Two Abrahams

"Oh no," my Abraham yelped, looking at some colorful president cards we have, "Abraham Lincoln was... a Republican?"

I'm a child of New Hampshire. For those of you who aren't, here's what that means: it means that all politics was truly local to me growing up. It means we always had signs in the yard. It means that my first "job" was stuffing envelopes and answering phones when I was 13 or so for some candidate in a Portsmouth office. It means that my mom and I met Elizabeth Dole at our neighbor's house and she was so nice that we both might still switch parties to vote for her if given the chance.

Growing up, every Fisher was expected to have a political opinion. Politics were regular dinner table conversation. My father called me a pinko more than once during my adolescence. To this day, I don't watch a debate or a State of the Union address without texting my sisters throughout.

Growing up in NH also means I have a libertarian streak. I have strong party leanings but I don't vote just for party lines. It means I don't like dirty politics. When politics are that local, you realize that the candidates are actually people.  I don't agree with Sarah Palin but I was disgusted by the gender stuff that was thrown at her. I can't stand Rush Limbaugh but I was sympathetic to his challenges of recovery.

My kids, though, are New Yorkers. They are New Yorkers with a giant Obama hope poster in their hallway. (A poster that to me symbolizes both how far this country has come and how far it has to go.)

Their father is passionate about politics. Passionate in a very educated and fairly partisan way. Our Abraham was born during the GW administration. Right after we "won" the war and right before we went back to war. He spent hours of his infancy in the baby carrier held by his father while he read the paper and ranted about the administration.  JB's a guy with strong political leanings, and the kids know it.

Our Abraham is also a fairly literal kind of guy (as noted last week). There are good guys and bad guys in his world. You root for a team. His baseball team is the Mets. His political team, the Democrats. So Abraham Lincoln, same name as him and hero, a Republican? It didn't make sense. (I've left it to his father, much more knowledgeable about history, to explain the evolution of our 2 party system).

But I'm a NH girl, so I'm trying a little to shake him out of the good guy/ bad guy thinking. I'm trying to explain where my values fit in. That I believe that the government should help people. That I believe that people should be able to love who they want to love, and marry who they want to marry. That I believe that those of us who are lucky enough to have good jobs are obligated to help others. That we live in a world where a mayor from another party might be a better choice for our city.

Lots of my friends don't understand undecided voters. I do. Don't get me wrong, I'm completely decided. But undecided voters aren't dumb. They are thinking. They have values. Maybe some conflict with each other. Maybe they truly believe that life begins at conception and they truly believe the government should feed the hungry. Maybe they are just tired of in-fighting and money. They see their neighbors who need jobs, and possibility, and aren't totally sure which candidate has a better chance of providing that, or whether it even matters.

I hope my kids will grow up to understand that politics really is local. That our decisions affect us and those around us. That we should have an opinion and that it is ok if that opinion changes. These days, it's my youngest sister who my dad is calling a pinko. And my dad who has taken a conservative turn that has made us all furious. But that's ok. Cause he's a NH boy. And NH boys, well they may like their tractors and their Dunkin' Donuts and their Red Sox but they love their politics.

One, two, turn

My 9 year old has started playing on his school chess team, affectionately known as the Chess Ninjas.  I know nothing about chess.  Well, I know how the pieces move.  The knight - one, two, turn.  I now know there is a thing called "castling".  And a thing called "en passant".  Although I just had to google that one to be sure.

I went to my first chess tournament this week.  For those of you who have never been, let me assure you that an elementary school chess tournament is not an exciting way to spend the day.  Even if you love chess, you can't watch the matches - the kids are alone for those.  So you spend most of your day sitting in a classroom at a school.  Waiting.  Not eating, because if you get caught eating in the classroom, your team can get kicked out of the tournament. It's kind of like not watching the world's slowest cricket match.

My kid goes to a school full of families who are fairly normal (in a good way) and truly diverse.  I had a nice time chatting with the chess parents, and we had one very interesting conversation about the history of Columbus day and the way Columbus is perceived in countries throughout the western world. I had one nice walk through Harlem to Starbucks.  I got a little bit of work done, but not as much as I should have.

