Try a Little Kindness

I haven't blogged much recently, since, as many of you know, I've been recovering from pneumonia, and it has been taking a while for me to get my energy back. I'm grateful for so many good wishes from folks who reached out to me by email and on social media: on the days when I get frustrated, it's nice to hear some words of encouragement.

And that's what I wanted to write about -- the difference that kindness and encouragement can make. In my most recent blog post, I wrote about a couple of turning points in my life, both of which did not seem monumental at the time but turned out to be life-changing. This time, I'd like to tell you about some moments of unexpected kindness; and even years later, I still remember how much they meant to me at the time, and how much I recall them fondly even now. 

Let me take you back to October 7, 1971, at a venue in Boston called the Music Hall, where there was a live performance by Neil Diamond. But I wasn't there to watch the show. I was there to interview him, and to be honest, I was terrified. I had just graduated college not that long ago, and now I was working as a free-lance writer. I was involved with writing a segment for the ABC radio network, and thanks to a deejay friend of mine, I was able to talk to Neil backstage, before the show. I had my list of questions, and I knew what I was supposed to do; but there he was, and there I was, and I just blurted out that he was one of my favorite performers and I was really nervous. To my surprise, he was very understanding. Before the interview began, he asked me about myself, and I told him how all I wanted to do was be on the radio, but few stations were hiring female deejays. I don't recall word-for-word what he said to me, but I do remember that he gave me a hug and told me not to give up. And he told me that one day, I would succeed. I did my interview, and I hope I didn't make a fool of myself. And to this day, I have never forgotten that Neil Diamond took the time to encourage me-- something he did not have to do.   

Or fast forward to an evening in 1978-- I don't recall the date, but I do recall the event. I was working in radio in Washington DC, and there was a party for Bruce Springsteen, where local deejays and music directors and program directors could meet him and chat about his new record. Record companies held these sorts of meet-and-greet events often, and I always enjoyed them. But this one was a problem for me: I'm a non-drinker, and there was absolutely nothing for me to drink, except perhaps water. The local promotion man was quite dismissive of the fact that I didn't drink; in fact, when I asked him why there was nothing for non-drinkers, he suggested I go across the street to the 7-11 and buy myself something. So I did. I was sitting at the event, drinking some orange juice, and in walked Springsteen. Interestingly, he said he didn't want anything alcoholic either, and the promotion man pointed to me, sitting there drinking my orange juice, and suggested I'd be willing to share. Lucky for me, Bruce figured out that the environment wasn't exactly welcoming to non-drinkers, and he came over and sat with me. We had a wonderful conversation about the music industry, as well as about hosts who don't seem to understand how to make everyone feel welcome. I was so impressed with how friendly and down-to-earth he was. And at a time when others weren't so tolerant of those of us who didn't drink, Bruce was fine about it. (And it was fun sharing my orange juice with him!)

Over the years, I've met a lot of celebrities. Some were arrogant jerks who were rude and inconsiderate. Others were kind and generous (the members of Rush fall into this category, as you might expect). But let me conclude by telling you about someone who isn't famous, isn't a celebrity, but is certainly important to me: my husband. I've written about Jon before, but here's something that really impressed me about him: his compassion. Since 1984, I've been the advocate for an adult with autism; his name is Jeff, and I love him like a son. And whenever I would date anyone, I was always interested in how that person felt about Jeff. Some guys were resentful. Some put up with the volunteer work I did, but they failed to see why I did it. But Jon understood, and he embraced the idea. He helped me teach Jeff. He willingly spent time with Jeff. He took Jeff swimming, and hiking, and on nature walks. And Jeff, who was afraid of most folks he didn't know, really began to feel comfortable being around Jon. To this day, he loves Jon and enjoys being around him. And for me, the fact that Jon saw Jeff's possibilities, the fact that he showed Jeff love and kindness, was one of the reasons I knew Jon was the right person for me.  

So, if there's any message to this blog post, it's that I believe whenever we show compassion to someone else, it's time well-spent. It may not get an immediate result, it may not seem to make a difference, and it may not earn you praise. But I can assure you that in the greater scheme of things, how we treat others really matters. So, in times like these, when all we hear about are the people who are angry or polarized, let's not forget the people who are caring, the people who try their best to be kind. I know from experience that being empathetic isn't always easy, but it's worth the effort. In fact, the way I see it, being kind, being welcoming, being encouraging makes life a little better-- not only for others but also for ourselves.

