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D. None of the above

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Back in the day when I covered Wall Street and spoke with power-broking bankers, mergers and acquisitions experts, and traders, I often chatted with people who had little to no time.

As often as I could, I’d catch someone in the midst of an exciting transaction. I pictured them standing at their desks, staring at papers, looking closely at the clock, and envisioning various life or community-altering transactions, such as multi-billion dollar mergers.

The information would be even better, of course, if other journalists hadn’t yet heard the news, giving me the chance to be first.

Some of my sources would share juicy tidbits, about a company, a strategic move, or a new hire. The cadence of their voice was often quick and clipped and the tone was close to a conspiratorial whisper, with the volume inversely proportional to the importance of the developing story.

They would often be eager to get off the phone so they could continue to rule the world, to collect multi-million dollar fees and to prepare to help other companies keep up with the fast-merging world by moving other pieces on the financial chess board.

A few seconds after sharing the final details, they would invariably use a two word signal that meant that the conversation, whether I liked it or not, was ending.

“Gotta hop!” they’d say. It was a universally understood code for, “I’m not hanging up on you, per se, but those are the last sounds you’ll hear from me on this call.”

During busy days on Wall Street, I’d picture investment bankers in expensive suits, hopping on one foot from building to building, keeping one leg in the air as they frantically finalized details and collected signatures.

Once they reached their destination, I imagined them putting the non-hopping leg down comfortably on the ground, while massaging the one that propelled them around the lower part of Manhattan.

Wall Street hasn’t cornered the market on signals that a conversation is coming to a close.

People in the Main Street world say they “gotta run.”

Sometimes, out of politeness, someone will indicate that he or she has another important call coming in that’s related to the topic at hand.

In more personal and familiar settings, my friends and family have various codes that suggest they are preparing to end a conversation.

An audible sigh is usually the equivalent of, “okay, let’s wrap things up here.”

Then, there’s the long, slow version of “alright,” which suggests that, fun as this conversation might have been, it’s time to end the call.

I appreciate the moment when people appear to want to be sensitive to me when they’re ready to disengage. That typically includes some version of, “I’m gonna let you get back to work or whatever it is you’re doing” when, more often than not, they have to return to something.

Of course, I have been on the other side of this disengagement effort, when someone who is on a long drive is not only eager for company but is also prepared to share, stream-of-consciousness style, everything they see and comment on the driving skills of everyone around them.

“What is that red car thinking?” they’ll ask. “Did you see that?”

“No, you see, the way the phone works, I can only hear your voice. I’m not looking through a body worn camera at the road ahead of you, but I’m sure the red car did something stupid and it’s great that you’re such a skilled defensive driver.”

I sometimes try to wrap up these calls with something like, “well, it’s been nice chatting with you.”

“Yes,” they’ll reply. “It’s nice chatting with you, too. So, what do you think of the presidential election?”

“Oh, um, I think it’s a good idea every four years or so. More often than that would become too hectic and stressful for the country.”

“No, I mean, what are your top 15 issues for the election this year.”

“I’d love to share them with you, but I have to hop and I want to give you a chance to get back to driving and someone is waiting to take a run with me, so, I’m gonna go.”

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

My Aunt Maxine had Down syndrome, which means she was mentally disabled.

In so many ways, Maxine and her life defied expectations and labels.

When Maxine was born, doctors told my grandparents that she wouldn’t likely live long, so they should consider putting her in an institution.

My grandparents couldn’t imagine being away from their daughter. They took Maxine home to the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where they raised and educated her.

As she grew up, Maxine was on the shorter side, at under five feet tall, and carried the youthful, round face of Down syndrome throughout her life.

She also had facial hair that my grandmother, mother and caregivers regularly trimmed.

My aunt lacked any self-consciousness about who she was, what she was, and how she related to the world. She figured everyone was as ready to love her and interact with her as she was with them.

More often than not, she smiled, offering an energetic and enthusiastic nod whenever anyone made eye contact. Plenty of people avoided looking at her in part because she was different and, in part, because she lived in New York and the rules of sidewalk engagement limited eye contact.

