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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday July 2, 2001 Volume III Number 27 |
FOCUS - Boomers
There is perhaps, no more effective conversation stopper between the generations than the old familiar opener, “When I was your age…”
Or a close second, “When I was in school…” It’s right in there with, “I remember the days when…” Or even worse, the patronizing, “You think you’ve got it rough? … let me tell you what happened to me…” and that begins the inter-generational game of one-ups-man-ship… and there never is a winner, really, because the younger of the two generations doesn’t even try to top that. No contest. It’s no use. A response will only serve to trigger one more volley of musty memories with only one guarantee… the older contributor, with far more experience spinning verbal yarn, will not stop until he or she has the last word. So generally, the younger will surrender early, look for the door, or some other excuse to exit, and leave the older one there to entertain nearly no one else, except perhaps, himself.
I remember quite clearly when I was the younger one giving a courtesy nod to my reminiscing partner in conversation, older than me, with those crystal clear recollections of a bygone era that easily pre-dated mine. I’d feign interest. But if there had been some of those Woody Allen subtitles at the bottom of the frame detailing my actual thoughts, you would have read something like, “This pathetic babbler is hopelessly stuck in the thick and gooey mud of his colorless past. This interminable monologue is not a dialogue. Why can’t we TALK? He’s got zip zilch nada no interest in my life. Only his. Will he notice the yawn I’m working so hard to disguise? I hope I can maintain a pleasant mask and that my look is not rude. But this protracted story is so incredibly BORING.”
That was then.
Now, I find those same phrases, those same openers, those conversation stoppers, popping into my mind like canine saliva at the ring of the dinner bell in the mouth in one of Pavlov’s dogs. The kid tells me something about his or her life, and bingo, a memory hits. One of my often told stories from the past, which has no doubt become better with age, like a fine cabernet, and I want to tell it. It comes floating out of my mouth with such unexpected ease, almost like a song, “When I was your age…”
I don’t simply tell it straight out either. I want to set the stage, fill in the detail, and set up the punch lines. And as I proceed, I see that same glassy look evolving in those eyes before me. The slow yawn, disguised with a hand to the mouth and an empty nod of phony approval and a tight jaw, but in spite of all the non-verbal communication, I forge ahead, believing somehow that this life experience, told with such pathos and zeal, will indeed strike a cord of reality in the mind and heart of my listener, and may even perhaps shed new light on some universal human dilemma, and he or she will someday thank me for sharing the insight and wisdom from my fascinating past.
But then the yawn breaks lose, wide open, impossible
to hide any longer, and it hits me like a Mack Truck gets t-boned when it fails
to beat the freight train roaring through the railroad crossing. “Oh my gosh… what is happening to me?”
“I’ve become one of THEM.”
* * * * * *
Richard Roe is fifty-something. A dozen years ago, he was successful enough as a stockbroker to take three months off, gather up his wife and three boys, and embark on a once-in-a-lifetime trip around the world. The three sons, grouped together and two years apart, were sixth grade through sophomore year in high school.
They stopped in all the exotic ports and experienced what most people only dream of. When Richard returned home, he left the high-anxiety, lightening fast paced world of trading and devoted his life to social causes.
Twelve years later, Richard’s life unraveled; came apart at the seams. His wife, weary of his relentless quest for high-risk thrills and his laser focus on meaning and his quirky obsessions, his endless search for the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, well she just got tired. So she left.
Then his business blew up. His boys went off pursuing their own dreams.
Richard Roe was fifty-two. And like never before, alone.
He poured over his 401(k) statement, which was about all he had left after the divorce settlement got inked. And an idea struck him like a lightening bolt. “What the heck? This pile of cash isn’t going to last anyway. One way or the other, I’m gunna have to find a new career. Again. If I sell this thing out, liquidate, I’ll have enough for one more trip around the world. This time, six months. And by the time I get home, I’ll be ready to get started again.”
So that once-in-a-lifetime trip wasn’t. It would be a welcome repeat.
“I wonder if one of my boys would come with me?” he mused.
And the more he thought about it, the more important it became to have one of them accompany him.
