the More that is Made when we Make

1 Oct

Last summer I witnessed a bit of “History” being made. It was a Friday midmorning in late July, and I was sitting in a windowless room in the back of an East Main Street building. In front of me was a small stage with a table, two chairs, two pairs of corded headphones and two dancers rehearsing “A History”—the newest work from the Bebe Miller Dance Company, which premiered this week at the Wexner Center for the Arts.

I was there to do this brief write-up. I’d already read and talked to some people about this new piece. I knew it drew on the actual history of the dance company, its interpersonal dynamics and its unique process of creating. I knew, too, that it involved a lot of rummaging through recordings, notes, videos, perceptions, memories, movements, connections, gestures, friendships, discoveries and whatever else is or isn’t or is in-between the accumulated life of this long-time creative collaboration. But ask me what any of that really meant or what it might look like…I had nothing. So, I sat in my seat in the third row and watched.

Bebe Miller, company director, choreographer, dancer, professor and—to quote some critics—“visionary,” “translator,” “observer,” “seer,” “eyewitness” and “cartographer of human emotion,” sat just left of the stage with company dramaturge Talvin Wilks. Together, they watched and commented as dancers Angie Hauser and Darrell Jones would move, speak, sit, stand, stretch, laugh, as if, according to Talvin’s direction, they were “listening to all the conversations in a cocktail party and playing all the roles.”

I had been told that for Bebe Miller the getting there is as important as the there, and on that July day, getting there meant returning again and again to the shape of a circle. This was not a symbolic circle, nor a motif repeated in the arrangement of arms, legs and fingers. Rather, with ease and spontaneity, company members would literally and repeatedly circle-up to share, question, explore, joke, chat—to collaborate, but with an engagement, freedom, comfort and openness that was striking.

“Something happened there. What was it?” Angie asks as the four draw together again. Talvin puts into words what they all just experienced: “You let the language land,” he says, “it’s no longer battling.” Later the dancers ask if they should follow a certain direction, Bebe responds, “We can aim for that, but let’s see what happens.” When Bebe makes a suggestion, the dancers try it and announce that it helps—that’s great, but Bebe still asks, “How?” And all the while that Angie and Darrell move so do the cords from the headphones. The lines cross, dangle, tangle, wrap around chair legs (“I’m hung,” says a stuck Angie at one point). At this rehearsal, it seems even the props are collaborators.

Witnessing this process of discovery unfold within this easy rapport, I begin to get, though still rather clumsily, what “A History” is about. But what I get with absolute clarity is that it is already fascinating, and though I can’t say what it will mean I trust that it will be meaningful.

On Saturday, I saw “A History.” And I was right to trust. I hope I’m also right to trust my instinct not to write so much about what happened on stage, but about what happened afterwards. I had made my spouse come along. Though, artistically willing to give things a go (he’s listened to the unlistenable, by which I mean Harry Partch and Fred Firth, and he’s sat through Guy Maddin’s early movies) sometimes I have to force these things and Greg does not much like dance. The language is too self-conscious, he says, more aware of how it is talking than what it is saying. “Or,” he concedes, “maybe I just don’t understand it.”

Yet, Greg didn’t exactly seem reluctant to go to Bebe Miller. He was intrigued, I think. Also, I had made sure to always refer to it as a “performance.” When that performance was over—THE END literally writ across the screen—he turned to me with eyes I feel I can accurately call “gleaming” and said, “That was good. I really liked that.”

When it was over we both applauded because that is what you do. But the timing seemed wrong, the piece was over but the experience was still churning. Plus, a clap seemed an ill-match for expressing our appreciation—I sensed others felt the same. Maybe the company predicted this, or maybe they just like dialogue, in any case they came back out for a bit of Q&A.

Though dance is “ineffable,” to quote a front-row audience member, many shared well-articulated praise, expressing gratitude for the aesthetic and emotional “wows,” and sharing how the questions and discoveries that drove the piece were resonant in their own lives—musing about what the experience of “remembering remembering” is; about what else is created when people create together; about the history that resides in the body; and how a specific physical movement can trigger entry into a whole new world.

