Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  Simply being heard by a woman who knows exactly what it’s like to have a husband forget to pick up the laundry or leave a smelly banana peel next to the computer overnight is like balm for an aching soul. Every other morning I find myself on the phone with Agenia, my dearest friend of thirty years. Usually, sometime around eight a.m. (seven a.m. her time), we begin the conversation with a hearty “Are you ready for this?” Within ten minutes we are cracking each other up over the ridiculousness we both deal with on a regular basis. A mom and a CEO of a national organization, she understands my stresses, and she knows how to tell me what’s worth sweating over and what’s not. And most important, she knows when to just listen.

  Most men simply don’t get the point of long, emotional exchanges, and trying to engage them just ends up in frustration. Though we’ve been together for twenty years, Al simply doesn’t understand why I obsessively talk about something that is bothering me. If we have had a fight and made up, he feels like it’s settled and done, and I feel like I still want to explain how I felt. I mean, why not clear the air over and over . . . and over? That’s why talking with my female friends often feels lifesaving.

  What works great one-on-one can also work wonders in a group. Besides my lunch gal pals, I have a core group of close women friends in New York—Marva, Judy, Jonelle, Angela, Dale, Yolanda and Tawana—and we loosely call ourselves a “book club” because we initially bonded at a dinner discussing the bestselling book The Help. I loved the book, but there was so much I wanted to talk about with others who had read it. The story of oppression and dashed dreams resonated with me because my grandmother and mother had both worked as maids at one point in their lives.

  When I was done reading the book, I was grateful to have a place to process my roller-coaster emotions and the many questions I had about the author. Did a white author have the right to tell this story? Did she capture their struggles? Did she stereotype? As a journalist, I was fascinated by the story, but as a Southern black woman, I was intrigued by other people’s take on it. Everywhere I went, from cocktail parties to the set of Good Morning America, people had been talking about this book. (In fact, it was Charlie Gibson who recommended that I read it.)

  The night our “book club” was born, we opened a bottle of wine and talked about The Help, but we also delved into one another’s stories. I talked about growing up in the South. One friend spoke of losing a child to SIDS, sudden infant death syndrome. Another talked about growing up black and middle-class in Oklahoma in the 1960s after unexpectedly losing her father, and her mother bravely going forward as a single mom. Everyone willingly peeled away the layers we all hide behind in our otherwise busy daily lives and made ourselves bare. We shared tears and laughter, and it was a rare moment for each of us. We felt safe enough to be vulnerable. With no particular expectations going into the evening, we discovered a sense of connectedness in a way that only girlfriends can truly understand. It was almost like a religious experience of sisterhood.

  We whooped it up and hollered until midnight, when our host’s husband came out and gave everyone that certain “look” that meant it was time for us to go home. I hadn’t felt that way since my sleepover days in high school, when my best friend’s father used to tell us to hush up and go to bed!

  That night I realized once again the power of female friendships. I came away thinking about my childhood and examining feelings that I had once thought belonged only to me.

  Sisterhood has always been healing to me. Talking to my friends helped me to realize that I’m not alone in the pain I’ve carried over the years due to colorism in the black community. When I disclosed my insecurity about growing up as a dark-skinned girl and feeling unattractive, it was my female friends who understood and made me feel beautiful. It has been liberating to share experiences with other women because it has helped free me from burdens I’ve long carried. I am a better partner, mom and friend because of my deep female friendships.

  I really want to share with my daughter, Leila, this lesson about the importance of girlfriends. I want her to see that gift at work in my life.

  When she sees me with a few female friends in the kitchen or hears my loud, syrupy “Gurlll . . . let me tell you!” on the phone, she may roll her eyes, but then she smiles, knowing I’m connecting with someone I feel close to. She’s happily come along to a musical revue featuring my friend Pauletta, an actress and singer who’s reclaiming her career after stepping back for years to raise her children.

  Leila’s even becoming “one of the girls,” once coming to lunch with Robin and me. She’s always adored Robin, and Robin, like so many of my “sisters,” embraces Leila, encouraging her endeavors and interests. I hope Leila learns that as much as we love our guys, there’s something special about women in her life. Isadora James said, “A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit, a golden thread to the meaning of life.” There’s nothing quite like the wisdom and power of the lifelong friendship of women. Amen to that.

  AL

  The Value of Friendship

  I’ve always been the kind of husband who encourages my wife to take time with her girlfriends. I appreciate it and I understand it’s what she needs. Even though I am around a lot of people on a daily basis, the truth is, I’m not terribly social. I prefer being with my family and a small handful of people I enjoy spending time with over groups of people I barely know and have no interest in getting to know better. I have a couple of close buddies, but for the most part, I’d much rather be with my wife and kids or alone.

  It’s one of the reasons I resent Facebook. All these contacts are called your “friends”? Um, no. Some may happen to be friends, but for the most part they are total strangers and will most likely remain that way.

