Year: 2015

New to town, not too long ago, I was introduced to a man who I was told could help me get acclimated to Nashville.  Older and more casually dressed than I’d anticipated, Francis Guess cursed me for being a few minutes later than our agreed upon meeting time at the bar, then recited my family lineage before I sat down.  He proceeded to give me a history of Nashville’s business community over rounds that quickly changed from white wine to Jack Daniels, introduced me to a steady stream of lady friends and gentlemen bankers and lawyers the whole time, and refused to let me buy my own drinks hours later when I was dismissed because he was late for “the ballet!”

Such was the beginning of perhaps an unlikely friendship.

Over the ensuing years Francis and I talked, strategized, partied, drank and joked.  During his time I was tutored – on political strategy and the history of Tennessee and its government.  I was chastised – for faux pas and mistakes that I’d made.  I was laughed at and called names, encouraged and coached.

I was celebrated – with a surprise birthday party, no less!  I was trusted – with insights (“I know where the bodies are buried, Hicks”), strategies and maybe even a few of his frustrations and dreams.  I was reminded – of the inferiority of an education obtained any place other than Tennessee State and “Van-der-bilt University.”  I was defended and told “you’re on your own!”

I was introduced – to the people who make the region move in diverse establishments from The City Club, Jimmy Kelly’s and Morton’s to Out of Bounds, J. Alexander’s and The Cave.  And I was nominated – sometimes without my knowledge – to civic boards that drew me closer to this city and helped me to understand why he so loved his hometown.

Many will also point out that Francis would say things to people that only he could get away with.  He made women blush and men cringe, but most of these same people respected him, and many of them also sought his counsel (“I don’t seek out information, Hicks.  People just tell me things.”)  Not to be attempted by amateurs, Francis was at once confounding and straight forward.  A rare combination of characteristics that would make him, for many of us, an unlikely friend.

But that was Francis: a man with the intellect to walk with kings, the persona to kick it with the common man, and the desire to be a connector and to be of service for the benefit of us all.

Connecting dots and connecting people may be what he’s remembered most for.  Francis solved problems for executives, politicians, preachers, musicians, kids and others who crossed his path.  Often, he did so by helping you see yourself, your problem or your world through a different lens – and then making a connection with another person or experience that could help you bring focus to your new, broader perspective.

Helping me to appreciate a different point of view and a renewed sense of urgency, I recall an impromptu set of remarks that Francis made about the National Museum of African American Music (NMAAM).  He was in a surly mood that evening, and reluctantly rose to share a few words with the informal gathering the projects early organizers.  With a scowl, he began to talk about a recent trip to south Nashville at dawn…

“Sometimes, as the sun rises, I go to the top of a hill near Father Ryan High School, south of the city… 

At this, the site of the Battle of Nashville in 1865, the 13th U.S. Colored Troops fought in the Civil War led by a little boy who was beating a drum.  This child, no more than 11 or 12 years old, kept cadence for the troops heading into conflict and probably represented one of the earliest introductions of our music to this city. 

He marked time while marching towards the Confederate army, commanded by Gen. John Bell Hood, and knowing that death was a likely outcome. I can almost hear that drummer boy, leading men into battle with tired feet but an invigorated longing to be free.

I can almost hear that drummer boy, recalling a pulse from a distant land and a tempo inbred from generations of toil and tribulation. I think I can hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the drummer boy’s snare drum which would portend victory for Gen. George Thomas’ troops. I’m almost sure that I can hear that drummer boy! That beat was for you – and for me. That rhythm was the passion, the hope and the yearning for my freedom.”

The room fell silent as he spoke, and a few wiped tears.  Francis had connected the dots – from the Civil War to the present day, conservatives and liberals, black and white, now all had a reason to be passionate about a project that he’d long thought was a cultural and economic imperative for the region.  He’d placed the explanation point at the end of the slogan My Music Matters!

 

As Francis took his seat that evening, he smiled and was clearly in a better mood.  His burden was lifted, but those in attendance were made uncomfortable by his truth – we all now had a decision to make.

Yet, he didn’t realize the impact that he’d had and began to joke with those nearest him.  But the party broke up shortly after that.  There wasn’t much else left to say.

Like NMAAM, many of the dots that Francis connected were a work in process.  He actually worried some about whether or not he’d successfully passed the torch of service on to others.  And so, let’s be clear, his passing leaves many of us with a load to carry and maybe an incomplete assignment.