When people didn’t notice or engage with her, she kept walking, singing, talking to herself, chatting with her parents or the rest of us, or whistling, which she could do by inhaling and exhaling.

She lived at a higher decibel level. Her whisper was even louder than her normal speaking voice.

“What?” she’d whisper so loudly that it could be heard in the back row of a movie theater. “You want me to be quiet? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, shhhh.”

“Don’t shush me!” she’d say, her husky whisper, like her husky voice, becoming louder and indignant.

“Sorry, Macky,” I’d say. “People are trying to watch the movie. Can you watch it, too?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” she’d say, nodding vigorously. “I’ll be quiet. I will. I’ll be quiet. If that’s what you want, I can be quiet. Sure, suuuuure!”

She was spectacularly funny and knew introductions were an opportunity for comedy.

“Who is this young lady?” she’d ask anyone who walked in the door in our house. The person could be anywhere from six to 96 and she’d ask the same thing.

“How old are you?” she’d ask.

No matter the answer, she’d suggest the person was a “lovely” young lady.

“What’s your name?” she’d ask.

When the person said her name, she’d say “what” several times and then ask the person to spell it. When she slowed our guest down repeatedly and asked her to say it again, the guest would shout.

“Hey, what are you yelling for? I can hear you. Not so loud. You’re hurting my ears.”

She’d squint and a smile would fill her face as she’d scan the room, knowing the old routine had hit the mark.

More than anything else, though, Maxine was compassionate, emotionally connected, loving and supportive.

She would sing the Star Spangled Banner when she listened to Robert Merrill on the radio before a Yankees game.

“It’s so beautiful,” she’d say, as she blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

I suspect many other Americans have an aunt, sibling, distant relative, friend or neighbor for whom labels mean even less than the totality of their lives, the winsome nature of their personality, and the triumphs that define their days.

Hearing anyone use the term “disabled” as a take down misses the point, particularly for those who seek to be the country’s leader.

Maxine required but also taught a level of patience. In exchange, our family and friends appreciated her joy of life and basked in her unconditioned positive regard. She wouldn’t have resented or hated others, wouldn’t have insulted individuals or a group and would have forgiven anyone who made a mistake.

Perhaps some day, those who use words like “mental disability” as a way to dismiss others or to cast others aside will think of the Maxines of the world. We can learn so much from others whose lives are different from ours and who aren’t trying to use words to project an image, to cut others down, or to suggest that someone is limited.

I can picture Maxine sitting in a chair next to me, tilting her head and looking at me from the side.

“You’re such a silly goose,” she’d laugh.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m getting messages every day and, often, several times a day. I must be really important.

As with snail mail, those messages could be delivering something extraordinary.

“We are writing to inform you that you’ve won a Pulitzer Prize, despite the fact that you haven’t entered anything and we haven’t yet created an extraordinarily average category.”

Or, perhaps, “we wanted to let you know that your cells are healthier than they’ve ever been and that you should keep up the good work. We’d like to study you to learn how your body is performing better than we’d expect for someone half your age.”

Then, of course, there are the realistic possibilities.

“Hey, want to go to dinner with us this weekend?”

That’s a nice message to receive from a friend or family member.

My son believes brevity is the soul of wit when it comes to messages so he’ll just write “Judge!!!!” or “Soto!!!!” or some combination of Yankee players who have performed well that day.

The most frequent messages I’m receiving are the ones from would-be political leaders, their pals, and other prominent supporters who not only want my vote, but also want me to contribute money.

I’d like to think these messages, with my name at the top, were written personally by these important people, who took the time out of their day to reach out to me.

“You know who I haven’t written to recently? Daniel Dunaief. I’ll just give him a holler to gauge his thoughts on one of the more important races.”

But, no, I know they’re not personal missives, just as I know Siri isn’t graciously saying “You’re welcome” even though she’s programmed to show appreciation in her chipper voice when I thank her.

