I looked into a house I once lived in . . .

Alone in my house this evening, listening to a Joni Mitchell album, I'm taken back to other times in other houses in my past.  I remember staying at a friend's house in Ohio through one of our breaks my senior year in college.  It was winter, and the old wooden house was cold.  It was the year of Paul Simon's "Still Crazy After All These Years," which we listened to repeatedly and which seemed to set the mood for the place.  I remember a photograph of my friend Tom and me enjoying our birthday dinner in that kitchen in late November with our dates.  Tom and I were born one year and one day apart, and the woman who was then his date later became his wife.  I lived in that house for only a few weeks, but some of the memories remain.

There was the house I lived in during law school.  It was half of a duplex, and the landlady lived on the other side.  Our half had six bedrooms, and six of us lived there.  I had a room on the top floor with a slanted ceiling and a heating vent cut through the floor.  That house was cold too.  We tried to save money by keeping the thermostat set at about 62 degrees, colder than I liked it but the collective will of our group.  I spent less time at that house than my housemates did, but I remember it well, set at the bottom of the hill, a long climb up the gorge path to the law school each day.  One of the guys died quite a few years ago; I never learned the cause.

For two years after law school I lived in an apartment on Beacon Hill, near the bottom of Mt. Vernon Street.  The floors were slanty and the walls and ceiling needed paint.  The kitchen could barely fit three people standing, but it worked for me.  I remember sitting at my desk on summer nights with the window open.  I could hear the clip clop of a horse carrying a mounted policeman.  Man and beast patrolled the streets late at night, always at the same time - I think it was 11:00 p.m.  I'd listen to music then too, read books and write letters, and when there was a Red Sox game on, I'd watch t.v.  This is where I lived when I met my wife, and I remember her dismay the first time she visited and she saw that all I had in my refrigerator were a couple of beers and a bottle of ketchup.  Even thirty years after I moved out of that little place, our shared experience gives it special meaning.

And of course there was the house I grew up in.  A small ranch house with three bedrooms on what once had been a quiet street but which became busier over time.  My parents raised my sisters and me in that house, and it had many good memories, mostly of our aunts and uncles and cousins who would often stop by, unannounced, and who were always welcomed with an offer of a cup of coffee and food to go with it.  I used to help my dad maintain the house and paint the trim.  I helped him rake the leaves in the fall, and shovel the snow in the cold Rochester winters.  Dad took good care of that house for many years.  It seemed wrong that he wasn't there when I visited my Mom a few months after he died.  It was his house, no one else's, and we all seemed like squatters then.  It felt even more wrong a few years later when Mom no longer could live there on her own, and my sister had to sell it to a stranger.

That may have been the first time I really understood that we don't own our homes, or anything else for that matter.  We just borrow them for a time and then move on.  The experiences, the relationships, the memories, they are the only things we can call our own.  And with that as prelude, I give you young Jackson Browne.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNW9q6tk43c

It Gets Better

As if timed to coincide with my last post, this story about my fellow College of Wooster alumn and Trustee, Chief Judge Sol Oliver, far outdoes mine.  From humble beginnings to the pinnacle of his profession, Sol is a good man for whom I have the utmost respect and admiration.  Be sure to read the text and watch the video. 
http://www.wkyc.com/news/local/story.aspx?storyid=173328&catid=3

The Letter

When I was in college, like many students, I spent much time pondering my career choices.  It was the 1970s, and many of us felt pulled by the opposing forces of the idealism of the 1960s and the growing materialism of the current decade.  My own thought processes about my vocation seemed to parallel the changing times.  I entered college expecting to find some kind of career that would allow me to help people in need of some kind of help, and I left four years later to pursue a career in law.

A number of personal developments during those four years contributed to my decision to become a lawyer, but none more than a short, handwritten letter from one of my uncles back home.  His name was Angelo, but everyone knew him as "Ace."  Like all of the children of my immigrant grandparents, Uncle Ace was a child of the depression.  Growing up in the 1920s and 1930s, he and his brothers enlisted in the U.S. military and were stationed overseas during World War II.  After returning home and needing to make a living, Uncle Ace came to own a service station in the Central Park area of Rochester, New York, in what my parents, aunts and uncles would forever refer to as "the old neighborhood."  He was handsome and popular in his day, and always reminded me in looks and personality of Dean Martin.  He seemed well connected and well liked in Rochester, enjoyed life, and was especially good at one of Rochester's then-popular activities, bowling.  In fact, he wore a ring that bore the number "298," memorializing a near perfect game he once bowled.  (His brother, Carm, once bowled a perfect 300.) 

I grew especially close to Uncle Ace in the 1970s until his death from cancer in 1980.  When I was still in high school, he suffered a severe heart attack, forcing him to retire and sell his business.  He had another, worse heart attack when I was in college, and every time I was home from school, my mother would remind me to visit him.  It became something of a routine; some Friday nights during summer break, I would come home from work, shower, have an early dinner, and then go visit my uncle.  His daughter and young grandson were living with him and my aunt at the time, and I tended to arrive when The Muppet Show was on.  So there we would be in his small living room, watching the Muppets and enjoying each other's company.  He and I would also sneak off to the driving range, where he would coach me on my golf swing and occasionally swing the club himself against his doctor's orders.

