So this is how it feels . . .

My first mistake was dressing like an electrician.  I know better.  When I'm working publicly as an attorney, I need to look like an attorney:  suit, tie, wingtips, brief case.  Yesterday I was out of uniform--flannel shirt, jeans, ball cap, leather satchel.  I was going for comfort.  And, when I arrived at the prison in Monroe County, they thought I was there to check the electrical closet.

"No," I laughed.  "I'm here to see my client."

The officer looked puzzled.  "Have you been here before?"

"Sure," I responded.  "I'm here to see Anamul."

"Oh," you're the guy who just called," the officer said.

"Yes, that's me."  I responded.

He asked me who were the people with me.  I said the eleven-year-old boy was my interpreter.  And the mature man, dressed in traditional Bangladeshi garb, was his father.  "My regular interpreter is not available.  The boy doesn't have school (it was Election Day).  The father doesn't speak a lot of English, but I need him, in case the boy has trouble with complicated words.  They're friends of the prisoner."  That was my second mistake:  identifying the boy and his father as my client's friends.
"I don't know,"  said the officer.  "I need to speak to my commander."

The officer disappeared.  A few minutes later he returned and said that I could talk to my client, a Bangladeshi national who is awaiting his asylum hearing (in jail).  The two interpreters, however, could not join me.  In fact, they couldn't stay in the waiting room either.  They needed to wait outside.

I was dumbfounded.  "But you let me bring an interpreter the last time.  This is outrageous."  I was starting to get hot under the collar.  My voice definitely was not friendly any more.  I quickly telephoned an attorney colleague who also represented immigrants housed at the Monroe County prison.  I asked her, "Can they do this?"  She was surprised and suggested I speak to the commanding officer.  She also suggested that I drop the name of the local head of ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) and ask whether ICE said that it was proper to deny my interpreters access to the prisoner.  So I spoke again to the officer.

"I don't speak Bengali," I pleaded.  "We drove all this way.  I never expected this."

In a few minutes a new voice spoke to me on the intercom by the reception desk.  I believed this voice belonged to the commander.  She reaffirmed that the boy and his father couldn't stay in the waiting room.  I protested and asked whether this was ICE policy.  She responded, "I don't work for ICE.  Our policies here are set by Monroe County, and we don't allow children and friends to act as interpreters.  You need to bring an interpreter that works for your law firm."

"Well, that would be difficult," I snorted.  "I don't employ any Bengali speakers at my office."

I needed to focus.  We had trial prep to do, and I needed to make the best of this.  I'm a pro bono attorney working with refugees--I don't have endless amounts of time to work on every case.  Today was the only day I had before trial to meet with my client.  But the standoff continued.

Eventually I was told my client and an interpreter were waiting for me in the adjacent conference room.  I was told they found another prisoner who could interpret for me.  I was dubious.  The other prisoner I learned was a native Arabic speaker from Yemen.  He didn't speak Bengali either.  But he did speak passable English, and my client spoke passable Arabic.  So we had to make it work.

When I continued protesting sending the boy and his father outside, the voice on the intercom said, "We don't have anybody watching the waiting room.  You could open the door and the let the boy and the man into the conference room and we wouldn't know.  We can't let friends have access to prisoners during the week, they might try to slip him something through the window."  The conference room looks exactly like prisons you've seen on television.  A chair on one side of a plexiglass window and a telephone.  The prisoner sits on the one side of the wall and the visitor or attorney sits on the other side--and you talk over a phone--exactly like in Orange is the New Black or Law and Order.

I kept protesting.  "I'm a licensed attorney.  I'm an officer of the court.  I promise I won't open the door when my client is in the conference room.  I'm not going to lose my license to slip something to the prisoner.  This is outrageous."  And it's exactly what happened.  The prison officials were unmoved and I had work to do.  I gave the boy and his father the keys to my car and said they could sit in it and wait if they wanted.  I expected it would take an hour or so.  Fortunately the weather in Michigan on November 3 was sunny and warm.  The boy and his father didn't seem to mind.  But I minded.

The "policies" explained to me regarding interpreters were not in writing.  But it was hard to argue with the intercom voice.

Appearances matter.  I didn't look like an attorney when I walked in to the Monroe County prison, so I raised suspicion.  But I must not have been that suspicious--I was never asked to show identification--I just gave them my name.  I really could have been an electrician pretending to be a lawyer.  But, because I am white, confident, and I speak unaccented English, I was believed to be the attorney, albeit an attorney in a flannel shirt and jeans.  My guests, however, were looked at differently.  They were brown skinned, and the father looked like an extra from an episode of Homeland.  They were not considered trustworthy, even though the father is a legal U.S. resident and his son a U.S. citizen in the seventh grade, who likes the Pistons, pizza, and is getting all A's in school.

