On My Bookshelf: “Benjamin Franklin: An American Life”

A simple Google search will quickly bring up multiple reviews of Walter Isaacson’s biography of Franklin, and certainly in more informative and insightful prose than I could offer.  But this book touched me, and because of that, I think I’d rather speak to how it made me feel as an American. 

And yes, that sounds a bit corny, which is, if the internet is to be believed, a word with its origins in America, like me.

Benjamin Franklin has been given the title “The First American,” but in fact, he was born to an American mother and a father whose roots were in Northamptonshire, England.  This duality would follow Franklin throughout his eighty-four years, as he traveled the Atlantic between the two, asking for peace, supporting one and then the other, and finally falling on the side of the Colonies in their desire for independence.

His ability to see all sides of an argument was often called “waffling,” and was cited as a sign that he had no convictions.  In truth, Franklin knew that if you had a room full of men who were unwilling to compromise -- those men would walk out of that room with little or nothing accomplished.  And Franklin was a man who liked to get things done.

Over 230 years later, it’s no secret that Americans aren’t the most popular people on the planet.  The internet has given me a much more international life than many of the neighbors, friends and co-workers in my town of 45,000 in Northern Idaho.  Among some here, there can be an insular nature to patriotism, in the vein of “Love It, Or Leave It.”

With friends in England, France, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, and Canada – and the many other countries represented on Twitter by people that I don’t know well but read often – I get a good cross-section of the world’s view of Americans.  Some of the harsher critics see us as arrogant, fat and irresponsible at the same time we have the hubris to call ourselves the leaders of the free world.  I can’t fully disagree with them.

Seeing my own country as I do, from two perspectives -- not only from inside it, but also through the eyes of my international friends – I can also hear, and believe, that we’re an adventurous and pioneering sort of people: innovative and bright, exploring the vast, wide open spaces this country has to offer.

My great-grandmother came across the plains of America in a covered wagon, and I’ve been told all my life that the women in our family are of strong, opinionated, hardy “pioneer stock.”  I’ve been proud of that label, and the philosophy behind it has helped me to steer my own sometimes rickety wagon through the upheaval of the 1960s and 1970s in California; the early 1980s in New York City; the financial downturn that started in the late 1990s and continues still; and the monumental social sea-change that allowed us, finally, miraculously, to elect a black President.

Benjamin Franklin was a man who saw serious issues, and dealt with them with humor.  He was highly intelligent, but wanted to speak and write in a manner that allowed everyone to be able to hear him and understand.  He was very much loved as a “man of the people” of the Colonies, at the same time he was celebrated as one of the higher echelon of the New World, and was present at the signing of every critically important document that shaped the United States of America.

So the theme emerges – duality.  And as a textbook Libra, I can relate.

Like Franklin, I love the spirit of the people of this country.   But as he did, I dislike a lot of its politics.  For him, that was typified by people who so refused to move off of their positions that they essentially threatened to freeze the government.  I worry, in 2012, about the same thing.

I’ve loved the culture, literature and rich history of Britain for as long as I can remember, even back to the age of eleven, reading Jane Eyre in the attic, out loud in what I hoped was Julie Andrews’ voice.

So I suppose in addition to helping me feel an affinity with someone who lived so long ago, Isaacson’s book left me asking questions about my own duality: with my love for foreign lands, people and sensibilities; and my pride and connection to America.

Which is something Benjamin Franklin, I suspect, would appreciate.

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TED Talks: Simple Ideas That Changed the World

Another wonderful TED talk, only seven and a half minutes long…


We sometimes discount the unanswered questions that wander around in our thoughts, forgetting that every brilliant idea started that way.  


Adam Savage of “Mythbusters” shares three simple ideas that changed the world.

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Ripples

I tend to think and speak in metaphors. 

Perhaps it’s a way to connect all the disparate random thoughts that fly through my head – to bring some order to them, categorize them, in the same way that spreadsheets and flow charts can make a seemingly impossible project seem manageable.

Friends and family are kindly indulgent.  They listen to me struggle to express a thought, and then smile as I say, “You know, it’s like that scene in Casablanca…,” “it’s like when you let a balloon go…,” “it’s like watching your child grow up…,” “it’s like…”

Well, this morning I was looking at the statistics on this blog.  Not only the US, but the UK, India, France, Indonesia, Austria, Canada, Russia, Singapore, Hungary, Ukraine, Germany, Ireland, New Zealand, and Australia. 