Still, these messages have morphed from a nuisance into something else. In the frenzy and excitement of consequential races, these communiques are filled with fear and hope, often in that order. In a few short sentences, they tell me what’s at stake, what role I can play, and how these leaders will spend my money wisely.

Wouldn’t that be nice? If we donated to a campaign, wouldn’t it be great to see how our money, specifically, helped someone, as in, “this yard sign made possible by your moderately generous donation.”

If you’ve ever watched the show “Seinfeld,” George Costanza, played by Jason Alexander, suggests that he grows on people, the way ad jingles do. He is like an advertisement for Mennen deodorant. At first, you can’t stand the “byyyy Mennen” sound, but you find yourself singing it in the shower or humming it in the car.

Maybe, in some way, this unprecedented barrage of seemingly personal text messages has become like those jingles.

To be honest, I don’t read them carefully. I do, however, appreciate the earnestness with which someone sends them and I recognize that something consequential is about to happen.

Maybe it’s a bit like the December holidays. The anticipation of November 5th is exciting, even if the event itself might be lacking.

The reality of the election feels more like a gift certificate to a restaurant that serves a combination of my least favorite foods, all deep fried in a type of grease that triggers an allergic response. The election itself, as I see it, will likely have echoes from 2020, with lawyers and politicians exerting themselves, insisting that their candidate won for days or weeks after Nov. 5th.

An early riser, I grin when the message arrives an hour or so after I’ve gotten up and the person with the morning message apologizes for writing so early.

Really? Because you’re not actually sending the message and the machine that blasts them could pick any time in the day to release this particular text.

With all the money flowing into these campaigns, I wonder if the country invested all the cash both sides collected and put it in a certificate of deposit or a Treasury Bill and created scholarships, what kind of opportunities could we offer future students who one day might want to run for office.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I hadn’t been to Los Angeles in over 30 years. On our trip last week, I traveled with my wife, worked remotely, visited with our nephew, and purchased tickets to attend my first home Dodgers game.

During a visit that only lasted a few days, my wife and I stayed on Eastern Standard Time, which meant we were awake between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m. local time and were at work by 7 a.m..

My wife walked across a street to her office and I sat at a desk on the 17th floor of a hotel, laptop in front of me with my cell phone at the ready.

At around 7:30 a.m. on Thursday, I felt as if the desk in front of me were shaking.

At first, I figured it had to be some neurological quirk. After all, the older I get, the more inexplicable my sometimes random body signals are to me.

When the desk shook a second time, I made an announcement to the empty room.

“That’s an earthquake!” I declared, as if naming it and knowing what it was gave me some small measure of control. I walked around in circles and wondered what I should grab, where I should go, and what I should do.

I knew my wife was in meetings that morning, but called her immediately anyway.

She picked up in that hushed tone she uses when she’s on a phone or a zoom call.

“What’s happening?” she whispered.

“Did you feel the earthquake?” I asked. “What are you doing about it over there?”

“Earthquake? What earthquake? No,” she said, as she quickly typed into her computer.

Sure enough, within seconds of the quake, she had found something online confirming the event.

“What do you want to do?” she asked. 

I was staring out the window, which probably isn’t the right place to go, and watched people casually walking along the sidewalk, cars navigating through crowded streets and birds flying between the buildings.

“I’m going to call the lobby,” I said. I told her I’d get back to her immediately if there was anything we should do.

“Hi,” I stammered, “is this the front desk?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “How can I help you?”

“I’m on the 17th floor and I just felt an earthquake,” I announced.

Silence. I suspect the woman in the lobby was thinking something along the lines of, “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Oh,” she sighed. “Well, if you’re worried or if things are falling from the ceiling, you can take shelter.”

“Shelter? Where? What should I do?”

“You can go under your desk or wait in a door frame. We also have a communication system on every floor and we can let you know if you need to evacuate.”

“So, what do I do?” I asked again.