Through it all, I quietly observed the coach of the Chess Ninjas.  And I took home a number of interesting lessons.

Before I share them, let me brag a little.  This is no ordinary coach, and no ordinary chess team.  This is a team that took home a national championship last year.  This is a feeder team for the famous Brooklyn middle school team that won the high school championships last year, that star in this movie.  So, this is a coach who knows what he is doing.  And here's what he does:

Every player, win or lose, goes over his/her game with the coach after it's over.  And the feedback is on the play, not the win or loss.  Don't get me wrong, the coach likes to win.  But the kids sit down and go through their games move by move. When they won 'cause they got lucky, he tells them. When they play great but lose, he tells them that.

Think about it - we've gotten pretty good in the nonprofit world about learning from our mistakes, "failing fast", and pivoting.  But we still always take credit for our successes.  What if we are succeeding despite ourselves?  A popular rabbi who has significantly grown a congregation once said to me, "yes, we were growing.  We are in a community where people keep having kids and they want those kids to have a bar or bat mitzvah.  That doesn't mean that we are successful.  That's demographics, not outreach".  How many of the rest of us analyze our wins as critically as our losses? 

And the losses? After one loss, the coach told my son that the difference between the higher ranked players and the lower ranked ones is the number of possibilities they see at any given time.  It's an important lesson for my kid who is so literal that he sometimes calls himself "Mr. Literal." And an important lesson for all of us.  Think about it - winning it isn't knowing the right thing to do. Losing isn't doing the wrong thing.  It's not fully understanding all of the options. Winning is making decisions based on fully understanding all of the options for all of the players in the game.

I'm not going start playing chess.  Just isn't my game.  (Games aren't really my game, actually).  And I'm not going to volunteer to sit in that room for every tournament.  But while I'm there, I'll listen to the coach. Because maybe there is a life lesson in the castle after all.

Wanna come over?

It's become a tradition in our family to have an open house on the second afternoon of Rosh Hashana. It's the way I like to entertain - casual, everyone brings something.  A few days before the holiday this year, I was speaking to some colleagues and mentioned that I thought we would have "a lot" of people.  "A lot like 20? Or a lot like 40?" my colleague asked.  I didn't know.  Because I was scared to count.

I like to invite people.  I'm not always sure why, because guests can be a pain.  They are messy.  They are loud.  They often overstay their welcome.  The Rosh Hashana open house is often chaotic and exhausting. Yet I keep inviting people.  Sometimes more than I have room for.  Sometimes people I don't even know that well. Or people whose kids drive my kids nuts. 

One explanation is DNA.  Inviting people is a tradition that I get from my parents.  One year, at synagogue, the rabbi announced, "if you need someplace to go for Passover, call Margie." My mom hadn't volunteered, and she wasn't chair of some committee whose job it was to find people places to go.  It was just that the rabbi knew she would take people in.  Another time, the doorbell rang and it was the Domino's pizza delivery guy.  Somehow, someone in my family had figured out that he had some connection to Judaism, and there he was at Seder with us.

It wasn't just holidays. There were extra people year-round at my house when I was a kid. My dad would return from his early morning ramblings with someone in tow. (A habit I have recreated with inviting my running buddies over for coffee). Several of our cousins moved in with us at one time or another - for a month, or for several years.  Our friends ran away to our house, or crashed there while in between places.  One time, both my grandmother and our good friend V were staying in the house. She was in her eighties; he in his twenties.  They used to pass in the early mornings - she on her way out, he on his way in.

Inviting guests is also in my Jewish DNA.  The holiday of the week, Sukkot, commands us to invite guests into our sukkahs.  These are both mythical guests from the bible, and real live guests.   We are commanded to invite in the needy.  Needy is traditionally thought of as those who are hungry and in need of a meal.  And there is no question that there remains too much hunger, both in our very own communities, and throughout the world.