To my surprise, Greg was one of those asking questions. And later as we made our way out of the auditorium he went on about how “full-fledged” both dancers were and how impressive that was; they were “distinct personalities” but “equal partners,” he said, “they would and could trade roles.” Outside we are walking to the car and he hasn’t stopped. (I love it, so for once in our relationship I stay quiet.) He’s blown away by how the dancers move—pliable, loose, fast, but utterly controlled—and how they made trust so palpable. “You can see the acceptance and tension and playfulness….I realize,” he interrupts himself for a second, “I’m talking like a guy who just got high for the first time.” Then, a smile still on his face, he relaunches: “And the spoken parts were like music, in synch, out of synch…” and on he goes.

There is one particularly lovely moment in “A History.” The two dancers are running in a circle side-by-side having a good time, the pace speeds up and the feeling intensifies. Angie quietly drops out. She simply stands to the side. The space is mostly Darrell’s, and he zooms. It’s as if every muscle in his body is turning on it’s own separate axis. And then he stops and utterly composed walks over to where Angie is and places himself next to her.

On Sunday, a day later, Greg and I are at home sitting at the table eating dinner. He starts to tell our daughter about the performance, but then turns to me and he says, “You know, I never asked, what do you think about the dance last night?”

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A Fair Day

2 Aug

We’ve got How Stuff Works and How It’s Made and How Do They Do It; Make me TV-programmer-for-a-day and we’d also have Why Do They Do It. The IT is one thing, even a fascinating thing, but there’s always a person (maybe two, maybe more) who uses, invents, drives, fixes, promotes or cleans the IT. Or just does IT, whatever the IT may be. That’s the bit I’m always curious about.

What I most want to know is just how a person starts at one point—let’s say, for example: Birth—and ends up at another—like Blimp Pilot.

So, say I’m an editor and I get a pitch, From “Gus” to “Gus the Squashcarver:” The Path Revealed, I’m sold. How ’bout you?

While you ponder, here’s more Fair pictures:

Animal Rebellions

25 May

NEW DELHI — The first interloper stepped in front of her on the sidewalk and silently held up his hand. The second appeared behind her and beckoned for her bag. Maeve O’Connor was trapped.

Resistance would have been dangerous, so Ms. O’Connor handed it over. The two then sauntered arrogantly away. The whole encounter lasted no more than 15 seconds — just one more coordinated mugging by rhesus monkeys in a city increasingly plagued by them.

“I had other bags with me, but they knew the bag that had the fresh bread in it,” Ms. O’Connor said.

“They were totally silent, very quick and highly effective.”

—from “Indians Feed the Monkeys, Which Bite the Hand”
by GARDINER HARRIS

Is this not a perfect beginning? And it works even better in its native habitat — the front page of The New York Times.

The rest of the story is good, too, but, of course, I’ve a bit of an interest in animal rebellions. It’s a casual interest. I don’t seek out stories, but I take notice, and when I come across a good one I save it. I’ve done this since the late 90s, inspired by perhaps the best animal rebellion story I’ve heard—

It’s Friday and a man on a weekend trip is driving north on a mountain road when he hits and kills a wolf. He stops momentarily; then continues on. On Sunday, he is returning along the same road when a pack of wolves, lying in wait, come blazing down the hill and attack his car—and only his car—at the very same spot where the wolf had been hit?

Amazing.

I should be clear: while I love animals (cause it’s really hard not to), my feelings run more towards respect than devotion, and I’m not particularly well-educated in the earth sciences or have much to say about things like biodiversity and overpopulation. What I am is mildly curious about the different beings that inhabit our world and what happens when we cross paths and discovering that a wolf stakeout of a red Honda is one thing that can happen…well….

The planning and depth of emotion that goes into these animal rebellions is totally fascinating. But I think it may be the anti-Darwinian desire for payback that really gets me. It’s true that in my collection I have an article about the predator-lion who adopted and nurtured her oryx-prey (2002) and also there’s one about a herd of teary-eyed elephants, about 100 in all, who gathered to mourn the loss of seven of their own (2001). But these feel-good stories are far outnumbered by the tales of revenge.