 During the fall semester of my junior year, at a time when I was very focused on discerning my vocation, Uncle Ace sent me a letter.  It was the only letter he would ever send me.  The letter was handwritten, in neat script, on a small sheet of stationery.  In it, he urged me to choose law school.  The letter was one of several influences on my decision to go to law school, and I kept it because of its message and its sentimental value.  Until yesterday, I hadn't seen the letter for years, and I wondered what became of it.  Yesterday, I found it by chance in a box in my attic.  Here is some of what he said:

Hello Don:

 The world has always had problems, and our society has always had wrongs. 

 I respect your beliefs and your intentions to try to improve the existing conditions - but unless you yourself are a respected individual - your efforts will be of no avail.

 Go to law school - become well known - then you will be heard. . . .

As a lawyer, you can earn enough from your paying clients to represent your non able to pay clients.  You will become greatly respected and will accumulate a great following - then when you speak - you will be heard.

 A simple message, delivered clearly, from a man who understood something about how the world worked.  I did not become a lawyer with the expectation that I would someday "be heard."  Instead, what I took away from the letter was that lawyers can help those in need as much as, and in some ways more than, people in other professions.

My uncle's message remains true today.  As a bar association president, I am constantly inspired by the many dedicated lawyers who devote countless hours helping the "non able to pay" clients.  I also am somewhat daunted by the opportunities I have to "be heard,"  and the challenge of making the most of those opportunities.  Law is a great profession, and will remain so as long as there are lawyers who see it not only as an opportunity to do well, but also as an opportunity to do good.  Although I have made some effort these past few months to inform college students of the difficulties that face many law school graduates in a difficult job market, I would never want to discourage anyone from going to law school who shares the vision of making a positive difference in the world.  The profession, and our society, needs them.

My uncle passed away in 1980.  I last saw him as I was about to embark on a six-week trip to Europe with a law school friend after each of us had completed judicial clerkships and before we were to begin work at our law firms.  Uncle Ace was in the late stages of cancer.  He had lost so much strength that I had to help him sit up in bed and lie down again.  I knew it was the last time I would see him, and I believe he knew it too.  He probably had hoped I would return to Rochester to practice law, but I chose to stay in Boston.  The letter remains in my home, a worthy reminder of the power of a few, heartfelt words to shape a person's life.

Top Ten Wishes for 2011

Seeing all the lists of top ten events of 2010 makes me want to come up with a forward-looking list of wishes for 2011.  The risk of creating such a list is not just that it will not come true, but that it will include wishes that have no realistic possibility of coming true.  While my reach may exceed my grasp, I am nevertheless going to limit the list to matters within some reasonable realm of the possible.  I therefore won't include wishes for world peace, an end to terrorism, or that North Korea will become a beneficent state, even though I would love to see all those things come to pass.  Also, some items on the list will focus on matters that are (or, in my opinion, should be) important to lawyers and others in Boston and Massachusetts.  I have limited the list to matters of public policy, and have not included many things I might wish for in areas such as technological advancements or artistic or athletic achievements.  Finally, as with any top ten list, there is a risk of omission, but I have done my best to include what seems most important at this writing.

With those limitations, here are some possibilities I hope for in the new year.

1.  That we will make real progress in taming unemployment, and that many of the millions of Americans who have been displaced from their jobs in the last two years will be able to re-enter the workforce in meaningful ways.

2.  That we will see a rebirth of bipartisanship in government, with our leaders working together to find common ground for the benefit of all Americans.

3.  That American forces will finally leave Iraq and begin withdrawing from Afghanistan, safely and with the honor and appreciation that they deserve.

4.  That we Americans will renew our commitment to equality for all, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or social and financial status.

5.  That we will find the resources and the commitment to adequately fund our courts and the organizations that provide legal services to the poor.

6.  That the women and men in Massachusetts who work in probation and parole will do an effective job of keeping out of jail those who do not belong there, and of keeping in jail those who do belong there, and that we will not lose sight of the importance and the difficulty of each function.

7.  That we will do a better job of matching the over-supply of lawyers with the heightened need for legal services for the poor and middle class.

8.  That our government will more effectively regulate industry without overreaching or stifling innovation and competition.

9.  That we will make strides in protecting privacy in the face of technological forces that threaten to obliterate it.

10.  That we will find the resources to support our schools and to keep our children safe in underprivileged communities.

And allow me to add an 11th wish to you who read this for a happy and prosperous New Year.  May we all find the strength, courage, vision and goodwill to meet the challenges and to celebrate the successes that lie ahead.

On Loyalty

This week, a candidate for Massachusetts Lieutenant Governor bolted the Independent ticket and endorsed the Republican candidate for Governor.  His act of public betrayal has been met with disgust among some voters, and could backfire for the Republican campaign.  We will have a better idea after the election next month whether this unusual defection will help propel the Republican ticket to victory or will contribute to its defeat.

