Above All Else, page 3
In my fantasy world, I was flying and I loved it. But even with the imagination of a six-year-old, I knew there was no chance of ever really achieving my dream. My dream would never be more than a fantasy. Human beings can’t fly.
Watching TV one day, I came across a show about skydiving (commonly called “sport parachuting” at that time). There were people flying through the air, miles above the earth, unattached to any man-made flying machine. They looked like human birds, maneuvering in every direction with total freedom. They were flying! It wasn’t a fantasy; my dream was possible.
I yelled, “Mom, look at this! They’re flying, without a plane or anything! I want to do that. Can I do that?” Nothing made Mom happier than seeing the glow on her boys’ faces when we were excited about something. But this was the last thing she would ever want me to be excited about. “Oy vey. Promise me you’ll never jump out of an airplane,” was her only response.
I put strings on a blanket, tied them to myself, and jumped off my bunk bed with my homemade parachute. I thought it could work, and even wondered whether I could jump out the window of our eighth-floor apartment. Walking home from school one day, I saw several ambulances parked at the sidewalk next to our building. Apparently, someone had jumped out of a window and died. I remember thinking, “That wasn’t too smart. They should have tied my blanket on.” But just the same, I gave up on the idea of trying that myself.
Even with all of this convincing discouragement, I still thought skydiving was the closest thing to true human flight and knew someday I was going to fly like that. But I had to be eighteen before I could make my first jump. I wasn’t sure my dream could survive the years of growing up.
5
Growing Up
AFTER A YEAR in Hawaii, Mom’s brother, my uncle Mike, was drafted into the army and would be leaving for Vietnam. Anticipating his departure, Mom moved us back to Albany so that we would be closer to Grandma and Grandpa in Yonkers, New York.
About that time she met Howard Chenfeld. Howard’s wife had died before their daughter, Cara, was one year old. Howard was eight years older than my mom and a sophisticated intellectual; a lover of art, history, culture, fine food, fine wine; and a complete gentleman. He and my mom were perfect for each other. We started to spend more and more time with Howard and Cara.
Cliff and I were catching on to what was going to happen. I was hiding behind the couch in anticipation when Howard proposed to Mom. I heard her say that she had to ask the kids, but before she had the chance, I answered by cheering and dancing around the room in celebration.
On February 22, 1970, Howard and Mom were married. Cliff was ten, Cara was nine, and I was eight. From that moment on, Howard became Dad. By definition, he was my stepfather, but that was never how I saw him. Many kids don’t even get to have one great father. I had the privilege of having two.
Cara quickly became a wonderful big sister. When Cliff’s love was tough, Cara’s was accepting. When he thought I was a dork, she thought I was cute. If he thought I was stupid, she thought I was funny. She loved me just the way I was with all my quirks and weaknesses.
Dad was not the athletic type. When Cliff and I would wrestle down the stairs, he would be more likely to get out of the way and tell us to “stop that stupidity!” than he was to jump in.
My father had many qualities, but the one that stood out more than any other was his absolutely clear definition of the difference between right and wrong. To Dad, there was never a gray area, never a doubt. He knew what he thought was right, and he consistently chose to do it.
Dad had rules he lived by, and he expected and demanded the same from us:
1. Treat every person you meet with respect. No matter who they are, what they do, or how they look, they deserve to be treated kindly, courteously, and respectfully.
2. If later it is proven to you that they are not worthy of this respect, then ignore them.
3. If you can’t ignore them, treat them as they deserve to be treated.
4. If you are capable of doing a good deed for another person, then do it.
5. Always tell the truth.
6. If you say you’re going to do something, do it.
7. Always do the best you can do even if you have to do something you didn’t choose or don’t like.
8. Always remember that you are no better a person than anyone else.
9. Never forget that there is no one who is any better of a person than you.
Simple enough, it all made sense to me.
My father wasn’t particularly competitive—he always encouraged us to do our best, but we weren’t pushed to be the best.
My father knew I was capable of doing better at everything I did, and it frustrated him that I wouldn’t. If I didn’t do well on a test or school project, he would say to me, “It doesn’t matter what your grade was or where you finished, as long as you did the best you could.” And follow it with, “Danny, did you do your best?” I would usually say yes even though I knew it wasn’t true. Because he had taught us not to lie, he would demonstrate that he trusted my word and accepted my answer as the truth. But I’m pretty sure he knew it wasn’t. That he said he believed me and trusted I had told him the truth made me feel terrible for lying.
I felt so bad for lying that I remember considering it might really have been the truth. Being a failure was preferable to being a liar. I created thoughts in my head like “Maybe that really is my best. Maybe I can’t do any better. I’m not really good at anything.” It was good justification for underachieving, and I was the classic underachiever. I had the brains to do well at school but was satisfied with Cs and the natural athletic ability to excel at sports but was okay with being mediocre.
At the root of this problem was that I hadn’t discovered anything I enjoyed so much that I eagerly embraced doing the work it would take to excel at it. All I wanted to do was fly. My head was in the clouds.
