Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  Even though we were on a pretty tight budget growing up, she always found a way to stretch a dollar. The aroma of her fried chicken and collard greens on Friday and baked hen and dressing on Sunday come back to me as if she were standing in my kitchen cooking it today.

  And then there were the little personal things she did that were small tokens of her affection yet meant so much. Mom knew I loved to read the TV Guide, but money was tight, so I rarely got to buy it. Every now and then, though, I’d find a copy on the kitchen counter amid the weekly groceries just for me. Somewhere between the meat and produce, she found a way to squeeze an extra fifty cents out of the bottom line to buy me that magazine because she knew it would make me so happy. And anytime I came home from college for a weekend, she had my favorite homemade peach cobbler cooling in the kitchen. That was her way of saying, “Welcome home, honey. Let me wrap my arms around you and tell you I love you!”

  With Mom now closing in on ninety years of life, I sometimes look back on her inability to be warm and fuzzy and secretly wish she would have thrown her arms around me more or said “I love you” before I did. Maybe that’s the older, wistful me talking, but I think it would have stuck in my heart to actually hear her say those three words a little more often. Even so, I cherished her tender, loving kindnesses because I understood them to mean the same thing.

  Eventually, I began to understand my mother’s mantra that “the time of day belongs to everyone.” After years of walking into grocery stores and the post office and meeting friends and strangers along the way, I finally understood her homespun expression: She meant everyone deserves a kind word. Everyone deserves a little time every day.

  Several years ago, I was on assignment interviewing a man and his wife who were facing a tragic situation. After the interview, I went into their bathroom to wash my hands and noticed a sign they had hanging up on the wall that was headlined “Rules of Life.”

  There were a number of great phrases written on the plaque about finding peace and being positive, but the one that stuck with me that day was, “Always give people more than they expect.” That resonated with me because it reminded me so much of my mother. She is the first person who taught me to think above and beyond when you are doing something with or for someone else.

  Just recently I was in a cab making small talk with the driver, who told me that his wife was ill and that he was having a tough day. I was busy on my e-mails and hadn’t intended to be distracted but soon realized that this guy just needed a small lift—someone who respected the “time of his day.” So I gave him my attention, and when we arrived at my destination, I wished him well and offered a bigger tip than I typically would give.

  Giving people more than they expect can become an everyday habit, one that fills your emotional bucket by giving to others in ways they never see coming. It can be something as simple as dropping someone off in front of their house instead of at the corner because it’s cold outside or complimenting their smile just to leave them feeling a little happier.

  Last winter was an especially harsh one for many parts of the country. We had more snow and bitterly cold days than I can ever remember in all of the years I’ve lived in New York City. On a particularly miserable day in December, in the thick of the Christmas season, I was rushing home after work and was lucky to find a cab right away. It was one of those blessed New York moments when a cab stops on the corner where you’re standing. I made a dash for it at the same time another woman had spotted it. I didn’t see her, nor do I believe she saw me. I jumped in on one side as she made her move on the other. She had a dispirited look on her face when she realized I wasn’t about to let the coveted cab go.

  Now, ordinarily, the New Yorker in me would have said, “Sorry, lady!” But something inside told me to ask where she was headed. She looked exasperated, as if she had been standing in the cold, wet snow for quite some time. I told her I was headed to Eighty-second and Second Avenue. She said she was going to Seventy-fifth and First.

  “Maybe you two can share!” the cabdriver suggested.

  “Sure,” I said. “I don’t mind at all! Hop on in.”

  The woman jumped in and noticed I had Pepper, our family dog, with me. She rolled her eyes, resentful of her presence and of mine, clearly asking herself why she was getting into this cab with either of us. She just looked disdainful of everything.

  I could have taken an attitude back with her.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I used our short ride together to try to turn her day around.

  “How are you doing today?” I asked.

  “Don’t even ask!” she said.

  “Where are we headed to first, ladies?” the driver chimed in.

  “I’d be happy to drop you at Seventy-fifth and Third—it’s right on the way,” I politely offered.

  “Ugh. I can’t walk that far. I’ve been on my feet all day. I am exhausted.”

  Before she could go any further, I realized this woman needed a break much more than I did. “You know what? You can drop me at Seventy-fourth and Second and I’ll walk the rest of the way so you can take this lovely woman right to her front door.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  But I knew that in that moment she needed more than she was expecting.

  With that simple gesture, she began to crack that tough facade and warmed up to me. She told me she was seventy-eight years old and was still working in the jewelry district five days a week. Her office was near Rockefeller Center, near the Christmas tree, so the traffic and the hordes of people every day had become overwhelming.