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” she sighed. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“No,” I said, hanging up the phone. I grabbed my wallet, put on my shoes, and made sure I had everything I might need. I stood in the middle of the room in earthquake sensing mode. I had become a human seismometer, with my arms out, my feet spread apart and my palms pointing down to sense any vibrations.

I kept checking online, where I read coverage of an earthquake that didn’t seem to have caused any damage.

My wife and I traded texts and decided to continue working.

Later that day, we discussed the quake with friends and strangers, triggering all kinds of stories about earlier quakes and the ones people felt at different times.

I’m sure people in New York don’t hear honking taxis, people in the southeastern United States barely register screeching cicadas, and people in Phoenix somehow adjust to the searing heat.

I don’t think I’ll ever be enough of a Californian or a would-be Californian not to worry about the Earth moving under my feet.

Oh, and I did get to the Dodgers game the night before. The stadium was magnificent, the sushi was remarkably good, and the fans were delighted by the other-worldly performance of Shohei Ohtani, who crushed a home run and stole a base. 

The explosive sounds of a thrilled crowd of close to 50,000, the excitement of people jumping out of their seats, and the celebratory flashing lights were far more familiar than the shaking desk I felt the next morning.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

This is not so much a shaggy dog story, as a smelly dog story.

I recently brought my dog to a boarding facility for a long weekend. I feel less dog owner guilt that comes from taking him away from home, the cats he barely tolerates, the squirrels he chases, and the bed that serves as a place to sleep, a chew toy and more, because he seems so happy to race through the door to visit with his friends at the facility.

I suspect he’s much more excited to see the people who work there than the other dogs, although he gets along with every dog except the one on the block who attacked him in our driveway when he got away from his owner a few years ago.

Our dog was fine, thanks, but my wife and I try to avoid that aggressive dog whenever we walk our powder puff up and down the block. Sure, our dog now barks angrily when he sees that other dog and even seems to have convinced our neighbor’s dog to snarl and bark in sympathy.

Anyway, I left our dog for the weekend knowing he was in good hands.

When I returned from our trip, I reflexively opened the door to our house slowly, knowing that he often naps against the door. When the door didn’t present any resistance, I also looked down and listened for the tap, tap, tap of his nails across the wood floor.

I knew, of course, that I hadn’t picked him up and that no such tail wagging greeting was coming my way.

At the boarding house, I exchanged banter with the friendly tattooed young man who is a boarding house fixture. I tried to suppress a smile as I waited expectantly for my furry friend.

When he came through the door, he was as happy to go home as he was to visit. He threw his butt and tail into my knees and looked back at me as I pet him.

Mud and moisture in and of themselves don’t necessarily have a foul odor. And yet, somehow, stuck to a furry, matted dog, the scent was overwhelming.

“Hi, puppy!” I shouted repeatedly as I breathed out of my mouth.

When I got him in the car, the stench was so overwhelming that I had to open the windows.

I had far too much work to do to bathe him immediately and was glad my wife wasn’t home to endure the stench. The dog wandered in and out of my home office several times, which made it hard to finish sentences, much less to breathe.

I considered locking him out of the room, but that seemed unfair, especially after we’d been apart for a few days.

Finally, after I finished my work around 9:30 p.m., I climbed into bed, ready to relax and prepare for sleep. Happy to be home, the dog was sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I couldn’t possibly sleep with a foul odor that seemed to get stronger by the second. The scent was so powerful that someone might one day want to consider using it as a smelling salt.

Like “Harry the Dirty Dog” and many others, our dog hates to bathe. And yet, he seemed perfectly happy to head into the bathroom and even to get into the shower. He has, however, figured out how to push open the shower door, which means that he gets covered in water and shampoo and then wanders into the bathroom, shaking sudsy water all over the floor, wall and counter top.

I gave him such a thorough cleaning that he shined in the bathroom light. During the vigorous rub down drying, he moaned.

After his bath, he raced across the house and into the corner where he gets his post bath treat.

Once I settled into bed, I looked for my now sweet-smelling puppy. He and his shiny coat were, of course, in the next room because, after all, what’s the fun of sleeping near me when he smells like flowers and not smelly dog?

