Willin'

            It’s been a long couple of weeks working on the streets and debris piles in Seaside Heights.  Sadness, pain, and loss cut through every minute of the day, no matter what you do or where you go.  The level and depth of destruction in this beach community is staggering.  You can be moved to tears throughout the day when you see the tattered remains of peoples’ lives and memories in piles along the curb or loaded into the backs of trucks on their way to dump sites.  People put down roots here and raised families and built lives that had value and meaning, and now it’s all gone.  That sadness hangs on everything.

            You see and hear about tragedies and natural disasters on the news, and for many people it hurts about as long as it takes to change the channel to “Dancing With The Stars”, “Storage Wars”, or some other idiotic reality show.  Life takes over for most of us and returns to normal, even with the best of intentions.  But for people up and down the Jersey coast (as well as in the Rockaways and Staten Island), life can’t just “go on”.  Not when everything you spent a lifetime building is gone like it never happened or was never there.

             But what comes back at me day after day, no matter who you meet, is the unwavering belief and conviction that we will rebuild.  That nothing will stand in our way – tough odds and hard work are no match for the kind of strength, resiliency, and toughness the people in this state own. Through the pain comes hope, strength, and courage.  Like a boxer in the late rounds of a fight, we took everything Hurricane Sandy had to give and we’re still on our feet, throwing jabs and punching our way out of trouble.  We may be down, but it’s only a temporary thing.

              Nothing can keep us down.

  That’s the real lesson from the debris piles.

Restore The Shore

If anybody needs me for the next couple of weeks, I'll be in a hard hat and safety vest- clearing debris in Ortley Beach, Seaside Park, and whatever parts of New Jersey need help.

More updates (and random angst and anger) when I return.

My City In Ruins

             Nestled between New York and Philadelphia, New Jersey and the people who live here, are the Rodney Dangerfield of the 50 states.  It’s been that way ever since the 13 Colonies broke away from England.  Mocked for everything from our accents to our attitudes, viewed with disdain and condescension by neighbors across both the Hudson and Delaware, this state is often the butt of late night TV show jokes.  People who don’t know anything about New Jersey think we speak like characters out of the Sopranos and only understand geography when we can attach a highway exit to the map.  Like the caricatures on a dumbass show on MTV or Real Housewives capture the essence of who we are.

            But New Jersey is more than oil refineries on the Turnpike and gridlocked highways filled with rush hour commuters.

            For those of us who were born here, who grew up here, or who live here, this state is much more than that.  We are 127 miles of coastline and sandy beaches, the untouched beauty of the Pine Barrens, acres of farms, and rolling hills.  We are generations of families who have built lives here and raised children and made a difference in the world, in big ways and small.  We are tough and resilient, filled with hard-assed attitude, and we know what it takes to roll up our sleeves, get our hands dirty, and get the job done.  We are the best of all people. 

            We are a state filled with courage – brave, spirited, caring people who love our families, friends, and neighbors with a fierceness nobody else can match.  Our identity is forged in the strength we find in each other.  We are the gritty toughness of a Springsteen song and the beautifully written words of a Toni Morrison novel.  We are a state of farmers, fishermen, truck drivers, blue collar laborers, doctors, lawyers, and executives – sons and daughters of immigrants from all over the world.  We identify with the underdog, and cheer on those facing the longest odds and toughest journey.

             We are everyman.

            So much of what I learned in life, I learned growing up in New Jersey.  This state is a part of me and who I am.  I am proud to be from New Jersey – full of that unique blend of edginess, attitude, energy, and strength, and filled with a love for the people around me.

            New Jersey will rebuild and restore what this storm tried to take away.  The spirit we own can never be broken.  Don’t tell us how hard it will be and don’t try to stop us from doing what needs to be done.  We are about overcoming odds and taking on all challenges.

We are more than a punch line in somebody’s joke.

            We are what this country is all about.

Nobody Asked Me, But -

• There are whole generations of people from across all demographic groups who have never taken the time to learn how to say, “please”, “thank you”, and “I’m sorry”.

• I haven’t always agreed with him politically, but there’s nobody at handling a crisis – at least one caused by Mother Nature – than New Jersey Governor Chris Christie.  Hands down, he’s the “lead from the front and get things done” kind of guy you want in charge

• After riding out Hurricane Sandy, I’m not traumatized by the storm.  I’m traumatized by the indifference of so many people about the devastation it caused (substitute Katrina, Irene, tornadoes in the Midwest, the earthquake in Haiti, etc. for Sandy).  Too many people don’t care until it impacts their own comfort and convenience.

• The randomness of fate and the power of Mother Nature are two of the biggest equalizers in life.

