A Jewish Funeral Brings Consolation

Recently, I attended a Jewish funeral service in a small cemetery chapel—the men seated on the right, the women on the left. The service began with readings from the Psalms in English and Hebrew:

“You will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.”

            At one point in the rabbi’s eulogy, he gave the mourners a lesson in the Hebrew language. He explained that the word for love was “ahava” and that the root of that word, “ahav,” meant “to give.”

            How beautiful, I thought. Love was not a noun; it was a verb. It was not a person or a thing; it was something we do. Nor was it something that “happens to us.” We do not “fall in love,” as if we were innocent bystanders. We give ourselves to love—to others. In a word, love is a gift.

            The lessons continued. When it was time to move to the burial site, eight pallbearers lifted the simple wooden casket and stepped slowly out of the chapel while the rabbi chanted a Psalm in Hebrew. The mourners followed.

            After the casket was eased into the ground, the bereaved, both men and women, participated in the ritual by pitching three or more spades of dirt into the grave. The first sounds of warm earth beating against the pine box sounded with a solemn thud, tolling the finality of a precious life.

            The lifetime companion of the deceased asked if I would participate in the burial tradition. “It’s so powerful,” he said.

            Naturally, I complied. And when I had finished, I handed the shovel to a woman, which, as I learned later, was a violation of the venerable ritual. I should have pierced the spade’s blade into the dirt. When I had wrongly handed the shovel to the next mourner, I was symbolically transferring my grief to her.

            At the end of the ceremony, the rabbi instructed us to wash our hands in a small water basin outside the chapel’s entry. We all followed his lead.

            As the people began to disperse, I searched out the rabbi. He was a man in his early fifties with a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a straight back.

            “Would you explain two things?” I asked. “The participative burial ritual and the washing of hands?”

            The rabbi did not look at me. He scanned the sky—perhaps seeking inspiration from heaven—but when he spoke, his voice was fluid, as if repeating a familiar recitation. “We are told in Deuteronomy that God buried Moses. And because we wish to be like God, we do as He has done. It is an act of love. We are offering a gift to the deceased, knowing that she cannot reciprocate. And so our love is pure.”

            “I see. And the washing of hands?”

            “We cherish life over all things. Whenever we are near death, we quickly cleanse ourselves of its pall of grief.”

            I thanked the rabbi as he turned to another who sought his wisdom.

            Standing still for a moment, I traced the evergreen treetops that poked into the sky. As I thought about the rabbi’s answers, the words that came to me were “closure” and “renewal.”

            I have never felt closure more dramatically than when I shoveled three spades of dirt into the open grave. For me it was a definitive and immutable goodbye. But when I washed my hands, there was a sense of renewal, a resurgence and rededication to life—a reminder to cherish whatever days remained.

            I was about to walk to my car, when my friend introduced me to a woman with an effervescent smile. I hesitated to shake her hand. “I just washed my hands,” I said apologetically, fearing my hands would be wet and clammy.

            “And I just washed mine,” the smiling woman said, as she took my hand in both of hers. And at that moment I felt a surge of gratefulness. Both she and I were clean and starting anew.

            I will probably never see that lovely woman again, but she reminded me that being alive merited a glowing, exuberant smile of thanksgiving. When the Psalmist wrote, “You will fill me with joy in your presence,” he was speaking of God. But at that moment in the sunshine—standing in the presence of a warm and gracious woman, her hands sheathing mine—it was she who filled my heart with renewed joy. And for that act of kindness, I am consoled.

Values are personal, principles are universal

So kissing a girl was like this—really kissing her hard on the lips, until my eyes rolled back and my toes clenched in the cavities of my high-top tennis shoes. It was 1960, and I was fourteen years old and quite sure that I had just discovered the meaning of the universe.

            Her name was Cheri, and we met on summer vacation at Newman Lake. In keeping with the rules of summer romances, the sun was hot and the water was a cool embrace of desire. I was in love.

            When the summer was over, Cheri and I kissed for the last time and promised that we would faithfully write to each other. We were true to our word until it happened.

            In Cheri’s last letter she mentioned that she had gone to the movies to see Elvis Presley in G.I. Blues.

            That’s when I dashed off the most scorching, idiotic letter of my life.