In Malawi, wildlife officials concerned about trampled crops kill a hippo. The bereaved widow returns to the spot of the killing and runs amok. “At the rate it is destroying our fields, most of us won’t harvest anything,” reports Chief Mkumbira of the Zomba district. (2002)

In Thailand, a giant female king cobra bites the hand of a pineapple plantation picker one month after her mate, a male king cobra, was run over and killed. The bitten worker is the wife of the man who found the dead snake, picked it up and added it to the pineapple pickers’ cooking pot. “The female cobra saw me take its mate and blamed me for killing it,” said the man, “This must be the revenge of the snake on me.” (2003)

In Bangladesh, stick-wielding hanuman monkeys—the same type as mentioned above—rampage a village, attacking homes and shops in retaliation for the death of a baby monkey. The death happened earlier in the day, when a resident had thrown a stone at a group of monkeys, which sent the baby running into a high-voltage line and to its death. (2003)

I also found stories of unexplained aggression: A murder of crows dive-bombs pedestrians in Germany (2003); a dolphin goes rogue on the French coast threatening swimmers, overturning boats, and knocking fishermen and women into the sea (2006). Though unexplained, it is easy for me to assume that these acts, like the more clear acts of vengeance, are motivated. And at the root, it is likely that they are a response to something nasty we humans did or built, whether we were aware or naive of the harmful consequences.

But the New Delhi monkeys add an interesting twist. They are demanding little brats. And the humans, while certainly guilty of anthropocentrism and perhaps a bit of overindulgent care, are good-intentioned. As the writer Gardiner Harris goes on to explain, the monkeys are revered as the living form of the Hindu god Hanuman and following Hindu tradition they are fed by humans—but only on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Who wouldn’t have some sympathy for the monkeys? Caught, as they are, between being smart but not smart enough (at least in the ways of humans). How are they to tell a Tuesday from a Thursday?

Carol Stewart

8 May

Franklinton Map

Just before her last birthday, I interviewed Carol Stewart about Franklinton. The up, then down, twice submerged, and now, perhaps, upcoming Columbus neighborhood is immediately west of downtown. It is also HQ for Carol Stewart’s good works. 

Carol Stewart died last month. She was 73. 

What I know of her accomplishments, leadership, expertise and heart amounts to barely a sliver, considering just how much she’s done and for how long. But from our brief interaction, I could tell Carol Stewart was one mighty human being. It wasn’t something I saw in the force of her personality (though, at times, maybe others did). Rather, talking to her, it was simply clear that this was someone who was not going to be broken. 

Whether planting flowers on Franklinton’s massive mediums every spring for 23 springs or advocating for construction of a 7.2-mile floodwall, her efforts were driven by the same clarity and conviction. As she put it, “When there seemed to be something I thought needed to be done and no one was doing it, I would do it.” 

At one point in our conversation she was explaining CDBG (a label for downtown and surrounds) and her work with teenagers on the Columbus Neighborhood Clean Team, when, off-the-cuff, she shared this aside: “I have been in every alley in the whole CDBG area,” she said, “from Linden, down to the south end, east to Nelson Rd, and west to Hague Avenue.” Though it may not make the list, quite long already, of her accomplishments, this was something she was clearly proud of. To know every alley and to take pride in this, speaks to the depth of her involvement and also to that clarity and conviction of hers. No matter if it’s in a neighborhood alley or the Mayor’s Office, if she thought it needed done, she’d do it.  

For Stewart, the measure of positive change was what it looked like on the ground and what it really did for those going about the daily business of living. At the moment, there’s a great deal of talking and planning about the future of her neighborhood. It’s a bit up in the air right now, but when it all hits the ground, I hope there will be people who ask, “How would this measure up for Carol Stewart?” 

What’s Circulating?

9 Feb

I still have a file folder of “Clips” and one labeled “letterhead/env.” Back in the query + writing sample + SASE days I was regularly pulling from both. Today, these files are relics, and their demise, I must say, is something I rejoice in every single working day.