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Fire departments from Wading River to Mount Sinai came to the 9/11 Community Memorial in Shoreham Sept. 11, 2019 to commemorate that fateful day. Photo by Kyle Barr

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

September 11th is not just another day.

The country, and the world, stood still for hours, horrified and stunned by the mass murder committed by terrorists in Manhattan, Washington DC and in a field in Western Pennsylvania.

We can focus on the bravery of the first responders that day, on the remarkable effort by the passengers aboard Flight 93 to retake the plane, the loss of 2,977 people, and the passage of time since that horrible day.

We can also consider the incredible generosity and sensitivity of the country in the days, weeks and months afterwards. I know that didn’t apply to everyone and I remember how taxi drivers from mostly Muslim countries put bumper stickers on their cars indicating they were proud Americans. I also recall the unfair and horrific questioning of people who looked different or who might have originally come from Saudi Arabia or any neighboring countries.

Still, in the wake of a day that also lives in infamy, people gave of themselves and their time.

My family, which included our then three-month old daughter and my wife, walked to an upper east side fire station that lost several members when the World Trade Center collapsed.

There, we saw other people in our community who were bringing toys, pies, gifts and money to the department. The members of the fire station, whom we thanked, forced appreciative smiles on their faces and, more often than not, comforted many community members who choked out heartfelt words of thanks to the station’s survivors.

Outside the station, a car from one of those killed that day was barely visible under an enormous collection of flowers.

Prior to 9/11, I had spent considerable time writing about banks and financial services companies. I had a particular and lasting connection with several members of the boutique firm Keefe, Bruyette & Woods.

KBW provided research and investment banking services for a range of banks. In the months after the attack and the loss of lives, banks made sure to include KBW on investment banking deals, trying to help the survivors and the firm stay in business.

On Long Island, a range of companies donated construction materials to create lasting memorials to the people lost on that day, while offering families a place to go to reflect on the people they were fortunate enough to know.

The frenetic city that never sleeps entered a grieving cycle in which people implicitly knew the rules. A collection of cars passing by with their lights on behind a hearse required people always in a hurry to make way.

Despite the need to do things yesterday, to get somewhere faster than everyone else and to beat people’s own records in traveling from one place to another, people stood by, slowed down and made supportive eye contact with those who were putting up pictures of lost loved ones.

As we drove along the roads around New York City, we saw the efficient removal of debris from the World Trade Center site, with twisted metal and concrete sitting on passing flat bed trucks. Cars made room on highways for these huge trucks and turned on their lights in support and sympathy.

In a more insular way, many of us checked on our friends and family, setting aside ongoing familial disagreements.

I remember watching the video of President George W. Bush (41), who had lost the popular vote in 2000 to Al Gore but had won the election on the strength of the final recount in Florida. He was sitting in a classroom when the secret service whispered in his ear about the attacks. He seemed to take a long time to process what he heard.

Yes, people wondered where he went and what was happening with the center of government power and yes, some criticized him even as they flocked to the Churchillian resolve of Mayor Rudy Giuliani, who somehow symbolized the combination of pain and determination in the days after the attack.

People wanted to help each other, donating, volunteering and coalescing around the notion of a country in need of healing and recovery.

Many of the most helpful and supportive moments reflected the strength of a unified nation with a readiness to set aside political squabbles to defend the country. In our darkest moment, we gave flowers, food, support and respect.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m a good person. Really, I am.

What’s my proof? I don’t drink single use plastic bottles, which are bad for the environment. 

I love the environment. I’m going to go hug a tree. Not that one, because it’s kind of prickly and it makes my skin itch. Not that one either, because it’s too wide and my arms are too short. The one over there doesn’t work either, because it’s too far in the woods and I might get poison ivy.

You know what? I’m not going to hug a tree literally, but I’m going to do it figuratively.

Wait, what’s that you’re holding? It’s a picture of me drinking out of a single use water bottle? That must have been taken a long time ago.