            “You call yourself a Christian,” I wrote, “and yet you go to movies. How is that possible?”

            That was the last time I heard from Cheri. I wrote a second and a third letter, both deeply remorseful and apologetic, but it was too late. The damage was done; the romance was over.

            So what happened?

            I did not understand it at the time, but the problem was a case of strong values and weak principles.

            Let me explain. Our values are personal and ingrained by the inculcations of our social system, especially from our parents. They are repetitive lessons of how we should behave: in my case, how I should pray, read the Bible, go to church, and, for goodness sakes, never go to the movies or dally with anyone who did.

            Values are subjective and morally debatable. For some it’s about money: “Make as much as you can without concern for all the other schmucks.” For others it’s about nationalism: “My country is always right, no matter what.” Still others base their values on religion (or distortions of religion): “Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers.”

            Principles, on the other hand, are objective and unchangeable natural laws. They are always true and always enrich our relationships.

            Some children are born into principle-centered families. They are the lucky ones for most youngsters are encumbered by a flawed value system of prejudices.

            Here’s a snapshot of some of the differences between values and principles.

Values Transient and arguable social norms	Principles Timeless and self-evident natural laws
Discrimination and judgment	Tolerance and understanding
Rules and regimentation	Exploration and discovery
Narcissism	Empathy

            The mission of values is to determine who is right. The mission of principles is to determine what is right. Value-based systems are divisive—shrinking our world; principle-based systems are enriching—expanding our world. A person who is solely value-centered will crush relationships, just as I crushed Cheri and the remembrance of our summer romance.

            Growing up requires the arduous task of evolving from a subjective code of values to an objective code of principles. Many people never arrive—being so entrenched in their own value system that they cannot see the immutable truth of principles.

A lesson in current events

            If you listen carefully to today’s presidential candidates, you can get a sense of who is more value-centered and who is more principle-centered.

            Listen to the words of Donald Trump: “The point is you can never be too greedy.” “My IQ is one of the highest — and you all know it! Please don't feel so stupid or insecure; it's not your fault.” “I think the only difference between me and the other candidates is that I’m more honest and my women are more beautiful.”

            Now, consider the words of Bernie Sanders: “I am who I am, and what I believe in and what my spirituality is all about is that we’re all in this together.”

            Donald Trump’s words imply an allegiance to the values of greed, arrogance, and sexism—just as immature and shortsighted as my attack on Cheri’s virtue. The difference is I was fourteen at the time; Donald Trump is sixty-nine.

            You know when a person is acting out of prejudicial values. Their behavior will disquiet, divide, and anger people. Sound familiar?

            I think that Bernie Sanders is a much more principle-centered candidate. When he says “we’re all in this together,” he is speaking of community and solidarity. These are principles. Creating a family, pulling together for a better, more peaceful world is a principle. Standing up for equal rights is humane, compassionate, empathic—all qualities of a principle-centered life.

            A politician’s position on current issues will also reveal his or her loyalty to values or principles.  For example, attacks on social security, labor unions, Medicare, and affordable education are value-centered. Support for lobby cartels that wrangle for the vainglory and self-interests of Wall Street is also value-centered. Such platforms are designed to feather the nests of the one percent and have nothing to do with principles.

Answering the inevitable question

            Some will argue, “Not so fast, Allen, don’t you think such values as judgment and self-interests are natural?”

            Yes, they are. But so is pooping in our pants. When we are a child we succumb to whatever is most natural. We do what we want, take what we want, and are indifferent to the needs of others. But if we are blessed with a mature social system and a discerning mind, we eventually become more sympathetic, more compassionate—more principle-centered. In other words, we grow up.

            I wonder who Cheri is kissing now. Not because I wish it were I (to quote Elvis, I’m not exactly “a hunk, a hunk of burning love” these days), but because I hope that she found a sweetheart who is spiritually evolved, one who would not judge her moral code, and certainly not one who would condemn her for watching the King swivel his hips. I hope she has found a mature, principle-centered soul mate.

            If I ever met Cheri again, I would recommend another movie: Pleasantville. One of my all-time favorite films, it beautifully illustrates the danger of black and white thinking—the very value that destroyed our romance. Then I would say, “I’m so sorry for being such a colossal, sanctimonious dope.”

