Category Archives: Personal Experience

THE KINDNESS OF FRIENDS

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I’ve been living with my problem shoulder from last September when I tore one of my two remaining tendons in my rotator cuff.  It took me until March to get an unlikely operation—that is, my shoulder was so bad that only a handful of local surgeons would have operated.  Well, one of the really good ones did and, as my regular readers know, I’m in a 18-24 month recovery mode—with the clear information if I somehow screw this up, there’s no do-over.

So okay, I’m good about the exercises, PT, icing, and work hard not to get fucked up in order to be certain I won’t fall.  Protection, protection, protection.

I gotta say this has become a “teaching moment” for me.  I’m learning what I can and can’t do.  Some wasn’t all that bad.  Sleeping sitting up became tolerable, unable to drive was, at first, initially less of a hassle than I’d imagined.  But after a couple of months, both got really old.  Am happy to report that I now sleep in a bed and able to drive around the city.  And while the surgeon was extraordinary, my physical therapist was godsend.  I’d write an entire column about her but she’d be embarrassed so all I’ll say is that I owe my ongoing recovery to her.

But I’m not writing this to talk about what I can do but rather what I can’t.

I can’t play the sax.  I’m not speaking musically here but physically.  Although writing/editing/proofing has given me a sense of artistic pleasure, I miss the hell out of playing.  And while I take lessons in ear training (trying to learn to hear major or minor chords and notes) it just ain’t the same.

Although there are moments on my “music” night (Tuesday) that I find difficult when I listen to the ensemble in which I play, but I’d rather be there than home.  These are my friends.  My group.

Every year Music Maker Studios (http://www.musicmakerstudios.com/) has a recital.  I’m sure what jumps immediately to mind is individual kids struggling their way through their performance and, in truth, that is part of the concert.  But Bob, owner/teacher/friend is one of the few working musicians and teachers who welcomes adult and adult beginners.  Which means that different adult jazz groups are interspersed throughout the day, some of which play at local clubs in Boston.

I really didn’t think much about not being able to play with my ensemble and quintet other than some original relief about not spending the huge amount of time it takes for me to prepare.  And I do mean huge.  Plus, I was certain I wouldn’t miss the sweaty palms, frozen fingers, trembling hands stage fright that always happened before we’d begin our set.

The first inkling that my original relief might have been misplaced began when I watched the group rehearse.  Although the songs chosen weren’t particularly easy to play, I really wanted to try—especially since this year there were a couple of R & B tunes.  Plus, I have benefit of playing second tenor which means that if I miss a note (or notes) it’s always covered by Jim who, had he chosen to become a pro, would have succeeded.

But even during the rehearsals I really had no inkling about how I was going to feel at the recital.

Really no inkling.  I arrived for the morning session (despite that our group 8 Bars Chort was to lead off the afternoon) since I wanted to support all the students and Bob for all he’s done for me.

Well, by the time 8 Bars hit the stage I was totally funked out.  These were my friends, ensemble mates, and there I was sitting in the back row of the auditorium with no place to go and nothing to do.  At that moment I just wanted to disappear.

The group swung into the first song and it jumped.  Was great to hear but drove me lower and deeper into my seat.

Then it was shock time.  Our multi-instrument (soprano, alto, flute, tenor) player and singer Emily Karstetter grabbed the microphone, called me onto the stage, explained that although I was a group member why I hadn’t been up there, then sat me down next to her, and sang The Nearness of You.

Crazy how quickly a mood can change.  From completely bummed to tearish appreciation and, most importantly, the feeling of once again belonging.  Turned out that the group had been trying to figure out a way to get me onto the stage and Emily just grabbed the opportunity.  For which I will always be grateful.  Those sweet sort of things don’t happen often and I will always cherish that moment.

Love you Emmy.  And thank you 8 Bars.

I placed a video of the song on my Facebook author’s page if people are interested.  Also, if you happen to find the page worthwhile, by all means ‘like’ it.

https://www.facebook.com/ZacharyKleinAuthorPage

In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. ~ Albert Camus

BACK ON THE STREET

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Before this past Thursday, I couldn’t have told you the last time I attended a demonstration.  Yeah, I can remember Jesse Jackson rallies, Obama telephone banks, getting out the vote phone calls.  But I don’t remember sticking my neck out at any significant political demonstration since dirt.