I turn to Robert, and say, “You know, it’s like donating blood…”  Possibly your eyebrows, like his, are raising in puzzlement.

But the other day, as I was lying in the bus that comes to our office every eight weeks or so, I wondered again about the idea of something that lives inside my body going out into the world and into another human being’s life, without my even knowing about it.

It’s a very personal exchange, but also a very anonymous one.  I have no idea what the path of those red blood cells, those little pieces of me, will take, and how they will affect others. 

“You know, it’s like writing…”

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TED Talks: Why Videos Go Viral on YouTube

There are over 48 hours of video uploaded to YouTube every minute. 

Who among us hasn’t gone there to see one video, and ended up spending far longer than we thought we would, just watching people be people?

This TEDTalk is only seven-and-a-half minutes long, but in it, Kevin Allocca, YouTube’s trends manager, gets to the bottom of how we connect to each other in what has become our video community.

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Disappointing Others With Our Need to Write

I’ve seldom wanted to, but I know I’ve disappointed others.  I’m disappointing some right this very minute.  Sometimes, it’s unavoidable. 

I need to write. This has been a fact of my life that’s run as an undercurrent since I was very little, and perhaps the strangest part about it is that it doesn’t hinge on whether anyone actually reads what I write. 

Here’s the thing:  It’s the way I make sense of the world.  It tells me clearly how I feel.  It’s like breathing:  Constant, sometimes refreshing, sometimes labored and difficult, but apart from very short breaks, always necessary.

But writing takes time, and quiet rooms, and reading, and reflection.  This makes me unavailable.  My response time to emails lengthens.  At times, I turn off my phone and don’t answer my front door.  I’ve been called occasionally –- and teasingly, I hope -- a “recluse,”  “antisocial,” or even “obsessed.”  (If you don’t mind terribly, I’d prefer “committed,” “dedicated,” or if you absolutely must, “literarily eccentric.”)

Pardon me if I sound just a smidge strident here.  I’m generally a “pleaser,” and often will put my own needs in second place if only to avoid confrontation.  But I’m afraid this is as close to “non-negotiable” as I get.

The etymology of the word disappointment, from the late 15^th century is, quite literally, “to fail to keep an appointment.”  And so often, this is an appointment of the heart, led on by the expectation of another that we’ll be, or say, or do more than we’re able.

That look in my son’s eyes at five or six years old comes back as clearly as if his little self is right here next to me.  “But you said…” he says softly, as his tears start welling up. 

“I know I said I would TRY, but it didn’t turn out that way. I’m sorry.”

That was a moment when I wanted to say, “Oh, okay.  Never mind.  I won’t… go to work / finish that poem / visit a friend who needs me on Saturday / take a much-needed mental health day alone / accommodate your father’s schedule….We’ll go to the movies instead...”

But I would weigh the consequences -- holding a little boy’s disappointment in one hand, and my responsibility in the other.  I could even hear a voice in my head at times, saying “Well, he’ll have to learn about disappointment someday. We can’t always get what we want.” And when the Rolling Stones’ voices followed, wailing, “But we get what we ne-eed!” I would turn away, and so would he, running his hand across his face and wiping the hot tear on his t-shirt.  And my heart would break a little.

I’d venture to say there’s not a person on the planet who hasn’t felt the clench of stomach and droop of shoulders that comes with disappointment. It’s certainly not a stranger to me.  We expect so much of each other, and of ourselves.

When I was younger, much younger, my home life was so out of control I remember thinking that when I could control it, it would be perfect.  I would be responsible only to myself, and disappoint no one.  As I said, I was much younger. 

But the slowly-dawning surprise of this life has been that it doesn’t stop, this necessity to sometimes hurt and disappoint people, even through the best intentions.  I won’t quote Abraham Lincoln here, but you really can’t please everyone.  If you try, you’ll end up pleasing no one, including yourself.

So, the door is closed, my phone is off, and I write.  And there are people who want me to do otherwise.

Our next lesson, class?  How to avoid the guilt that comes with meeting our own needs and as a result, disappointing others. 