A review of Pardon My French

Here's a nice review of Pardon My French by my undergraduate alma mater:

Review of Pardon My French

Astute Businesspeople Know the Difference between Policy and Mission

This is the tale of two business approaches: business as policy and business as mission.

First tale

            I was conducting a week-long training event in Atlanta. When I arrived at the front desk of my hotel, I asked the night clerk if the hotel had a workout room.

            “Yes, we do,” the twenty-something clerk said.

            “Wonderful. I need to start my workout at six in the morning.”

            The clerk regarded me with a prune-like face. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, we don’t open until seven.”

            “But I have to work out at six.”

            “I’m sorry, sir, that’s our policy.”

            Not willing to cave, I leaned over the counter. “Well, my policy is to be treated reasonably. Why don’t you just give me the key in the morning, and I’ll let myself in.”

            “I can’t do that. That’s not our policy.”

            “Right.”

Second tale

            I had just watched the 1987 film Wall Street, starring Michael Douglas. In that movie Douglas removes his very expensive suit jacket and reveals a pair of navy suspenders with white polka dots. Classy, I thought. Before the age of online shopping, I decided to telephone the buyer for men’s accessories at Nordstrom’s. His name was Higgins.

            “I know exactly what you’re talking about,” Higgins said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have those braces in stock. However, I’m going to Singapore next week, and I will look for them there. Would that be satisfactory?”

            “That would be most satisfactory,” I said, trying to fend off an English accent.

            Two weeks later, Higgins called me. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Johnson. I could not find the braces in Singapore. But I’m going to London next week. Perhaps I can find the material there, in which case we will happily make your braces.”

            “Well, you don’t have to go to London,” I said, a little embarrassed and tinged with a deep-seated fear that the final cost would be the price of a round-trip first-class ticket to Katmandu.

            “It is not a problem, sir. And I should mention that the cost will be exactly what we charge for our in-store items. So, please don’t worry. I just hope the delay is not inconvenient.”

            “Not at all, sir,” I said with relief--definitely sounding English at this point.

            Two weeks later, Higgins called a second time. “I’m delighted to say that I have found the material,” he said with a happy ring in his voice. “I have sent the material to Trafalgar, who makes our braces. We should have them in two weeks.”

            True to his word, I received the treasured suspenders in a fortnight.

            Here is my point: Many businesspeople do not understand the difference between

policies and mission.

            Policies are written for the convenience of the company. They are designed to make life easier for the business owners, and they are sacrosanct. They are a listing of all the employees’ duties and privileges—when they must be at work, when they can take a break, and when they can go home. Policies have little to do with serving the customer. The Atlanta hotel clerk was abiding by company policies, and his boss likely praised him for his strict allegiance to the corporate code. In fact, I would give you ten-to-one odds that neither the clerk nor the clerk’s boss could recite their company’s mission.

            A mission is a higher-order mantra, and it is always customer-centered. This is Nordstrom’s mission: "At Nordstrom, our goal is to provide outstanding service every day, one customer at a time." My buyer at Nordstrom’s understood the mission. (I thought of Higgins now as my buyer the way I thought of my ham sandwich or my boxer shorts, as personal and intimate.) Higgins did not have a fuzzy notion of the company’s mission; it was not limited to a slogan on a coffee mug; it was in his blood and as rich as English ale.

            The Atlanta hotel clerk could take a lesson from Hilton. They have a policy, too, but their policy is mission driven. Here it is: Whenever a request is asked of a Hilton employee, that employee—from the janitor to the president—owns the request.

            I remember once asking a Hilton janitor where I might find the men’s room.

            “Oh, let me show you,” he said.

            “You don’t have to show me,” I said meekly. “Just point.”

            “Oh, no, sir. Please follow me.”

            The amiable janitor led me to the bathroom door.

            “I think I can take it from here,” I said with a wary smile.

            Now that is a mission-driven enterprise.

            Some argue, “Sure, Nordstrom’s or the Hilton can afford to offer great service, but a struggling company cannot.”

            My answer to that is “bunk.” I suggest that they are struggling because they forgot their mission—or worse never learned it. It doesn’t take money to serve the customer; it only takes an attitude of servant leadership—something that is good for both customers and employees. There is pride in serving and gratitude for being served. I know: Nearly thirty years later I still think of my buyer, Higgins, when I proudly don my navy-with-white polka dot suspenders.   