During the years I worked at Simon & Associates as a trial and jury consultant, the office devoted itself to clients wronged by the existing oligarchy, though it wasn’t the kind of work that brought in a ton of money.  Didn’t matter.  We believed we were wearing the white hats.

Our clients were always working or poor people who, in one way or another, had been masticated by major corporations.  An example:  We represented a number of plant workers’ families whose husband and/or fathers were killed by the vinyl chloride industry that, for over twenty years [1950-1974], knew the processes they used to create Polyvinyl chloride were life threatening for its workers, but didn’t bother to improve safety measures AND kept that information hidden.  The result of the cover up?  Many people died and the industry got a cause of death named after them, vinyl chloride disease, aka angiosarcoma of the liver.  And that’s just one example of the type work we did.

Since we were the ‘good guys’, when there was a demonstration about issues I believed in (opposing the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, Israeli apartheid etc), I told myself that my work was my politics so I didn’t need to attend.

By the time I left the law, the issue of attending demonstrations became stickier.  The 98%ers were beginning to gear up and, while I believe the issue of income disparity is one half of the two-headed monster under which we live (the other being racism), I still managed to avoid the streets.

Somehow I convinced myself that since I was now writing about “large” political issues from a progressive perspective, I was doing my share.  Hey, I intended to telephone bank for Elizabeth Warren so my bona fides were still intact.  At least according to me.

Wednesday night I received a call from my close friend, Bill.  Recently retired, he had become involved in an organization called City Life/Vida Urbana whose headquarters were located in my part of Boston.  He told me about a neighborhood family who, along with the community organization, had been fighting eviction since around 2008 when their house went underwater, i.e., the value dropped to the level where they were unable to make full payments due to the housing market crash over which they had no ability to control.  A building that, by the way, had been used as a crack house until this family moved in and fixed it up.

Fuck the good they had done for the neighborhood and larger community.  Rather than negotiate, the bank chose to evict and Thursday was going to be the day the rubber was gonna hit the road.

So Bill asked if I’d like to join him in protesting the eviction and I reluctantly agreed.  We met at the eviction house where I told him I could picket but couldn’t let myself get arrested for a variety of reasons including my shoulder rehab.  Well, it turns out that City Life/Vida Urbana won’t allow new members to do civil disobedience until after a training session, something Bill and I didn’t know at the time.

As I headed home and thought about my rationalizations for backing away from nonviolently resisting the eviction, I realized they were actually driven by fear.  Not only on this day, but in the past as well.  Decades since I’d been behind bars for political reasons, the thought of getting locked up at my age was a step I had been unwilling to take.  I also realized I felt really lousy about my attitude and decision.  This was a grossly unfair eviction by heartless, faceless banks with their lackey lawyers.  And I was just walking away.

I felt ashamed.  And that feeling has yet to dissipate.  I’d been too anxious about what might happen to me instead of the causes I believed in throughout all these years.  Frankly, it doesn’t feel too good to be a coward.

Sadly the family was evicted despite the demonstration and despite those who linked arms and were arrested–including our state representative Liz Malia.

This was a battle lost but the war continues and I plan to hit the streets again.  It’s time for this old Yippie to take up my metaphorical sword–fear, rehab, age, and all.

Make room City Life/Vida Urbana.  I’m signing up for your training session.  Even though I did cut my hair.

“Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

WHAT THE HELL IS “WINNING?”

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The other night I settled back into my recliner (or life-chair given the time I’m forced to spend in it) to watch an N.B.A. play-off basketball game.  My hound was in the hunt, though the legitimate underdog for multiple reasons.  The game see-sawed back and forth and even went into overtime.

My team lost but I turned the television off with a huge sense of pride and satisfaction, despite the point differential. It got me thinking about what winning and losing really are.  My team had played with heart, had left nothing in the locker room.  They never quit, never stopped trying.

I just couldn’t see them as losers.  And given my propensity for (often neurotic) perseveration and self-centeredness, I began to apply the question to my own life.

