The Henry Kissinger I Never Knew

I am a child of the Reagan Revolution. I was 10 years old when the "Great Communicator" entered the White House and, as a result, I became fascinated with politics, government and American history, but especially the presidency itself. And, as I read more and learned more about the men who had held the office I found myself increasingly pulled toward Richard Nixon. I found him utterly fascinating, a tragic character at a tragic time in our country's history, possessing both a brilliant mind and a deeply flawed character. Nixon and those in his inner circle were redefining the American political landscape in ways they couldn't even imagine.

One morning during the fall of my senior year of high school I was having breakfast and watching the morning news when I heard that Henry Kissinger was scheduled to speak that very morning at a conference taking place just 10 minutes from my home. I turned to my mom and said "I'm not going to school this morning. I'm going to hear Henry Kissinger." And so I did.

I put on a tie, found my way to the conference site and discovered that Dr. Kissinger was the keynote speaker for the annual meeting of the National Radio Broadcasters Association, or something like that. I walked into the foyer of the ballroom into a sea of VERY SERIOUS ADULTS gathering over coffee and continental breakfast. At that moment my youthful boldness wore off and I was scared. A child impostor, living on the edge, sure to be discovered and tossed out on my ear. And so I did what anyone would do in this situation; I had a danish. Desperate to fit in, I choked it down and headed towards the ballroom entrance. Once inside, I made what turned out to be both a crucial and fortuitous error: I walked to the very far side of the room, leaving myself no escape.

I took a seat in the back, appreciating that the ballroom was dimly lit, the proceedings were about to begin. My confidence began to return - I had made it. I survived the gauntlet of the crowd and was poised to hear a very significant man talk about very significant issues. What I didn't count on was what happened next: as I'm settling in, the emcee of the session proceeds to the lectern to welcome everyone and then says some version of "AS WE DO EVERY YEAR, WE'RE GOING TO KICK OFF OUR MEETING BY HAVING EVERYONE INTRODUCE THEMSELVES AND TELL US WHAT RADIO STATION YOU'RE FROM!." I panicked. (There was a very brief moment in which I entertained the idea of introducing myself as "David, from WKRP in Cincinnati" but I saw no sense in hastening my doom.) As they got started with the introductions I got the hell out of that room, bursting into the foyer only to run smack dab into Dr. Kissinger himself.

Well, more accurately, I ran into Dr. Kissinger's security detail on whose faces I quickly read, not exactly fear, but serious annoyance that I was even in their presence. As they subdued me (that's a gratuitous word choice but go with me on this) all I could say was "But, I just wanted to meet Dr. Kissinger!" at which point the good Dr. turned around, assessed that I wasn't exactly a Khrushchev or a Mao, and called off his dogs. I explained that I was a local student interested in hearing him speak and he said a few kind words in that well-known growl, signed an autograph and was on his way.

I never did hear him speak. I was too freaked out by that point to go back in. But, I did get to meet him and that was well beyond my imagination over Cheerios and the morning news.
What happened when I got back to school is what I have been thinking about a lot lately. You can imagine my gleeful confidence at being able to report to my classmates what I had accomplished. I was especially excited to go to my government class and share this with my teacher, sure that I would be hailed for my boldness in pursuit of a “real” education. This is not what happened. In fact, I remember his reaction as being more annoyed than anything else. Annoyed that I had skipped school and annoyed that I was disrupting his class.

What a colossal, massive miss. Here I was, truly engaged in my own learning, taking ownership for it, acting on my passion for the subject matter, only to be met with annoyance. In retrospect, that just sucks.

In Seth Godin’s new book, Linchpin, he talks about how the school system, rather than being a catalyst for creative problem solving and leadership skill development, more often than not is just in the way. Sadly, he’s right. And I can’t help but ask, what of our organizations? In so many ways they just pick up where the schools leave off: Fit in this way. Do it this way. Don’t embarrass yourself. Stand out just enough to make a name for yourself but not enough to really share your passion. Don’t make us look bad by really caring about your work. Strive for a “met expectations” and be happy with it. You’re a cog. That’s just the way it is.