Celebrate Life Until the Last Flicker of Light

           I’m losing my mind. Some may joke, “Well, Allen, we’ve noticed that for a good long time. Can you tell us something we don’t know?”

            So, never one to let a good question go unanswered, here’s what you don’t know.

            Three years ago, I photographed a wedding north of Spokane. At the end of the day, I drove home exhausted, but pleased with the work I had done.

            As soon as I arrived home, I collapsed into my favorite overstuffed chair with a cup of hot tea at my side. That’s when it happened. When I reached for my eight-ounce mug of sweet and spicy black tea, I realized I couldn’t lift the mug with my right hand. It was as though my arm no longer belonged to me.

            Feeling a little lightheaded, I managed to walk to the bathroom at the opposite corner of the house where my wife happened to be. I had one word emblazoned on my mind: Bayer. The word was scuttling helter-skelter like a cast of tiny sand crabs behind my eyes. BAYER. I knew the word, but it took me a full minute to blurt it out. Then another word came to my mind: aphasia—the inability to use words.

            My wife quickly drove me to the emergency room where we were immediately admitted. What ensued then was a battery of tests. Two days later—after having been poked, probed, scoured, and scanned—my doctor spoke to me in solemn, hushed tones.

            “You’ve had a stroke,” she said. “In fact, we have discovered that over the years you have had numerous strokes.”

            Now, I’m here to tell you that “numerous” and “strokes” are two words you never want to hear in the same sentence.

            Besides, how could that be happening to me? I eat a healthy Mediterranean diet. I have not spread a pat of butter on a dinner roll for fifty years. I’ve exercised every day of my life. The bathroom scale hovers within a single kilo of my ideal weight of 162 pounds. I’ve never smoked, and my alcohol consumption is limited to half a glass of wine once a month at the most.

            So why me? No one had answers—not the neurologist, cardiologist, astrologist, no one. After all the examinations and enough tubes to transform my body into a human bagpipe, they were all stymied. My arteries were clean, and my heart was ticking like a jeweled Rolex. The only possible culprit was sleep apnea—pauses in breathing while sleeping. (Additional tests showed that I was indeed a candidate, so I was introduced to a CPAP machine, which I have used ever since. Now I sleep through the night without a sputter.)

            The news got worse. I asked the doctor what kind of damage had been done to my brain.

            “There are three regions of damage: those that control balance, language, and personality,” she said, as if checking off the ingredients for a cob salad.

            Today, I can feel the ravages of a brain on too little oxygen. I now have to be careful about slipping into a pair of pants without a wall nearby for backup. I speak more slowly as my brain strains to find the precise word. (That’s particularly annoying to me. I agree with Mark Twain, who once said, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”) As far as personality goes, I have always been a borderline (my wife would say “enflamed”) perfectionist, but now I seem to want everyone  to be perfect—and right now, thank you very much.

            But here lies the real anguish: According to Dr. David Holzman of the Medical School at Washington University in St. Louis, “sixty-four percent of persons with a stroke have some degree of cognitive impairment, and up to a third have dementia.” If that were not bad enough, Dr. Rudy Tanzi, professor of neurology at Harvard University, reported that there is a link between strokes (had it), sleep apnea (had it), and Alzheimer’s disease (may get it).

            In the popular vernacular, I’m screwed.

            But not quite yet.

            For the time being I can still put my pants on, write a coherent sentence, and carry on a decent conversation without jumping down the throat of the listener—most of the time.

            So I work like a Spartan. I’ve published two books in the last two years, and I’ve just finished the second draft of a new novel. Yes, I feel a sense of urgency, so every day I spend about three hours chinking away at my computer.

            As long as my brain will allow, I will aim to make a modest contribution. That’s the way it has to be. For me to check out before my time, before my brain completely abandons me, would be an unjust, even a profane, swipe at life.

            As long as I am able, I will champion young talent, celebrate the arts, advocate for the oppressed, praise reason, promote peace, and revere the seasons of life.

            When I am no longer able, just pat me on the head and say, “You were a good man, Allen. You walked in the light as the light was revealed to you”—and that will suffice.