6
Another Passion
MY PARENTS SEARCHED for something I could apply myself to. I was eight when our new family moved to Columbus, Ohio. The Jewish Community Center there had a theater group called Gallery Players. In the upcoming play there was a part for a kid. Mom and Dad asked me if I’d like to try out for it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a part for a superhero kid, but the idea of being encouraged to pretend sounded like fun.
The play was Camino Real, and the part was the frequently onstage but nonspeaking role of a jester. I had a blast. It wasn’t much different than the games I had played by myself.
Acting became the first thing that I really loved, and I willingly poured myself into it. My progression in acting went far beyond childish play. I took classes, listened carefully to the directors and coaches, and practiced a lot. Nearly every free second I was rehearsing on my own. It was much more than a game. It became a skill, a challenge to not “act” like the character but to “become” that character. I loved it so much that I tried out for every play I could get a part in at the community theater, junior high school, and high school.
The best part of acting is the moment before walking onstage. I remember at first being terribly nervous and trying desperately to calm down. I didn’t want to screw up, not in front of all those people. I had started getting anxious weeks in advance of the show, and the tension continued to build as opening night drew closer.
As I waited offstage for my cue, my heart pounded like I’d just run a three-minute mile. A little voice in my head said, “S——t, Danny. What have you gotten yourself into this time?” The voice wasn’t all that little. I had to drown it out I reminded myself I could do it, that I had practiced it hundreds, even thousands, of times by myself and rehearsed over and over again with the entire cast. I told myself, “Just relax. When you hear your cue, walk out onstage. You’ve practiced enough. It will be fine. Just walk onstage.”
The voice came back. “Is running away an option? Why don’t you run? Run!” The fear got bigger, the voice louder, as I knew my cue was coming up. I kept talking. “If a baby bird can take that first step out of their nest and fly, then you can walk onstage and act. Take the first step. Just walk onstage, walk onstage.” My cue came and I went.
As my feet came out from behind the curtain and the stage lights hit my eyes, the fear was instantly gone. It was like some kind of magic spell came over me as I immediately transformed into the character I had practiced being. It seemed to happen automatically, instinctively. Almost as if I was just along for the ride as I watched my body, mind, and soul do what they had rehearsed and play the part. If I started thinking too much about it, I got in their way, so I just let it happen.
The first time this happened, I was completely surprised. But after doing several plays and experiencing much the same scenario each time, I realized this is how it’s done.
You work your butt off practicing for hours and hours. Then when it’s actually performance time, you relax and let it happen. I started to expect it and plan for it. I never completely stopped being nervous, but I stopped being scared of being nervous. I knew it was part of the plan, and as long as I calmed down, trusted myself, and let it happen, I would perform the best I was capable of. Little did I know that it would become one of the most valuable lessons of my life.
Since there weren’t many boys involved in theater, it wasn’t particularly competitive. It wasn’t about being better than anyone else, but it was absolutely about being the best I could be and being good enough to stand up on a stage in front of hundreds of people and make them laugh, cry, and hopefully cheer because it was a good show.
The only thing that motivated me to do this work was the pure love of it. It certainly wasn’t the goal of impressing my friends and schoolmates. In junior high school and high school, boys who were in theater and choir were looked at as gay or nerds or both. But it was theater that I loved, and I was determined to put 150 percent into it.
Finally, by my senior year of high school, I reached the towering height of 5'8" (if I stood up really straight). We were advised by counselors and teachers to select our chosen career directions based on what they felt were our strengths. I wanted to be an actor. No responsible counselor would advise a student to pursue acting. I was told that acting wasn’t a real career. That the vast majority of the most talented actors in the world are waiting tables. I would pour my heart and soul into it and probably come out with nothing.
There was no guarantee of success. The likelihood of becoming a successful professional actor was slim at best. But if my family had taught me one thing, it was to find my passion and go for it with conviction. There was only one thing I loved and believed I was good at. One thing I had become so passionate about that the enjoyment alone made the challenge to improve worth the effort even if there was no guarantee or even clear definition of success. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Despite the odds and naysayers, I believed I could make it happen. At seventeen, I started my freshman year at Ohio State University as a theater major.
7
Defining Spirituality
I HAVE NO MEMORY of the day of my father’s death or his funeral. But I do remember wondering where he went. Is he okay? When will I see him again?
My Christian friends would tell me Daddy was in heaven. Couldn’t tell me exactly what or where heaven was, but it was definitely the place to be. That sounded pretty good, but then from other Christian friends, I learned that the prerequisites for admission into heaven were very strict, and a belief that Jesus was the son of God was the most important one. That would exclude Jews from getting into heaven and would leave us having to go to the only other alternative, hell. That meant my father was in hell? What god would send my mother to hell? No, that didn’t make sense to me.
I asked our rabbi, “What happened to my dad? Where did he go?” The rabbi walked me outside and showed me the leaves changing colors and falling off the trees and explained how there would be new buds growing from the same trees in the spring. The grass was dying, but new grass would grow in its place. It is nature’s way. Life works in cycles. No one and nothing lives forever. He assured me that everything my dad was lives on in me, Cliff, and other people who loved him and whom he loved. Hmm, that sounds good, I thought. “Okay, but what happened to my dad, where did he go? Is he okay? When will I see him again?” The rabbi couldn’t give me a definite answer.