Yet inviting also addresses my hunger - for community, for people around me.  For laughter, for company, to toast and break bread.  To have people who feel comfortable rooting around in my fridge.  So, despite the fact that every year I say we aren't going to do it again, next year I will start the inviting again. If you didn't get an invite to Rosh Hashana this year, sorry about that.  Probably just didn't run into you.  Come next year anyway.  But be prepared for a million kids running around, too many plates to fit on the table, and not enough chairs. Because it's in my genes.  And I just can't help it.

How do I do what?

I sat down at a work lunch recently with another professional woman.  At the chitchat part of the lunch, the subject of kids came up.  "Do you have kids?" she asked.  "I do. A 9 year old and a 5 year old."  She gave a sort of half bow across the table.  "How do you do it?"

My first response was, "how do I do what?"  And yet, I knew what she meant.  Balance. Prioritize. Climb the (nonprofit in our cases) ladder.  Sleep.

I've been avoiding writing about this.  Avoiding responding to this much talked about article.  Or its many responses.  Because, honestly, how does anyone do anything?  I know a couple with twins, one of whom has significant medical and developmental issues.  How do they do it? I know a recently married woman whose husband is in the hospital fighting for his life.  How does she do it? I know people in their 30s and 40s who are single and put themselves out there several times a week on first dates.  People who work several jobs to make ends meet.  People who take care of aging parents.  People in recovery.  How do any of us do anything?  And yet, we do.  To paraphrase Louie CK, "Your life doesn't suck.  Life sucks."  And yet, all of us, all these people and people all over the world with much more serious stuff than balancing life and family, still manage to not only live but enjoy life.  To laugh, to eat with friends, to go for a walk on a cool evening.  So, on some level, I just do it.  And really, of all the things I worry and stress about, work/life balance isn't on the top of the list.

Which is why I didn't want to write about balance or rather, the term I prefer: work/life fit.  But it has become clear to me that many young women, including some I know personally, are hearing the message that it isn't possible.  And are opting out of working outside the home.  And in my opinion, without igniting the mommy wars, that is a shame.  Because working can be fun, and stimulating, and, for many of us, the mission of our work is to do our part to fix what is wrong in the world. Or create what is right.  Let me be clear: I strongly support people who choose to stay home because they are personally compelled by parenting.  But I'm concerned by the trend I see for bright women to opt out because they don't see another way.

With all that said, below is an expanded version of my actual response at lunch that day.  A few of the ways I do what I do.  I know that not all of them are options for everyone.  And I recognize that I am very lucky.

1. I don't do it alone.  I have a spouse who is a musician, whose hours are largely night where mine are largely day and who is a terrific father.  Having one parent home part of the time is key to my personal situation, but it isn't the only tenable solution.  I know couples where both people work part or 3/4 time and other families where the parents work full time and have a full time caregiver for the kids.  We also have grandparents and siblings who help when they can, although none of them are right in town with us.
2. I ask for help.  We've created a community of friends with kids and when one of us needs help, we ask.  It isn't a babysitting coop.  There aren't any rules.  We kind of self-monitor.  But I have learned: when you need help, ask.  People will ask back.  And soon you will all have a little more support.  
3. I don't do it all.  This is the one piece of "balance" everyone cops to.  My apartment hasn't been dusted since the Bush administration.  My kids wear mismatched socks and call it style.  I can't remember the last movie I saw.
4. I do make a point to do the things I care about.  I get up and run with my friends.  I read books.  I sneak out for a mani/pedi every now and again.  I bake challah.  I cook Shabbat dinner on Fridays.  I, like Sheryl Sandberg, leave the office in time for dinner with my kids. 
5. I have supportive supervisors.  But I learned to ask for that support.  And to prove that I worked hard, accomplished my goals, and deserved that support.
6. I embrace technology.  Since my first PDA, technology has enabled me to work where I am, when I can.  I can leave the office at 5 and be back on line at night. I can take a conference call while waiting for my kid at an appointment. 
7. But I'm not a slave to technology.  My team knows that I'm usually in bed early and won't respond until the morning.  I take an entire day a week off email entirely. I go on vacation occasionally and unplug. 