But we live in a dangerous world and you can't be too careful.  So my guests, who love America, were told they couldn't sit in the public waiting room as I talked to the prisoner.  They couldn't be trusted.  They had to leave.

For the first time in my life I got a glimpse of an America I thought was long gone--a country where a white American felt comfortable telling a brown American he couldn't sit at the lunch counter because of the color of his skin.  It was heartbreaking.  And this is how it feels . . . .

My Christmas List

Haven't posted in two months, so it's probably rude that I'm sending out my Christmas list. This went to my wife and kids--however, anybody who wants to contribute to the cause, feel free.

Here’s what I want for Christmas:

1. Take me to see the Hobbit at an IMAX theater.  Feel free to pick up some Snow Caps or Sweet Tarts to eat during the show. 

2. Take me to the Elenor and Edsel Ford Home—I’ve never been there.

3. Take me fishing in Lake St. Clair. 

4. Take me target shooting.

5. Go with me on a trail run at Stoney Creek or Kensington Park

6. Go running with me to the end of Windmill Point, followed by coffee/breakfast/lunch at Janet’s Lunch

7. Take me to a baseball game—any place in 2013—could include Spring Training, I’m just saying.

8. Make me any of the following  meals:

Homemade pepperoni and red pepper pizza (and I'm not talking about pizza in a box)—lots of cheese (feta, too), fatoush salad, beer, chocolate ice cream;  OR

BBQ ribs, potato salad, corn on the cob and cherry pie, beer; OR

Ribeye steak, big baked potato, spinach salad, green beans and crème brule. Red wine.

You do all the prep.  I just get to eat with the cook and enjoy.  I will help clean up.

8. Download  two hours of music on my phone that you know I’ll like.  Suggestions:  Red Hot Chili Peppers, Tegan and Sarah, the Killers, Al Green, Maroon 5—anything new.

9. Take me to the Russian Tea room  for a meal AND sit with me and meditate in their chapel afterwards .

10. Take me to a movie at the DIA and a meal at Mudgies.

Or, give me a framed picture of me with the giver and a nice message written on the picture.  Make two copies—one for me.  One for you.

Goal Achieved

My New Year's resolution this year was to run a marathon in 2012--not just any marathon, but the Detroit marathon on my 51st birthday.

Well, Sunday, October 21 rolled around this year and yeah, I ran my marathon.  Not only did I run it, but I finished in the top third of all runners, which isn't bad for a first effort.  Actually achieved all my goals:  time under four hours (three hours and forty-eight minutes to be exact), ran the whole way (ok, I did spend a minute in the porta potty at mile 14), and no injuries.  Mission accomplished.

Fortunately for me, the day was perfect--cool temps, sunny skies and light breeze.  The view from the middle of the Ambassador Bride made me gasp.  The air in the tunnel was stale like I expected, but not scarey being down there.  And, the residents of the Indian Village are much cooler than most Grosse Pointers--they were blasting tunes, dancing, and passing out beer (for the carbs!) to thirsty runners.

Best moments of the day include my wife's loving send off at 6:20 a.m. and seeing my boys enthusiastically cheer me on--waving signs and yelling my name.  Also enjoyed my girls bragging about my exploits on Facebook ("my Dad is tougher than your Dad").  For a guy my age, these thrills happen less often than I'd like.

But the experience was not a one-day thing.  My serious training for the race began in June.  Armed with advice from experienced friends and following a training plan developed by Hanson's Running Shop, my preparation was methodical.  As the summer ground on, the plan demanded increasingly long runs that occupied more and more of my time.  Towards the end, I was running fifty + miles a week, and running became more or less my only physical fitness activity--I stopped swimming, biking and gym workouts--from September 1 on, I was a runner.

Fortunately, good friends helped make the long runs bearable, even fun.  Without Joe, Monique, Laura and Keith, I never would have stuck to the plan.  They pushed me to try harder and their wisdom regarding race preparation proved invaluable.

Since the day of the race, I've been feeling a little disoriented--not tired or sore, so much as hung over.  Despite all the praise this effort has garnered and my satisfaction at meeting a pretty awesome goal, I'm wondering, "What next?"

In the end, a race is just a race.  My achievement was not unique or all that special.  I didn't find a cure for cancer during this effort, nor did I come up with a plan for saving Detroit.  What I did do was push myself to do something difficult, something I had never done before, something that, barely three years ago seemed beyond my reach.  Which is why I ran this marathon.  I need to continue pushing myself if I'm going to remain physically and mentally fit for the next thirty years or more.  Rather than give in to physical limitations that are inevitable with age, I want to marshall the wisdom that comes with experience to drive me further.  Growing older should be less about limits and more about new opportunities.