I’m clear what mine is.  I too hear the rat-a-tat-tat of that drummer boy.

But what is yours?  You too now have a decision to make.  And once you’ve made it, get focused.  Get it done.  XEQTE! (Henry, what the hell does your license plate say?)  Get yourself a Jack and Ginger and steel your resolve to make Nashville a better place and Tennessee a better state.  It‘s the best way I can think of to honor our unlikely friend.

My name is H. Beecher Hicks, III – but most people just call me Henry.

I’m frequently asked, then, why I insist on writing it as H. Beecher Hicks, III.  I generally offer, simply, that this is the way my grandfather told me to write it.  A true story, but, of course, there’s more to it than that.

I like my name.  I’m proud of it.  And, there’s even power in the name.

You see, I’m the third to carry this name.  The two that came before me did themselves and their families proud.  Both broke new ground with their levels of educational attainment; both led in civil rights, social justice and gender equality; both are known as writers and orators of unparalleled skill; both took seriously their call to shepherd the flock and to preach the gospel; and both raised families whose work to succeed is surpassed only by their efforts to serve.

Even as I write this I understand that’s a heavy burden for present and future generations to carry.  But there’s also power in the name.

Because of their work, and because my name is H. Beecher, I’ve been in places as divergent as the White House and the Waffle House and had someone say “aren’t you Beecher’s boy?”  My signature on emails and letters have resulted in compelling replies from the Smithsonian and from investment bankers.  My name has gotten me airline upgrades, dinner reservations, job interviews, scholarships, credibility with politicians and priests, and I’m even occasionally promoted to the rank of “Dr. Hicks.”  (Perhaps I’ll go back to school someday to make it true.)

There may be power in the name, but there are two sides to every coin.

Being H. Beecher cost me anonymity as a teenager in places that I shouldn’t have been and doing things that I shouldn’t have been doing.  Being H. Beecher caused professors to scrutinize my work more carefully, bosses to question my skill, acquaintances to take advantage of my naiveté in attempts to enhance association or feign affiliation, and caused me to place undue pressure on myself to live up to the brand.  I even get the occasional piece of mail from an eerie person who has watched from afar to determine where I live or work and who is compelled to share some dissonant information with me – because of what my name is.

But on balance, I really like my name.  So much so that I’d really forgotten about the burden of being H. Beecher until recently.

My first born son is H. Beecher Hicks, IV.  Henry is a great kid – bright and talented with unique blossoming gifts.  However, a few weeks ago Henry made a decision that his mom and I weren’t pleased about.  Crystal handled the discipline… but I had a few more things to say.

I waited a couple of days before bringing up the subject.  I asked if he was proud of what he’d done.  He said that he was “fine with it.”  I asked him if he thought he’d made his mom proud.  He said “no.”  I asked him if he thought his grandparents would be proud.  He said “no.”

From there, I reminded him that because his name was the same as mine, everything he did was a reflection on me…  And went further to remind him that his work and actions were also a reflection on his grandfather and great-grandfather.  I’m not sure he’d quite thought about it that way.

I tried to soften it up by pointing out that this was a two way street.  My actions and body of work provide a foundation for his.  I can also bring credit or shame to his name.

As I recall, our conversation came to a quiet close.  We’d heard each other out and agreed to disagree.

A few hours later, in the stillness of the early morning, Crystal and I were awakened by a frightening cacophony of sounds coming from Henry’s room.  Henry was not feeling well and after an hour or so of home remedies, it was clear that the emergency room was our next stop.

Fortunately a hospital is nearby; and so within a few minutes he was being seen by a doctor.  Following a description of symptoms and a check of vital signs, the solution to this problem, we were told, was simple – “Henry, try to slow your breathing.”

Henry was hyperventilating.  This caused him to have severe stomach pains and to present stroke-like symptoms due to a lack of oxygen in his blood.  It took the rest of the night and the aid of some heavy drugs to restore his breathing to normal.

Later that week Henry told his mom that he felt a lot of pressure following our conversation earlier that night.  The stress he was feeling as he went to bed, he believes, caused him to become ill.  Of course, Crystal shared this with me, and I felt terrible about it.

There may be power in a name.  But our names can be a burden too.

As Easter approaches this spring, there is no better illustration of the power and burden of a name than the story of Christ’s death, burial and resurrection.  Many are familiar with the common refrain from Philippians 2 that “at the name of Jesus every knee shall bow… and every tongue confess…”  That’s a lot of power!