He knew he’d been the typical father, obsessed with work, ever focused on the future, not really there for his sons. Maybe his former wife, the mother of the boys, had been right all along. She accused him of being distant. Aloof. Absentee. Truant. When pressed, he always had the right answers. His excuses were brilliant, convincing. And he did bring home a fat paycheck. But the plain fact of the matter was this, she said: he long ago vacated his role as a husband and father. The boys hardly knew him. And their mother had only a fading memory of an eager young man who once courted her like she was a princess. But that was a long time ago. That family around-the-world vacation was the one and only interlude to his neglect.
And then it hit him even harder. His father checked out, too. When Richard was a schoolboy, his dad had some sort of breakdown and became entirely dysfunctional. Disabled. They moved him out of the house and into a State hospital as a permanent resident. The abandoned family barely survived the mean streets of the Bronx where they lived in a high-rise low income flat.
Here he was, fifty-something, and he reflected on the commitments he made way back then. He would be a real dad. And provide a real home. He would be a mentor and guide for his children. He would give them affection and warmth and approval and openly show his pride in their accomplishments. He would open doors of opportunity for them. He would be their number one fan. He would be everything his own father wasn’t. He would do whatever it took to protect his family from the awful poverty and abandonment he had known as a boy.
But the cold and hard realization hit him. He provided the home. The opportunities. He even opened doors. But he’d been pre-occupied all those years. Distracted by a world of work. He missed so much. Now the boys were gone forever. And the wife of his youth. And something deep down hurt. Really hurt.
He wondered out loud if one of his boys might accompany him. He had some making up to do.
His
youngest was the artist. A graphic designer. He
was tall and strong and bright and articulate and fun-loving.
An adventurer. An athlete. A
photographer.
They laughed out loud and high-fived each other, sealing the deal. Chris Roe said to his father, “Yep. I’m in. Let’s do it.”
So they did.
* * * * * * *
Kerry Meads and Vanda Eggington are living out their dream. As thespians, they are lifers. They write. They perform. They live and work in one of the most coveted communities on Planet Earth. And have for over twenty years.
Coronado
Island lives up to its reputation. It’s
a breezy, lazy, charming slice of the best of Southern California.
It’s the home of the historic Hotel Del Coronado… the locals call it
simply, “The Del.” The grand
and gleaming white stately structure with the red roof stands prominently on
the sandy beach overlooking the blue Pacific from decks and porticos and
turrets and spires and towers with flags snapping in the breeze from every
corner and post. The green lawns
and colorful gardens and awnings and shades are gathering places for
extraordinary people watching. Sit
there long enough, and you’ll see a familiar face, like paging through a
recent issue of PEOPLE Magazine, the rich and the famous and the infamous,
strolling by like everyone else. Stay
long enough, and Charley Chaplain will appear on the sidewalk, mustache, top
hat, tails and cane, entertaining visitors who giggle and point and want a
picture.
To get there, you must traverse a monster sky-bridge spanning the harbor, built high enough for the US Naval Fleet, battleships and frigates and aircraft carriers, to pass effortlessly in and out of port below. And as you round the bend and make your descent from the peak of the Coronado Bridge, it’s as though you are piloting an aircraft, touching down on a magical island way beyond the world you’ve known all your life. And passing the tollgate, you’ve entered the Coronado – a world of dreams.
Down the lane, beyond The Del, along the beachfront, through the rows of Victorian beach houses and manicured lawns and Jaguars and Mercedes and Land Rovers, the tall palms swaying gently in the salty ocean breeze and the steady sound of waves pounding against the sand, on the Boulevard between the boutiques and open-air cafes and bistros and hair salons and just across the street from the original cold-stone ice cream shoppe, MooTime, is the Lamb’s Players Theatre, where Kerry and Vanda write and perform..
The two collaborated on their most recent original work.
They are both dancing with age fifty. In 1996, they wrote a two-hour musical stage production telling the story of children born between 1946 and1964. The story, narrated by an absent minded professor of sociology with a frumpy knit tie and wrinkled corduroy jacket, takes the audience through the decades, hitting every major political milestone, television fad, hits on the pop song charts and movie screen. There are six singer-dancer-actors on stage. They go through a dozen costume changes and a hundred songs, mimicking the stars who defined a generation.
They call the show BOOMERS.