So what's next?  Since the knees and ankles are still solid, I'm thinking about a new running goal.  I've never been a fast runner, but instead a steady one.  Next year I want to be fast, at least for a day.  My goal is to run a 5 kilometer race is less than 20 minutes.  That time would not qualify me for a high school cross country team, but it would represent the fastest time I've ever run.  Hey, if Oscar Pistorius can run fast without legs, what's my excuse?  In fact, I want to run this speedy race at the annual Grosse Pointe Turkey Trot Thanksgiving Day 2013.  How's that for a goal?

What's a life without goals?  A boring one.  An unfulfilling one.  Someone else's life, not mine.

Is There a Forest Beyond These Trees?

Until I actually saw Michelangelo's David up close in Florence this year, I never knew that the statue's hands were freakishly large.  No human being has hands so out of proportion.  Well, maybe Abe Lincoln did.  But, not someone considered "beautiful."  Yet, the size was not a mistake.  The artist intended viewers to see the statue from a perch forty feet above a Florentine plaza.  From that angle the hands look fine.

It's all about viewing things from their proper perspective.

This idea reaches beyond the world of fine art, and it certainly pertains to the angst I'm feeling over . . . well, just about everything.  Maybe it's the approach of another birthday.  Or perhaps worries about this marathon I'm running.  I feel ill at ease right now--and I want to feel differently.  What I need now, more than anything, is a little perspective.

I ask myself, "What do I have to worry about, really?"  My life is amazing.

Leprosy has not claimed my nose (poor King Baldwin in Kingdom of Heaven).  Don't know anyone injured in a terrorist attack.  Most people like me, a few (thanks Clarisa) love me, and NOBODY hates me--those feelings around here are saved for Jose Valverde.  What nerve, to get worked up about insignificant daily life dramas.  Lost a client?  Imagine what it feels like to lose your house?

Kid giving me fits?  Imagine the parent whose son is in jail, or whose daughter just suffered a drug overdose.

Can't afford that new toy?  Imagine running out of food stamps mid month and not having decent food to feed your loved ones.  Perspective is amazing, don't you think?

But, nervy as it seems, feelings are still felt even if those feelings are immature, selfish and possibly embarassing.  I wish I didn't sweat the small stuff, or get worked up about things that don't really matter, but I do.  I spend too much time fretting about perceived slights and lost opportunities. I pray.  I meditate.  I lose myself in repetitive exercise.  But I also can rachet up the emotions meter pretty much on cue.  The jaunty, "devil may care attitude" I try to wear hasn't fooled anyone for years. I'm actually a red-hot poker who wants desperately to be cool.

So let me trot out some wisdom.  I am, after all over 50.  I know the Bible backwards and forwards.  And, I've taken the Dale Carnegie course . . . twice!

Preaching to myself, now, here's my best perspective advice.  First, from my own experience, I know with certainty that it's not where you start that matters, it's where you finish.  Hell yes!!!

Though I've always been a decent runner, I haven't actually participated in many track competitions.  The first time I ran in a timed race was in college, when I anchored the 4 x 400 meter relay for my dorm's intramural track team.  When handed the baton, I was so pumped with adrenaline that the first hundred meters were the fastest I had ever run in my life.  I was running waaaaay too fast, though.  And, all of a sudden, my legs started to get heavier and heavier.  Pretty soon they were like lead weights and I struggled to run.  My team mates had no idea what was happening--it's like I suddently went from  being Speedy Gonzalez to being the tortise--and in this relay, the tortise came in last place.

I learned my lesson.  Next time I ran I resisted the urge to sprint and didn't worry when the whole world seemed to be passing me by.  I looked around and said smugly to some of the jack rabbits, "I'm gonna see you soon."  And, sure enough, while the truly fast runners beat the pants off me, most of the showboats turned out to be slowboats.  In the end, I passed runner after runner, and actually won a medal.  Grind it out.  Stay the course.  Keep on the right path even when the way is hard, because nothing feels more satisfying than finishing something difficult--and knowing you did it well.

Second perspective lesson comes from the Bible. 

I love the story of Joseph.  Not so much Andrew Lloyd Webber's version with his technocolor dream coat, but the Moses version contained in the book of Genesis.  Talk about a man with troubles:  sold into slavery by his brothers, suffered in Pharaoh's prison, falsely accused sexual assault.  Wow, Joseph's life went from one bad break to another, and another, and another.   But, in the end, these troubles led him to a place where he truly saved his family's lives.