Well, that’s not the way it is. Not anymore. And, the sooner we figure that out – really figure it out - the better.

I can’t help but wonder how things might have been different if that teacher had accurately read my enthusiasm and gone out of his way to nurture, challenge and support it. What new paths would have opened up? What spark would have become a flame? As with so many of life twists and turns I am left to question, what might have been?

© 2010 David Berry

Father's Day

I sit here on Father’s Day feeling blessed to have had three fathers in my life. Some are lucky to have one, truly exceptional father. Others, sadly, have faced life with no fatherly influence at all. And, there are many of us in between, some with ambivalent fathers and others with multiple paternal influences through divorce, death or other of life’s difficult transitions.

I have gained, of course, from the gifts of their wisdom, faith, strength and experience. I have also benefited from their mistakes – poor decisions, character flaws, painful transgressions. In short, I have learned from their humanity. I’ve had a front row seat for both the good and the bad and I am grateful for all of it.

Timothy, my father, was the priest. He taught me the power of language. He shared both his passion for reading and his gift for speaking with strength and conviction. He was a model of faith, staying close to scripture throughout his life in an effort to deepen his learning. Through his own failures he taught me to respect marriage and inspired me to build a family life that will stand the test of time.

Duncan, my stepfather, was the physician. A quiet, gentle man, he valued the work of the hands. Whether it was caring for a patient or baking bread he did it steadily and without airs. He taught me that quiet reliability is just as important as dramatic flair. I didn’t understand that as a young man but I certainly respect it now. I saw him get really angry only once. He taught me to do so only when it counts.

Robert, my father-in-law, is the engineer. Smart and practical, he turned the lessons of a country life into success in the executive suite. He intimidated me for many years with his penetrating questions and the certainty of his belief. I now understand this as deep curiosity and impressive conviction. He teaches me to keep things simple, to be concise and to consider all the variables. An affable man, it’s his interest in others and his desire to learn that I admire most.

A priest, a physician and an engineer. It’s hard to imagine covering the bases any better than that. It’s with deep gratitude that I consider the impact of these men as models in my life and I feel keenly responsible to memorize the lessons I have learned from them and pass them along as best I can.

Mostly, I hope for a long and fulfilling relationship with my own children. One that is marked by a humble commitment to learn what they have to teach me.

© 2010 David Berry

My New Car

I drive a 2001 Subaru Outback. It has 121,000 miles on it and I am the original owner. I bought the car for two reasons. The first is that in late 2000 I worked for a company based in Salt Lake City and you can't turn a corner in SLC without seeing a Subaru Outback. I made dozens of visits to Salt Lake over a two year period and I guess the thing just grew on me. I saw it as practical-yet-rugged, sporty-yet-humble. Really, I just thought they were cool. (Yes, I recognize I am saying something significant about my definition of "cool").

The second reason is that in late 2000 my wife and I were hauling our infant son around in a Honda Accord and a Saturn. I drove the Saturn. Nothing wrong with either of those cars but we were ready for something that said "family," "fun," and, of course, "cool." And, there was no way in hell Theresa was going to drive a minivan. (She's from Portland, after all, the only city in America with more Subaru's than SLC.) So, it was agreed, she'd keep driving the Honda, I would trade in the Saturn and we'd get a Subaru.

About a month ago, almost 10 years later, I decided I need and/or want a new car. After a recent speaking engagement which I felt had gone very, very well, I encountered someone from the audience as I was getting into my car. And my car was a filthy, disgusting mess. I, dressed in a suit and looking pretty dandy, felt a painful sense of incongruity with my vehicle. We just didn't go together anymore. We had grown apart and there, under the watchful gaze of someone I was now sure could remember nothing I had said but only how ridiculous I looked next to my car, it was clear we had to part ways.