Music rushed through the door.  It’s an area where I confront the sense of failure more often than not.  The excuses came hard and fast: I never learned to play an instrument or even had a music lesson as a kid.  Didn’t try the art until I was past fifty.  Muscle memory is really difficult at my age, music is math and I count on my hands, everybody has more experience than I–but all the rationalizations rang hollow.  And while I can play some, the truth is, after the first six or seven years I stopped giving it everything I have.  Stopped spending the long hours woodshedding necessary to become adept at what I knew was going to be a really difficult do.

I wish I could explain why that occurred, but it did.  Perhaps I couldn’t hear the musical “voice” like the writing voice that came naturally to me.  Or the honest realization that I’d never be able to move my fingers fast enough no matter how hard I tried, or my inability to place the upbeat where it belonged despite my daily work with the metronome.  Maybe I found my limitations too painful because I truly love music.  Love a musician’s ability to move me, to make me feel.  And it’s frustrating because I actually know the difference between plowing everything I got into something or not.

Writing is a perfect counterpoint.  Never made a best seller list.  Never had more than 40 people attend a reading.  Still, there wasn’t a moment I doubted that my books were better than good.  Had I, I wouldn’t be working to digitalize them.

Of course, some of that belief came from critical acclaim.  You can’t be a Times Notable and get other good reviews without reinforcing your own positive feelings.  But the sense of pride I have in the work actually comes from within.  I know the energy and effort I gave.  I’d wake up in the mornings with my characters whispering in my ear, I’d struggle a day or more to write a paragraph exactly the way I wanted it to sound in the reader’s ear.  If called for, I spent holidays at my desk, gave up vacations, and virtually lived inside my head until the book became what I wanted, needed it to be.

After I left Random House, I worked with a different agent who suggested I stop writing Matt Jacob novels. At that time, mysteries were dominated by woman writers (a super good thing since they had been barred since dirt) and detectives entering into one sort or another of rehab programs. I’d have better sales if I created a whole new set of characters and milieu. So I worked on a different kind of novel for nine or ten months but it just wasn’t there.  The characters didn’t talk to me, I was loathe to go into my office, give up weekends, or live in my mind.  Called the agent, thanked him, and quit writing.

When I look back at my writing life, despite the anguished period of it, I feel as I did after that basketball game.  I’d given it everything I had.  The points weren’t there, but I was a winner.

And when I start a new Matt Jacob novel after all the previous ones are up and running,  I’ll need to have close  to the same desire and commitment  ’cause if I don’t, the quality I strive for will be missing and, if it is missing, I’ll just walk away again.

But I’ll have to find a way to do this without giving up all my time because I plan to press ahead with music in a far different way than before.  I haven’t been allowed to lift any of my saxophones for months and it’s amazing how much I miss it.  Though I simply don’t have the natural talent that I do as an author, so what?  I’m not going to become another Ben Webster, Dexter Gordon, Hank my cousin, or Bob my teacher.  But I can work harder, practice more, become the best that I can.  I don’t have to compete with Ben, Dex, Hank, or Bob to win.

Last Saturday and Sunday night the two teams played again.  Both times my team won–once in another overtime.  It pleased me as a fan, but the game I’ll remember will be the game that we lost.

“Inspiration exists , But it has to find you working.” Pablo Picasso

 

THIS PARENT’S PLEASURE

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On May 19th my oldest son is marrying Alyssa Casden, a truly wonderful woman.  The marriage comes at the end of one of Matt’s most painful years when his mother and his mother’s sister died within months of each other.

Dealing with death is always tough, but not only did Matt and Alyssa work through their emotions, they played point on all the arrangements and every detail.

Yes, they had help.  Peg and Marlene’s friends, us, Jake, Alyssa’s family–but the weight fell on them.  Bigtime.

Watching Matt handle the situation with calm sensitivity wasn’t a surprise.  Alyssa at his side didn’t surprise either.  But until Federal Judge, Mark Wolf, who will officiate their ceremony, asked Sue and I to write about them that my lack of surprise made serious sense.

When I think of life together with Matt, lots of thoughts and images pop into my mind.  He began living with me half the week at a point where I was much less stable than now.  But he rolled with it.  Even enjoyed some of the mishigas like being brought to school on a motorcycle (I wrapped a rope around the two of us) or when we hitch-hiked in town when I no longer had the cycle or a car.  Hard for people not to stop when a little, little guy has his thumb out.