We see example after example in the New Testament of the power of Jesus’ name.  Faith in the name of Jesus enabled blind men to see, resurrected the dead, cured leprosy, calmed the seas and turned water into wine.  One woman had so much faith in the power of His name that she believed that if she could just touch the hem of his robe she’d be made whole.  There’s power in the name.

But even His name has its burdens.  After leading and teaching a rag-tag group of followers for years, they still wouldn’t watch his back when he stepped away to pray, they still weren’t altogether convinced that he was the incarnation of God, and one of his most trusted boys is the one who sold him out and led him to his death.

And then there is the crucifixion itself.  Despite the power in His name and having committed no sin, He had to bear the burden of being beaten, tortured, hung high, stretched wide, and dying on a cross.

To a much lesser degree, we all have a similar experience.  Hence the phrase, perhaps, that we “all have our crosses to bear.”

Our names have power… and burden.  Consider names such as Kennedy and King, Ford and Rockefeller.  Those names represent something.  They conjure up an image for us all.  Triumph and tragedy, destiny and disaster follow each of these names.

Even more modern family names such as Reagan or Obama, or even Kardashian, bring images to mind.  Each are powerful in their own way, but each person who carries that name bears a burden as well.

Your name represents something too.  Your parents thought about your name – a lot.  Some may consider your name to be the most valuable asset they can give you.  For example, our younger son is not only a Hicks, but his first and middle names, Harrison Patton, represent the family names of his fraternal and maternal grandmothers respectively.  This young man carries the expectations of three families around with him every day!  But no matter how simple or elaborate, your name is significant for some reason.

And therein lies its power.

You’ve got something to live up to.  A history, a future, an expectation, a hope, a wish, a prayer… Power.

Yet, as compelling and alluring as it is, and as much as it makes you stand up a little taller… Its inverse is its burden.  It’s that nagging doubt that we all carry.  Will you make your family proud?  Will you achieve your goal?  Will you bring credit to your name?

This is my experience, and Henry’s, and yours.

When I was a teenager going out with my friends, my dad would tell me on occasion to “remember what your name is.”  While I always took note when he said that, it wasn’t until I was sitting at the foot of Henry’s hospital bed that night that I really considered the gravity of that statement.

I certainly hope that he, nor Harrison, has that medical experience again, but I’ve decided that I’m also okay with their names being a burden.  That burden may keep them out of trouble.  It will give them the drive to achieve, and to overcome, and to serve, and to make their names more powerful.

Of course, my job is to live up to my name as well.  That’s the only way that I can contribute to the power of His name and to the power in theirs.

I periodically tell my boys that they make me proud, and that they live up to their names, just by being themselves.  I also tell them to “remember what your name is!”

There’s power in the name.

This week, I spent time packing and coordinating a move from my home.  Our family belongings were boxed, crated and carted.  Not to be taken to the excitement and possibilities represented by a new home where our family can thrive; but to the nondescript hollowness of a storage facility.  One along an over-grown and forgotten road just off the highway near where it intersects with the airport’s runway.

Just stuff perhaps.  But our stuff.  The stuff that holds memories that the extended Hicks family and friends created – now held secure with a padlock behind an orange garage door.

And I think I shed a tear.

The next morning I awoke, following a short and fitful night’s sleep, with a headache that surely follows only a long night of loud music and Jack Daniels.  Except, I could find no explanation in this case.  My evening only included a cup of yogurt and a single Heineken and a midnight run to Wal-Mart for boxer shorts.

Nevertheless, the throbbing and banging that I was experiencing would only be soothed by a handful of Tylenol, a long shower and some of Aunt Charisse’s cheese grits from Kroger.

The reason for this torture?  We’ve decided to lease our home to some lovely family during our sojourn to Nashville.

I bought this house ‘cause Crystal said she wanted it.  I worked closely with the contractors to make the basement a place where we’d all like to hang out.  Crystal picked furniture to make the place simple, elegant, grand and comfortable – designing her castle to match her style.  And I presided this week over its disassembly, padding and shrink-wrapping – before having it all deposited in a lifeless gated community with no access after 9pm.

And I promised her that after this move to the SWATs she wouldn’t have to move again- unless opportunity and circumstances absolutely required it.  Maybe they had.