In place of this cumbersome triumvirate, of course, we have the writer’s website. Or had. As newly minted as it is, website is even beginning to sound fossilized. It could be an early sign of a burgeoning linguistic trend — all nouns resistant to being “verbed” are but one or two usages from the dustbin — or perhaps it is a web-specific phenomenon: site simply too static to survive in the transmutable wide world of the web. Blog, on the other hand, is a crackerjack. Monosyllabic and itself born of a transmutation, it’s got the noun-verb status and, what’s more, knows how to use it. Likewise, internet presence is still hanging in there, extending its run by making the most of its non-specificity.

The upshot: Without a blog, without an active online presence, the writer’s website is nothing but a filed away folder of clips. To open it, we must post. The circulating assumption (formally known as conventional wisdom) is clear on this: to not blog, tweet, tumblr, pin or otherwise update is to petrify online, even as one might be thriving offline.

I, for instance, have all but hardened into stone, having not posted since November. But I’ve been busy. Writing.

The odd truth of it: internet absence may be a far better indicator of a good working writer—or at least a paid and productive one—than internet presence. That we believe the exact opposite reflects the capsized logic that rules of late. Like how the more cushy we make our day-to-day lives, the more stress we feel; or how an envelope stamped URGENT is never urgent and not even important and most the time can be tossed unread. And then there’s our incongruous willingness to shell out big bucks for variously sized rectangular boxes and data streams that do nothing but deliver content, coupled with our steadfast refusal to pay even a dime for the actual content—as if (and yes, it’s a somewhat simplified analogy) happily paying UPS, while demanding the package itself be free.

Certainly every other era has had its share of nonsense to contend with, and consequences far more scary. Which is to say that while, yes, today’s circulating assumptions often baffle and even irk me, I do get that witch-hunts are much worse.

TEDxColumbus (Part 2)

22 Nov

It’s my second round of musings on the 2011 TEDxColumbus: A Moment in Time  (the first is here) and, lovely timing, the videos of the talks are now viewable online. You can check if I got my quotes right, or better yet, decide what you think and share it with me.

On the morning of 11.11.11, frustrated while typing on my mobile, I imagined some kind of precision extendo-finger that would allow my S to be an S and not a D or some other neighboring letter on the tiny keyboard. Later that same day, while part of an audience of 600 at TEDxColumbus, I discovered that my idle morning musing was something much more. I was engaging in one of the most ancient of human battles: “the struggle between comfort and discomfort.” We think. We wonder.  This is what Alex Bandar tells us. “Our brains,” he says, “are wired to get bored.” The result is ideas. Ideas, though, get lost when we don’t know how to make them. While in some cases (see above) this is okay. In others (see Reade Harpham, among others) it’s not.

But metallurgist and engineer Alex Bandar is on it. He is fixing this problem.  At his maker shop and school—The Columbus Idea Foundry—he is “narrowing the chasm between concept and execution” and he wants to take his shop—a portable cargo container (in prototype)—to our youth and into our schools.  And with this revival of the lost art of making, just maybe society will be better off. When we know (as we once did) how our tools work, says Bandar, we design better and we think better.

“According to the Dispatch, I’m here to make you cry.” When she said this in reference to a recent newspaper article, TEDx speaker Theresa Flores did not sound so keen on this assessment. From her talk, it is clear why. What Flores wants is not to make us cry but to open our eyes.

Flores was once a suburban kid from an “intact” family. She was not naive, on drugs, or acting out, but still she was vulnerable to human trafficking, because, as her life attests, anyone can be vulnerable to human trafficking. Listening to her story (as I strongly urge you to do) there is a certain cognitive dissonance—the best kind of dissonance—in hearing it from someone who is, to use Flores’ own word, “healed.”

In my first post on TEDxColumbus, I described the day as a constant push-pull between unsettling Oh Hells! and inspiring Oh Wows! Bandar and Flores certainly provided both of these, but they gave us more, as did all the speakers. Throughout the day, we got facts—on wasp nests, for instance, and M&M technology. We got theories, wisdoms and ideas. And from all of it another through-line emerged. Interrupting the volley between the deflating Look what we have done and the inflating Look what we can do was, simply, Look.

Which brings me back to Flores. In being healed and thus able to look deeply and thoughtfully at the horror she experienced, she found a solution, one uniquely visible to her and that now helps others who are victimized by human trafficking.