            And when the candle burns out altogether, know that I was grateful to be a minuscule and ephemeral flicker in the immense ocean of the stars.

          

Giving praise has the power to change lives

            I’m worried. The world of technology is on fire. It has seeped into every facet of our lives—some for good, some for ill. One of my greatest concerns is the loss of valued communication conventions. Today, many technology enthusiasts would rather text than talk, rather send an emoji than write a respectable sentence.

            Okay, I get it; it’s a new world, I have to adapt. And I admit that high technology for me is a ten-foot spring cord attached to the yellow princess telephone hanging on the kitchen wall. But there are some things that I refuse to give up. One is the powerful art of offering praise that is elegantly written or spoken.

            I once reported to a manager who was stingy with praise. I had the sense that affirming someone’s performance was, for him, as repugnant as kissing a goat on the lips. Here’s an email exchange that he and I had at the end of my first year with the company.

Allen: After a year on the job, are you satisfied with my work?

Manager: [No email response.]

Allen: Are you intentionally dodging my question?

Manager: No, I just missed it by not scrolling down. I’m satisfied.

Allen: You made me laugh. You embarrassed me with your extravagant praise. Why so wordy? You could have trimmed your analysis down to “Satisfied” or, better yet, “Uh-huh.”

Manager: Uh-huh J

           

            Everyone has a personal comfort zone. Who knows, my manager may have felt that the smiley face on his last entry was tantamount to a declaration of eternal love (although I doubt it). The point is I was not sure how he felt. That’s the problem with cryptic messages: they’re ambiguous, leaving you unsure about where you stand.

            “Gee, am I doing all right? Or do I need to change course? I just don’t know.”

            In contrast, an elegantly written or spoken affirmation can be a mighty motivator. Unfortunately, managers (as well as parents and teachers), may not know how to pen or articulate a full-fledged acknowledgment. In 1979, Xerox Learning Systems published an easy four-step affirmation model that does the job beautifully. Do you have an employee, student, or family member who merits a word of praise? Here’s how to do it in a way that will thrill the recipient.

1.    Make a general reference to the behavior or performance being praised.

2.    Give specific examples.

3.    Mention the personal qualities that contributed.

4.    Highlight the benefits to the company, school, or home.

           

            When I was in college, I played Shylock in a production of Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice. A few days after the final show I found a hand-written card in my student mailbox from the director of the music department. That was 50 years ago, and I still have that letter. I’d like to share it with you, not because I want to revisit my fifteen minutes of fame, but because it is such a beautiful example of a perfectly composed affirmation. The bracketed words are mine—a nod to the four-step Xerox model.

Allen

[General reference.] It was a delight to be in the audience for the final showing of The Merchant of Venice—a production made memorable by your performance.

[Specific examples.] I was impressed with your facility with Elizabethan language, which can be daunting. Your voice was powerful and your diction precise. More importantly, you were able to portray a myriad of nuanced emotions, which underscored your mastery as a young actor.

[Personal qualities that contributed.] It is clear that you are a diligent student of your craft. You had the personal resolve to make the performance come to life.

[Benefits to the organization.] Performances like yours herald the high standards of artistry for our college and, specifically, for our division of performing arts. Bravo.

            Those one hundred and eleven words of praise were pivotal in my decision to become a committed thespian. In the years that followed, I acted and directed on all levels—high school, college, community, and professional—a lifetime of theatrical bliss.

            What a small price to pay—just fifteen to thirty minutes to compose a thoughtful affirmation—when the payoff can kindle heartfelt gratitude, a revitalized commitment to excellence, or even a new vocational path. That’s a bargain I’ll take anytime. Uh-huh. J

          

American immigration is a saga of the human spirit

            My father was the bastard son of a whore. I could say it more politely, but it would not make it any less true.

            Don’t misunderstand me. I am not ashamed. What I will say about my parents is not meant to be judgmental or scandalous. Just the opposite. Given their harsh and even profane beginnings (an ancestry that I share), my words are a tribute—no, a celebration of their tireless resolve. Here then are their stories.

My father’s story

            Born in Finland in 1891, my dad’s mother, Hilja, was never very fond of school and, to make things worse, felt trapped by the cold, bleak landscape of her country. So when she was twenty-one years old, she decided to follow her two older sisters to the promised land, the United States of America.