No? You have a date on it and it says it was taken in the last few months. Oh, well, I was helping someone and she needed a drink and I didn’t want her to feel like she was drinking alone, but it certainly wasn’t alcohol and I didn’t swallow the water because it was too hot.

You want to know who I was helping? That’s none of your business. Also, I don’t want anyone else to have to answer these kinds of questions, so to protect her privacy, I’m not going to tell you.

I don’t care whether you believe me. Okay, well, maybe I care a little. You’re right, you’re right, I wasn’t helping anyone, but that picture of me holding a water bottle? That’s not actually me. That’s someone else and I have 10 people who can confirm that I wasn’t drinking that water on that day, even though I don’t know what day it was and that shirt looks like one of the ones I wear all the time.

Other people have that kind of shirt, too. Yeah, I know it might be unlikely that someone would have the exact same soy sauce stain in the same place, but it’s still possible. 

So, you get my point, right, about being a good person. Maybe the water bottle wasn’t a great example, but I used to coach sports and I won a bunch of championships.

I know I said that the championships weren’t about me and I didn’t win anything. But that was then. Today? I’m taking a little credit.

What did I do? Well, I gave my players advice. Yes, I know some of them ignored me, while others got their own coaches and played well despite my advice.

Still, I won those championships. Well, I mean, I didn’t do it alone, but I was the leader and you can be sure that the team wouldn’t have won without me.

How can you be sure? Well, for starters, you can’t not be sure, and that should be good enough.

So, we agree, right? I’m a good person. No? What’s it going to take?

Oh, you want me to hold the door open for you? Yeah, I would but the air conditioning might get out. You see? I don’t want to waste energy. Oh, I know it’s not a waste of energy for me to help, but I don’t want to waste the energy it would take to cool the hot air I’m letting in. That’s even better than that bottle example.

So, to conclude, I’m a good person because I’m sure, deep down inside, beneath all the complicated layers that undoubtedly make me interesting mostly to myself, I care about things, people and stuff.

Sure, I might not do as much about as I could or should and yes, I have done the opposite of what that good deepness might suggest, but I know I’m a good person and I never lie.

Except that one. That was a lie, but that’s the lie that proves the truth. Right? No, I’m not running for office. Lots of other people would do a better job or even an adequate job, which would also be better. I’m just letting you and everyone else know that, basically, and with no hidden agenda beyond, maybe hoping for a few giggles, that I am a pretty good person who might one day, turn out to be slightly better than I am now.

After all, I’m just a man, standing in front of a crowd, asking them not to dismiss him totally. Is that too much to ask from someone whose goodness may, one day, surprise us all and come out?

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Fear sells. It’s as true when companies are urging people to buy products to protect themselves, families, homes and cars as it is when politicians are trying to scare you  into voting for them or, just as importantly, voting against their opponent.

Sure, they make some effort to suggest that their policies will help you, but they spend considerably more time showing unnerving images of what might happen if you vote for the other team.

One side suggests that a vote for the other candidate could mean the end of democracy, elections and a host of freedoms, while the other suggests that a vote for the other side could mean an end to the world.

Whatever you believe, we have clearly reached an extreme of brinkmanship. 

On top of that, the news is filled with stories and images of murder and mayhem.

These days, all you need to do is turn on your phone and someone, somewhere, is struggling, threatened, or dying.

On top of that, people are sharing concerns about existential threats to the future, with global warming and declines in the food and water necessary to sustain the population.

Regardless of where people check in with the information of the day, threats lurk around every corner.

It’s no wonder that mental health has declined. The world is a place with dark shadows and horrifying possibilities.

Happily ever after has become the launching pad for fractured fairy tales, where couples can’t find affordable homes and, even if they did, couldn’t carry the mortgage.

This mental health strain and the difficulty of disconnecting from a phone that shares these bad news bulletins in constant alerts may be contributing to the record low fertility rate for the country reported this spring in the National Center for Health Statistics at the CDC. 