This theme of “close looking” was set in motion, seemingly serendipitously, by the first speaker of the day, Denny Griffith, CCAD president and ever-approachable local “higher-up.” Speaking about his painterly life, Griffith shared his work—abstract, textured, subtle—and the unexpected sources of inspiration for his imagery: the leukemia cells that killed his father, the tsunami that devastated Japan. The paintings neither flinch, nor celebrate. The feel is more exploratory, almost receptive and, in their lack of judgment, even democratic.

In her talk, public affairs professional Susan Willeke suggested we take a close look at exactly what we are supposed to hide: our prejudice. Bias can be useful—keeps us from “eating tree bark and road kill,” reminds Willeke—and it, as we all know, can be damaging. Her belief: look at our biases, know what they are and only then are we in the position to decide whether or not to act on them.

Researcher and Yogi Maryanna Klatt, sharing a message of mindfulness, suggests relaxation comes, in part, from paying attention to what stresses us out. The key is coming to feel control over those stressors. And Jamie Greene—architect and top dog at 200 Columbus—implies that we needn’t resort to boosterism, bluster, sloganeering, or embellished narratives to promote this city. Take a moment to look and it is clear that everything we need is already here. The task is to reveal it.

Lastly, for energetic entomologist Mark Berman, to not look is utter craziness. Open your eyes, time and attention, he implores, and the rewards come flooding in. You may even get to bear witness to the fascinating and highly entertaining attention-seeking antics of the jumping spider.

So look. Don’t be stingy with your time and attention. As a result, you might be less callous, more mindful, less judgmental and, just maybe, you’ll make friends with a spider.

[While you're at it, look at the TEDx videos, including Trent Tripple & Janet Parrott, whose ideas are so embedded in the story they tell, you might as well just go listen. You can check out the performances too, and don't miss being called a "tool" by poet Rose Smith.]

Now, I’ve made things tricky for myself. By following this positive and non-judgmental request to “look” with my impressions of the event overall, I’ve left little room for criticism. But at the risk of sounding petty, I must say softer lighting would have been a welcome relief, and I’ll take a semi-circle auditorium over a deep rectangle any day of the week. But, in all honesty, there is not much else to harp on when an event is as well-run as this one. Parking and check-in were a breeze. It started and ended on time. The breaks felt like exactly the right length and lunch was planned perfectly. My randomized group of lunch-mates were interesting; involved; had a lot to say and also an eagerness to listen (a perfect combination, in my book). I even get that with the rectangular room also comes COSI, a supportive and friendly host.

But most important to me, while it is impossible to be TED, TEDxColumbus is impressively TED-like. Of course, it is supposed to be. But no one is out policing and I’m pretty sure that many, many TEDx’s fall way short of the mark. Columbus is lucky that organizer Ruth Milligan is, not just an enthusiast, but a sort of speech-junkie. On-board with the TED format—speakers might say an enforcer of the TED format—Milligan, along with Nancy Kramer and Allyson Kuentz, are to thank for our TEDx’s TED-ness.

And what exactly does this mean?: Talks that are no longer than 18 minutes. Speakers who know what they want to say and do so clearly and entertainingly with engagement and passion and without notes or self-promotion. The very best TED talks (rare but wonderful) manage to take the listener along the speaker’s same path of discovery, as if we are all thinking things through together. The demands of the format are a challenge. One TEDx presenter—composed, confident, poised and a veteran public speaker, even—was betrayed by a microphone left on a touch too long: “I’m so glad it’s over,” she exhaled with great relief as she exited the stage. I hope she knows the rigors of the format were worth it, because where else but at a TED event can an 8-hour day of lectures be so much fun?

TEDxColumbus (Part 1)

16 Nov

We should all be living differently. We should be turning down the lights, turning up mindfulness and gratitude, and turning off all the nonsense that is making humans depressed, fat, uneducated, un-partnered and uninspired.

Unless you are Claudia Kirsch.

Claudia Kirsch can live however the hell she wants as long as she keeps saving lives. Bart Overly gets a pass too, as does Alex Bandar, Theresa Flores and others who took the stage on 11.11.11 for the 3rd TEDxColumbus, which—in typical TED fashion—offered a glimpse of both what’s wrong in our world and what a bit of passion and innovation can do to make things right.