  Though I don’t need people around me all the time, I have a great appreciation for someone who knows you and just lets you say your crazy stuff without judging. I confide in my wife, and a sibling or two, although even then, I’m guilty of not always sharing with them. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve picked up the phone to hear a complaint from a not-so-happy wife, offspring or sibling who read about an interview or something else I’m doing in the paper or online. Mea culpa. I know I need to share more.

  But even I have times I need to unload to someone who isn’t going to take it personally or be offended by what I say or how I feel—someone outside the family, like a close buddy. When you have that kind of friend, you almost instantly feel better once you get things off your chest, and if you don’t, that good friend, with a clear head and a terrific sense of humor, can usually talk you off the ledge. I consider that an invaluable friend to have—someone who can cut through the clutter and help you find your way.

  My buddy Jon Harris has been one of those guys for me.

  Jon is the type of person you feel like you’ve known your whole life a few minutes after meeting him. He has the gift of gab and an insatiable thirst for knowing people. He’s a combination good-time Charlie and the Wedding Singer. He’s half Jewish and half Irish. I call him the world’s tallest Yiddish leprechaun!

  I’ve known Jon for at least twenty years. He is the king of global communications. When we first met back in the early nineties, he was working for Pepsi. Then he went to an Internet start-up, fitness powerhouse Bally’s, and finally Hillshire Brands, the international food company, where he was responsible for touting (and tasting) everything from Sara Lee pound cake to Jimmy Dean sausage, which proved problematic, given his family history and his love of food.

  His dad died very young from a heart attack; Jon, the father of three young kids, knew he needed to make some changes in his life so he didn’t end up the same way. I never really thought of him as heavy, but he lost forty pounds and got into terrific shape. After that he turned me on to his nutritionist, Melissa Bowman Li, who helped me lose weight after my gastric bypass surgery. Ever since, Jon and I have shared both our love of food and our struggle
to stay fit. We have a great camaraderie, and Jon has been a constant reminder of the power of a positive attitude. He has moments of doubt, as we all do, but he has such a deep-seated optimism that won’t allow him to feel defeated, no matter how hard life gets sometimes. He genuinely lets stuff roll off his back, which I admire because I have a tendency to absorb my feelings, whether I show my emotions or not. It may be effective in the short term, but boy, does it catch up to me. The pressure builds up, and eventually, the tiniest thing will push me over the edge. And when that happens, believe me, it isn’t pretty. Just ask Deborah and the kids. Jon’s example is really helping me in my efforts to change that.

  One of the ways I think I help Jon is being his “No” coach. Jon is a people pleaser; whether it’s family, friends or colleagues, if it’s humanly possible, Jon wants to say yes to the many requests that come over his transom and land on his desk. The problem is, he can’t possibly do all the things people want him to do, so he’s stressed and exhausted by the end of the day.

  That’s where I come in! I’ve learned the cathartic and transformative power of those two letters N-O. Unless it’s a “must do” for work or a “need to” for your kids, most of the things we get asked to do can be dealt with by saying no. Nicely but firmly. Doesn’t need an explanation or an apology. Just a simple no. You will be amazed at how much clearer and focused life is when you use that word. Forget about “please” being the magic word. It’s “no.”

  And so when Jon and I talk, he will often run through his calendar and we prune away the requests so that he can focus, laserlike, on the things that really mean something to him and to the people he loves.

  One evening we talked forty minutes, taking a Weedwacker to all the requests Jon had by saying no. It was thrilling to look at Jon’s iPhone calendar and see days upon days with almost no blocks of color clogging up the screen.

  Jon and I may not speak every day, but I know he is there for me and he knows I am always there for him. When it comes to real friendship, that’s the bottom line—and I believe that meaningful solidarity among his peers is what my father cherished the most.

  In my professional life, there have been a few men I’ve met along the way who have reminded me of my dad. It’s pretty well-known that NBC’s Willard Scott has long been a mentor and second dad to me. In the last few years, another father figure has come into my professional and personal life, Vice President Joseph Biden. To me, he is a politician in the very best sense of the word, meaning someone who isn’t afraid to mingle with the people; someone who values loyalty, commitment and your word being your bond. Values too often forgotten today.

  The first time I met him, at the second inaugural parade, I was immediately taken by his warmth and generosity. He said hello, treating me like an old friend, not a lowly weatherman standing on the sidelines, aggressively waving him down for a network scoop. He’s the kind of guy who, if he were your local councilman, would get that pesky pothole fixed!

  Vice President Biden and I have had the opportunity to get to know each other a bit since the parade. I’ve attended his annual Christmas party a few times, and he took part in an extended interview with Willie Geist, Tamron Hall, Natalie Morales and me. We’ve gotten friendly—as friendly as one can be with the Vice President of the United States!—and I truly admire the guy.

  When I was covering the floods last year in Boulder, Colorado, I was so impressed by the way the vice president talked to people, from the locals who were displaced to the state and city politicians, Democrats and Republicans, who had to deal with the damage. I could see he was genuinely worried about what these people were going through and how they were being affected. He shook hands, reached out and hugged those who needed it and was there to offer whatever support he could. That means a lot, especially when you have just lost your home. He was more like an uncle than a polarizing politician. You can just tell that he cares about the American people, loves what he is doing and believes he can make a difference. That is such a rare gift these days, especially in our “what-are-the-polls-saying” and “friend-me” society. At least it feels that way to me.