Specifically, the rates declined for women aged 20 to 39, hitting a record low for women between 20 and 24.

There are numerous other reasons people are foregoing the spectacularly rewarding and challenging decision to have children. Yes, men and women are pursuing careers.

And, yes, people may be more confident and comfortable having children later, putting off the life-altering decision until after a set of vacations, a work milestone or other goals.

But to know exactly why any one or group of people are making the decisions they do requires more than statistics or even surveys. When people answer questions in a survey, they sometimes offer the kinds of replies that look good or that the questioner expects.

I spoke anecdotally with a few 50’ish parents and some children around 30 and got a range of responses about the decision to have or not have children.

Both sides suggested that developing careers made it tougher to start a family. Parents, some of whom seemed eager to have grandchildren, expressed some frustration and, perhaps, judgement, about the decisions of their children and step-children.

Some of the younger crowd said their friends didn’t receive much parenting help from their partners, making the task of raising children more difficult and exhausting and dissuading them and their friends.

They also shared concerns about the high cost of raising children.

One of the younger set added that her mother had been dealing with a lifelong illness and that she had caretaking responsibilities from the time she was young. Her mother continues to need medical and family attention, which she said has made caring for a child less appealing.

One of the younger set asked me what I thought about being a parent. It has filled me with unbelievable joy, affection, love, and laughter and has helped me understand my own parents and grandparents better. Of course, we’ve had our share of challenges interspersed with stomach dropping moments.

Not to blame the media entirely, as I work and live inside that profession, but I feel like the nonstop stream of information, stories, videos, and social media shaming has left people feeling vulnerable and exhausted.

Parenting requires energy and optimism. When people lose sleep, they don’t have much energy and, if they look at their phones, they risk losing their hold on optimism. 

If we want to encourage this generation to continue the chain, we should let them know when they’re ready and when they ask, about the amazing and fulfilling moments, large and small, that make parenting the role of a lifetime.

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Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Sports resides somewhere near the center of the currency of communication in our house.

In fact, recently our daughter, who is a gifted back row volleyball player despite just clearing five feet tall, and her brother, who is a lifelong baseball player, exchanged amusing anecdotes.

Our daughter attended a minor league baseball game with her friends. In the middle of a close game, she wondered aloud whether, with runners on first and second base and no outs, the batter would bunt.

“Huh?” one of her friends responded. “Why? What are you talking about?”

She tried to explain the strategy, but gave up after it was clear that her friends were more excited to go out together than they were to inhale the drama of a baseball game.

Her brother was watching Olympic volleyball with his friends. They didn’t understand much about back row hitting or trying to spike the ball on the second hit.

Our family enjoyed the parts of the Olympics we watched and, of course, discussed some of our favorite events.

One of mine was the 1,500 meter men’s race. All of the build up described the fierce on-the-track rivalry and off-the-track trash talking between Norwegian Jakob Ingebrigtsen and Brit Josh Kerr.

The spotlight followed them from the moments before the race through the starter’s gun. While this one competition might not settle who is the fairest of them all, I mean, the better runner, it would give one of them a gold medal, presumably, and, perhaps more importantly, bragging rights.

Ingebrigtsen dashed off to the front of the pack, setting a blistering pace while maintaining what looked like a business-like attitude.

But then, a funny thing happened on the way to the expected finish. American Cole Hocker snuck around Ingebrigtsen’s left side, finding a higher gear and accelerating towards the finish. Kerr pushed towards the line as well, even as American Yared Nuguse closed the gap. At the end, it was Hocker first, Kerr second and Nuguse third, a mere hundredth of a second behind Kerr.

Oh, and Ingebrigtsen came in fourth.

It was such a delightful unscripted moment, particularly after humility seemed to be in such short supply between the favorites.

There are a few things we will not miss. We didn’t need extreme close ups of athletes who are doing as much in their chairs waiting to compete as we are watching them. At one point, Simone Biles, whose name you might have heard a few thousand times over the fortnight, took off her warm up jacket, which we all saw on TV. The announcer, lacking any other detail to share and exhausted from overusing the word “redemption,” decided to announce that she was taking off her jacket. You stuck the landing on that insightful observation, buddy boy.