• Writers write.  Plain and simple – if putting words on paper for others to read is your chosen profession (or dream – desire – passion), then suck it up, tough it out, and stop bitching about editing and rewrites and word counts.  It’s petty and small to hear somebody whining about the “rigors” of writing….go pour concrete, pound nails, or sweat on a highway work crew for a couple of months and change your perspective.  Shut up and write.

• Anybody who knows something about football knows that Tim Tebow isn’t a serious answer to anything related to the sport.

•  If the urban oasis by the sea that I live in is a microcosm of small town politics, it’s often the people from the “wrong side of the tracks” who show up at town council meetings to address problems like gang violence, drugs in the neighborhood, schools, and education for their kids.  They’re the ones who are taking steps to make things better.  The people who should do more because they have more are the ones who get involved only when it concerns dog parks and inappropriate bathing attire on the boardwalk.

•  Cory Booker has future President written all over his resume (if not the Oval Office, then make room for him in the Senate)

• There’s a kind of coolness to the music of Elvis, Eddie Cochran, Buddy Holly, Little Richard, and Carl Perkins that never goes out of style – something that feels like the innocence of high school, fast cars, and the open road.

• I believe that the worst of times can bring out the best in people, and that we can put aside our differences to work together and make things better.  That’s how it’s supposed to be.  I’ll keep believing that until they carry me out of the room and turn off the lights.

My thoughts and prayers to my friends, neighbors, and everyone affected by the hurricane and its aftermath.  Stay strong.

Holding Back The Years

        It’s been said that you can’t go home again- that attempts to relive youthful memories always fail because time changes everything.  I used to think that too, but I was wrong.  Last weekend I returned home for my high school reunion, having missed every single one since graduation.  It was never intentional – life just got in the way.  A lot of years have slipped by and time has eroded memories, and I’m guilty of letting too many miles pass between hello’s, phone calls, texts, and emails, especially to many people who mattered 30+ years ago. 

In an instant the years fell away. 

For two days it was all about seeing old friends and missing those who couldn’t be there, catching up on the paths each of us had taken, sharing memories, and laughing about stories I’d forgotten (especially the ones that were horribly embarrassing).  As my friend Butch put it, we stopped being jocks, nerds, rah-rahs, and beauty queens and kings – instead we were just a group of old friends getting together again after too much time apart.  People say that you shouldn’t live your life looking in the rear view mirror and I’ve always believed that all that matters in life is what’s ahead.  But something has always pulled me back to high school, the friendships that were made there a long time ago, and the memories that still endure years later. 

I believe the friendships you make early in life are the ones you hold close – the same ones that can bring you home again.

            Those four years were a bittersweet period that few of us truly appreciated back then – a time of transition and change you could never wrap your hands around.  There were tears, fears, laughter, worries, heartache, and heartbreak twisted around classes, homework, and tests about subjects most of us had already forgotten by graduation.  Crushes, phone calls, and late night conversations with girls who saw you as a “friend” when you wanted desperately to be something more than that.  Football keg parties on Saturday nights, long classes spent watching the minutes fall slowly off the clock, and too many stupid, immature things that were said and done – the kind of things that still make you cringe years later (while hoping that God has a sense of humor about stuff like that).  Some of us even grew up a little.  Or grew up a lot.  You learned to love and you learned about hurt, and many of us forged relationships that remain strong years later.

            Over the past few months as the reunion took shape and many of us reconnected again, I loved how easily we all slipped back into comfortable grooves.  You spend so much time trying to get out of high school that you miss what you have beyond the classrooms and how special each friendship can be.  When we graduated we talked about the future as well as where we were going and how we would change the world, but last weekend it was nice to be reminded of where we started.  Age, or maybe maturity, has a way of making things clearer – at least the things that are still meaningful.

            When I drove home, I felt a familiar hurt – I wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia kicking my ass or the kind of sadness that comes from genuine, heartfelt good byes. 

Or maybe it was the realization that no matter how far you go or what you try to do, you can’t do any of it if you don’t remember where you came from.  And that no matter where you’re going, it’s the friends you have who make it all worthwhile.

A Day In The Life

It feels like only yesterday, but it’s been eleven years since over 3,000 people died in the September 11^th attacks after terrorists hijacked and crashed four planes into New York’s World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania.  For many of us here in America, it was our generation’s Pearl Harbor.  A day none of us will ever forget.  A day that will remain burned in our memories forever.  A day when we lost more than loved ones, family members, friends, and neighbors – it was the day when we lost our innocence about terrorism.

Most Americans can vividly recall where they were when they heard or saw the news, and none of us will ever forget those images in the weeks and months that followed.   With the anniversary upon us, the news will again filled with stories detailing the horrors of that day.  Pictures and videos and news footage of the planes crashing into the Towers, fire fighters rushing into the buildings while others ran out, and the tireless work of First Responders from all walks of life digging through the rubble.