There will be a test after.  Multiple choice.  Unfortunately, none of them perfect.

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TED Talk: Opening the Door To Connection

Dr. Brene Brown, researcher and storyteller, embarked on a six-year journey of asking people about connection.  Of course, she found herself at the end of it, and began to understand the power of vulnerability.

Watching this video, I learned so much about how being vulnerable opens the door to finding joy.  Yes, when the door is open, the pain has a way in as well, but the rewards far outweigh the risk.

So many of us are looking for love....and trying to do it with that door closed.

♥   To be loved, we must connect

♥   In order for connection to happen, we have to allow ourselves to be seen

♥   To be seen, we must be vulnerable

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

You can also find Dr. Brown on Twitter @BreneBrown and on the web at www.ordinarycourage.com

*♥*♥*

The Bitter and the Sweet of Valentine's Day

I’ll start by saying that this might be surprising to those who know me, but here goes.  Valentine’s Day is not always my favorite day of the year. 

The reason friends and family may be raising eyebrows right now is that I’m the resident incurable romantic.  My best-loved books, films and poems tell stories of love unrequited, then discovered, then fulfilled.  I tend to sigh a lot, even through a tenth watching of Toby Stephens as the brooding Mr. Rochester, telling Jane Eyre about the thread connected from his heart to hers.  I sometimes accomplish the impossible and bore even my newly-in-love friends by asking them again to tell me how they feel about it.

However, because I’m also somewhat of a pragmatist, on the other side of all that is this: if I had to find one word to sum up my own life and the lives of nearly everyone I’ve known, it would be “bittersweet.”  The dark and the light, yin and yang, blissful happiness combined with the pull of something not yet grasped. 

You may have love, but not enough (choose one or more):   1) money, 2) freedom, 3) health, 4) proximity, 5) ability to express it, or 6) *enter your own particular hurdle here*

As I said, bittersweet.

So, Valentine’s Day.  If you’re vulnerable to the need to fit in, as I was when I was younger -- it can be, quite literally, the most painful day of the year.   I suppose I still think of it as a holiday that tries just a little too hard.

I have a vivid memory of twenty little baskets lined up against the wall in fifth grade.  We walked along those baskets, each emblazoned with a name, and dropped our Valentines in.  Some were full, some weren’t, and everyone knew why.  I’ll let you guess how much wicker was showing in mine.  I can still remember that feeling.

As I got older, and was “without significant other,” February 14^th would shine a light on that fact like nothing else.  It always seemed as if there was a world premiere of a long-awaited movie happening at my house, lights criss-crossing in the sky, while inside, I acted out the worst kind of stereotype:  watching Roman Holiday, While You Were Sleeping, When Harry Met Sally, You’ve Got Mail, or the aforementioned Jane Eyre in any of its adaptations, in sweatpants and fleece, making myself a special dinner and finishing off with Häagen-Dazs.  Sometimes, a lot of Häagen-Dazs. 

Granted, I’m fairly sure I’ve moved past all that, but it’s hard to know.  For the last fifteen years, I’ve had a dear love to spend the day with, so the hypothesis of my maturity hasn’t been tested.  Robert buys me sweet cards, and then goes above and beyond, writing even sweeter things inside them.  I buy him balloons, and make funny cards on the computer.  We go out to dinner a couple of days before or after the 14^th, to avoid the crowds and the impossible-to-get reservations.

But I still see the looks in the office when one of us (not me, for precisely this reason) gets flowers delivered on the Day of Hearts.  The recipient beams, but there’s always at least one who stands back and wears a look that lies somewhere between pleasure and pain.  A bittersweet look.

Working with people living with AIDS for five years in San Francisco taught me an important lesson:  say what you feel now rather than later.  So Robert and I hardly let a day go by without saying I love you -- on Valentine’s Day, and every other day of the year.

But of course, because I’m a Libra, here’s where I take a deep breath and even out the scale.  Having said all of the above, I’m currently watching a friend and co-worker experience a first Valentine’s Day of a new love as it blossoms, and I find myself sighing again (this is where the incurable part comes in).

It’s their day.  I want to set my curmudgeonly thoughts aside,  and wish them a lovely one together.

Happy Valentine’s Day, you two.

*♥*♥*