I'm not saying that there's a silver lining behind every sorrow.  However, troubles are the best teachesrs  When things go well, we sometimes falsely believe our good fortune is somehow deserved or earned.  However, when times are hard--we become motivated to correct what's wrong in our lives.  For Joseph, his remarkable gifts were bound to break lose as long as he stayed faithful to God's guiding hand.  The same is true for us.  God never gives us more than we can handle and always provides us a way of escape, if we just open.our eyes and follow.  Bad times are ALWAYS a prelude to better times . . . you just need to remember God cares for you.

Finally, a lesson from Dale Carnegie: 

He wrote in "How to Win Friends and Influence People," that if you want to be enthusiastic, act enthusiastic!  Yes, act as if you're feeling the emotion you want to feel. 

Emotions work backwards, too. When you're down and out, don't curl up and sulk.  Instead, try pretending you're on top of the world.  Want to feel happy?  Smile.  Want to feel joy?  Jump on your bed and sing a song.  If you are stuck with negative emotions then shake them off. Change your body – how you move, sit and stand – and act as you would like to feel. Enthusiasm and other positive emotions can be created in the same way sadness and negative emotions can be deepened when indulged.

And here's one more piece of good advice.  Want to feel happy?  Try doing something nice for someone else.  I should know.  After sharing some uplifting thoughts I feel better already.

Is That Really It?

David Simon, a former reporter for the Baltimore Sun, has a knack for creating television series with complex characters from various walks of life.  He has a reporter's knack for getting "gritty"--with corrupt cops, violent crime, liberal doses of sex--all part of the juicy plots.

I've enjoyed every series he's had a hand in writing/creating, from the groundbreaking "Homicide, Life on the Street," a show that along with the original "Law and Order" brought police dramas to the top of the ratings in the 90s, to his two HBO series, "The Wire," which was also set in Baltimore, and his current series, "Treme," which is set in New Orleans.

"Treme" is a departure from his earlier series because rather than focusing on cops and crimes, the central characters are all musicians, looking to make a life in the Big Easy following Hurricane Katrina.  For me, the show had a bit of a slow start, somehow the characters seemed at little wooden, and I felt that I was watching something from a white, male liberal who was working overtime to prove he could present strong, authentic men and women of color to the screen.  I don't know--fortunately, as the series has progressed, the characters seem to be getting their footing--and as stories go deeper, the too self-conscious "I may be white, but I'm down with the brown" aspects of the scripts and dialogue are fading.

In fact, by the end of Season One, the show seemed to be hitting on all cylinders with one glaring exception, Creighton Bernette, the character played by John Goodman--the portly actor who shines in every role.

Goodman's character in Treme was a Tulane University English professor who lived with his wife and daugher in the heart of New Orleans.  Throughout the season, the scripts drop big hints that all is not well within the mind of Professor Bernette.  First, in a number of scenes we see him staring blankly at a computer screen, clearly agonizing through intense writer's block.  Yeah, we hear he's a novelist--and despite his words to family that the book was coming along, pretty much he was still stuck on the first paragraph of chapter one. 

Next we see scenes of the Professor teaching a freshman literature class where the students can't muster up much enthusiasm for the literature, but want to know every detail about "what's on the test."  The good professor gamely tries to warm up his students, but they never come around.

Finally, once the first post-Katrina Mardi Gras celebration comes, the Professor tries to get in the spirit, but instead goes home from the revelries dejected, muttering to his wife and daughter, "I just don't feel it this year."

So what does Professor Bernette do?  Well, he heads off to school one day.  Tells his wife to kick some ass (she's an attorney who battles police corruption) .  Tells his daughter how pretty she looks.  Then he goes off and kills himself.

Of all the inauthentic moments of Treme, the disposal of Professor Bernette, seemed to me most hollow.  And, of all the characters, this should have been the one writer Simon nailed--the middle-aged white writer experiencing all sorts of angst over the many changes swirling around him--and feeling powerless in the wake.  I understand that sense of helplessness, and I'm sure Simon did, too.  But the character was not suffering financial stress.  His wife and daughter appeared loving and dutiful.  No abuse or addiction in sight, other than the obligatory bourbon swilling while trying to put words on the page.

Despite John Goodman's best efforts to play this part with sensitivity, I just didn't buy it.  He did not appear mentally ill, narcissistic, or all that depressed really, just sad and wistful.  Does a person who longs for the pre-Katrina New Orleans kill himself and abandon his beloved wife and daughter?