Those Unexpected Turning Points (Rush Edition)

As many of you know, I've been sick with pneumonia. I don't recommend it, and I'm not having fun with it. I can't wait to start feeling better. But the only positive thing about being stuck at home taking my medicine (and wishing my voice didn't sound like a foghorn) is I had a lot of quiet time. And I found myself thinking about those little moments in our lives that at the time didn't seem very significant but ended up being life-changing.

My husband could probably speak about that. It was 1984, and he was going through a divorce. He had an opportunity to come north for a new job. One night, he went to a club in a suburb of Boston, to try to meet some folks in a city where he knew nobody. And who was at that club? A certain woman from a local radio station, there to help judge a dance contest (hint: it was me). I wasn't there to meet anyone. I planned to do my little judging thing and leave. He and I chatted, we danced a couple of times, but I didn't have any plan to stick around. Plus, while he seemed nice and I could relate to being lonely in a new city, he didn't seem like my type-- he smoked (I'm allergic), he was a social drinker (I never touch the stuff), and his politics seemed more conservative than mine. 

But at some point in the conversation, he mentioned that his daughter liked a certain rock band; he preferred country music, but his daughter was into this band called "Rush," and since I was a deejay, did I know who they were? Well, yes, you might say I did! And out of that unexpected meeting at the club, quite a few other events unfolded. For one thing, he and I started to date. And while our relationship had its ups and downs, eventually, we got married and we are still together. I'm grateful for that. As for his daughter, I was able to get her backstage to meet Rush in person (even Neil showed up). Several weeks from today, it will be four decades since the night my husband and I first met. It certainly didn't turn out the way I expected; and if you asked my husband, I doubt it turned out the way he expected either. As I said, you just never know when something could become a turning point in your life (and the role Rush might play in it).

And that brings back another memory from four decades ago-- the day I got that manila envelope from my friend Bob Roper, of A&M of Canada. It was in the early spring of 1974, and I was sitting in my office at WMMS in Cleveland, auditioning new songs, and the album was by a Canadian band named Rush. I didn't know much about them, but I trusted Roper to send me good Canadian imports, and I figured I'd see what was on the album. So I dropped the needle on one of the longer tracks, a song called "Working Man." It was a really good song. It was a perfect song for a factory town like Cleveland. 

But I had NO idea how that one song would change so many lives. I had no idea that fifty years later, millions of people all over the world would know the band, or that I would become friends with the members of Rush and be with them during key moments in their career. It started with Bob Roper sending me a record. I played it. Fans loved it. And the rest, as they say, is history. But to this day, I'm amazed by how it all turned out. If you had told me back in 1974 that my life would change because of one song by one Canadian band, I doubt I would have believed it. But here we are, nearly fifty years later, and I continue to marvel at how that song became a turning point in my life. Not what I expected. And yet it happened. And as I said, it goes to show there's no way to predict what the future holds, or the enduring power of a certain Canadian band.

"The Treasure of a Life is a Measure of Love and Respect"

As many of you know, Valentine's Day was my birthday-- #77. And imagine my surprise to find that about 900 folks reached out to wish me a happy birthday. A few went old-school and sent birthday cards (which I was delighted to receive), and a couple of my more artistic students created hand-made (or hand-painted) cards to give me. My stepdaughter sent balloons and an adorable stuffed animal (a unicorn) for my collection, and my husband made duck with orange sauce-- to go along with the birthday cake we had for dessert. 

But most of the well-wishers reached out to me on Twitter (I refuse to call it "X"), and Facebook, and Instagram, and Threads. Some just wished me a happy birthday, but others sent along personalized messages. I have to admit I didn't expect so many folks to be thinking of me, and knowing they did definitely put a smile on my face.

Okay fine, in some cases, the messages were automatic: if you follow me on social media, when it's time for my birthday (or anyone that you follow), you get a notification. But in a large number of the messages, the person had kind words to say about something positive that I had contributed to their life: there were former students I had mentored, friends that I had encouraged, people who read my articles or heard me on a podcast and thought my perspectives were inspiring, teachers whose classrooms received books or school supplies from me, and (of course) a large number of Rush fans who expressed their gratitude for my role in introducing Rush to the world.  