This push-pull between What the hell have we done! and Wow! Look at what we can do! is built-in to TED. After all, it is a forum for “ideas worth spreading” and ideas, quite often, are sparked by problems and problems quite often are created by: Us. 

TED, then, has a way of exposing our ills, inequalities, cruelties and dunderheaded conventions but also our genius, sense of service, depth of kindness, irrepressible passion, not to mention our likable personalities and life-saving ability to craft a decent joke.

Usually, for me, the list of stuff between “genius” and “joke” wins out and my TED experiences leave me inspired, motivated and entertained. But at this TEDx there was no getting comfortable—and not just because of the harsh lighting.  The push-pull never let up and I think this is appropriate for “A Moment in Time” (to echo this year’s theme) when there is just too much about our world that is not working for far too many.

So, according to the 2011 presenters, What the hell have we done!?Messed up our circadian rhythms for one. Neuroscientist Randy Nelson “argues based on some mouse data” (I love that line) that too much light at night confuses our body’s chemical triggers. The result: fatter bellies and sadder spirits. We’ve also made a mess of education, effectively pricing most of our kids out of a college degree. But that’s not all that’s wrong, says David Burns, an educator grappling with how to advise his own kids, for some crazy reason we teach to a child’s weaknesses, not her strengths. Then there is Dirk Knemeyer, a software developer and serial entrepreneur, who is really pissed off. To him, our lives make no sense. He asks why we starve what gives us joy, meaning and fulfillment (human connection) and feed that which gives us little or none (technology).

As for the Wow! Look at what we can do! side of TED: Certainly there is a bit of it just in our ability to identify and parse what we did wrong, but much more of it—a big happy boost of it—in the stories of what we have done right. Which brings us to Claudia Kirsch, a multi-titled MD and radiologist who changed how we look for certain tumors to find the (on average) 56% that were getting overlooked. She’s smart, she’s dedicated and she’s saved lives. She’ll save more and she (and her team) made it possible for others to save lives too.

And then there’s architect Bart Overly, who, as it must be said, gave a brilliant presentation. His model of symbio-habitats built for interdependence and sustainability are fun and a bit ingenious. [Imagine, an animal shelter where dogs live on a horizontal plane and cats on a vertical and where cats can see the fish, but the fish can’t see the cats.] They are also an alternative to our current habitats, which, strained by changing demographics, are on schedule to collapse in 40 or so years from now.

Both Kirsch and Overly, presenting back-to-back, were innovative, passionate, creative, articulate and, in that TED-like way, they showed us the unlimited possibilities of what humans can do. Yet, their work also exposed the limits we are putting on our possibilities. Am I under the influence of current events? No doubt. But it really doesn’t matter if you are occupied, occupier, or otherwise preoccupied, the facts are clear on this: the path that Kirsch took to get where she is has since narrowed, all but shut off—limited—for many.

Speaking personally, with the going rate for an advanced degree at $291,800 (source: David Burns) I’m thinking hard about where the path Kirsch took might now lead. To a life of learning and productivity, I still hope, even though it’s looking a lot like indentured servitude. Also, with any talk of a life-saving medical advancement, there is the issue of who benefits and who doesn’t.

And Overly’s habitats: they are a useful and imaginative solution, but to a problem that is damn scary. It seems that if we don’t start rethinking some of our basic systems, in 3 or 4 decades a massively overburdened working population will have less fertile ground to innovate (unless, we decide to just kick that burden to the curb).

That will be me kicked to the curb—elderly and increasingly dependent. It will also be Bart Overly and many TEDxers. So, maybe you can see how it was a day of unsettling Oh Hells and inspiring Oh Wows and never really settling on one or the other.

Clearly, it was also a day of ideas and many more still need sharing. Theresa Flores. Alex Bandar. And more. With 18 taking the stage, it was also a day of many themes, sometimes shared (spiders and ethics, for instance) in unexpected ways. More on all this and other TEDxCbus-inspired musings are on the way. Soon. In Part II.

 photo courtesy of Time Tank Labs 

The Story That Almost Wasn’t

25 Oct

It’s TV law: Story-sniffing, pavement-pounding, muckraking journalists always end the day tossing back some vice while tossing around stories of their biggest catch. Fictional intrepid reporters will trade tales over cigarettes on the backstairs of the Baltimore Sun building, like the city desk crew in The Wire (season 5). Or, a la Lou Grant, they spin their stories of corruption exposed or Senators caught “compromised” while knocking one back at the bar around the corner.