As I continue to define my life in the face of advancing age and changing circumstances, I can't imagine why someone cashes in the chips, when clearly there are more hands to play in the game.  We all experience setbacks, and its depressing to realize our ambitions for changing the world have shrunk to far more modest goals.  However, when the sun rises over a lovely lake.  When we eat a delicious meal or savor a glass of fine wine.  When a story grips us and we want it to go on and on.  Isn't it wonderful to be alive?

Bad days visit us.  But fortunately, there's always tomorrow.  And in my book, tomorrow is always gonna be a good day.  Sorry Professor Bernette didn't know that.

Art is for Everyone!

My wealthiest neighbors are worried that poor, inner city kids in Detroit might lose access to Van Gogh, Diego Rivera murals, and some truly impressive suits of armor.

They were the first to put out lawn signs in support of a new tax to "save" the Detroit Institute of Arts.  Television commericals, direct mail pieces and press reports are all on message:  save our museum.  Detroit needs its art.

I definitely agree.  Detroit needs the DIA.  We've been members of the museum for years.  It's a treasure for sure.

But, I can't seem to get the smell of something disingenuous out of my nose.  While the DIA is a well-visited museum, open to visitors from all parts of our community, it is a rather "high brow" institution.  The well-heeled patrons sponsoring the current media blitz, the only ones who could afford hosting a private reception in the Rivera courtyard, say they are looking out for the best interests of the larger community.  After all, "Art is for everyone!"

And, I guess, since art is for everyone, it's only fair that everyone pays through higher taxes to keep the DIA's doors open.  Hmm.  I guess.

If only there weren't the obvious inconsistencies in this message that no one, I mean NO ONE other than Pat Caputo from sports radio has bothered to point out.

Where were these high minded community voices when the nation's oldest aquarium on Belle Isle was closing--guess fish aren't for everyone.  Or where were their voices when our president was fighting to provide health insurance to the uninsured--guess affordable medical care isn't for everyone, either.

I understand we all have our passions--and we work to promote those things that we find meaningful.  However, when one says, this passion in so important, that the entire community should support it through public funds, then it's important to step back and ask, "why?"  Or, better yet, in a time when first responders are being asked to take pay cuts, when public parks and community health programs are being trimmed, we need to prioritize.  Is art really more important than, say, prenatal screening programs?  Should the DIA flourish while the State Fair grounds remain shuttered?

I love art.  But I also love healthy communities.  I love the world's largest cast iron stove.  And I also miss the electric eel.  Maybe the drive to "save" the DIA might encourage my neighbors to throw their impressive credentials and deep pockets to save other important treasures still in danger in the Detroit area.  Or maybe, having saved the Roman statues, the Persian rugs, and the ivory carvings from being auctioned at Christie's, they can go back to criticizing poor people for needing public assistance, cash strapped municipalities for their wasteful spending and generally complaining about high taxes.

Maybe if Medicaid had a museum?

Science Guys Can Be So Tiresome!

My son thought the guy made sense.

I thought he was full of s**t.

I heard similar arguments before--from a guy I knew in college. "I could get A's in all the classes you take," he used to sneer. "But you wouldn't last five minutes in my classes."

He might have been right. He studied actuarial science. You know, the facinating course of study that prepares people to set insurance rates. All that complicated math--I would be lost in five minutes. And bored, too.

My undergraduate classes were far from boring. I took Shakespeare. I read Hume and Mill. I even studied Jazz music. My liberal arts studies included heavy doses of literature, philosphy, and speech classes. The closest I got to math was Statistics and Economics. No, not prepared for a job in the insurance industry.

Students who abandon math and science cut themselves off from lucrative potential careers. And, many commentators worry that our nation is losing ground to the rest of the world as interest in advanced Calculus continues to fade. At the same time, even "easier" courses of study in the arts and humanities require effort. Being able to do something doesn't mean you're good at it. There's a song, "If you can walk, you can dance." However, just because you can dance doesn't make you a dancer.

In the same way, just because you can write, doesn't make you a writer.

My son was speaking to a college recruiter encouraging bright high schoolers to pursue coursework in engineering. He told the teens not to waste their time taking writing courses, because, "All engineers can write. But not many writers can be engineers." Just love that logic, don't you.

Don't get me wrong, I urged my oldest daughter to study engineering--I thought she could write her own career ticket. She took political science instead. And the second daughter? No math there, either. And the youngest boy? The one who really is good at math and science? He'd rather study journalism right now.

Chips off the old block these children of mine. And, despite my pleadings to keep their options open--I can't be very persuasive when I followed a different path myself.

If I spent more time thinking about it, I could come up with a quippy comeback for the stuck up Math guy, but for now, I'll leave him and his socially inept friends to go figure out my insurance rates, while I go write a memo for my client. Or maybe download that new Stanley Jordan track.