Several of the people who reached out are folks I met when I was in college radio or former colleagues I worked with in the music industry decades ago; the fact that they have kept in touch for so long means a lot. Others are people I've only known for a relatively short time: for example, a few young female Rush fans wanted me to know they see me as a role model and a trailblazer. Interestingly, some folks who got in touch are people who didn't seem to like me very much years ago, but perhaps time has caused their opinion of me to improve.

I tried to get back to as many of the well-wishers as I could. But I also wanted to use this blog post to send my appreciation to everyone who took the time to let me know I was in their thoughts. This has been a difficult few months for me, what with finding out I'm losing my job, and confronting the reality that it may be difficult to find a new one because we are a youth-oriented culture and I'm now 77-- still young and cute, but 77. And yet, to everyone who got in touch, I was just Donna, their friend, someone they cared about, someone who deserved to be remembered on her special day. 

To be honest, I find it hard to believe I'm worthy of that kind of adulation, but there it was-- more than 900 folks sending their love in my direction. So, if I have contributed to your life, if I have been a good friend or a good colleague or a role model or a motivational figure (or someone to play Wordle with), I'm glad. As Neil Peart said in The Garden (one of my favorite Rush songs), "The treasure of a life is a measure of love and respect." I've tried to be someone who treated others with love and respect. Thank you for giving me that treasure: the gift of knowing that on some level, I succeeded.

My Birthday Wish

I normally blog a couple of times a month, and since this one is coming out at the beginning of February, the next one will be right after my birthday, on February 14th (Valentine's Day). Given that I'm a cancer survivor, it seems amazing to me that I'm about to be 77. Many of my relatives did not live to be 77. So, as I have said many times, I am grateful every day.

All my life, I've always been honest about my age: for generations, women were told to never admit to how old they actually were, but that custom mystified me. It seemed to play into the belief that only a young woman had value, and if a woman wasn't what society considered young, then she was expected to lie. But why be ashamed of how old we are? Why lie about it? So, yes, God willing, I'm about to be 77. People tell me I don't look it, and I guess that's a good thing-- although I don't know what a 77 year old is supposed to look like. I just know that's how old I'll be, and yes I understand that in a youth oriented culture, 77 is considered old.

And that is about to become a problem for me. As many of you know, several months ago, I received the disappointing news that 29 of my colleagues, including me, were being laid off: and the median age of those who got that email skewed over 50. Many of us are widely known, have won awards, are names in our field, and our students like us. But on paper, I guess we're considered old, and thus more expensive than younger faculty. And as businesses all over the country seek ways to save money, older personnel are being encouraged to take buyouts or they're being downsized.

So, while I am grateful to be alive, I'm facing the fact that it may be difficult for me to find another job. No, I don't want to retire: I enjoy working, and I can't imagine not doing it. (And I've been told I'm still good at it, so I'd like to continue.) Not only does having a job keep my mind active, but the income lets me pay my share of the bills, and have enough money to donate to the charities I care about. 

But will anyone see what I have to contribute? Will they see all of my accomplishments thus far and think that I still have plenty more to offer? Or will they just see someone who is 77, and figure it's easier, and cheaper, to hire someone younger? No, I'm not trying to overstay my welcome, and I'm not trying to prevent a new generation from having their chance. Ideally, it shouldn't be "us versus them": there ought to be room for both the younger and the older generations, since each has important perspectives, and each has different experiences to share.

And if I have a birthday wish, beyond another year of health, I wish for the opportunity to keep making a difference, the opportunity to be judged not by my chronological age (or the stereotypes about it) but by what I've done already and what I still can do. I truly believe there's more out there for me to accomplish. To be honest, the odds don't seem to be in my favor right now, but I know that things can change. I hope they will. And I hope that soon, my birthday wish will come true.      

When Bad Behavior Seems to Get Rewarded

It should come as no surprise to those who read my blogs that my politics tend to lean center-left. On some issues, I'm more center-right, but in general, I'd have to say yes, center-left. However, I have many friends and colleagues who do not share my politics, and that's okay. We can agree to disagree and still be friends. We can find common ground on some issues, and put the rest aside. But heated arguments, name-calling, and insults just aren't my style. Yes, I can be passionate about what I believe, but I've never understood the need to mock or demonize folks who don't see things my way. And while I enjoy winning a debate, I don't see the value in turning everything into World War III.