  The vice president graciously granted me an interview in Boulder, and at the end of our walk and talk, we wound up in front of Air Force Two. He turned to me and said, “I don’t know which way you’re going, but I’d be happy to give you a lift as far as Andrews Air Force Base.”

  I thought he was joking.

  My producer looked at me and said, “You are going, aren’t you?”

  “But what about my things back at the hotel?” I wondered.

  “Forget your stuff! I’ll take care of it!” my producer said. “The vice president just invited you to fly back on Air Force Two with him! You’ve got to say yes, Al!”

  Of course, I knew he was right, so I turned and made my way up the steps of the vice president’s plane.

  It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

  As a weatherman, I don’t get a lot of opportunities to travel with politicians like some journalists, so I didn’t know what to expect. I found myself with a couple of other members of the press, the vice president’s staff, Secret Service agents, a full complement of medical professionals, and navy stewards, who were on board to prepare and serve meals.

  As we took off, it sank in that I was on board the second-most powerful plane in the world—as a guest of the Vice President of the United States.

  Yeah, I felt pretty cool.

  Shortly after takeoff, I was summoned to the vice president’s office on board the plane.

  “How ya doin’, Al?” he said.

  We sat in his office and chatted about family, kids, weight and life.

  It was all so . . . normal. As if I were with an old friend.

  When we were done, I went back to my seat.

  About twenty minutes before we landed, the copilot asked me if I would like to sit in the cockpit for the approach into Andrews Air Force Base.

  Just as I was heading forward, the vice president stuck his head out his office door and said, “If I knew this guy was going to be so much trouble, I would never have invited him on board! Way to go, pal. You’re a good man!” He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.

  When we landed, the vice president and I shook hands and did that “guy hug” before he deplaned, got into his waiting car and drove off.

  I’m not sure why he invited me on the plane that day, but it was the beginning of a deeper friendship that I didn’t expect or see coming. Sometimes in life, the unexpected twists are the best and most precious.

  A few months later I had rotator cuff surgery I’d been putting off. A day after I got home, my phone rang. I really wasn’t feeling well enough to speak to anyone, but the odd caller ID made me curious enough to pick up.

  “Hey, Al. Vice President Biden calling. How ya doing?”

  “Vice President Biden!” I said. I will freely admit I was stunned. “I’m fine.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Biden had something like that, and you have to do what the doctors tell you to do, okay?”

  “I always do what the doctors say. I’m a good patient,” I assured him.

  “Listen, pal, anything you need, you just give me a call . . .”

  That phone call, and the ones since, such as for my sixtieth birthday, have meant the world to me.

  Are we best buds?

  No!

  But it’s sure nice to know there is someone who values our relationship. I know I do. And I know my dad must be smiling.

  I think about Dad every single day, wondering what he would do or say about something. I think about how proud he would be of Leila, Nicky and Courtney, and I smile because I know deep in my heart that he has to be looking down on our family with a great sense of joy.

  And now, more than ever, I appreciate what he got from his friends.

  DEBORAH

  Losing My Bes
t Friend

  The end of life is not easy to contemplate. But, at the risk of sounding maudlin, I do consider it from time to time. I’ve lost so many relatives and friends in recent years. Some, like my grade-school friend Mattie, died too soon of illness, and others, like my aunt Annie, lived a long and incredible life. Big Annie, as she was known, was my daddy’s older sister and the matriarch of his family and died at the age of 103. What a blessed life. After hearing of someone’s death, Big Annie often asked, “Why her and not me?” It may sound strange to some, but we all laughed. A sweet woman with a warm smile, Big Annie was secure in her Christian faith and ready to go home to God. Death was a welcome passage for her when it finally came.

  Big Annie’s death was filled with the grace of God’s love, and her funeral was a celebration of a life well lived. And we were prepared for it. I wasn’t prepared to lose my oldest friend.

  Denise Ingram was my best friend in the world. We met in the first grade at the segregated Houston County Training School and became inseparable. Both of us were dark-skinned and wore our hair in pigtails with colorful bows, and of course, both of our names started with the letter D. People often confused us because we looked so much alike. Only when I got glasses in the third grade did teachers seem to know who was who, and eventually I went out for cheerleading while Denise excelled in chorus.

  I called Denise so often that I can still recite her phone number to this very day. Remember, this was long before cell phones and texting; we actually talked to each other on the phone, sometimes late into the night, gabbing about which boy we liked or didn’t like, whether the Three Degrees would appear on Friday night’s Wolfman Jack Show or whether arm-toning exercises really help make your breasts perky. We traded beauty tips—it was Denise who advised me to use my ring finger to apply eye cream because it’s a weaker finger and easier on the delicate skin. Denise and I talked about everything and sometimes nothing at all.