I rationalized it this way: one of the keys to success is looking like you're successful even if you're not. Anyone in sales or real estate knows this. It is ESSENTIAL to invest in the right car, among other things, to create a perception that you are someone who's made it. Who wants to do business with someone who hasn't? My goals being what they are, I felt it was time that I look more like "ACHIEVEMENT" and less like "ASPIRATION." Yes, it's shallow and, yes, it's ridiculous AND in this world of utter madness it's also completely and utterly normal. I just wanted to fit in!

So, I started shopping. A BMW or a Lexus sounded about right. Nothing too flashy and nothing brand new. "Certified Pre-Owned" felt like a reasonable, sensible and thoughtful way to go. Something with about 40,000 miles on it and a couple of years old fit both the budget and my sensibilities. The only thing to do now was to sell the Subaru. Assuming a quick sale, I gave it a good scrub, took a few pictures, posted it on CraigsList and waited.

And, I'm still waiting. A number of inquiries, a number of low-ball offers and one seemingly serious suitor later, I am still the owner of a 2001 Subaru Outback. Yes, I'd really like a new car. That's what's true. Forget looking successful, forget any other psychology you can attach to it, I just want one. And, the thing is, I don't want it that it badly. I'm not going to extreme measures to sell my car. I'm not going to accept less than what it's worth. And, my worth is not going to be determined by what I drive, by me anyway.

So, I have my "new" car. We've reconciled. We've agreed to stick it out. It needs a timing belt and a good tune-up. It could really use a deep cleaning and some touch-up paint. The thing is, it's mine, it's paid for, and we're going to keep going down the road together for a little while longer.

© 2010 David Berry

Graduation Day

My daughter graduated from Kindergarten today, the first of many commencements to mark her life of learning. In the past I've been a little cynical about things like Kindergarten graduations. I think of the line from The Incredibles when Mr. Incredible, incredulous that he has to attend his child's fourth grade graduation, says "we keep finding new ways to celebrate mediocrity." It's Kindergarten, for goodness sake. One down and a whole bunch more to go.

No such cynicism for me today. Today is a day to celebrate a very special event in the life of a very special girl. Avery is as smart as they come. The problem is, she's not smart in the way the school system needs her to be smart. She doesn't conform to some of the "standard operating procedures" teachers require to effectively manage too full classrooms. (A Kindergarten class in California today has 34 students. Seriously. It's a miracle anything productive happens with that many 5 and 6 year-olds gathered in one place.) And it makes it pretty obvious why a child who strays from the behavioral or academic mid line needs the accommodations of a "special day class." Yes, my daughter is "special."

She started having seizures when she was about a year old. Her Epilepsy has been successfully controlled with medication for a long time now and the impact of that early seizure activity has staying power. The best evidence of it is in her fine motor skills and her emotional immaturity. This is a terribly difficult combination when you are learning how to write, among other things. We believe she knows how to do the work, that the cognitive ability is there. When it comes to executing a task like forming letters, however, it can be painfully frustrating for her, and she makes that clear by either acting out or withdrawing.

In the face of all of this her progress over the past two years has been remarkable. It is the result of her own very hard work, patient and dedicated teachers and, most significantly, a mother whose advocacy for her daughter is unfathomed.

Watching her today it was clear to me that Avery's learning path is truly going to be her own. There will be both significant challenges and glorious victories. And, if the last few years are any measure, it will be anything but boring.

Thank you, Avery, for putting my cynicism in its place. Thank you for showing me another way to see the world. My pride in your achievement is massive. My hope for your future is abundant. My confidence in your singularity is beyond measure.

© 2010 David Berry

Dental Despotism

I have been massively anal retentive about my teeth for as long as I can remember. I'm guessing I have a pretty good shot at the Guinness book of World Records for consecutive days of flossing. It's probably a twenty year run at this point. I brush twice a day, once with a manual and once with an electric, and I go to the dentist at least three times a year. I know, it sounds like some sick fetish but I've got a genetic predisposition to plaque buildup and I'm desperate to avoid the really deep cleaning. Also, I'm a control freak, but more on that in a minute.