The danger of such acts is that they create perceptions that bring into stark contrast two very different traits:  gamesmanship and loyalty.  We abhor gamesmanship, which I define as the attempt to outsmart and outmaneuver an opponent with tactics that contravene shared values of fair play and good sportsmanship.  In contrast, we cherish loyalty as fundamental to good citizenship and to our humanity.  While gamesmanship, when successful, may be rewarded by temporary strategic gain, it often sacrifices trust, and can interfere with the game player's credibility and future relationships.  Loyalty, on the other hand, displays character, builds trust, and strengthens relationships. 

In literature, few characters are despised more than those who are disloyal.  From the Christian tradition, the word "Judas" has become a noun, and the Biblical figure of Judas represents the archetype of something horribly repugnant.  Those who are disloyal to country are branded "traitors," and the most egregious acts of treason are punishable by death.  Disloyalty is vice at its most extreme.

Of course, there are limits to loyalty, as it is only worthwhile when it is deserved.  Blind loyalty to an evil ruler, for example, is no virtue.  But loyalty to family, friends, co-workers, clients, and, yes, running mates, ordinarily requires no compromise of our values, and is itself a value to which we should aspire. 

We should not vilify the Massachusetts politician, nor elevate his defection beyond what it is -- simply one of many interesting developments in a traditional political contest.  No doubt there are elements to the story to which we who only read about it in the newspapers are not privy, and that may put the defector's actions in a more favorable light.  But this most recent example of a highly public act of disloyalty brings to light a core value that we human beings share, and on which it would be useful to reflect.

Eight Simple Words

During my junior year in high school, I sat in the back of our auditorium listening to our drama teacher, Ruth Bair, attempt to persuade a large group of students to try out for the school play.  With me, at least, she was successful.  I auditioned for a part in Archibald MacLeish's "JB," a modern day drama based on the Book of Job.  All I garnered that time was a walk-on part; better roles awaited me my senior year.  But Mrs. Bair's little speech was enough to get me in the game.  And the experience of  performing in the school plays was the highlight of my high school years.

What she said that I remember is this:  "If you don't extend yourself, you haven't lived."  Some memory of biology class made me think that this was both literally and figuratively true, though I'm not sure about the literal part, and it's only the figurative that matters to me.  But through the years and decades that followed, whenever I was unsure about participating in a new adventure, it was Ruth Bair's voice that egged me on.  I can't begin to measure the difference those eight simple words have made in my life.  I have repeated her advice to my children, and to captive audiences of new lawyers at their swearing-in ceremonies.

We hear other voices all the time, voices that make us question whether extending ourselves is such a good idea.  Seth Godin, in his book "Linchpin," talks about the lizard brain within us, aka "the resistance."  It is the instinctive voice of self-preservation that warns us not to venture out, but rather to stay still and quiet in the safety of our dens, with our heads down.  Godin's message:  quiet the lizard brain and become a leader.  In other words:  extend ourselves.

By not extending ourselves, we deprive ourselves of new experiences, and narrow our perspectives.  The other night, I listened to an "On Point" broadcast in which host Tom Ashbrook interviewed physicist Leonard Mlodinow, the co-author of Steven Hawking's new book, "The Grand Design."  As much as Ashbrook and Mlodinow tried to dumb the interview down for us non-scientists in the audience, it remained barely comprehensible, requiring some prior knowledge of quantum physics and string theory, for example.  Mlodinow talked about the number of additional dimensions that physicists and mathematicians believe exist beyond the three that we know.  He also asked the audience to imagine a two-dimensional universe, and the perspective of a bacterium crawling along it.  The bacterium, presumably also of two dimensions, would not know anything beyond that limited universe, and could not imagine a third dimension in the universe that we know.

And so it is in life.  If we do not extend ourselves, we limit our ability to perceive and understand the world outside our narrow vision.  When I let Ruth Bair's words encourage me to try scuba diving during the Caribbean vacations my wife and I took before we had children, I was opened to an undersea world that was more beautiful and diverse than anything I had previously imagined.  When I allowed the mantra to push me to become active in the Boston Bar Association early in my career, I was opened to a legal profession that was much broader and more diverse than anything I had known stuck within the confines of my law firm.  When I extended my activities to service on non-profit boards outside of my profession, I made connections with new friends and role models who help to shape who I am and with whom I try to give back to the world in whatever modest ways I can.  Maybe, out of ignorance, I would not have regretted spending these years keeping my head down, doing my work, and avoiding the time commitments that come from new endeavors and volunteer opportunities.  But now, with the knowledge of what I would have been missing, I remain grateful to Ruth Bair, and continue the effort to quiet the lizard brain within.




 

The Law Firm Paradigm

A friend sent me this article written by a former colleague.  Although its criticisms paint with a broad brush, it nevertheless contains the most concise and cogent survey of the landscape and call for change that I've seen to date.  I highly recommend it.