, and in my private life in general as well.

How can I ever express my gratitude for such a rich inheritance?


  • The 90th birthday of Ruth Feldman Marcus + Hanukkah celebrations
  • Auto-dialogue

    “Writing is, of course, Ev’s legacy. He used the process of putting felt tipped pen to paper as a means of threshing out the chaff, of refining his ideas, and, most bluntly, of thinking. Ev Rogers is an exemplar of E. M. Forster’s saying about human learning: “How do I know what I think till I see what I say?” Ev understood better than most of us that we do not know and then commit to write; rather, writing like talking is thinking, process not outcome. Creativity, as Max Weber said and as we know, is about bringing intellect to bear on the persistent and emotional pursuit of an idea until you’ve got it right. That’s how Ev Rogers engaged himself on a daily basis.”
    -Jim Dearing via Arvind Singhal

    I talk to myself. A lot.

    There, I said it. The jig is up! But evidently, this “quirk” of mine isn’t quite as far beyond the pale as I’d originally believed. Perhaps it isn’t even abnormal at all. (The fact that I audio-record my musings… well… now we might be getting into unique territory. But anyway.) The how of it, though, is worth closer examination. So is the why.

    According to the Mayo Clinic, “Self-talk is the endless stream of unspoken thoughts that run through your head every day. These automatic thoughts can be positive or negative.” The ramifications of their valence are serious. These stories we tell ourselves — about the world, notably about ourselves — structure our reality. Whether the world is a kind or mean place, whether effort can lead to change, whether we are good enough — those are difficult phenomena to measure objectively*, especially if they’re subconsciously articulated; mostly, we take these things on faith. And they not only impinge upon our psychic comfort, but they can sink or support our health. Some benefits that positive thinking may provide include:

    Increased life span
    Lower rates of depression
    Lower levels of distress
    Greater resistance to the common cold
    Better psychological and physical well-being
    Reduced risk of death from cardiovascular disease
    Better coping skills during hardships and times of stress

    So how do we talk to ourselves? Gently? Harshly? Fairly? Rationally? In which modes — deliberately or subconsciously; textually (e.g., via journaling), orally (e.g., via narrating), expressively (e.g., via dancing or painting), or behaviorally (e.g., via self-caring or self-harming)?

    For what purpose? Ev Rogers, mentor of my mentor, harnessed auto-dialogue to make sense of inchoate ideas and discover, in a sense, his own mind. Stuart Smalley, now Senator Franken’s (in)famous SNL character, tapped it to get through his day. In the emotion regulation game Dojo‘s current iteration, players are supposed to call upon positive self-talk in order to tolerate: a torrent of invasive questions, an unpredictable cyber handslap, and the temptation to slap back. I wonder whether this forum provides an ideal space for practicing positive self-talk. I wonder whether scenarios in which players must find the bright side in an ambiguous situation, or counter a derogation with an affirmation, might be more apt…

    What happens when we steal the mic, capture the conversation, program our cerebral talkradio DJs to only (or mostly) give voice to our nascent, deep, unique truths… and rhapsodize about our beauty? How will our worlds change? Then how will we change the world?


    *Is there such a thing as objectivity?
    NOTE: This photo was taken in a museum in St. Louis, Senegal, Summer 2010. It reads (according to my imperfect translation skills): “With nothing but your voice/ You can fill the mountain/ and empty the sea,/ you can deliver to the sky/ all the the salt of the sea/ and bring back one great day/ the words of those absent.”

    Numbers

    “A dominant group, controlling the production of knowledge, shapes the construction and distribution of numbers, in order to convey authority and legitimize certain perspectives” (Wilkins, 2008, p. 17).
    “Dating is a numbers game” (conventional wisdom).

    Our country may be terrible at math and lousy when it comes to balancing its checkbook — but boy does it love numbers! Numbers are messianic; numbers are truth. And, in certain circumstances, numbers can be bought and sold to the highest bidder! Step right up, step right up, shape em, bend em, bring em home to your kids. Insignificant details or calls to action — pick your flavor! They can even julienne fries!

    The problem, of course, is there might be no “there” there. Not only do I distrust the methods that produced most numbers, but I distrust the interpretation of their significance. An unpublished manuscript by Dr. Karin Wilkins (2008) urges numerical literacy: “This literacy needs to advance us toward asking the fundamental questions that resist obedient acceptance of numbers as objective truth” (p. 21). A recent (and heavily trafficked) Op-Ed by Paul Krugman declares plainly, “nobody understands debt.”

    In other words, the emperor has no clothes on; and who made him emperor anyway?

    My colleagues and I have been on a literacies quest. We’ve been crusading for the new media literacies, which is related to media literacy and social and emotional literacy; now I think we have to add numerical literacy into the salad bowl (don’t you call it a melting pot!).

    I also might have to launch my own Torpedo of Truth Tour when it comes to dating. Through literature reviews and participant-observation, I can affirm that dating is not merely a “numbers game.” Its sampling frame, communicative modes, discursive material, and experimental activities differ widely according to participants’ narratives or “dating scripts.” Thus, driving up your numbers will never produce the desired outcome if you’re fishing in the wrong pond, or dangling the wrong bait, or misunderstanding the nibble on the line. Considering contextual variables is more demanding to do, and more tongue-twisting to mention, than parroting a pithy formula, but them’s the breaks. Reliable facts rarely make good soundbytes.

