Intangible Spirit

      June 18, 2014 marked 40 years since I received my diploma from my high school alma mater. Literally translated, alma mater means “nourishing/kind mother.” During my years at Philadelphia High School for Girls, I am not sure I would have necessarily agreed with that translation.

                In a happy coincidence, the June 21 issue of the Philadelphia Inquirer carried a heartwarming story of Imani Bullock.  Ms. Bullock is the fifth generation of women to graduate in white dress and red flowers:  as her mother, great-grandmother, and two great-aunts before her.  Ms. Bullock is a graduate of the current class, 258.  Because Girls’ High once graduated classes in both January and June, alums usually refer to their class number rather than their year to avoid confusion.  Not without some drama.  At a recent Career Day, I told the roomful of bright young women that I was Class  of 218.  Their response:  a collective gasp.  But I digress…

                While it took me 20 years before I truly appreciated the “intangible spirit” that I carried with me into the world on June 18, 1974, Ms. Bullock apparently has a clue. I quote her quote from the Inquirer:

We just have a family filled with strong women who strive for academic excellence.

I know she was speaking of her own family, but I can’t help thinking she included her extended Girls’ High family, as well.

                I admit I was closer to middle age when I began to understand what Imani Bullock already knows.  My National Merit Scholarship to La Salle, my commitment to mentoring other women, my ability to overcome obstacles:  I came to realize my alma mater deserved some of the credit. I started attending reunions.  And annual alumnae luncheons.  And presenting at Career Day (to this day, only 10% of appraisers who hold my advanced designation are women).  For me, it was a way to reconnect with those strong women at a time when I was starting my own business in a mostly male environment.  The only real asset I had at the time was myself.

                Now, add another 20 years. My 40^th reunion luncheon (and I almost didn’t go, but the lure of Gloria Allred, 204,  was too much to resist).  Once again, I reconnected with friends and hung on to every word of gutsy Gloria, our luncheon speaker.  A healthy dose of that intangible spirit reminded me that I’ve been a Girls’ High Girl all along.

The author with Gloria Allred

                Oh, I’m no Gloria Allred, Esquire.  In fact, Gloria Allred might not have become Gloria Allred as we know her today.  During her presentation, Ms. Allred candidly admitted she tried to transfer out of Girls’ High. She didn’t think she had the right stuff.  Imagine!

                And I’m no Judith Rodin (first woman President of the University of Pennsylvania).  I’m no Constance Clayton (first woman and first African-American Superintendent of Philadelphia Schools).  I’m no Julie Gold, a fellow 218 alum and songwriter whose credits include “From a Distance,” that Bette Midler hit.  I’m not even Patricia Giorgio Fox, Deputy Police Commissioner for the City of Philadelphia.  But I am proud to count myself among them.  And proud they count me, too.

                Any of us who have grown up in Philadelphia have seen incredible changes to our alma maters.  Schools closing, both public and parochial.  Budget cuts decimating programs and faculty.  Resources dwindling.  Girls' High is no exception: loss of guidance counselors, woefully outdated lab equipment.  I feel fortunate that those marble halls are still open to embrace young women like Imani Bullock. And, I hope, her daughters.

At my alma mater, the misson statement is:

To provide learning experiences in a safe, nurturing environment that prepare our students for success in college and leadership in their chosen fields. We do this by challenging the intellect, embracing diversity, celebrating leadership, honoring ethical behavior and encouraging participation in the extracurricular program.

                Right now, in the School District of Philadelphia, the average cost to educate one student is $12,351. 

That is quite a bargain for a Girls’ High Girl.

 

Check out the link below to hear the alma mater of the Philadelphia High School for Girls.

http://webgui.phila.k12.pa.us/schools/g/girlshigh/media/school-song-253.mp3

 

 

There's Always a Full Moon at Midtown

During my recent job search, I found myself on the midnight shift again, after a 30-year hiatus.  While the recent position was located in a bucolic country setting, my first graveyard shift had me smack in the center of Center City.  Now, as my job search comes to a close (I hope) with a new career in Center City, I can’t help recalling how different that first one job was.

As the start of my senior year at La Salle College approached, I thought it made sense to work two nights a week.  I'd have five nights a week to study (ha!) so I could finish my college career with commendable grades.  I could make all of my money on the weekends (ha! ha!).  When Pete Hionas, my boss at Midtown I Restaurant, suggested I work winter weekends at Midtown III, 18th and Ranstead Streets,  I was somewhat open to the opportunity . The hours:  9PM to 7AM, Friday and Saturday nights.