Scott
and Terry and Carolyn and I laughed and clapped and cried through two hours of
non-stop story telling. As they performed Where the Boys Are, I Got You Babe,
Blowin’ in the Wind, Going to the Chapel, Yesterday, Light My Fire, We Shall
Overcome, Stairway to Heaven, Respect, to name a few, they were indeed,
telling our story. We saw
ourselves in every line, every lick, every kick, and every period outfit.
As we scanned the room, the hair was gray. The actors were aging, too. A couple of them thick around the waist. We looked at them, and then and each other. And we shrugged.
Get this… the children of the BOOMER generation are in their twenties and early thirties. They are making BOOMERs grandparents. AARP card carryin’ GRANDPARENTS.
“When I was your age…”
* * * * * * *
Chris and Richard Roe fired up their cameras in LA to rehearse a theme that would characterize their father-son trip around the world. They found a father and son at their local fitness center to take their first interview.
Then Richard and his son Chris told Duke and his son Mel that they were about to embark on a six month round the world journey. They brought their cameras along to record the highlights of the trip. They wanted to bond as a father and son. And they wanted to interview fathers and sons around the globe to see if there were common themes that crossed cultural barriers in the father-son relationship. Duke and Mel consented to be their first interviewees.
The results took the four of them by surprise. Mel admitted on camera that he only recently discovered that Duke was not his birth father. But, he said, it didn’t matter because he loved the man who was there for him during his growing up years. In a moving sequence, the two men wept as they affirmed a love and appreciation they had for each other.
“I love my Dad,” said Mel.
“…And when he says that,” explained Duke, “I know he’s talkin’ about me.”
Through his manly tears, young Mel nodded in agreement.
The Roes boarded their jetliner leaving LA headed for New York City and the Bronx apartment where Richard was raised by a single mom in the fifties. From there, they went to Baltimore to visit the gravesites of Richard’s father and mother. Camera rolling, Richard explained to Chris about how it was that his own father abandoned him, and left his mother and siblings to fend for themselves in a cold and harsh world – the streets of New York City. As he revealed an encounter with his dad, years later, in the mental ward of a sterile state hospital, tears flowed again. And father and son embraced beside the tombstones.
Their
trip continued, exotic ports, strange new foods and accommodations and
sightseeing, but always talks with fathers and sons.
In France, the Czech Republic, Budapest, Cairo, Pretoria, Cape Town,
India, Vietnam, and Australia. Some
of them wealthy, most of them representing the mainstream of their cultures,
and one of them with a famous name.
Richard wandered up to the stage after a concert performance and embarrassed Chris when he explained to the lead singer what he and his son were doing on their round-the-world adventure. To everyone’s surprise, Julian Lennon agreed to an interview the following day on the beach at Cap d’Ail in France. He talked candidly and openly about his father, John.
After six month’s travel and an insane tandem bungee jump off a bridge spanning a river gorge somewhere down under in Australia, the two compiled their one hundred thirty hours of film into a two hour feature length docu-drama. MGM took note of the many awards the film won, including a runner up Academy Award nomination, and distributed it in theaters across the country, and now make it available on DVD.
It’s called Pop & Me.
* * * * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader.
Chances are good that in your world of work, some of your co-workers come out of a different generation. Lyndon B. Johnson first spoke of the Generation Gap. That great cultural divide. It is not easily bridged.
Your values, your perspectives, the way you process information, the way you resolve conflicts and solve problems, the way you communicate… are all different. Intuitively, you will think your way is better. Superior. Natural. Effective.
But before you pontificate, make your pronouncement, issue your judgment, bark your orders, tell your illustrative story… stop for a minute… and think about this:
Be sure you are listening. Make certain you understand the other’s point of view.
Rich and Chris took six months to break down some of the barriers that separate fathers and sons. There was a time when BOOMERs really did believe that their perspective on the universe was the only way to change the world for the better. Some still hang on to that dogma. But if you are a Boomer holding on tight to Boomerhood, and ramrodding Boomer values down the throats of your kids and your colleagues and your editorial page and your mission statement, be ready for more than a few yawns and overt subject changes.
Sons need to be heard. And respected. And trusted. Colleagues, too. And spouses.
Bite your tongue.
Let them tell you their stories.
Listen with keen interest.
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2001
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
LeaderFOCUS is a service of Good Stewardship Associates
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