So if one day it’s me leaning on that Sun stair railing or sitting at McKenna’s with LA Tribune staffers, and one of those noble, seasoned reporters looks my way and says, “What’s your story, Hovey?” finally—finally!—I can say, “Well, get a hold of this one boys…my story is the story of the story that almost never was.” Hmm…almost sounds like the title of a screenplay…

TIP: For best reading results, zoom in LOTS 

What Hovey means is that you can read it right here

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By Way of Ferns

29 Sep

When I was 25 I acquired a new set of stepsiblings but for a period so brief I can recall the names of only three of the four. In fact, almost everything about that fourth is fuzzy, except I do remember six, short, simple words he once said. We were in my stepmother’s dining room with her other children, her brothers, her brothers’ children, plus my dad, when the Fourth and his wife were asked about their upcoming trip to Trinidad and Tobago. No idle holiday, I soon found out, this 3-week trip would be the fulfillment of a dream years in the making. I was intrigued and impressed by the couple’s chosen destination, and feeling more positive about this family yoked to mine, I asked the two what drew them to Trinidad and Tobago, what it was like and what they knew about the culture and history. Considering all their planning, it was not, I thought, a confusing line of inquiry, yet both looked at me—clearly confused. Then, the Fourth spoke the short and simple words I have never, ever forgotten.

“We are going,” he said, “for the ferns.”

Had the Fourth told me that he was going to Trinidad and Tobago for the Encaphalartos woodii (the rarest plant according to google) this entire conversation might have been easily forgotten. But ferns are not at all rare. They are, in fact, quite common and a fern sighting or a fern reference (they do happen) would bring his words back until they and the plant became (like, perhaps, Trinidad and Tobago) forever linked in my mind. Mostly, like an involuntary tic, his words disappeared as quickly as they came, but every once in awhile I would catch them, turn them over, and find, to my great surprise, how the passing years had changed them.

On the day that I first heard them, I laughed. Who wouldn’t? Pretty much everyone else at the table. Of course, they all had the advantage of knowing about this couple’s hobby and they were also not coffee-shop lingering, humanity grads who, due to an overexposure to postmodernism, had been rendered unable to distinguish sincerity from mock sincerity.

But the Fourth’s sincerity was not at all ironic. It was: sincere. Realizing this, my reaction turned to disbelief and then to distaste. Could an entire culture really be overlooked for a fern?! I was horrified, slightly.

What I personally knew about Trinidad and Tobago was, admittedly, not much. Steel drumming. Calypso. And, mostly, that the words Trinidad and Tobago are terribly fun to say. This all made me no better citizen of the world than the Fourth’s ferns made him, but I was twenty-something and in no need of solid grounding from which to judge. But just a few years later, thanks to some random fern sighting, I discovered that this was no longer true. Now deep in my twenties and having not yet single-handedly made the world a better place, my once endless capacity for judgment had given way to a kind of float-your-boat tolerance. About the best I could muster was the indirect, mild disapproval of something like, “…not really what I would do, but….”

Back then I was still enamored with choice. Each decision—good, bad or neutral—made me feel more like a grown-up and I was blessed with the clouded vision that makes choosing easy. By my mid-thirties, though, the view was beginning to clear. I could see the doors opening but, now, also the ones closing. Implications and consequences crowded the landscape and I was suddenly aware that the time to recover from a wrong turn is limited. To amp things up, I add a husband to the picture and then three children. Together: four more wants to account for, four more opinions, needs, ideas and schedules. So one day I spot those green lacy fronds and catch myself wondering what it might be like to be driven by something so simple (and, arguably, “green”). In my fantasy I see a life, a beautiful easy life, guided by ferns. Where to vacation? How to spend a “relaxing” Sunday? Follow the ferns. What’s my screensaver? My icon? What book for my coffee table? What theme for my daughter’s birthday? Ferns. Ferns. Ferns. And Ferns.