While my city was in ruins I was stranded 3471 miles across the Atlantic, concluding a relatively successful business trip in London.  For the life of me I can’t recall a single meaningful detail about the in's and out's of those meetings or what I did there – whatever importance and meaning any of it had disappeared that Tuesday.

But what I remember so vividly was that I wasn’t alone, even though I was by myself in a country that wasn’t my own.  From Grosvenor Square, where I signed a memorial book in the shadows of the US Embassy and wrapped myself in an American flag, to the streets of Kensington and Notting Hill where I wandered for hours, lost in thought and fears, Londoners embraced me as one of their own.  When people learned I was an American (I am from New Jersey after all, and although I don’t necessarily believe it, it has been said that in addition to our tough, edgy attitudes we own a distinctive accent when we speak), the outpouring of emotion from everyone I met was overwhelming.  I have never felt more welcomed by complete strangers, nor experienced that kind of friendship anywhere.  Strangers invited me into their homes.  Diners at adjoining tables in restaurants shared my pain.  People cried with me.  Londoners went out of their way to comfort me, grieve with me, laugh with me, and share stories over a few too many late night pints with me.  

In a city of strangers I was held with a ferocity of love I had never before experienced.

Over the past few years I’ve written stories about 9/11 and its impact on those of us who lost friends and people we knew.  Hardly a day passes that I don’t think about that day, friends who are no longer here, and what so many have sacrificed and lost since then.  That pain will last a lifetime.  But what I am always grateful for is the love from a city that embraced and loved me as one of its own.  For me, the healing began that week in London. 

London and its people will always own a piece of my heart.

By The Numbers

            The last few weeks have been filled with headlines about the Republican Convention, party platforms, women’s rights, and “forcible” and “legitimate” rape (What?  Seriously?).  One of the poster boys for some of these stories has been Missouri Rep. Todd Akin.  For anyone who has followed him with regularity, his comments should come as no surprise.  The man lacks humanity, compassion, and understanding….this is the same elected politician who has continually pushed an agenda that includes getting the Federal government to stop financing the National School Lunch Program altogether.  Forget the fact that according to Share Our Strength, a majority of teachers surveyed said that students come to school hungry because they are not getting enough to eat at home – this program and others like it have tremendous benefits for kids.  But to guys like Akin, it’s all about a bottom line based on numbers and nothing else.

           

A few facts for Akin and his budget buddies to consider:

·         ¼ of US children have chronic health conditions related to diet

·         22% of US children lived in poverty in 2010

·         ½ of US children get no early childhood education

·         14% of US adults can’t read

Since June 2009, the US economy has lost 300,000 local education jobs, and food assistance programs related to school lunches have seen huge cuts to their budgets.  Here in New Jersey, our governor has been at war with the teachers union since his election while claiming he believes in teachers.  Of course, increasing class size, freezing or cutting salaries, and refusing to fund educational programs while stating that money doesn’t matter, doesn’t demonstrate much of that “belief” in those same teachers.

It’s easy and sadly simplistic to point a finger at teachers and say, “they make too much money.”  That they “need to do more with less”  That’s a common theme guys like Christie and Akin and Paul Ryan like to champion, but it fails to recognize the value of teachers and the impact each teacher can make in a kid’s life.  Almost anyone can find it in themselves to teach a class once.  Doing that day after day, week after week in ways that consistently engage kids is the tough part.  And one of the most valuable things teachers do every day.  We can all remember that teacher who made a difference in our lives – the one who encouraged, supported, believed, and even kicked our ass because they saw potential.  I don’t remember parents when I was in school saying that those teachers were overpaid the same way nobody ever says doctors and nurses are overpaid when you’re laying on a table in the ER.  If you listen to the budget droids in Washington and our state capitols – the same guys who see numbers like the kid in The Sixth Sense saw dead people – teachers are overpaid and over valued.  Guess we value business hucksters and corporate shills who outsource products and jobs more than the people who hold our children and our future in their hands.

As a country, we need to make tough choices to balance the budget and reduce the deficit, but cutting investments in education and programs that provide related assistance for low income families isn’t one of those choices.

In a nation that can’t even agree on the necessity of providing healthcare for all its people, agreeing on some kind of policy for education is a lot to ask.

But no strategy for education isn’t really a plan.

And while I’m at it, special thanks to: Agnes Armao, Mrs. Harris, Mrs. Feder, Mr. Rouse, and Miss Rittenberg (who kicked my ass repeatedly throughout grade school).  You guys made a difference, even if I didn’t know it back then.