A visit to the websites for the two remaining Midtowns - II at 12th and Walnut and III as previously mentioned - confirmed that the restaurants both are still with us, both are still open 24 hours, and both still attract much of the fringe element in Center City.  While the daylight crowd sports business suits or the casual clothes of the occasional tourist, the after-midnight set ranges from dapper dudes in evening attire to transvestites in gay garb.  And it was ever thus.  Or, as we used to say:

"There is always a full moon at Midtown."

What always fascinated me was the ecumenism of the wee small hours.  At 3AM, the seats at the Midtown counter alternated cop, cop, hooker, cop, hooker, hooker, cop.  The atmosphere was always convivial, as everyone seemed to be on a first-name basis.  Other weekend patrons included dank and musty street people with just enough scrounged change for a cup of coffee (lots of sugar); skinny, jittery junkies chowing down on cheap eats, looking like they'd skip on the check (they rarely did); and well-dressed, well-versed ladies in after a night on the town.  At that hour, everybody tipped, as if they knew we were all in this together.

The reviews on the restaurant websites rip into miserable, disgruntled waitresses who want to be anywhere else but Midtown.  I haven't been to either Midtown at 3AM lately, so I can't speak for today.  But my recollection is, the waitresses with whom I worked were cheerfully resigned to their lot in life.  There was Judy, the veteran, who could smack a cockroach in a split second without skipping a beat in her banter with customers.  Mary Lou, a pretty mom, was Judy's more delicate sidekick.  Me, I was the mousy college kid chalking up the late nights to my equivalent of Jack Kerouac's On the Road.  At Midtown, the road came to me.

And the characters were legion.  But two stories highlight the serendipity of the venue and the hour.

The first story has to do with "To Go To Go."  I can still see this street person's gray wool coat over layers of sweatshirts and sweaters, his baggy trousers, and his dirty fingers through cut-off gloves.  He invariably arrived just about sunrise, stood at the register and announced:  "To go. To go."  Which was the cue for the waitress closest to the coffee urn to get him a cup of coffee.  Sometimes he paid, sometimes he didn't.  Many times, he also left with a paper bag full of day-old doughnuts we were going to throw out, anyway.  But all he ever said was:  "To go.  To go."

All that changed one cold, sunny morning.  On this particular day, Judy had already bagged the doughnuts in anticipation of his arrival and was busy stacking cinnamon buns in a sticky pyramid on a tray.  Our regular announced "To go.  To go." in his usual style.  As Judy offhandedly proffered his coffee and the usual brown bag, our customer's gaze fell on her newest pastry creation.  As if by some miracle, he found a new vocabulary and blurted:  "How about a cinnamon bun?"  Judy's eyes flared like fireworks, then she burst out laughing and acquiesced.  I often wonder what happened to "To Go To Go."

The second story concerns tables turning.  See, I forgot to mention that during my senior year at La Salle, I was totally on my own and pretty destitute.  My Midtown money was barely enough to make ends meet, but they just had to meet until graduation.

One of my personal regulars was a handsome, soft-spoken young black man who arrived just after the surrounding clubs had closed.  He always sat in my station, usually at the same table, and always ordered the same thing.  Our routine was such that he needed only to walk in the front door and nod, and I would put in his order.  And he always left a generous tip.

Years after I had "graduated" from Midtown, as well as La Salle, I volunteered for a church serving Thanksgiving dinner to the homeless.  At my table was a man with impeccable manners and quiet demeanor.  He was a little thinner and a little dirtier but he looked awfully familiar. By the time I placed his turkey dinner in front of him, I recognized him as my quiet, big-tipping regular.

His story was a sad one.  Drug addiction and bad choices had led him to a homeless shelter and now this Thanksgiving dinner.  He was hoping to sober up and straighten out his life.  He admitted being embarrassed for me to see him in that state.  So I told him how down and out I had been and how important his tips had been to me.  It was my honor to serve him again and to thank him for his contribution to my life.  His fate remains a mystery to me, but I hope he found a safe landing.

I could go on and on.  Midtown III was one of my stops on graduation day:  me, resplendent in cap and gown instead of waitress garb.  Every once in awhile - usually Christmas Eve after Midnight Mass - I stop by for a cup of coffee and to remember my roots.  Pete is now deceased, but the last time I was there, Manoli his brother was sitting by the register, reading the paper.  He recognized me immediately and brightened.  The first words out of his mouth:

"Are you looking for a job?"