That's 7 things I do.  For me, it's not just possible, it's fun.  It's stimulating.  I enjoy working.  I enjoy parenting.  I don't want to choose one or the other. It's hard, but back to Louie CK: Life's hard.

I'm curious what you do.  How do you "do it"?  Anyone interested in joining with me to bust the myth that it is impossible to find the fit that works?
 

Put Your Shoes On

As parents of school age kids, we've mostly made the shift from being woken up to waking the kids up.  But waking the kids up each morning is only part of the job.  I'm pretty sure, in fact, that the four most common words I say every morning are "put your shoes on".  My kids aren't so hard to wake up, and they pretty much get through the eating breakfast, brushing teeth routine on their own, but the shoes? Every single morning.  "Put. Your. Shoes. On".  Over and over and over again. 

This weekend is the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, and there is a cool campaign amongst a group of rabbis and others to get the #Torah hashtag to the top of the most popular list.  So there has been a lot of tweeting Torah today, and I am enjoying the 140 character at a time learning.

This morning, Rabbi Sari Laufer (@RabbiLaufer) tweeted: "Midrash: The night before receiving the #Torah, the children of Israel slept all of that night,& Moshe had to rouse them to receive #Torah."

I've been thinking about that rousing, what it meant at Sinai and what it means in our generation.  Yesterday I had the extraordinary privilege of learning with Rabbi Yitz Greenberg. At one point, he was asked about the generation gap. His response: for hundreds of generations, from Sinai to today, parents have had to teach their children that this (Torah, community, Judaism) is relevant and meaningful. 

For hundreds of generations, we have had to wake our kids up.  Yesterday's learning was part of a conversation convened by the Schusterman Philanthropic Network, The Cohen Center for Jewish Studies, and our team at NEXT: A Division of Birthright Israel Foundation. We were there to hear from Birthrighters themselves and their peers - innovators and entrepreneurs throughout the Jewish community who are helping us think about how to think about Birthright, the gift of a free 10 day trip to Israel, and the days, months, and years that follow that trip.

In many ways, for many participants, Birthright Israel is that waking up, the rousing to receive Torah - in the most broad sense of the word.  And it does a pretty good job of that.

But Birthright Israel doesn't make breakfast.  It doesn't remind you to pack your backpack.  It doesn't nag you to put on your shoes.  And it doesn't do what is my ultimate goal with my kids - get you to the point where you do all these things on your own because it just makes sense to you.

That job - the backpacks, the shoes, the understanding of relevance and applicability, that's up to the rest of us. I'm honored to work with a group of people who think about this everyday.  But we can't think of it alone.  Whatever your background, whatever your religion (or lack thereof), it is our role to pass our values on to the next generation.  How are we doing that?  And what are they passing up to us?  And how do we all get to a place where we don't need to be reminded to put our shoes on?

Originally posted on www.alefnext.com

Running gives you an alter ego

I bought new running shoes recently.  Well, truth be told, I bought a new pair of the exact same shoes (after running in several pairs and taking another one home).  But that's another story.

When I was at the store, the guy helping me pointed to a pair of bright orange shoes.  "These also might work for you," he said, "but you probably aren't interested in them".  Because, of course, they were florescent orange.  At the time, I was dressed in my work clothes.  I'm guessing it was a grey pants suit.  My everyday wardrobe is pretty much grey and black.  With a few pairs of jeans and a red shirt or two thrown in.  I'm not particularly stylish or adventuresome.

But my running clothes are all various ridiculous shades.  I have a white and green visor that Coach Craig and T can't stand.  I have an orange headband that Coach Craig once told me he couldn't even look at me in.  I have enough hot pink items that our new running buddy, Captain Internet, joked that he needs to buy a pink spandex shirt.

My dad used to always tell me I needed a hobby.  He believes it is important to have more than work in one's life, and he is right.  Hobbies also let us be someone other than who we usually are. Like a florescent color wearing crazy person.  Or a toe-shoe wearing "coach".  Or an internet personality spending an hour unplugged. 