  I told her I understood how hard this time of year can be and reminded her that this too shall pass. The holidays are tough for a lot of people, but they come and go and things will get better. By the time we got to my stop, she had forgotten all about her terrible day. She started to dig in her purse to pay for the cab, but before she could find her wallet, I handed her more than enough to cover the ride.

  “Here, take this.”

  “I don’t have any change,” she said.

  “Go home and have a hot cup of tea, put your feet up and relax,” I said, offering her a smile and a wink before I got out of the cab.

  “God bless you!” she called out.

  I turned to her before closing the door and said, “Next time you’ll give me the ride, okay?” And with that I offered her a quick wave and then Pepper and I were on our way. I had a little extra pep in my step as I walked home that afternoon. I felt good being able to do something kind for a stranger, and I felt more gratitude about life.

  Gratitude makes people happier and it allows us to accomplish more through the art of doing small things every day. Today I sometimes find myself wondering if I am living the life my mother would have wanted for me and whether or not I’ve lost a little of my Southern warmth after years of living in New York City. I’d like to think I have not, but to be safe I sometimes go out of my way to make sure I hold on to my upbringing in a city known for its hustle and bustle and hardened attitude toward passersby. I’m so often racing around, traveling and meeting deadlines, especially with the high demands of my job, that I feel like I don’t have the time to talk to this person or that friend, when in fact I’m simply not making the time! Sometimes you just need to slow down, take a beat and remember to think about everyone you encounter—because my mom was absolutely right. The time of day belongs to everyone. If I practice this daily, I can be the best example for my kids. It’s my deepest hope that they will remember my kind words or small gestures—that they will leave the same kind of imprint on them that my mother’s did on me. My roots are truly a part of me, and I thank my mom for planting them so deeply. And as her daughter, my responsibility—my obligation—is to pass those timeless seeds of wisdom on to my own children with the hope that they too feel the strength and security that I did to bloom where they are planted.

 
So when I’m out with my children I’m especially mindful of small moments of kindness. When I see a mom struggling with her stroller as she navigates the entrance to the grocery store, I am quick to grab the door. When we’re out walking Pepper and someone passes by, it’s a natural thing for me to say good morning! It doesn’t matter whether the person returns the greeting or not. One day Leila said to me, “It makes you look small-town or naive when you strike up conversations with strangers on the street.” Maybe it does, but I’m hoping she also sees the joy of connecting with your neighbors, even in the big city and our crazy busy world. I want Leila and Nicky to learn that we can all spread a little happiness in just a few words or with a momentary kind gesture.

  Like my mom always said, the time of day belongs to everyone.

  AL

  WWAD . . . What Would Al Do?

  My father was always demonstrative and his emotions were never far beneath the surface. You always knew how he felt about you. You never had to guess at it. Dad was also the kind of guy who gave people the benefit of the doubt. He had a way of always seeing things from the other person’s perspective. Like Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof, “on the other hand” seemed to be one of his favorite sayings. That attitude gave him a great ability to see both sides and accept people for who they are.

  There were many times throughout his career when he got knocked down or overlooked, but he never got bitter. He just did his job and worked his way back. In his case, he always came back stronger than before because that is who he was and what made him the rock to so many people who admired him.

  The word “friend” was a big deal to my dad. It meant everything to him; it meant being loyal, trusted, someone who makes a difference in others’ lives. My dad had a lot of acquaintances—I suppose because he was a local bus driver and an outwardly friendly guy. People felt they knew him, but he could probably count his true friends on two hands.

  Friend or acquaintance, he treated everyone with tremendous warmth and caring. At my dad’s funeral, one of his coworkers told a story I’d never heard. My father had been promoted from driver to dispatcher. His job was to oversee the other drivers and their routes. One morning he noticed the smell of booze on the breath of this friend. My dad was aware he had a drinking problem but had never caught him inebriated on the job.

  “Al pulled me aside,” he told the crowd, “put me up against the wall and told me I was to make one run, call to say that the bus had broken down, and wait for a tow truck. He said, ‘If I ever see you drunk at work again, I am going to turn you in myself.’”

  My dad knew it would take the better part of the day for the tow truck to show up, and by that time, his friend would be sober enough to check out of work and drive himself home without putting anyone in danger.

  “I never came in drunk again—and never touched another drop of alcohol on the days I worked. Al Roker saved my life,” he said.

  I learned a lot about my dad just before and after he died.

  When I was growing up, dads had their work life and their home life, and the two rarely crossed paths. I don’t know about your house, but my kids know all about my job. My job is discussed at the dinner table as much as homework is. It’s not because of the type of work I do. I think most families are like this today. I always knew my dad drove a bus, became a dispatcher and eventually worked his way into a management position, but I didn’t really understand what he did at work or the relationships he forged in the process. At his wake, someone stood up and said there was a group of black managers at the New York City Transit Authority who wouldn’t be there if not for the work of Al Roker. He mentored people, brought them along and dressed them down when they needed it.