I grew up in an era when political discourse could be intense-- as the fictional Mr. Dooley said back in 1895, and many modern politicians have since repeated, "Politics ain't beanbag." But I didn't grow up in a world where rudeness and unkindness were rewarded.There were norms: politicians could be snide or sarcastic, but vulgarity was frowned upon, and so was mocking how someone else talked. If a politician cursed in public, that was considered a no-no. So was making threats against your opponent. And if you lost an election, no matter how hard-fought, you accepted the loss and either ran again or did something else with your life. 

Okay, fine, times changed. But sometimes I wonder if things changed for the better. Radio, which used to feature announcers who were like your best friend, began airing angry political talk shows where name-calling was the rule, rather than the exception.On TV, cable news brought us lots of information (and exciting visuals), but it also brought us partisan commentators who cared more about generating outrage than sticking to the facts. And in politics, the tone of some candidates went from intense and passionate to conspiratorial and mean. And the other party wasn't just your opponent-- the other party was evil and needed to be destroyed. 

And when I was growing up, Evangelical Christians took the scriptures seriously. They would never have supported a candidate like Donald Trump-- someone who had been married three times, had cheated on his wife with a porn star, used vulgar language on a regular basis, frequently lied, mocked people with disabilities, and advocated for policies that not only showed little empathy for the poor but, more often than not, were uncaring and even cruel.

But in Iowa, a deeply religious state, white Evangelicals came out in large numbers to support the former president, and that has been the trend in other states as well. Perhaps they are willing to put aside their previous views because he supported policies they liked (such as bringing about the end of Roe v. Wade); but this still seems very transactional to me. Either you believe in ethics or you don't. I always thought Jesus said love your neighbor, feed the poor, give shelter to those who are less fortunate. But the candidate they support so faithfully believes none of those things; in fact, he believes quite the opposite. There is even a video circulating that implies he was chosen by God Himself, but no matter how many rationalizations are offered, I still find such devotion mystifying. 

I'm sure some of you are upset with me for writing this. I'm sure that some of you believe that the former president deserved to be re-elected. I can respect that belief; everyone has a favorite candidate, and supporters want to see that person win. But what I cannot respect is a candidate who uses hatred and bigotry in his speeches, and encourages others to do the same. What I cannot respect is someone who refuses to accept that he lost an election, and who continues to mislead his supporters about it. Call me old-fashioned, but I'm accustomed to leaders who bring out the best in people, not leaders who seem to enjoy bringing out the worst.    

And yet, here we are. As I write this, it's the King Holiday, when we commemorate the birthday of civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. Earlier today, I put a favorite quote of his online, from 1967: "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” But tonight, after the results of the Iowa caucuses, I wonder if some folks believe love is overrated, and that political power matters more. I hope that's not true nationwide. I hope that this isn't a sign that people want a leader who is cruel and autocratic, as long as he gives them permission to hate the right people. I hope more people will stand up and say "no" to that kind of politics, no matter which party they're from. But right now, I have no idea if they will, and that's what worries me.  

And I Thank the Lord There Are People Out There Like You

Because I used to be a deejay, I sometimes name my blog posts after song titles, or after lyrics that I like. If you're a Rush fan, you know I've quoted from some of theirs-- "Freewill" and "Witch Hunt" and "Spirit of Radio," to cite three examples. But as I look at the end of 2023, what comes to mind isn't Rush songs, but rather, a great 1996 dance hit by OMC called "How Bizarre." It truly was a bizarre year, with incredible and unexpected highs (getting inducted into the Massachusetts Broadcasters Hall of Fame in June; being on stage with Geddy Lee in Cleveland in November) and at least one incredible and unexpected low (being fired by email, told that I am losing my job, despite 15 years of going above and beyond). 

It was a year when Twitter, now renamed "X" (which nobody I know ever calls it-- I don't know about you, but to me, it's still Twitter and I still send out Tweets) deteriorated into a place where haters-- neo-Nazis, antisemites, white supremacists, etc.-- love to congregate. But some of us still resist, and many friendships still endure. A lot of my followers and I still gather nightly to play Wordle and compare our scores. We still gather to raise money for kids and teachers in need via Donors Choose. 

And speaking of social media, for reasons that I don't entirely understand, I sit at the end of 2023 with 9389 followers on Twitter, and more than 4800 on Facebook. I've been blogging since 2015, and I continued to do so throughout 2023. Some of my blog posts can attract several thousand views; others get fewer than 100; but the fact that folks I don't even know personally are interested in what I write still amazes me.