I've been doing a bunch of interviewing at work over the past few months.  Around the end of a second interview, I invariably ask people "what do you do for fun?"  I'm trying to get a sense of their personality, and potential fit with our team.  But I'm also trying to get a sneak peak into their hobbies.  Because our alter egos are part of us, after all.  And perhaps a bigger part than we want to admit. 

Guest post: NFL Fail?

Hello everyone, it's me, the artist formerly known as JB.  I write today as a conflicted lifetime football fan.  My conflicts are many...growing evidence of brain damage among former players is going to be an epidemic that will have us all beating our chests for every time we cheered a knockout hit.  The economics of the game are outrageous.  And, of course, my team, the San Diego Chargers, are notorious chokers and disappoint me to no end.  My latest disgust with the NFL, however, dovetails nicely with this blog, whose author was kind enough to offer me a guest spot.

The NFL awards one player its "Man of the Year" award each season.  This year the award will be presented during the multi-billion dollar spectacle known as the Super Bowl.  The process is that each team selects its own nominee, the league picks 3 finalists and during halftime of the Superbowl the winner is announced.  The prize money goes like this- each player picks a charity, each team's nominee receives $1000 for his charity, each finalist receives an additional $5000, and the winner receives a check for $20,000 for the charity of his choosing.  $20,000 is a sizable donation for an organization to receive, but is a pittance to the NFL.  A $1000 check from the NFL is like one of those dividends that comes in the mail from a stock you forgot you own, made out in an amount less than the first class postage they put on the envelope.

Every commercial break now seems to include at least one ad touting the good that this or that corporation is doing.  Of course they realize that this makes consumers feel better about buying their products, and I'm OK with that.  At the same time, I hope they are spending at least as much on the donation as they did to make their self-congratulatory commercial.  The NFL fails miserably here in that regard.  StubHub currently lists 4 Super Bowl tickets in the corner of the end zone for $20,000.   Every player on the LOSING team will receive a check for $43,000.  (I realize the NFL is not writing either of these checks, but the amount of money being thrown around is beyond ridiculous)  The economics just don't make sense and for the NFL to try and buy some good PR with this is an insult.  They should just let us watch 3 extra minutes of Madonna and the Foo Fighters.

Run in the Other Direction

I wanted to start the year off with a "long" run.  For me, long is: to the park, one loop around, and back home.  About 5 miles.  That's JB's regular run.  It is some people's short run.  But this isn't a contest, and for me, that's still a long run.

There's a problem with the long run.  A problem I call "the hill."  Those of you who run or bike or skate in Prospect Par, Brooklyn know what I am talking about.  I hate the hill.  Hate it lots.  Hate it so much that (at J's suggestion), I once ran up it, down it, and back up again in an attempt to shake my dread. 

When I'm with someone, I whine my way up the hill.  If I am feeling clever, I ask them a question that takes them the hill to answer and thus distracts me.

But on my long New Year's week run, I was alone.  And so, inspired by a conversation the day before between JB and our zippy friend I'll call "Long Legs Steve", I ran in the other direction.

So simple.  It's a loop.  If you don't want to run up the hill, run the other way.  Run DOWN the hill.

(It is true that whatever way you go, you still have to go up.  But up the long way is very different than up the short, steep way).

My run in the other direction?  It was fun.  It was (almost) easy.  I enjoyed running "against traffic" and looking at the people that I passed.  People of all ages, sizes, and abilities exercise in the park.  It's inspiring, and when you run towards them there is no competition about passing them, or them passing you.

The run in the other direction also surprised me.  There were parts of the park that I didn't recognize.  Things I felt like I had never seen before. A couple of times I looked around and wasn't completely sure where I was.

It's a true cliche about how doing something differently changes your perspective.  In 2012, I'm going to try to run in the other direction often.  (And up the hill sometimes).  I encourage you to try it too.  Walk instead of run.  Sit on the other side of your desk.  Stand on the train if you usually sit.  Sit if you usually stand.  Do something little to change the way you see the world, and admire how different it looks.