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Conversations with Bobby
From Foster Child to Corporate Executive
For two years I collected ideas, materials, tidbits, thought starters—all to be part of a new book idea on the theme Nothing Happens Until Someone Sells Something.
Toward the end of those two years, my bride and I took a trip to our Florida home to relax in the winter sun. I brought the folder with all of those elements with me. During that trip, I planned to start writing my book.
On one of our first days in Florida, I brought that folder to the swimming pool along with that day’s newspaper. After reading the paper, I was joined by a neighbor who sat down in the chair next to me. I put the newspaper down on top of the book idea folder and began a long chat.
When I returned from the pool, I tossed what I thought was just the pile of used newspapers into the trash. Unwittingly, I had also tossed out the complete file of book idea materials.
A harsh adversity.
A few days later, I was in the middle of a frantic search for the folder when my bride, Pat, asked what I was doing. I explained that I might have inadvertently thrown my book materials out with the long-gone trash. Her response gave birth to this book, which is now in your hands.
She said: “You have already written several light, inspirational books. You should do a more serious book reflecting your childhood in foster car homes—and—how often those varied and different lessons became later strengths in your business life.”
Pat paused and then added, “You should develop a theme and title the book, Conversations With Bobby.”
My reply to her was instant and negative. I had worked too hard to erase my memories of those childhood years. It was too hard and painful to link my childhood experiences with my business career.
Ever the advocate, Pat reminded me that over the years I had shared many of my childhood memories with her—and had often alluded to lessons that had added value during my business career. As is Pat’s way, she was optimistic. She knew that by reminding me of those memories, she would beckon more to rise to the top.
Thus began the journey of recollections. She gave me a ‘memory’ starting point—I let that simmer and gestate in the hope it would bring clarity of recall—as well as identify links to business insights.
That process was imperfect. Long-buried personal pain—adversity—was simply too difficult for me to call back to mind with precision Although the emotions associated with the different memories were crystal clear, the same can’t be said about the conversations and timeline of some of the events that took place. While some conversations were remembered word for word, others were cloudy.
For this reason, throughout the book, the quoted sections are paraphrased. I remember the context, but not necessarily the exact quotes as some of these events took place so many decades ago.
Once I became comfortable with that mix of facts—and our best effort at paraphrasing conversations and some events-the doors to business lessons opened with sharp clarity and easy precision. Those are pure fact.
I then decided I should have the “conversations” between the child, Bobby, and the adult, Bob, take place on park benches in Central Park, New York City.
Central Park is a few long blocks from the Hearst Corporation headquarter building at 300 West 57th Street. When I had a free lunch hour, I would often buy an apple and a bottle of water, and stroll through the park and discover the wide variety of park benches that provide comfort to many park strollers.
As I began to write the book, I sensed how severe a struggle I had with language for the child, Bobby.
Slowly it dawned on me that, typical of foster children, my own childhood was rarely with other children—but rather mainly with foster home adults.
Foster children often have a distorted childhood. They speak as a adults—more than as children—since most of their incessant moving from foster home to foster home has them with social workers and foster parents—all adults. That is the language they adopt.
When I fished the early draft of the first few chapters and asked my Pat to review them, she told me that she liked how the childhood experiences were recalled, but there was too much of an adult tone. When I was recalling my early childhood memories through Bobby—she observed that I was doing it as an adult, rather than through the eyes of a child. She said that I needed a different writer—a talent—to capture the child.
After several disappointing efforts to find that writer talent to “voice the child,” Christen Furka, a recent creative writing college graduate en route to graduate school, was put in my path. She did a sample chapter. It sparkled. Thus I engaged Christen to rework my chapters to better capture the voice of the child. For example, although I could remember emotions and broad events, I couldn’t detail the little things that help such recollections stand out. Christen caught the senses—how things looked, smelled, acted. She reminded me of how children view the world—something I didn’t know. In fact, never did know as a foster child. With the voice of the child from Christen, I began to dream about the book having added qualities to make the final product a “feast for the senses.”
The new ambition seeded my mind to be open to what might be the ingredients of such a feast.
With that mindset, and quite by unplanned circumstance, I met Kristen Ulfsparre, an administrative aide with Booz Allen Hamilton consulting. Chatting with me in their waiting area, before I was to meet with her colleagues, I learned that Kristen was a Fine Arts Photography college graduate whose specialty was reality photography. That very day I engaged her to do a series of graphic image shots of Central Park. The cover shot of this book flows from her gifted eye—as do several of the interior images.
The editorial development and art were then guided by Callie Rucker Oettinger to Sarah Barr, whose graphic design gift became the unifier for the completed look of the book.
With three elements in place for the “feast of the senses”—the title, the text and the photographic art and graphics, I was still missing the link to the sense of hearing.
Pat is a professional lyric soprano who has sung throughout the world. She has met many gifted musicians during her travels. Several of them have been our house guests when performing in America.
One such guest, Nicolae Voiculet, a world-renowned Pan flutist from Romania, performed at our home before heading off for a nationwide tour.
As he was preparing to leave, Nicolae presented me with his newest CD of Pan flute music, which he had composed, orchestrated, and performed. I immediately popped the CD from its case and played it.
The music was haunting, lovely, memorable. Nine songs—each distinctive and individual, all flowing from the gift of Nicolae’s talent.
When the last song played, I asked Nicolae if I could purchase rights to his music to use as a CD inside the cover of a new book I was doing. He agreed with enthusiasm.
