Cider and Steel

Yesterday afternoon, we hosted another Cider Press party. It was the 7th one since my Grandpa Barry passed away. Each year, seems to be a little bigger and better celebration of Red's Press and its legendary autumnal labor, now transplanted a little closer to corn country than the coal country where it was born and raised.

 

We had a great time. Everyone got a chance to drink a glass fresh from the tap, families left with a Cider roadie, our friend Michael found a Groupon for extra large pizzas so we kept the festivities going later and later. Cider turned to wine and beer. The kids sugar highs spiked and then plummeted. The house was a mess, I was really tired, but I think Grandpa would have been proud.

I had a hard time falling asleep though, and an even harder time staying asleep last night.

Like my Grandpa, like his Cider Press, I too am from Pittsburgh. My roots are forged in the steel of the city. A picture of the Homestead Stacks where Foreman Red Barry, my grandpa, worked for 41 years, greets guests as they walk into my house.

Burgh transplants like myself are everywhere. And together, we call ourselves Steeler Nation. Sure, we wave Terrible Towels on Sunday, likely annoying those around us, but it's way more than our beloved football team. Steeler Nation represents an intense, almost mean sense of pride in our character rich city.

We can sense each other in a crowd. Someone lets out a 'dahn.' Or slips on a 'slippy.' And soon enough, you're asking ... so where did you grow up?
Pittsburgh.
Git out, me too! Where from?

I tell people that I'm from the East End. It's how my parents always referred to our neighborhood. I lived in Squirrel Hill first, then Shadyside from fifth grade on. My family is all still there. I go back as much as I can these days, which is never enough.

Typically, the people I meet are from the suburbs of the city, so if asked to color in my community, I offer a little more detail.

I tell them about the bagels we had growing up. The ones in Chicago don't compare. I can say the same about the pizza in Pittsburgh versus the Midwest's version. I was spoiled on Napoli's and Mineo's. 

I had 33 girls in my very liberal, all-girls high school. Most graduated to go on to even more liberal colleges.

We had amazing museums, just miles away from our house. You could find any kind of ethnic cuisine, even in the 80s and 90s, all over the East End. I grew up exposed to and loving it all.

My Mom bought me shoes from Littles and clothes from Newmans, then I would beg her to get me just one toy from Randall's. 

We went to movies at the Manor Theater and got cones at Haagen Dazs afterward.

We took piano lessons at the JCC and in later years, reveled at the Hanukkah parade driving all around our neighborhood. We were the only ones on our street with Christmas lights growing up, the rest of the block simply lit by the humble hum of menorahs. There were four synagogues within a mile radius of our house. We always had Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur off from school. We sang as many Hannukah songs as Christmas Carols at the Holiday concert. I had a Jewish babysitter and Jewish friends. I lived in a historically Jewish community that I never saw as anything out of the ordinary.

When I heard about the violence yesterday, just blocks from my parents house, a corner that I walk and run by, every time that I'm home, I was traumatized.

Then I was angry. 

Then this morning at Mass, I cried. It hurt and continues to hurt knowing how much pain the Jewish community in Pittsburgh is taking on.

The hate that is boiling in this country is intolerable. The politics and politicians inciting it are shameful. We keep having to pray at Church for an end to hate. For peace. For the kind of world that I try to create for my kids. But protecting them from the scary parts keeps getting harder and harder.

Like the mighty steel, forged from coal, iron and limestone on the banks of the city's three rivers, I know my hometown will not bend or waver. We will always be a welcoming, melting pot community. And I will always carry the spirit of my hometown in the community that I now call home.

Lo.

Cry Baby

Have you ever cried during a performance review?

No?

Well, I have. And several times.

There's something about the review process - the self reflection, the things I want to say going in that take courage, the potential of those things not getting said, or worse, backfiring, the fact that my scheduled 'conversation' always seems to fall on the first day of my period ... there is pressure and related emotion, and over the years I've let it get to me more than once. 

I'll take you back to the first time. I was an amateur. It was my first foray in corporate America. I was used to getting coached by Tracy Coyne, not judged by an executive. (And there was plenty of emotion in the ND Women's Lacrosse Office over the years.)   

Anyway, on the morning of that first review, all the stupid stuff I had done over the past six months came back to haunt me. Why did I show up in sweat pants to that International Conference pre-meeting? Why did I blow off my boss to go out with someone else the night after? And then why couldn't I quell my love of the dance floor in service of a little professionalism the night of the Gala? But on the other hand, hadn't I performed well? Wasn't I doing what I was supposed to do, plus some?

As my boss and I walked into the meeting room the stress mounted, my hands started to sweat, I looked at the list of accomplishments I had written down on the piece of paper - inappropriate work attire plus inappropriate work partying not included. She asked how I thought the year had gone. I started saying something, quivering, tearing up, then lost it. I started crying and then trying to explain myself. I'm just so nervous. I've never done this before. She looked at me like I was crazy. but then like she really cared. She told me to relax. That I was doing a good job. Professionalism was an opportunity, but I was a great hire.

Note taken. Relax. Keeping working hard. Be professional.

Over the years, I've shed other tears. One of the most embarrassing cries was to my ex-VP, who I loved, but who clearly didn't know what to do with a crying pregnant woman in his office.

After that horrendous expression of emotion, I thought I was over it - that it would never happen again. And then mid-year review 2018 hit. I didn't even have an agenda going in, just a list of goals and progress against them. We started talking. All good. Easy. And then she asked me, 'so ... how's this year been so far?' 

It's good. Fine. Demonstrating significant advancement on key initiatives. (Nothing like lame business jargon to take away any lingering emotion. Stay with that, Lo.)

No, really ... how's this year been so far? 

She looked at me like she really cared. Like she really wanted to hear the answer.

So I told her.

Well ... It's been one of the hardest years ever. The work has been hard. Non-stop. Stressful. Then we moved downtown. Then the re-org. The commute is challenging. Every day is a hustle ... (And I started getting choked up.)  

Tell me more about the commute? 

It's like I'm sprinting through each day. I have to time it down to the second. No literally, I'm always running ... to get my kids dressed, to get them to school, to catch a train, to make a meeting, to get home in time to get dinner on the table. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted. I can't even find time to get a hair cut! (By this point, I was really crying.) But it's good. Everything's good. It's fine. Honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. 

(And I meant that last sentence with all my heart.)

I swear I caught a glimmer in her eye. She said she knew how I felt. Working mom to working mom. And it felt good to know the emotion was understood and even shared. 

There is a lot written about showing emotion at work. Most of it, telling you to 'man up' and put on a mask every day. But as someone who has cried at least a half dozen times in the office, I have a different point of view.

I don't have a work self and a home self, you get the same person both places. So when told to leave emotion at home, as hard as I try, I can't. Maybe it's because I've been lucky - I've worked for bosses that truly care about me - but in my experience, every time I've let my raw self out, it's actually helped. My bosses seem to trust me more. They truly know who I am and what motivates me. And as my ex-VP said, they see that the passion for what I do and what I juggle runs deep. 

So to my co-workers and friends who ever just need to let a tear show, I'm here for you. Cause I've been there before.

Lo.