It's Cleveland's Turn

I wrote this column a dozen times in my head over the weekend, as I planned to write something about the Cleveland Cavaliers and their remarkable playoff run, win or lose. But which would it be? Could I write about a glorious win, or would I end up repeating the familiar refrain, “Well, there’s always next year?”

While I count myself among the true believers in Cleveland sports, I spent Sunday afternoon in anxious anticipation, fluctuating between the fear of a “one more disappointment for Cleveland” lament and a victorious “we won the championship!!!” proclamation. Could the Cleveland curse finally be broken? Would the Cavaliers have the strength to fight back from a 3-1 deficit, something no professional basketball team had ever done?

History, or at least our Cleveland history, kept telling us “no.” Fifty-two years of drought kept telling us “no.” The Fumble, the Mesa Meltdown, Right Red 88, and The Drive all reinforced the failure of the karma gods to smile on Cleveland. No matter how promising it looks, it just can’t come true for our aging Midwest city of burning river infamy.

I’d learned the “not us” lesson early. Four – count them, four consecutive Super Bowl games for a similar Great Lakes city and four consecutive losses. With my heart in my throat, I’d tried so hard to will my Bills on to victory back in the day, but after four losses, it sunk in – the good stuff just doesn’t happen for Buffalo – or for Cleveland.  

So while I was a believer in the Cavs, that nagging voice kept whispering – ‘not gonna happen, JoAnn.’ As I listened to the talking heads boast of their predictions about the NBA game seven, I felt like Digory, the young boy in “The Magician’s Nephew” by C.S. Lewis, one of The Chronicles of Narnia books: “You know how it feels if you begin hoping for something that you want desperately badly – you almost fight against the hope because it is too good to be true; you’ve been disappointed so often before.”

It’s a familiar chorus, not just in sports but in life as well. Disappointments build up, and we begin to lose hope. And yet still, hope springs eternal, does it not? Just ask Cleveland and Buffalo.

I was getting good vibes as I nestled into a giant pillow in front of the television to watch game seven. Could it be our time, our turn? The game itself was nerve-wracking, with twenty lead changes as the teams fought valiantly. Early on, Golden State made too many three-point shots, but Cleveland kept roaring back, feisty and ferocious. Northeast Ohio held its collective breath when LeBron hit the floor hard, sure the curse had broken our star’s hand just when triumph was ours for the taking. But he rose to his feet, with his intensity and sweat pouring through the television screen. With the clock ticking down, Kyrie hit his own three, LeBron streaked down the floor to reject Andre Iguodala’s lay-up, and Kevin Love pestered Steph Curry into a missed three of his own, until the buzzer sounded. Finally. Victory.

‘So what?’ some might ask. Why does winning matter so much to so many Clevelanders, even those who aren’t sports enthusiasts? Can victory in one basketball game really “change everything” for Cleveland, as the Plain Dealer editorial board suggested Monday morning?

No – and yes. In the end, as long-time Cleveland Indian’s announcer Tom Hamilton knows, “It is about entertainment.” And I get that. But as Cleveland and Northeast Ohio understand, it’s more than that. It’s the recognition that hard work pays off. As LeBron mused, “In Northeast Ohio, nothing is given. Everything is earned. You work for what you have.” It’s pride in where we live. It’s a sense of belonging. It’s redemption from our everyday disappointments and discouragement. It’s renewed hope for tomorrow.

Northeast Ohio will long remember Father’s Day, 2016. As Alan Jay Lerner composed for Camelot, “Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.” Move over, Camelot – it’s Cleveland’s turn, and we won’t ever forget our magical shining moment. Thank you Cavs!

Rhythm and Blues

When details of the parade for the world champion Cleveland Cavaliers were released, I was tempted to head north on I-71 to join a million of my closest friends in celebration. However, I decided to make the ultimate sacrifice and offered to take care of the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday so their parents could cheer on our beloved Cavs instead. And cheer they did.

As I watched the revelry on television, filmed through the lens of my son Dan and countless other courageous camera operators, I decided I’d made the right decision, as I don’t do well in crowds. While I whooped and hollered as loud as everyone else did across Northeast Ohio on Sunday night, it seemed appropriate to express my sense of delight through words rather than physical presence, words that appeared in Thursday’s edition of the Times-Gazette.

It’s such a typical reaction for me. When I’m joyful and excited, I write. When I’m angry or frustrated, I write. When I’m saddened by what’s happening around me, I write. When I’m frightened for the future of our world, I write. What I’ve discovered is that no matter whether I’m mad, sad, glad or scared, the act of writing about my emotions helps me get a handle on my situation, no matter what it is.

Writing doesn’t work for everybody. Some people sing, some dance, some walk, some run 5Ks, some create art, and some even attempt to eat their way out of their emotions (not so good for the waistline). As for me, I’ve discovered the truth in Anne Lamott’s words. “The writer’s job is to see what’s behind it [the forbidden door in the castle], to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words – not just into any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.”