What a waste it would be if we could put so much into our lives only for those lives to be so fragile that they could end in a second. That we could be walking around one moment a loving, positive, person bringing joy, comfort, and happiness to people around us and the next second be dead from a car accident, a heart attack, or a random bolt of lightning. Completely gone, finished. I really wanted to believe there was more, but I needed more evidence than just my gut telling me so.
I did believe in God, or at least I wanted to believe in God. At the very least, I really hoped there was a God. But I still hadn’t yet found an explanation of who or what God was that made sense to me. If God is all-powerful, how could he allow for such cruel and terrible acts to occur on earth?
Like many other people, my teenage years were the height of my questioning and wondering about how the world worked. Without having gotten any solid answers up until that point, I was beginning to feel a bit pessimistic about it all. Maybe there really wasn’t anything but this. If that’s the case, we may as well just party and have a good time. Why not? It could all be over any second anyway.
The first Star Wars movie was released in 1977 when I was fifteen. I loved it. And it wasn’t the special effects or the story I was so crazy about. It was the idea of “the Force.” The Force was described as a power that connects everything in the entire universe. It is a power that is both within and surrounding all living things. It is the natural force that organizes our DNA, keeps our hearts beating, and coordinates the stars, planets, and galaxies. It is a power that we can all tap into when we need physical, emotional, or psychic strength. It is something that works best for us when we truly have an unending faith in it. It is part of us, and we are part of it. It doesn’t control us or us it. It can be used for evil by evil people. But it is good by nature, and ultimately, through the Force, good will prevail over evil.
These were ideas that worked for me. In the final scene of Star Wars, Luke flies down into the channel of the Death Star. He has one chance, one shot, to blow it up. He’s nervous. He carefully aims his sights, trying to use all the tools and technical expertise he has. He has a hard time lining up his scope. Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice comes on: “Let your feelings go. Use the Force, Luke.”
Luke turns off the computer and pushes the scope away. He stops trying to aim. He takes a deep breath, relaxes, and trusts that he knows what he’s doing, and has faith that it will work out as it should. He takes the shot, it’s a bull’s-eye. The Death Star blows up.
As I watched this scene, I realized that was exactly what I did when preparing to walk onstage in a play. For me, becoming the character and playing the part was hitting the target. I was nervous that I would “miss,” but I knew as long as I calmed down, trusted myself, and let it happen, I would perform the best I was capable of. I was feeling the Force, using the Force, and trusting it to work for me and with me. And it did. Maybe there was something to the Star Wars philosophy.
As to an afterlife, maybe I would never know. Maybe I would someday find out. Maybe the answers had to wait until I myself left this world. But for now, I was intrigued with the concept that a greater force existed in the universe that could be tapped into to achieve great things, to rise to any occasion, to save the planet.
“You are quoting Snoopy the Dog, I believe?”
“I’ll quote the truth wherever I find it, thank you.”
—From Illusions by
Richard Bach
8
The Process of
Pursuing a Dream
FANTASY——————-DREAM————————GOAL
These three words are often interchanged as if they were synonymous. But I see them defined quite differently.
In my thinking, a fantasy is something we want to do but believe is impossible. We think about it but don’t really consider that we could or would actually ever do it.
A dream is something we want to do and believe is possible for us to achieve. It’s on our radar; we plan to do it someday when we have the time or money or courage. But the excuses are too many, and that time rarely comes.
A goal is a dream we decide we must achieve and we will do whatever necessary to achieve it. A goal is the specific target, or series of targets, we aim for when we decide to pursue our dreams.
As much as I loved pretending I could fly like the birds in Hawaii or at the speed of light like Superman, I knew it wasn’t possible. It was only a fantasy.
When I saw people skydiving, I knew that was as close as I was going to come to experiencing true human flight. But in order to learn to skydive prior to turning eighteen, I had to get permission from my parents. As free-spirited as my parents were, there was no chance they were going to sign off on that. So until I turned eighteen, flying in free fall was no more than a dream.
During my freshman year at Ohio State University, about a dozen of us living in the Taylor Tower dormitory started talking about making a jump. Everyone said, “I’ve always wanted to do that!” But it was January and the parachute club we had found didn’t open until the spring, so talk was cheap. It was easy to be fearless while we were only dreaming about it.
On my eighteenth birthday, everything changed. My excuse for not having made my first jump was removed. Finally, it was possible. The Columbus Sport Parachute Club, located an hour north of Columbus in Centerburg, was scheduled to open back up on May 1. The day was set and the goal was clear. It wasn’t a dream anymore; now it was real. And now I was scared.
A fantasy is low risk and low investment. We live the desire in our heads and imaginations. Actually pursuing a dream is different. To truly “reach for our dreams” and achieve a specific goal, certain steps need to be followed, information researched, decisions made, and action taken. If I wanted to pursue my dream, I had to stop dreaming and get down to business.
