Lessons from the experts
by Stephanie Piper
I come from a long line of tough Irish broads, most of them schoolteachers who taught grammar and spelling to the children of immigrants in New York City and managed large families on small incomes and did not suffer fools, phonies, or whiners, period.
Given this history, it's not surprising that tough Irish broads are my closest friends. The fact that some of them are Italian Catholics from New Jersey or Russian Jews from Brooklyn or Scottish Episcopalians from Asheville is irrelevant. TIBs possess certain character traits that transcend ethnic background. A TIB is unmistakable, and I can spot one at 100 paces.
My first friend in Manhattan was a bona fide TIB. She taught grade school on the Lower East Side and exuded all the warmth of a frozen scrod. When our children became playground chums, I made a cautious overture. She replied in monosyllables, sizing me up with a chilly gaze. But then we worked together on the parish bazaar. Under her staccato direction, I fetched and carried and sold raffle tickets and dished up lasagna. Walking home that evening, she favored me with whole sentences. The next day, she offered to watch my kids while I went to Key Foods.
We traded babysitting and school uniforms and evening bags. The week she went in for a biopsy, I brought fried chicken to her family. The day I lost my five-year-old on Fourteenth Street, she found him, quelling my hysterics with her classroom voice. When we moved to Chicago, she threw us a massive farewell party. It was the only time I ever saw tears in her eyes.
TIBs believe in showing up. Once when my life fell apart and I sat alone, mute with misery, it was a Knoxville TIB who rescued me. She happened to get me on the phone, heard my voice, and simply appeared at the door.
She sat next to me on the couch and took my hand. Cry, she said. I did. Then she got up and made us strong tea with extra sugar and outlined the three action steps I would take the next day to make an intolerable situation bearable. In the weeks that followed, she refused to let me sink, bolstering me with late night pep talks and Haagen Dazs. When the tide turned, she waved away my thanks. You'd do the same for me, she said.
TIBs never dramatize. "Not easy" is the universal description of events ranging from major surgery to bankruptcy. A situation may be "a nuisance" or "annoying" or even "a real drag," but that's it for emotional language. TIBs take the long view, weighing the relative impact of life's blows and conserving energy for genuine disasters.
TIBs never dissemble. They tell you how the blue dress really looks and whether the highlights were a mistake and what he meant by that tone of voice. They also tell you the nice things, although usually not in so many words. They tell you that you're wise when they ask your advice. They tell you that you're funny when they laugh out loud at something you said. They tell you that you're a good friend when they ask a rare favor.
Despite my heritage, I remain a TIB in training. I haven't yet mastered the correct balance of fierceness and compassion; I well up too easily. I'm inclined to hyperbole. I say "awful" a lot. But I like to think there's hope for me. I have a good gene pool and some stellar role models. And after all, this is the work of a lifetime. Not easy.
July 18, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 29
© 2002 Metro Pulse
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