So, now, here we are. The Olympics are over, the flame is out, the days of trying to avoid sports headlines until after watching the prime time replay are over.

We can go back to reading the important news of the day, assuming we can find some. 

What’s changed in our house? Well, our dog is much happier. He probably has nothing against the Olympics, but we shouted at the TV much more often than we typically do during a baseball or basketball game.

We can consider the what ifs in our own lives. These Olympians train every day, eat the right foods, try to stay on a sleep regimen and forego other id-driven moments.

And then, on that day, they might win by a hundredth of a second or less. 

At their best, they can inspire us, the way a new year sends people into a list making frenzy. If they can be so amazing, maybe we can, too.

Or, perhaps, we can figure out what else to watch or binge watch on TV. Oh, and there’ll be a winter games, assuming there’ll be a winter, in Italy in two years. Those athletes are undoubtedly doing everything they can to shave another hundredth of a second off their times.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m tired, crabby, angry, annoyed, frustrated, disappointed, appalled and short tempered. 

Sleep, as a feature in TBR News Media this week suggests, will cure some of that.

But I’m just so fed up with the nonstop negativity in the country. Half the country not only wants to win, but seems thrilled with the prospect that the other half will lose. The worse the losers feel, the happier they are.

We’ve become a society of stomping toddlers, eager to crush the careful creations and ideas of those we oppose under our feet. Cut it out! This isn’t helping.

Okay, let’s take a step back from politicians and discuss us, you know, John and Joan Q. Public.

We are generally sleep deprived, according to statistics and people who pinch themselves not out of sheer joy but out of the necessity of staying awake each day.

More than one out of two people in the cars next to us may not only be texting and/or talking on the phone, but is also likely struggling to stay awake. That’s not good for them or for us.

Think about it: when you go to a store for stuff, call a company to send someone to fix your air conditioners in overbearing heat, or need someone to provide a skill set that you don’t possess, you don’t ask a long list of questions to make sure they were on the winning political team or that they believe everything you believe or even that they got enough sleep the previous night.

But, wait, what if the help we need is part of the other political team or, even going outside the realm of politics, is a devoted fan of the Red Sox, believes in red herrings, or is a fan of the color red?

You might privately enjoy the victory of your team or your would-be political leader, but are you really eager for them — you know, the “others” who are a part of our lives — to be miserable?

Their misery could become your misery.

It might tickle you to watch them cry and to ponder the existential threat that the person you support won and the person they supported lost, but you still need them even if you have no use for their political leaders.

If they lose sleep and are worse at their jobs, you might have to wait longer in line, deal with an incorrect bill you have to keep fighting, or suffer through the consequences of getting a meal that contains an allergen you told the waitress you couldn’t eat.

Even if you feel a momentary satisfaction that people who are supporting the wrong candidates  lost, you shouldn’t be too eager to push their head in the mud or to throw tomatoes at them. You might need those people and your tomatoes.

What happened to agreeing to disagree, to the art of compromise or even just to listening?

If whichever side loses feels like they still have a seat at the table, an ability to affect policies, an opportunity to help our children learn — is anyone on this campaign talking about education, ever? — and confidence that someone will listen to their ideas, the political and cultural temperature wouldn’t be so high and we the people would sleep and work better.

Yes, the extremes on each side can be absurd and frustrating, but even those people with the most ridiculous signs can be agreeable and helpful outside the context of political ideology.

So, just to recap, we might want to consider this great experiment in democracy as a team effort. We don’t always say and do the right things and we don’t always back the right horses, but, together, we can be greater than any one election or one would-be leader.

Unless we’re ready to live on a farm and eat our own food, educate our children, provide our own energy and entertainment and perform necessary surgeries on ourselves, we need each other. Once we remember that, we might have a better chance of sleeping well at night, which will make us better at our many roles, from parenting, to working, to contributing to our communities.

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