    We need to stop valuing mnemonics above reality. The world is gray; accept it. And somebody get that emperor a robe, for crying out loud. It’s getting embarrassing…

    Permeability

    A few ex-pats of the theater have (re)entered my life of late. So have some notoriously hard to shake habits.  The former hasn’t provoked the latter, but it has inspired a theatrical metaphor (and a public timestep or four).

    I’m struggling with boundaries, striving (and lately, failing) to discern the limits between transparency and oversharing, relating and overidentifying, performing my front region role vs. overexposing my backstage sweating (Goffman, 1959). To cast it in terms of the theater, I don’t know how to light my scrim.

    A scrim is a piece of material that boasts the following phenomenal qualities:

    A scrim will appear entirely opaque if everything behind it is unlit and the scrim itself is grazed by light from the sides or from above.

    A scrim will appear transparent if a scene behind it is lit, but there is no light on the scrim.

    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scrim_(material)

    How much do I show? When? To whom? And for whose benefit? Is it selfish to let it all hang out, an irresponsible liberation of self from the burden of exercising judgment? Is it courageous to tell the whole truth, a risk to place faith in both parties involved? Is it generous to surrender the keys to the castle, a magnanimous invitation for the other to feel at ease?

    And what are the consequences of this permeability? How, if at all, does this fickle wall leave me ill protected? Sometimes, you can see right through a scrim, even when a spotlight’s shone on its face. Sometimes, pulling a solid curtain at just the right time is better for all parties involved — respects both privacy and surprise.

    We talked about Les Miserables (Les Mis) last night. I saw the show in 5th grade at the Chicago Auditorium Theater and it changed my life. Truly. We also performed a concert version at Glenbrook South High School and I was cast as one of the narrators… I was so proud. If memory serves, that 1989 production of Les Mis had a scrim. I think that all of the villagers were frozen behind it at the top of the show, during the initial scene where Jean Valjean is graciously abetted by the priest from whom he stole…

    Like me, Jean Valjean also grappled with a moral conundrum. While his problem was more cut-and-dry (steal bread vs. let his family starve), he still paid for his “crime.” Right and wrong isn’t always black and white (is it ever even mostly black and white?); it’s shades of gray. How does his wrong stack up relative to his right? How does mine? And how, like Valjean, will I learn from my transgression and try, in the future, to do right as much as possible? Valjean became a mayor, philanthropist, and adoptive parent, finally dragging Marius through the sewers of Paris to please the lovely Cosette (sorry, Eponine, you’re on your own).

    What will be my penance? My legacy? And how will I maximize the potential of porousness? Theoretically, one of its greatest assets is its capacity to let go. Yet I’m remarkably bad at that, at least as far as personal exculpation is concerned. Let myself off the hook? Not if I can get in two solid days of intestine-knotting first!

    So how do I stop singing the same old song, tapping the same old step? How do I jumpstart my rhythm, become the triple-threat I’ve always dreamed of? And to what extent do I need to consciously critique vs. peacefully accept vs. obliviously overlook?

    I need better walls and better releases. I need to emulate the character of Jean Valjean, avoid the role of Jean Dujardin, and maybe, like Ginger Rogers, do it backwards and in heels…

    P.S. This photo is thematically rather than chronologically appropriate. It was taken by my dear friend Mark in South Africa, 2007.

    Site of struggle

    How can any contemporary woman (especially one with brains and a lamentably slow metabolism) not be struck by the following passage from Susan Bordo’s Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body (courtesy of COMM 395: Gender, Media & Communication)?

    “…women, feminists included, are starving themselves to death in our culture.

    This is not to deny the benefits of diet, exercise, and other forms of body management. Rather, I view our bodies as a site of struggle, resistance to gender domination, not in the service of docility and gender normalization. This work requires, I believe, a determinedly skeptical attitude toward the routes of seeming liberation and pleasure offered by our culture. It also demands an awareness of the often contradictory relations between image and practice, between rhetoric and reality. Popular representations, as we have seen, may forcefully employ the rhetoric and symbolism of empowerment, personal freedom, “having it all.” Yet female bodies, pursuing these ideals, may find themselves as distracted, depressed, and physically ill as female bodies in the nineteenth century were made when pursuing a feminine ideal of dependency, domesticity, and delicacy. The recognition and analysis of such contradictions, and of all the other collusions, subversions, and enticements through which culture enjoins the aid of our bodies in the reproduction of gender, require that we restore a concern for female praxis to its formerly central place in feminist politics” (Bordo, 1993, pp. 183-184).

    Bartky (1998) enumerates these practices: “…those that aim to produce a body of a certain size and general configuration; those that bring forth from this body a specific repertoire of gestures, postures, and movements; and those that are directed toward the display of this body as an ornamented surface” (p. 27).

    Indeed, and it’s as I’ve known for quite a while: The culture might be serving up toxicity, but we’re also feeding it ourselves… and cooking up new creations at home.

    “We.” I just implicated a “we,” Bordo admonished a proactive “we”… which is who? All women? Some shadowy phalanx of feminist scholars and advocates? How do I play a role in that inchoate “we”? Does it begin with the “I”? Or is that too linear and individualistic? Perhaps I can retrain the “I” by participating in the “we” — community, then self…?

    Regardless of the player, what’s the game? What is anyone to do? Are we to recognize these contradictions? Rationalize these contradictions? Strive to eliminate these contradictions by modifying practice? modifying ideals?

    The simple answer is “Yes.”

    I recently came across this Chinese Proverb: “Those who say it cannot be done should get out of the way of those doing it.”

    Who’s doing it, and how? Or is this when Gandhi’s words should be applied? “You must be the change you want to see in the world.”

    The simple answer: Yes.