Becoming

One of the joys of reading memoirs is finding connections with the writer, when we sit up and say, “That’s me, that’s my story too.” That aha! moment came early in Michelle Obama’s recent memoir, “Becoming,” as she wrote about her piano lessons with her great-aunt Robbie. In contrast to her aunt’s kindness to her mother over the years, Michelle’s experience of Robbie was different: “To me she was kind of a terror.”

Yes, Michelle, I know about that. Miss Wambsgantz was an ancient German woman with a thick accent who did her best to instill a sense of terror in me as I sat at the piano each week. A bit past her prime by that point, there were times when I doubted if she knew my name, as she often called me “Sonny” throughout a lesson. My first recital piece, “Gosh, I’m Scared,” tends to sum up my experience in Miss Wambsgantz’s music room. Amazingly, after that rather shaky start, music remains a place of joy for me – and, as she proclaimed at her recent Grammy appearance, it is also true for Michelle.

“Music has always helped me tell my story. . . . music helps us share ourselves. Our dignity and sorrows, our hopes and joys. It allows us to hear one another, to invite each other in. Music shows that all of it matters. Every story within every voice, every note within every song.”

Although separated by a decade and about five hundred miles, our growing up years had many other similarities, as we both lived close to the shores of the Great Lakes (and its accompanying lake effect snow). With our mom at home and our dad off to work, our days were ordered by the rhythm of meals, school, play, piano practice, and our dad’s arrival home. We walked to school and to the corner store, and we both valued our quiet time at home with our Barbies and books. Like Michelle, the world of my early years was contained within a five-block radius. Both the Robinsons and the Streeters were shaped by an extended family nearby, with its joys and sorrows, challenges and encouragements.

My first impression of the wife of a U.S. president was seared into my heart and mind on November 22, 1963. Not long after that tragic afternoon, I sold hand-woven potholders up and down my street to raise money for the Kennedy Library. The thank you note from Jackie Kennedy has a prominent place in a childhood scrapbook, and I’ve been drawn to the First Ladies of this country ever since. Many, like Jackie and Michelle, stepped reluctantly into public life, yet still found a way to forge a path ahead with grace. Post White House, their influence reaches afar. 

It would be tempting to bask in that celebrity, but what I love about former FLOTUS Michelle Obama is the sense that she’s one of us. That theme ran through her book, and was illustrated so well by the text message she received from her mother after the Grammy Awards. “Did you meet any of the real stars,” Marian asked, “or did you run right after you were done?” Ouch!

Michelle’s words speak to me and for me: “There’s a lot I still don’t know about America, about life, about what the future might bring. But I do know myself. My father, Fraser, taught me to work hard, laugh often, and keep my word. My mother, Marian, showed me how to think for myself and to use my voice. Together, in our cramped apartment on the South Side of Chicago, they helped me see the value in our story, in my story, in the larger story of our country. Even when it’s not pretty or perfect. Even when it’s more real than you want it to be. Your story is what you have, what you will always have. It is something to own.

As I finished reading “Becoming,” I knew I made a new friend, even if we never meet in this life. Our lives have intersected where it counts, in family and in service to others. Grateful this day for connections, music and voice.