He didn’t eat all that well when with me since I can’t cook.  Spagettios were a staple as was baked macaroni, the only meal I knew how to make.  But we did well, despite the lack of nutrition, and having to move into different apartments a couple of times during those early years

But more importantly than us doing well was Matt’s ability to do tremendously well academically and socially no matter what was happening in his home life.  Which, as time moved on, became more stable–as did I.

We moved in with my friend Bill who helped father Matt in more ways than I can count.  Built him his own house out of a giant empty refrigerator box and was always willing to play ‘pong’ which was the video game of those times.  We also ate a whole lot better.  It was Bill who took him to newly created video arcades.  Bill and Matt had a ton of fun together and still do whenever Matt visits.  And it still makes me happy to watch them hang.

But when Matt was seven our lives really settled down once we moved in with Sue.  During those beginning years I worked evenings at home upstairs.  When I’d come down after meeting with a client, many times during the week Matt and Sue were sitting at our kitchen’s enamel topped table having tea together along with an after-school snack.  And often their conversation centered around going to movies and having a ‘candy’ supper.

Despite the sugar, or perhaps because of it, I was always amazed at his intense work ethic.  I knew he was both smart and insightful, but the degree of commitment to flat out work (academic or otherwise) was mind-boggling.  I can’t count the number of times during high-school when, at 1 A.M. and I was ready for bed, I’d go into Matt’s room and find him asleep in his clothes, school book open on his face.  I’d wake him, suggest he go to sleep, and was consistently met with, “Thanks for waking me, Dad. I just want to get in one more hour.”

As someone (me) who always had difficulty with school, there were times when Matt’s success blew me away.  When he graduated from Boston Latin as president of his class, 6th academically, then accepted to Yale with close to a full boat, I felt like an immigrant parent: “My son the American.” 

It was also during his high-school years when his half-brother was born.  When Jake was able to motor around the house, Matt used to lay on the living room floor, wait until Little Guy was in reach, snatch him, and roll around wrestling and tickling until Jake would ‘get away’ and repeat his run waiting for the next grab.

Watching them become even closer now, as they both grow older, has given both Sue and I great pleasure.  And gave Peggy pleasure as well when she was alive.

Another picture also always comes to mind.  Matt’s internal desire to meet, reach out, make friends with people of all colors and nationalities.  A tough do in Boston.  But something he did from before high-school and continues to this day. Something that makes me proud and appreciative about the person he is.

And of course my intense satisfaction in knowing about all the positive work he’s done from his high-school years to now with people less fortunate.  Matt has an unending commitment to helping high risk kids in inner city schools.  It’s pretty clear he won’t rest easy until schools and school related programs provide an education that gives these kids a legitimate shot at a decent life.

Which goes for Alyssa as well.  It’s not accidental that they share those basic beliefs and dedicate their lives to them.

I can’t imagine anything that could bring more joy to a parent (me again) than loving Alyssa, for who she is herself, as well as for the wonderful qualities she elicits from my son.  I simply can’t imagine a better example of people who love and bring out the best in each other.

As mentioned above, Alyssa lived through one of the most difficult times in Matthew’s life.  And stood shoulder to shoulder every inch of the way.  I have absolutely no doubt he would have done the same.  It’s pretty damn nice to see people who love and give to each other.  It’s a mitzvah.

And finally, having spent time with Alyssa’s family, it’s gonna be really great to have them as relatives.

Although I’ll be writing next Monday’s post, Sherri Frank Mazzotta will pinch hit for the 21st.  The following week I’ll be hunting and pecking, the only difference–I’ll have a larger family.  And will love it.

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out and loudly proclaiming “WOW, WHAT A RIDE”

VOTING? VOTING, YOU’RE TALKIN’ ABOUT VOTING?

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About four years ago, Sue, some friends and I spent two to three nights a week at a local telephone bank making calls for Barack Obama.  I’ll never forget election night when, after the last call had been made and the telephone center cleaned, a group of us walked to a nearby watering hole.  And damn near couldn’t get in the door as wall-to-wall people boisterously cheered the countdown to his victory.  Strangers hugged and kissed and there were more than a few wet eyes as hope became reality.  We had our first Black president, and one who promised the next four years were going to be different than the previous eight.  We believed we’d finally reached the end of the Reagan Revolution.

