Perpetual Pendulum

I saw a Facebook post from Lisa, a high school acquaintance, asking her friends—those who I assume knew her father—to wish him a happy birthday. What a thoughtful gesture. I didn’t know her father, but I was drawn to the request and wanted to participate.

My recollection was that well-wishers would share their goodwill in the comments of Lisa’s post, but I can’t be sure. All I know—based on the first line of my message—is that I intended to mail my correspondence. I don’t remember asking Lisa for her father’s mailing address, but I must have. How else would I attain it, and how else would he receive my letter?

While I tend to edit and revise my writing—often multiple times—before publishing, I couldn’t in this instance. It was sent as is. To alter it in the slightest would diminish its value, no matter my desire to improve it.

Here’s what I sent Lisa’s father:

December 3, 2020

Dear Anthony Randazzo,

First, I’m typing this in a font size larger than I might otherwise, given your age. I hope it is helpful. This decision to enlarge the type goes against my intuition. When working in the advertising industry in my 20s and 30s, I used to design printed communications in smaller type sizes because I thought it was visually more appealing than larger type, and therefore more likely to be read. Inevitably, my superiors would tell me to increase the point size, reasoning that older people would have difficulty reading it. I always argued that because people age forty and older needed reading glasses, their eyesight was better than people my age, and that the smaller type shouldn’t be an issue. I sometimes won this argument. Mostly, I didn’t. But certainly, I know now that making the words here larger won’t make it harder to read, and it might make it easier. I’ve learned to do what’s potentially best for others and not what’s best for me.

We learn by experience. It’s something that those younger than us can’t always know until aged and discover the beauty of what experience is. It’s a rite of passage. I’m sure you know this.

I am writing because I saw a prompt from your wonderful daughter Lisa asking friends to send you birthday wishes. That’s an extraordinary request, speaking to her innate thoughtfulness and desire to brighten your day. It shows me how much she loves and adores you. And even though I don’t know you and have never met you, I am compelled by the request and more than excited to be part of the collective generosity that Lisa hopes to mine.

How shall I wish you a happy birthday? I could send a card. I could say, “Happy Birthday, Anthony!” But what would that mean from a stranger? I suppose it doesn’t need to mean anything other than another well-wishing, which certainly won’t make your day worse, and it might make it better. I’ve learned to do what’s potentially best for others and not what’s best for me.

For your birthday I’d like to tell you how and why I’ve carried Lisa in my heart for over 40 years. How because of her, I learned a lifelong lesson to do what’s potentially best for others and not what’s best for me. Something I failed to do before the experience.

1978: Our eighth-grade class, as all eighth-grade classes around the country do, traveled by chartered bus to visit our nation’s capital. I don’t remember much of the historical sites we visited other than the fuzzy snapshots in my mind’s eye; The Smithsonian and a perpetual pendulum, Kennedy’s eternal flame Arlington Cemetery, Ford’s Theater, and the chair in which Lincoln sat, Valley Forge. I might have lost the Valley Forge memory forever had I not gone there with my wife last summer at her request. When we visited, I got chills.

I said, “Karen, I’ve been here! I remember these stone encampments. It’s all rushing back.”

I told her of our eighth-grade school trip. And then I told her what stuck out in my mind most: A lot of our time was spent on a bus, shuttled from site to site. In those closed quarters, I watched the social dynamics of young teens play out before me. I witnessed the cruelty of teenage girl elitism. I watched silently at the mistreatment of Lisa.

Lisa was a well-liked, popular student with a smile that brightened every room. But on this trip, a shift occurred between her and a handful of other popular girls. I knew nothing of the details. But I could see; clearly, they shunned Lisa. It was typical “mean girl” stuff; gossip, whispers, ganging up. And it broke my heart. Lisa was a kind person. But somehow, an insidious hierarchy formed, and Lisa was cast away and victimized by friends. I hated watching it, I’d suffered the same years before. But my desire to stay in good standing with the other girls prevented me from doing what was right— coming to Lisa’s defense. I chose what was best for me rather than what was potentially best for others.

I don’t share this lightly. And although it was a painful experience for me, and most certainly Lisa, it helped inform my future, how I looked at the world, and exposed—wide open— the value and power of empathy. And although Lisa suffered—to what extent I can’t be sure—her experience begat a life-altering lesson I’ve carried in my arsenal since—reminding me of what is fair and just.

And though I haven’t seen Lisa in person for years, I smile every time I see her broad smile image and read her kind words on Facebook, knowing that her perseverance and goodness are a model of goodness and decency. Your daughter will always hold a special place in my heart Anthony. And I’m sure you are, no doubt, much responsible for her success.

Happy Birthday, Anthony. I hope your day and days to come are with love and good cheer.

PS. You share the same birthday with my mother. I’ll be thinking about both of you tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Eric Johnson

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Note from Lisa in return:

Eric, I just read the beautiful note you sent my father for his birthday. How kind of you to do that. You are such a remarkable man. Your words brought tears to my eyes. How sweet of you to remember our trip. It obviously left an impression on you. My father is blind. We just read it to him… it brought tears to all of us! Thank you so much, Eric! May God bless you!

A lone passenger on the Amtrak train. I shot this while traveling from Philadelphia to Washington, D.C. with my niece Hannah and her fiancé, Logan, in 2019. The lighting was heavenly, and the scarlet bootlaces—I could not look away.