            It did not go well for Hilja. At first she stayed with her oldest sister in Danbury, Connecticut. But when her sister discovered that Hilja was stealing from her, she summarily threw her out.

            Hilja made her way to Harlem, but she could not find work—at least not respectable work. At first she turned to trafficking bootleg liquor—mixing the brew in her claw-foot bathtub. Whatever she made from her enterprise must have been meager, because her last known residence was a bare, one-room cold-water flat. So, out of necessity—or determination if you advocate for the destitute—she turned to prostitution.

            In 1924, my father, Thurston, was born in Harlem. At the time, Hilja was living with one of her clients, a man who quickly abandoned the family. (That man, John Johnson, was not my grandfather, but I did inherit his family name.)

            When my father was six years old, a concerned neighbor reported that a barefoot boy was running wild in the streets. It was true. Thurston did not go to school; he was a moonshine delivery boy.

            When my dad was brought before the court, the judge determined that the youngster would be a ward of Brooklyn’s Kallman Home for Orphaned Children. The judge also decreed that the mother, who at the time was being treated for alcoholism at Manhattan’s Bellevue Hospital, had the right to take custody of her son whenever she chose. That never happened; my father never saw his mother again.

My mother’s story

            The story of my mother, Helen, is no less dramatic. She was also an illegitimate child, the daughter of a Greek merchant marine who jumped ship in New York City. His name was Tony Marco. He stole his best friend’s wife, Katherine, my grandmother, and eventually married her.

            Helen was five years old when her parents divorced. Katherine secretly slipped away in the night with her child, finding an apartment in the heart of Brooklyn. Katherine labored twelve hours a day, six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year as a seamstress in a Manhattan sweat shop. While her mother worked, Helen stayed at a low-rent Greek boarding house. For the next fifteen years, Tony lost sight of his daughter.

            Katherine was a fragile woman (eventually she would die in a mental institution). Working and raising a child without respite was more than she could endure. Her strength ebbing, she decided to place her daughter in the Kallman Home when the child was six, the same orphanage that sheltered my father.

            My parents celebrated twelve Christmases together in that Brooklyn orphanage. Each year the children would prepare a holiday concert. When the last note was sung, the young carolers giggled with anticipation, for they all knew the tradition to follow. The angelic women with broad hats and red lips from the local aid society would offer a single present to each child—a baseball or harmonica or doll, all fantastic gifts that made the orphans’ eyes shine with joy.     

            When my parents turned eighteen, they were both excited and saddened. They were required to leave the only home they knew, their beloved Brooklyn orphanage, with no more than a small suitcase and an eighth-grade education. Three years later, they were married—a marriage that lasted sixty-three years, until my mother’s death in 2008.

An American legacy

            Thurston and Helen Johnson raised two sons. I was the first, born with a questioning mind and a love for the arts. My brother, sixteen months younger than I, was always athletic, tender-hearted, strong-willed, and passionate about family.

            Today, my brother has three children, nine grandchildren, and two great grandchildren. My wife and I chose not to have children. However, we have done our best to contribute to society as lifelong educators.

            I don’t think our family story is particularly unique. But I do think it is uniquely American. It is a history of people who wanted a better life for themselves and would do almost anything to survive. Those strangers to a new land did not have it easy. In fact, their lives read more like a novel by Charles Dickens—scrambling, scavengering to survive. But their children had it better, and their grandchildren had it best of all.

            However the American drama is portrayed, it is surely a story of the auspicious dreams that immigrants held for themselves and, especially, for their children. Given that American heritage, can we be compassionate and gracious hosts—we the children of immigrants—when the weary, the desperate, the hopeful stand trembling, eyes scanning our shimmering shores of liberty?

            Why do I champion immigrants? Because my own lineage is draped in tainted struggle? Yes. Because turning my back would be curiously hypocritical? Absolutely. Because it is the American way? No question. But, more than anything else, I stand for the dispossessed because if I did not, I would be ashamed.

Allen Johnson is a columnist for the Tri-City Herald and the author of Pardon My French and The Awakening. His column, “Mindfulness,” appears on the first Sunday of every month.