Not so.  The war in Afghanistan continues; Iraq is still a mess; innocent until proven guilty doesn’t count for people who the government defines as potential terrorists; indeterminate detention has become part of our daily life.  And all this and more with the president’s tacit (sometimes not so tacit) approval.

Not exactly the change I was hoping for.  Not even close.

I understand the obstacles the president faced.  Blue Dog Democrats who were stalwart against any significant reform.  An opposition party that made it clear from the jump they had only one agenda item—anybody but Obama in 2012.  And stuck to it no matter how many times the president played nicey-nicey.

I’m even aware of the positive changes Obama managed to press through despite opposition from both parties.  He…

Overhauled the food safety system;

Approved the Lily Ledbetter “Equal Pay” for women rule;

Ended “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” discrimination in the military;

Passed the Hate Crimes bill in Congress;

Pushed through the Affordable Health Care Act, outlawing denial of coverage for pre-existing conditions, extending until age 26 health care coverage of children under their parents’ plans while adding coverage for around three million more people.(Though a really long spit from Medicare for All, it actually is better than what we had before.)

Expanded the State Children’s Health Insurance Program (SCHIP) health care for children;

Pushed through a $789 economic stimulus bill that saved or created 3 million jobs and began task of repairing the nation’s infrastructure; (Again, way, way too little money to really jump start the economy.)

Established the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and used a recess appointment to keep it on track in the face of GOP attempts to derail it;

Outmaneuvered GOP in naming two members of the National Labor Relations Board blocked by the Republicans in their attempt to shut down the NLRB;

Won two extensions of the debt ceiling and extensions of unemployment compensation in the face of Republican threats to shut down the U.S. government.  (Ask the unemployed how they felt about that one.)

And, in my mind, most importantly, appointed two progressive women to the U.S. Supreme Court including the first Latina.

Sadly, despite the above and more, he hasn’t stopped, or even slowed, the Reagan vision of America.  Nor has he sustained the enthusiasm and hope of his most ardent supporters–young people.  Which leads to the one overriding emotion he has engendered in me.

Fear.

Gore Vidal once said, “We live in a nation that has one political party with two right wings.”  That rings incredibly true.  But given our choices, it’s the Republican wing that scares the hell out of me.

I’ve watched the Supreme Court turn corporations into people, tear the Miranda decision to shreds, permit search and seizures without probable cause and, in general, turn back the clock as if the present and future just don’t matter.  This is what we have now and, with two judges deep into their eighties, I don’t want Mitt Romney picking potential nominees.  Not ever.

Still, I find myself unwilling to put the time and effort into Obama’s re-election and my friends feel the same.  While I’m guessing most progressives will probably drag themselves to the polls and vote, it might not be enough to keep Republican hands off the driving wheels of all three branches.

More fear.  It may all come down to our younger adults.  Will they vote for Obama given their disappointments?   Right now, I ain’t betting rent.

So what’s a progressive to do?  Sit still, vote, and pray that we’re not looking at a Republican horror show at the end of the day?  Drag our asses to the phone banks?  Somehow I don’t think that idea is really gonna be enough this time.  Which leaves progressives with the imperative to talk to those young adults.  Without their willingness to vote for Obama (holding their noses, if need be) we’re gonna be catapulted back in time in ways that will annihilate what little progress we’ve made.

I don’t want corporations to be ”people.” I don’t want a larger net fishing for those who DWB (Drive While Black—and, now Brown as well) I don’t want Arizona to lead the nation into greater and more pervasive racism.  I don’t want the rich to grow richer while the poor grow poorer and the middle class slides down the greased economic pole.  I want to retain all that remains of our civil liberties and the First Amendment.  I don’t want back-alley abortions.

So yeah, I’m gonna vote.  And I’m gonna talk to every young adult I can about voting too.

As far as canvassing and calls, I’m not sure.  Probably depends upon how much more frightened I am as we approach November.

And I’m plenty scared now.

“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” Alice Walker