Me Go, Too

Most of you know that over the last 2 months, I have grappled with a big decision—early retirement—to go or not to go? Mary’s recent blog, http://www.4broadminds.blogspot.com/2012/07/dont-just-do-something-stand-there.html , reminded me: the answers to life’s tough decisions come from within, and sometimes you have to hit life’s pause button to listen to your soul.

If you are like me, you have envied friends who had the chance to early retire and have said things like, “I am so jealous. It’s a no-brainer. If they offer me early retirement, I am out of here.” So, it surprised me that my initial reaction to the offer was totally opposite: Forget it. I love my job. I am not ready to stop working. Absolutely no.

As an organizational development consultant and coach, my role is to ask others probing, powerful questions to help them find their way through change. Yet, faced with my own major life change, my first instinct was to ignore it. Could I summon the courage to hit that pause button and coach myself through those same difficult questions?  

The offer would expire in less than 30 days. The clock was ticking, and hard questions began to emerge. At the top of the list—is it even financially feasible? Crunching the numbers seemed daunting at first, but ultimately it was the easier part. More demanding were soul searching questions like: What have I accomplished in my career and is it enough? Can I find other ways to contribute? What is my legacy? How much is my self-worth tied to my job? What will it take to accept the possibility that I may never work or earn a paycheck again?

After considerable reflection (and a few margaritas) my answers became clear.

This early retirement offer perched me on the edge of a pool of possibilities. I read somewhere recently that it is hard to know how deep the water is until you dive in. I cannot say I am totally ready, but arms flapping, legs pumping, eyes and heart wide open, I am going to take that leap.

No Writer Is An Island

I am a writer. This I've known all my life. What I only recently realized is that I am also an entrepreneur.

When I’m not writing or taking care of Daniel, I work with my dad, supporting his financial services business. At our office, new financial reps start each month; some of them make it, many don’t. It’s a job that requires initiative, persistence, and belief in what you’re doing. While telling my dad about the Philadelphia Writers Conference that I attended this month, he remarked that I was like the new reps, starting a business, but without the structure and support they have. I felt that internal click of a realization: I am an entrepreneur. I hadn’t thought about writing that way before. I enjoy the art of writing, but if I want this to be my career, it behooves me to think about it like a business also.

Before the conference, I had been looking for something to help my writing, I just wasn’t sure what. As I sat in the opening session, listening to bestselling author Jonathan Maberry describe how much writers benefit from supporting each other, I almost cried, realizing how lonely I had felt in my writing life. With my dad’s observation that I was like a new rep, I realized that it made perfect sense that I needed guidance, help, training, mentoring. Any newbie would. And if I can find those things, I have a much better chance of staying in the game long enough to succeed.

Realizations are nice and all, but now I need to put some things in place. At the conference I learned about monthly networking meetings for writers, and I plan on attending those. I discovered an active local listserv, and signed up for that. Those feel like two steps in the right direction. I also loved Maberry’s suggestion of using a timer, spending 10 minutes doing social networking for every 50 minutes of writing. These were the kind of specific suggestions I took away with me.

How do you connect with people in your chosen field? Any entrepreneurs out there? What are your support systems? How do you create support, find encouragement and learn about your field? This newbie appreciates your suggestions.

Falling Up

Falling Up

I tripped on my shoelace

And I fell up –

Up to the rooftops.

Up over the town.

Up past the treetops.

Up over the mountains.

Up where the colors

Blend into the sounds

But it got me so dizzy

When I looked around,

I got sick to my stomach

And I threw down.

Carol’s story of her fall last week made me recall this poem by Shel Silverstein.  A co-worker gave me his book “Falling Up” as I left for a new job.  The poem has come to symbolize my career for me. I’ve had 10 jobs at 8 companies in my career, and in the past year I’ve started to think a lot about what’s next.  Mostly I think about life after work, wondering how I will spend my time when I am unfettered by the golden handcuffs. 

I am a boomer, several years away from official retirement age, but close enough to plan. It occurred to me that you rarely see the gold watch exits these days. Sometimes companies nudge 60ish workers with early retirement packages to get them off the books, but plain vanilla layoffs (aka: “position eliminations”) are more the norm.  Every time a co-worker loses a job, I am relieved that the grim reaper has spared me, but I’m secretly jealous too. 

Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy my work in employee development. I have autonomy, I work with good people, I am fairly paid, and best of all, my co-workers appreciate what I do.  But after 30+ years, the theater of the corporation (pointy-haired bosses, restructuring, doing more with less) saps my energy more and more. I fantasize about a sabbatical.