The CD was labeled “De Dragoste” (“Of Love”) in the Romanian version. The title was recast for this book to: “Love Yearnings From A Child.” It is a treasure for the ears.
All this is spelled out for you so that you can see how the adversity of one lost book idea folder created a fresh opportunity; how the foggy childhood memories of grim, difficult foster care circumstances were imperfectly recalled and recast.
You also now know the finished work is the product of a mini-symphony of talents: Callie Rucker Oettinger as the project maestro (my book babysitter), Christen Furka as the voice of Bobby, Kristen Ulfsparre with her fine photographer’s eye, Sarah Barr as the provider of graphic unity and beauty, Nicolae Voiculet as the Pan flutist extraordinaire, and my bride, Patricia Brady-Danzig, for her seed idea, refining judgment, encouragement to face down the childhood darkness—and—celebrate the light of business insights.
When giving my ‘tone setting’ guidelines to Christen as she voiced the child, I gave her written conversations, each dealing with Bobby’s pain, loneliness and melancholy. When I shared those same thoughts with Pat, she wrote these words to me: “Just remember, the pain has been long gone. One of the big lessons you learned was to choose quality in your adult life. The meaning is that—all through the childhood pain, you learned to see the core of life’s happenings, and to plow through to a proper conclusion. In other words, the pain became secondary because it was over—and it helped you choose wisely.”
Foster children deserve caring foster care social workers and foster parents. They deserve adoption. They deserve understanding that they all have had to walk a path of adversity. Moreover, when foster children receive understanding, encouragement, inspiration, and love—then they each have the prospect of being the CEO of their own lives. They can convert the lessons of tough childhoods into a brighter prospect for fulfilled adult lives. Your empathy, understanding, care—even informed concern for a foster child—just may be the launching factor to invite that child to become the CEO of better life choices.
Every foster child is caught in circumstances he/she did not create and cannot change—alone. Each foster child deserves an opportunity to learn how to “plow through” the pain, let that pain become secondary, and be helped to choose wisely.
Every foster child—indeed, every child—should hear the constant echo in his or her mind’s eye: “You Are Worthwhile. You Are Full of Promise.”
It was long after dawn and yet night refused to leave. Though the light was stifled, morning left its breath upon all that its rays should have touched. The heavy fog challenged the bulky darkness, and I remained still on the park bench, scared to disrupt the conflict. Dampness rested next to me and together we looked out at a seemingly deserted park.
Draping clouds ushered in a warm stickiness that sat upon my black slacks and loafers like thick syrup. I bent down to wipe the maple droplets from my shoe, and, in that motion, saw a black figure in the misty distance. It moved toward me, its hulking human form slowly becoming visible. Yet, the nearer it drew, the more golden in hue the hair and face grew. The closer it came, the smaller the body shrank. I could see that, what from far away appeared an aged man, was really just a small child. The boy walked toward my bench, unaware of the mystifying morning. With his head bowed, he dragged a small bag behind him. The sack lapped up the syrupy dew, leaving a clear impression in the grass of where he had been.
When he finally approached my bench, it seemed as though dampness greeted him before I had the chance, for his moist, light hair stuck to his forehead.
Looking up at me he asked, “May I sit here, mister?”
As I stared into his eyes, I saw something familiar. Perhaps I caught dawn’s confusion, but I felt as if I knew the boy well, too well, though we had never spoken before.
“Um, mister?”
“Sure, sure, of course. Sure, sit down.” I tried to give the bench a quick brush with my hand, but the boy didn’t want to wait. He looked tired and frail and thankful to have a place to sit. “You’re out early, son. Where are you off to in this fog?”
“Nowhere.” His voice, almost inaudible, whispered in the mist.
“Well where did you come from?”
“Nowhere.”
“Everyone has to come from somewhere and is going someplace. What about your folks? Where are they?”
“Nowhere.”
I felt as if his seemingly simple answers were more complex than childish timidity. We sat in silence until I could think of a question that would render a different response. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Bobby.”
Good name.”
“What’s yours?” he asked, squinting up at me.
“Bob, but I was called Bobby, too, when I was your age. How old are you?”
“Nine and a half.”
“So what brings you here, Bobby, to the park?”
I dunno. I was just walking n’ thought I heard someone calling my name. Was it you?”
I was stunned. I didn’t’ think I had spoken aloud. “What do you mean someone was calling your name?”
“Like they were looking for me. Was it you?”
My breath became shallow. I had been thinking . . . right before the boy arrived . . . about how I couldn’t remember. Could it be me that I called? No. Granted, it was true that I couldn’t remember my childhood . . . but it was the weird morning; it was a delusion-inducing morning. Prior to age sixteen, I had little or no recollection . . . and I wanted to know, wanted to remember who I was . . . but it had to be the fog; it was a delusion-inducing fog. Could it be true? No. Who would believe it?
“Called you out loud?” I asked.
Yeah, I heard it. Did you say my name?”
I shoved down so many memories during those years . . . nine and a half, in the midst of my foster shuffle . . . could I have called? The boy’s parents were nowhere, he came from nowhere, he was headed off to nowhere. No, not nowhere . . . to me, he was headed to Central Park, to my bench, to sit beside me. Before the kid showed up, I desired to recall where I came from, what I took with me, what I left behind . . . I wanted to remember the years they called me Bobby. I guess, maybe, I had called him . . . called me . . . called myself back into existence.
“Was it you, Bob? Did you call for me?”
“Yeah, I think . . . I think I did.”
For the first time the boy smiled at me. “Nice to meet you Bob.”
“Good to see you again Bobby.”
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