When I was a child, around 5 or 6 years old and living in the Bay Area (that reads funny, as if I struck out on my own, found a cool flat over my kindergarten and joined the city's subculture of innocents), my older sister worked in a dentist office in San Francisco. I was deathly afraid of this place because she and her colleagues put the fear of God in me that if I didn't take care of my teeth, my teeth would rot in my mouth and I would rot in hell. Impressionable young lad that I was, this successfully planted itself as a permanent, non-negotiable part of my make-up.

Rotting teeth and rotting in hell = bad.

Taking extremely good care of teeth = good.

Given this backdrop it should be fairly easy for you to draw some conclusions about how I approach my children's dental hygiene. Yes, I'm intense. I brushed my son's teeth until he was about 6 or 7 years old. Now, of course, he doesn't do it right, has two cavities to show for it and is no longer getting any Christmas presents.

As for my daughters, ages 6 and 4, I have been brushing their teeth from the beginning. And just a couple of months ago I finally hit the wall, exclaiming to my wife that I hate brushing the kid's teeth and I don't want to do it anymore. A couple of months later I realized, in a blindingly obvious insight, that I actually don't have to brush their teeth anymore. I could (GASP) teach them to brush their own teeth! And, this is where the control freak comes in. I already made this mistake once and dare not to be burned again!

In spite of this internal resistance, I have started small and started slow. I told the girls that it's important (all quality concerns aside) that they learn to brush their own teeth. They looked at me with sweet confusion, like "Really, Dad? You're going to stop squeezing my cheeks, bending my neck backwards and jamming me in the face with my toothbrush? How could I ever let that go?" I reassured them that this was both really important and that I would still be available to help them. Now I help them get the toothpaste on the brush and then give them a few minutes to do their best before I squeeze their cheeks, crane their necks backward and jam them in the face. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call progress!

I can't let them do it on their own, I just can't. It sicks me out. And, I have to let it go. I really do. It's no fun for me and, though I know they would really rather have me do it (see the dependence I've created!), I don't think it's much fun for them either. Problem is, I haven't made it clear to them what's at stake. Better have them talk to their brother.

© 2010 David Berry

Friday Morning Run

I am going to write a book and I have no idea how to start. Some helpful people have told me to "just start writing." I have found that this is not very helpful. Of course, I understand their point: if you want to write a book you actually have to sit down and write it. I think it's the enormity of the task that's got me stalled: it's "A BOOK!" after all. I know this is the biggest challenge because at this very moment I am actually in the act of writing but since this is "only" a blog post it's no big deal. Not that it's easy, it's just way, WAY more manageable on my fragile, less than confident psyche.

When I think about writing a book, I hold a few key images in my mind. First, it has to be FINISHED. Second, it has to be FANTASTIC. Third, people must LOVE IT. Fourth, it must open the door to a bright and compelling future. In other words, it must be PERFECT. Pretty good recipe for not getting started. I used to think of this blog that way. And then I just started writing. Perhaps I could learn from my own experience. What a concept!

Yesterday morning I went for a run. I don't carry an iPod when I run because I like to listen to the world as we pass each other by. I also like to let my mind wander. Early in the run, quite unexpectedly, my mind landed on this phrase: "Nobody's listening. Nobody cares." There it was; my "non-book writing" subconscious rushing to the surface to keep my company. So much for positive affirmations (sorry, Stuart Smalley). I laughed to myself that if I kept repeating that phrase it was sure to be the hardest, longest run of my life.

Instead, I switched gears and tried on another phrase: "Everybody's listening. Everybody cares." I considered this one for a few more strides and it felt really good. It just didn't ring true. Better than the first, just equally inaccurate. And then I found in myself the ability to do the thing that I have been working on for years now: the ability to move from polarized and limiting thought to thought that carries the seeds of possibility.

I said to myself: "Somebody's listening. Somebody cares."

And so I will write the book. I'm really not sure how to start. "Just write," I suppose. And, knowing that I really could use some help, I called a writing coach. We're going to talk at 9:00 on Monday morning.

I wasn't looking for anything on that run. And I found exactly what I needed.

© 2010 David Berry