  My dad was a humble man who taught me humility. He didn’t teach it by lecturing or saying, “Son, this is what you do.” He led by example. He lived his example, which made it easy for me to absorb growing up in our home. Of course, he set the bar for me as a dad, which I strive to reach each and every day. Whenever I am faced with a dilemma about parenting or a challenge at work, I often ask myself WWAD—What Would Al Do?

  Given a moment to think about my dad and how he would respond, I usually come up with the right answer.

  There isn’t a single day that goes by since he passed when I don’t think about him, wondering what he would do or say. I think about how proud he would be of Leila and Nicky and how glad to see how great his beloved Courtney has turned out. My dad wasn’t the kind of man who worried about much—my weight was about it—but I think about him and I smile because I know deep in my heart that he has to be looking down on our family with a great sense of joy and pride.

  3

  The Power of an Apology

  DEBORAH AND AL

  It’s Not About You—It’s About Me

  In our home, education is deeply important. Both Leila and Nicky know that school is their biggest priority. Although both of us came from limited means, our parents made sure we were given the best education possible. Al attended a Jesuit military school, on scholarship. Deborah was among the first in her family to go to a desegregated school, which meant she was given the same education as the white kids in her small Georgia town. Her parents, while cautious about the turmoil of integration, knew this meant she and her siblings would have a greater opportunity to expand beyond the limitations placed on black children in the Jim Crow South. Deborah embraced this opportunity with open arms.

  As a result of her passion for education, Deborah has always held our kids, especially Leila, to a high standard of excellence when it comes to her education. Living where we do, our choices are vast. There are many specialized public schools in New York City as well as some of the finest and most prestigious private schools in the country. With our blessings of career and financial success and our location on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, choosing to send our kids to private schools was an easy decision. Nearly all of our friends have children in rigorous private schools. Even though we’d all complain about the pressure and the workload, in our circle it was generally understood that our children would be better off for it in the end. With an elite private school on their résumés, the world would be their oyster.

  After finishing her toddler years at a well-regarded nursery school, Leila was destined for a top-tier elementary school. She performed well on the placement tests and dazzled most who met her with a strong vocabulary, keen intellect and an easy social manner. And, of course, she was a child of color in a part of town not known for great diversity. In short, she was perfect private-school material. At age five, Leila was accepted by several of the best schools in the city. We were proud and excited. This was especially meaningful to Deborah, given her humble roots in the segregated South. We chose a well-known coed school just eleven blocks from our home, where Leila seemed to fit right in. But as she entered middle school, something changed. The academic pressure heightened tremendously and the social landscape also shifted. Good friends from earlier days paired off with other friends, and girls were showing signs of adolescence, growing thinner or plumper and in some cases shedding their childhood innocence and kindness. Though we had read about the social struggles of middle school (and of course gone through it ourselves), it was hard to watch Leila suffer. Some of her friends were becoming narcissistic or mean, and body image was a growing preoccupation, which was difficult for Leila, who wasn’t as thin as many of her classmates. It was uncomfortable for her to be growing up in a culture that equated body size with beauty.

  Leila was growing less happy at school. Like any parent at any school in any city, there were things about Leila’s school that we didn’t absolutely love, but overall we felt she was getting an enviable education and experience. Leila, however, began to complain. Some days there were even tears. Was it simply the curse of middle school or was it this school? we wondered. We both saw her struggling, not just in her studies but also with her classmates, many of whom were cut from the same pr
edominantly white, super-thin Upper East Side cloth. We could sense Leila, who was not super-thin, was feeling self-conscious about herself and, despite her obvious intellect, she had started to think she wasn’t quite as smart as everyone else. This is a tough combination for any teenage girl. Through conversations with other parents, we realized that Leila’s feelings were completely age appropriate and similar to others in her class; their children were also struggling academically and had tutors to help them keep up with their schoolwork. We tried praising Leila and reminding her of her intellectual gifts. But she wasn’t buying it. If she got a B on a test, she felt like a failure. The more we tried to chime in and help in any way we could, the more judged she felt by us. That usually escalated into some type of fight, which, of course, was the opposite of the reaction we were aiming for. Neither of us made for a great tutor because, as positive as we tried to be, she often felt there was judgment in our voices. We eventually followed the lead of the other parents and found a wonderful tutor, but even so, Leila continued to feel insecure and like she didn’t fit in.

  She had lots of great friends, and many days she came home laughing with fun stories about her day, but other days were loaded with self-doubt and sadness. That’s not how the seventh grade should be! It should be fun, exciting and, yes, challenging. Deborah recalled her middle school years with great happiness. We worried Leila was missing out on that adolescent joy!