So I dream about the possibilities, almost like when I have a ticket in a mega millions lottery.  What could I do with an extra 50 hours a week?  Write my novel?  Get in shape?  Work on the presidential campaign?  I really would like to spend more time with my husband who has been retired our whole marriage of 15 years.

This sounds pretty good for a few months, but for the next 20+ years?  (And let’s face it, my 401k is not even close to what the experts say I need to retire.) Suddenly, the creativity, the people and the perqs of my current job look pretty good.  (Look where my job is taking me in May.)  

Like Carol, I had a bad fall myself recently. I was looking ahead to where I was going when I stumbled off an unseen curb sprawling to the pavement.  “Watch where you’re going,” I heard my inner critic say as I evaluated the damages to my foot.  (It still hurts six weeks later.)

So the lesson I take from my fall (and from Shel) is that looking ahead is good, but being truly engaged in your “right now” might be a better choice.  I think I’ll stay put for a while and see where it takes me.

Anybody else feeling the urge to change?  What’s your story?

  

Follow That Dream!

It isn't often I can use "Mr. Ed" and University of Pennsylvania in the same blog, let alone in the same sentence. Not only dare I do it, but I do it with joy and humor. Because both of these icons share an award-winning musician as well as a warm place in this writer's heart. And both of these icons, as well as the musician they share, are especially meaningful to me at this time of year and this time of my life.

Okay, I've kept you in suspense long enough. "Mr. Ed"? Penn? Do go on...

First, some explication. Since May of 2011, I have been delightedly employed part-time at the University of Pennsylvania Veterinary Hospital's New Bolton Center in Kennett Square, PA. As the result of some serious soul-searching and an early "bucket list," I decided to follow my dream and work with animals in some capacity. While Penn was on my "A" list, I was warned by a friend: "It is easier to get accepted to Penn than it is to get a job at Penn." Although I applied elsewhere, I never took my eye off the prize. And never quite lost my awe of the Ivy League institution that finally accepted me.

Which is how I came to be a recipient of Penn's monthly newsletter "Almanac." Which is how I came to be acquainted with the name Ray Evans and the works his family has donated to the University of Pennsylvania Libraries. Which is how I can use "Mr. Ed" and University of Pennsylvania in the same sentence.

You see, Ray Evans is a 1936 graduate of the University of Pennsylvania. That's where he met Jay Livingston, a 1937 graduate. That's where the two men began a songwriting career spanning three decades: a career which garnered them three Academy Awards ("Buttons and Bows," "Mona Lisa," and "Que Sera Sera"). Mr. Evans and Mr. Livingston also penned the theme songs for popular television shows, the most notable being "Bonanza" and, my favorite, "Mr. Ed."

So, where am I going with this? Well, when I read the article, I immediately imagined Mr. and Mrs. Evans, parents of Ray, at the dinner table one evening, somewhat flabbergasted. "You mean to tell me we are paying for an Ivy League education so you can write jingles?" Somehow, Ray's choice of a career amidst the economics of Depression-era America must have stymied his folks.

But Ray Evans followed his dream. His story and his string of successes have endeared Penn to me forever. It has taken me almost a lifetime to follow a dream. That dream has led me, albeit part-time, into an Ivy League community which often leaves me awestruck. While others may emulate legions of stellar Wharton School grads, Penn Med surgeons, or even Penn Vet clinicians, I will cherish the Penn icon who stole my heart: Ray Evans, the man behind "Mr. Ed."

PS: Evans and Livingston also wrote my favorite Christmas song: "Silver Bells." Have a listen:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G8HdU0XNBJ4&ob=av2e

Happy Holidays to all!

Steve Jobs, 1955 – 2011, Don’t Settle

You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. —Steve Jobs

I planned a whole different blog today, but it just seems right to devote this space to Steve Jobs.

It’s not that I’m a techie, I don’t own a Mac or IPad or IPhone. Still, this brilliant man contributed so much to our world. In challenging himself and his company to push every boundary and think outside the lines, he taught us all about innovation, taking risks and daring to be different. He challenged us not to settle.

For me, his quote rings so true. I spent most of my career in Human Resources. Overall, I was successful, enjoyed much of my work, and didn’t love parts of it. I did those parts because I was learning and growing, and frankly, it paid the bills.

About a dozen years ago, I admitted to myself that my work didn’t fulfill me. For a long while, I tried to fill that gap by writing “on the side.” Still, I found myself thinking, I can’t do this work for another ten or twenty years.