In mid-December (see previous blog post), I celebrated being 9 years cancer-free. But to be honest, it's hard to celebrate without remembering the folks we've lost to cancer over the years, including our beloved Neil Peart of Rush, and my mother (of blessed memory), and more recently, one of my favorite baseball players-- Tim Wakefield. There are lots of folks who are beating cancer, and I am grateful to be among them. But there are still too many others whose story did not have a happy ending. I'm hoping that ongoing research will lead to new treatments and new cures in the new year ahead.

Politics remained as divisive and hateful as ever: having been around for a while, I can remember other eras of anger and division, like the Vietnam Era, but I still can't get used to a world where a growing number of politicians think it's okay to sling crude insults at their opponents and talk like schoolyard bullies, or use racist or antisemitic tropes in their political speeches, just to pander to certain voters. In fact, it was a year when hatred of "the other" (Jews, Muslims, immigrants, gay people) was on the march in many countries, often fueled by craven political leaders. I kept wishing for one of them to take a stand and say "no" to hate, but it was a year when political courage was in short supply.    

And yet, through a year that can only be described as bizarre (believe me, I never expected to be inducted into the Mass. Broadcasters Hall of Fame... and I never expected to be fired from my job either), there was one constant: you. When I was frustrated or discouraged, when I doubted myself, when I was feeling like what I had to say didn't matter, when some of the haters directed their words at me, you defended me. You encouraged me. You let me know you cared.

I hope I was able to do the same for many of you, and I will continue to reach out in the new year. Meanwhile, as 2023 comes to a close, I'm gratified to know that there are still people who take friendship seriously, who believe in kindness, and who care about ethics. So, to paraphrase the words of an Elton John song, I thank the Lord there are people out there like you. May 2024 bring you good health and good fortune. And may we all live to see a more peaceful world. Happy new year! 

I'm Not Supposed to Be Here (But I'm Glad I Am)

I remember it as if it was almost yesterday. It was the last week in November 2014 when I got the phone call from the specialist. And he told me what my primary care doctor and I had suspected. I had been diagnosed with cancer.

I wasn't surprised. Some of you know me, and you know the genetic hand I was dealt: just about all the women on the maternal side of my family got similar diagnoses, and all of them had succumbed to the disease. I can still remember watching my mother's battle with cancer. She had told me many times about her own mother, the grandmother I never met, who died at only 44 years old. My mother was just 71 when she passed, and from that day on, I dreaded what the future might hold for me.

I was 67 when I got the phone call. And thanks to early detection, I was able to have my surgery on this day (December 17) in 2014. Interestingly, I had an all-female staff working on my case: the oncologist was a woman, the anesthesiologist was a woman, as were all the nurses and the nurse practitioners. I grew up in an era when women were still discouraged from becoming doctors, and I had to admit that it made me smile to note how much society had changed. 

After the surgery, I had a month of radiation (no fun, but better than the alternative), and then, I had to come back to the hospital for regular tests, to make sure the cancer had not returned. Gradually, the testing regimen dwindled from every few months to once a year; and after 5 years, I was told that the odds of a recurrence were very low. But that hasn't stopped me from worrying-- cancer is a relentless foe, and it can make a return when one least expects it. 

But today is not a day for worrying. Today is my 9th anniversary of being cancer-free. I am deeply grateful to the excellent medical team that took care of me, and even on my worst day, I am grateful to be alive. I am also mindful of the many others in my family who are gone, as well as my friends and colleagues who have endured their own cancer diagnosis. Some of you who are reading this blog may be going through it yourself.

The good news is that there have been so many advances in cancer treatment. So many people, myself included, are living proof of that. We are still here, when previous generations had little hope of survival. On the other hand, we all know people whose type of cancer did not have that good outcome. In their memory, I hope you will make a donation to the hospital of your choice, so that researchers can continue to seek (and, hopefully, find) new cures. 

And for those who are going through what I did, please know you are not alone. Please know there is hope, and more people than in any previous generation are winning the fight. For me, it's my nine year anniversary of being cancer-free, and for however many more years God gives me, I will continue to be grateful. And I will continue to hope that one day, everyone with a cancer diagnosis will be able to survive and thrive... as I have.