After four years of the Hicks family living in separate cities, the boys becoming teenagers and professional opportunities persisting in unexpected places, it was a good time to find a way to have dinner together most nights.

The idea of maintaining dual residences is good in theory, but tough to pull off for most anyone I’m sure.  Choices had to be made.

So after an elixir of grits and grape juice I head to my last appointment on this trip.

As I pull into the driveway – noticing the numbers on the mailbox, the knockout roses in bloom, the red clay on the basketball goal, and how much that maple tree has grown…  behind me follows two matching BMW X5’s – cars I’d never seen before.

I gathered myself and stepped out my own car with a plastic smile and an outstretched hand.

The place looked different now.  Vast, sparkling, almost new.  Well, except for the holes I made in the garage walls to hang bicycles, and the impressions in the floor where Harrison’s piano sat, and the marks on the door frame where H4 practiced chin-ups, and the nicks in the kitchen cabinets from the pots, feet and balls that have banged against them as Crystal baked cakes, canned jelly or made Thanksgiving dinner.

Ok, not so new.  But ours, and pert near perfect.

After a brief tour, I traded keys and a garage opener for a check; and then I stood for a few seconds.  Not sure what to do next…  I guess this is my cue to leave.

The lease was signed, inspection passed, funds exchanged… And I think I shed a tear.

The deed is done.  The commitment made.  The chapter closed?  A step out on faith – towards a new land and new possibilities.

Overhead lower.  Family together.  The title still mine.  Zillow is my friend.  And I can go home again, right?

But I still think I may have actually shed a tear.

Not Finishing and Not Following Up

I get goose bumps at the very idea.

The filing that has been undone for the past several months; the papers that have been piling up, the thank you notes that haven’t been written, the oil change that you’ve been putting off…  Each of these are little things, but they sometimes have big consequences.

The auditor struggles to complete his work, the donor feels underappreciated, you can’t find what you’re looking for later, or your cylinder head cracks due to poor lubrication.  (I’ve experienced all of those things, by the way.)  Some consequences are bigger than others, but they all have one thing in common: they slow down your progress.  They will also likely cost you time and money.

Inevitably, not finishing and not following up will cause you to go backwards when you most want to go forward.  It may have taken you two minutes to file that paper, but now it takes you 20 minutes to find it.  The oil change would have taken 30 minutes and cost you $29.95, but the cylinder costs you $2,300 and puts you on the bus for a week.  And that prescription that you didn’t get filled… Well that may cost you a trip to the hospital.  So there is real practical value in finishing and following up.

In fact, I suspect that not finishing and not following up can be a metaphor for the rest of our lives.  I imagine that in the military shining ones shoes is a precursor to maintaining your weapon, and teaching a squad to march in unison is required before a battalion can be deployed.  Even the bible teaches that “if you be faithful over a few things, I will make you ruler over many.”  So I think that it is safe to say that managing the small things in our personal and professional lives prevents us from being inefficient and in a better position to manage the big things when they come along.
Don’t get me wrong, we all have our weaknesses – and are imperfect when it comes to finishing and following up.  For example, I’m too frequently late for my next meeting.  While I’m always seeking to improve when it comes to this sometimes embarrassing habit, I recognize that at times I choose to risk tardiness so as not to shortcut whatever conversation or task I’m in the middle of.  Sometimes I judge that going back to whatever I’m doing may be more costly than cutting it close on arrival time to the next spot.  (Sometimes I’m wrong.)

And additionally, this blog represents my failure to follow through.  I resisted beginning to write these columns because I wasn’t sure that I could sustain it.  So I committed that I would post at least once per month (despite being counseled that I should post at least weekly to build loyal readership), but I have often missed even that mark.  As a result, I’ve let myself down and not made the most of the platform we call #dbte.

So as we examine our own lives and spaces to see what we have left unfinished and what we have not followed through on, I encourage you to start with the little things.  Make a promise and habit to shine your shoes every Sunday afternoon or to return all phone calls by 5pm on Friday.  Things like that will make your week more efficient and prevent you from having to step backwards when you’re ready to press forward with something more substantial.

And if you’re overcommitted or your priorities have changed, acknowledge that.  Consider carefully if a commitment needs to be renegotiated, a task needs to be elevated or a meeting rescheduled.  Deciding not to follow up is different than just putting it off.  (But that may be a whole separate subject…)

To my museum team – first we’ll get the filing done, then we’ll get the museum built.