At one time funny and appalling, then foreign but begrudgingly acceptable, then the cause of an unexpected and humbling lurch of envy, the words of the Fourth have become, in an admittedly oddball way, a bit like the height marks on our kitchen doorway tracking, not my kids’, but my growth, and not by inches but—by way of ferns.

So then, what about now?

I’m 44, I have a fern (good for indoor air according to one fern reference), and I am now in on the secret, having experienced the quiet pleasure of settling into oneself like a half-drunk cup of tea into a saucer’s crimped ring. In all the decades leading up to this, no one ever told me about this upside of aging (it’s possible, yes, that I wasn’t listening) but now that I am here, I get it: there is something strengthening and nicely freeing about age 40. Yet, I have a problem. Our ever more wobbly world insists on rattling mine. As a writer and journalist, this rattle started before the 2008 crash and before the treasonous malfeasance of our current 112th U.S. Congress. It began when the confluence of technology, profit-as-gospel dogma, and an out of proportion need for entertainment reshaped my profession so that it is no longer art school that parents most fear, it is journalism school; so that staff writers are endangered and to make ends meet, the writers who had hoped to uncover the truth, are becoming the publicists asked to cover it up; so that my old job description, writer and editor, is accurate but staid and my new one, communications professional, is dynamic but utterly nebulous. Though, I must confess that I do like the sound of the new title, with its added bit of polish. But I also know that to any shyster that polish glints like gold.

Critics are now talking about it, people have long been feeling it: This opening up of information is breaking down communication. There’s too much; we are fatigued. Sources are held to no standards; we are mistrustful. Even worse, each one of us can now hear only the story that we want to hear. Of all the signs of “The End,” this one, just maybe, could actually be it. When words don’t work we either fight or we suffer, and neither is particularly preferable. But also, listening to the stories of others is what brings out the best in us. When we stop listening, I hold out no hope for what we will become. So now, when some fern or another brings those words of the Fourth fluttering back into my head, I can think of only one thing to say: “Please, tell me more.”

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A Civic Love Story Part 1

1 Sep

The story behind the story of “Columbus’s Biggest Fan” in Columbus Monthly, Sept, 2011:

The sum total of what I knew about Michael Wilkos was the 18 minutes he shared in his TEDxTalk, 17:00 a detailed demographic portrait of the city of Columbus and 1:00 an admission of his love, born in childhood, for the same city. I enjoyed his statistically-driven talk, impressed that he could make it both funny and fascinating, but his off-hand confession nagged at me. Boy falls for city—average city, at that. Why?

I was certain there was a story here. What story, I didn’t know. And how to convince my editor, didn’t know that either. I left it to mull. For months.

Then, finally, I crafted a query and hit send. Not long after, the phone rang. It was my editor: “This,” he told me, “may be the most memorable pitch I’ve ever read.” Fortunately, he meant this in a good way (and, yes, I had to ask—for nice details about his decision, read his column in the same issue).

Now that I had the green light, I cold-called Wilkos, who immediately tried to dissuade me from writing about him and instead, he urged in a persuasive, articulate, passionate and lengthy pitch, I should write about Columbus. Yes! Nothing could have been more convincing than this. Sorry Columbus, but clearly the story I had to write is the one about this humble champion of yours.

Michael agreed to at least meet with me. We talked over coffee  and as he generously shared more about his life, I quickly discovered that not only is this civic love story the real deal, it is a better story than I ever could have imagined. And, by better, I mean deep with meaning and emotional resonance, but I also mean giggle-fest funny. I had somehow tapped into a bottomless well of hilarious anecdotes. Many went into the article. Many did not—simply, could not. Some that made it in had to be trimmed of detail. Which, maybe, is the best place to start sharing:

While still living in Youngstown, Michael would make many impromptu trips to Columbus with friends. Those who’ve read the story know that he would take the long way around so that everyone in the car could see the city skyline at its finest. To give the moment the appropriate drama and excitement it was due, he would also slip in a cassette tape, fiddling with the rewind and fast forward so that at exactly the moment the buildings came into view this song cranked out of the radio (did I mention: this is the 80s):

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