Over the past eight weeks, I’ve been privileged to spend Friday afternoons with about a dozen people who are turning the unspeakable into rhythm and blues. Supported by the Mental Health and Recovery Board here in Ashland County, and funded through the Margaret Clark Morgan Foundation, we came together to explore the relationship between creative writing and mental health recovery, not as an instructional exercise for caregivers, but for ourselves. As people who have struggled with mental illness, or perhaps have had times of darkness and discouragement along the way, we’ve come together to learn, to listen to each other, and most of all, to write.

In life, we’ve known the agony of defeat far beyond what even long-time Cleveland fans understand, because, after all, sports are inherently a game. Often those with serious mental health diagnoses have lost family, friends, and jobs over the course of their illness, while others struggle to hold onto any hope for a brighter future. That’s no game. And yet every Friday afternoon, I’ve been reassured by the resiliency of the people gathered in that room as we’ve laughed, cheered, and shed tears together. We’ve discovered, with Georgia O’Keeffe, that “to create one’s world in any of the arts takes courage,” recognizing that our own fears aren’t so different from those sitting beside us, creating lists of our hopes and dreams, and composing heart-wrenching yet life-honoring poetry.

I’m not sure that our next step is the New York Times Bestseller list, but I’m guessing our communal efforts and the subsequent extra dose of bravery that comes through transparency and validation may jump-start a piece or two for publication.

Years ago, I had what I now know to be a prophetic dream, as I functioned in the role of a midwife to a room full of birthing mothers, while at the same time giving birth myself. I’ve thought a lot about that image over the last few weeks, reminiscent of the days before my own sons were born. With a baby bump the size of Alaska, there was no turning back. That’s what I’m sensing for my Friday afternoon writing companions. Not sure how pregnant we each are, but I look forward to the impending birth of some beautiful babies, maybe even before the Tribe wins the pennant.

JoAnn Shade, June 2016

No Quilts for Me

Fifty years ago, my father was urged to run for mayor in our small city just north of Buffalo, New York. I was intrigued with the possibility of being the First Daughter, but my mother didn’t share my enthusiasm. My dad’s first inclination was to run for office, but upon further consideration (and a tallying up of the personal cost), he stepped out of the race. Thus ended “my” political prospects.

As an adult, my chosen profession took seriously the separation between church and state. As a Salvation Army officer, I was expected to remain apolitical in my public pronouncements and circumspect in sharing my personal views (much easier to legislate in the dark ages before social media). While I voted regularly and spoke to injustice on a non-partisan basis, I was careful to keep my political opinions to myself.

Now, four years after retirement from full-time Salvation Army work, I’m free to speak, campaign, and plant yard signs in full view if I so choose (if my spouse and I can agree). Yet I remain hesitant, not sure if it’s safe to go public for my choice of candidate, as Jessica Bennett explained in her recent New York Times article, “Status Update: I’m with Her.” She quotes Danielle Thomson, identifying with “women [in previous centuries] who made quilts to express their political beliefs in a way that wouldn’t ruffle any feathers.” I’m with you, Danielle.

Yet when I heard that Hillary Clinton was coming to Cleveland on the 13th, I thought maybe it was time. Yet by Saturday night, I’d decided to pass on that event, not quite ready for prime time, I’m afraid. But then the news began to trickle in on Sunday morning. A shooting. Twenty dead. No, there were more, fifty in all. More than one hundred people mowed down while enjoying a late night in an Orlando club. Forty-nine dead, leaving bereft family and friends. One dead, a mass murderer. A grief-stricken community, a country shaken once again.

Waking up on Monday morning, I was torn. My project plate was full, but something was drawing me to stand with fellow Americans in this time, and so I headed north on I-71.

First impressions. Entering the industrial park rally site, I gladly offered my purse for inspection, walking through the metal detector with gratitude, reassured by the visible presence of local police officers and Secret Service agents. I generally don’t look over my shoulder, but given the terror of Orlando, the “what if” scenario did cross my mind.

What a microcosm of America. Young, old, male, female, people of all colors. High heels, sneakers, flip-flops and wingtips each had a story to tell. One nine-year-old girl came with her grandmother to celebrate her birthday in a historically significant way with a political rally and the promise of ice cream. Not a bad combination.

I expected more hoopla; vibrant music, balloons, red, white and blue bunting, political signs. Instead, the assembled crowd had a subdued sense of anticipation, many aware of a change in direction for the rally. Instead of a speech on economic revitalization, Clinton began with these words: “Today is not a day for politics.”  

Clinton continued: “No matter how many times we endure attacks like this, the horror never fades. The murder of innocent people breaks our hearts, tears at our sense of security and makes us furious . . . The Orlando terrorist may be dead, but the virus that poisoned his mind remains very much alive.”

What I know about myself is that my skin is too thin to ‘put it out there’ each week, preferring grand-mothering highlights instead. But I – and we – cannot ignore this virus of hatred, replicating inside the living cells of other organisms. Regardless of our political affiliation or ideology, we must act when hatred so blatantly seeks to attack who we are as a people, as Americans.

As Clinton noted, when Muslim-Americans were threatened following 9-11, President Bush responded with these words: “That should not, and that will not, stand in America.” In the face of the virus of hatred, no matter its source or symptoms, his words bear repeating.