Authors: Nancy G. Brinker
“Mrs. Jones,” said Mr. Marcus, “I’m so happy you could join us this
evening. I was thinking of you during my recent visit to Japan.” He drew an intricately carved box from his pocket and set it directly next to her plate. “I saw this interesting piece from the Tang Dynasty. It reminded me that you have horses.”
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Jones. “That is lovely, isn’t it?”
“Exquisite.” Mr. Marcus opened it to reveal a pair of intricately carved ornaments. “These netsuke—they’re made of Siberian mammoth ivory—come from the Edo period. I realized how perfectly they’d coordinate with a certain diamond and sapphire necklace in our fine jewelry department.” Out came the necklace from his other pocket. “And knowing how beautifully you wear sapphires, I wanted to show you the two together.”
By the end of the evening, Mrs. Jones—or Mrs. Smith or Mr. Smith or the Smiths’ lovely daughter—would have spent literally thousands and thousands of dollars.
Being able to observe this salesman extraordinaire—this master showman—up close was the greatest thing to happen in my marketing education, right up there with everything I’d learned watching my father persevere in building his business year after year. Stanley Marcus had an infallible eye for the devilish details, and the way he forged connections with people was nothing short of brilliant. When he was out traveling the world, he always had a stack of postcards with him, and as he rode along on trains and airplanes, he spent hours neatly scribing personal notes by the hundreds, one after another.
Dear Mrs. Smith,
I’ve just returned from India. I’m going to be sending you a box of wonderful merchandise I know you will love!
Love, Stanley
He didn’t waste time trying to talk people into things they didn’t need or want; he intuited what they secretly craved and offered it to them along with a story that transformed the item into an artifact and a purchase into a coup de grâce, the same way Alvin Colt transformed the main floor of a department store into the
Fête des Fleurs
.
“Most people aren’t creative,” Mr. Marcus said. “But they’re waiting
for creation. They don’t want to be changed, but they want to be entertained and educated. They want to learn in a way that excites their curiosity and convinces them to take action.”
I was brought into the creative meetings for the fabulous Neiman Marcus catalog that year, and I had the opportunity to present one seasonal idea.
“What about boats?” I said.
“Go on,” Mr. Marcus said after a moment.
“My parents started out with very little. A little sailboat and a willingness to work hard. Over the years, they got a little motorboat, and then a rickety sort of houseboat, and now—well, now my father is doing quite well. They have a very nice boat. It’s not a yacht, but it’s the kind of boat you could take around the world, if you chose to. And a few years ago, he bought my mother a lovely mink coat. These things aren’t about status or self-indulgence. They envisioned a quality of life and worked toward it. Fashion—whether it’s personal style or home décor—is an extension of those dreams we have for ourselves. The cut of our jib, if you will.”
I felt the eyes of everyone around the table. I wasn’t being judged, I was being
heard
, and it was exhilarating.
“Plus,” I added, “everyone looks better in white.”
Mr. Marcus put me in charge of his little boutique at the Fairmont Hotel, where it was my responsibility to serve the particular needs of the most spectacular customers. Suzy was beyond thrilled when I was given the task of escorting Princess Grace to Fortnight and when I was given the difficult task of finding a Dallas restaurant willing to serve our guests, Ike and Tina Turner. (It was a different time; Tina and Dallas both worked hard in subsequent years to rise above bullies and become free and flourishing.)
When a major Hollywood diva arrived with her entourage, I was summoned to her suite. This was the first time I heard the Hungarian language spoken, and I was fascinated by the sound, but the pressing matter at hand was the proper fitting of the diva.
“Those silly girls,” she lamented. “They keep bringing things that don’t fit, telling me I’m not a size six. I think I know what size I am!”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course,” I said. “I’ll be back with some items for you to choose from.”
I sprinted back to the store and rallied help down in the basement, hastily snipping tags and labels from a number of size six garments and stitching them into their size twelve counterparts. The diva was delighted and spent buckets of money, which earned a few more stars in my crown as far as my boss was concerned.
“You’re an evil genius,” Suzy giggled when I told her. “Is that even legal?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But she is who she is, and she’s worked hard for it. If she wants to be a size six, let her be a size six. Why should the customer fit the clothes? The clothes should fit the customer.”
Everything in my life seemed to be coming together. I adored my job, and was quite taken with Jake, that nice man I’d been dating. I was fairly certain I loved him, but we hadn’t had time to build much history together. My father’s disapproval was a major impediment, so we’d been taking the small steps people do in a blossoming relationship. Just as we began exploring the idea of a future together, Jake suffered a massive coronary and died. I couldn’t have been more stunned, and as the numbness wore off, anger and guilt swamped me. I knew my being there wouldn’t have prevented his death, and I had no idea how things would have worked out for us if he’d lived, but I knew for a fact that I hadn’t followed my heart, and having failed in that, I felt oddly unentitled to the grief that weighed me down. I had no standing, no right to feel so widowed. For many days in a row, I called Suzy, weeping, and she stuck by me patiently as I cried it out.
“When a young person dies,” she said, “it’s not just the person you’re grieving. It’s the death of a dream. Everything that was possible.”
She was right, I would later learn, but at the time, all I took from the experience was a core-deep determination to never make the same mistake again.
I
T TAKES
a lot to get noticed in Southern California.
The San Diego Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure is a breathtaking, blistering, 60-mile spectacular, featuring ocean vistas, a sea of magenta pup tents, bikers in black leather and pink tutus, friends and strangers in tears and embraces, cheering crowds, flying banners. It’s a celebration of diversity, and in 2009, when Jennifer Awrey walked it with her mom, Tina Herford, the event generated a whopping $9.5 million for breast cancer research and outreach.
Tina, who lives in Alaska and works for the United Way, was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1998 when Jennifer was a senior in high school. It was rough during treatment, but Tina’s a do-what-needs-doing kind of woman, and Jennifer is her mother’s daughter. Tina first suggested doing the SGK 3-Day for the Cure when Jen was fresh out of law school, but Jen was busy finding her stride in life. A few years later, she called her mom and said, “Let’s do it.”
They started training with the best of intentions. Jennifer walked her Los Angeles neighborhood; Tina did treadmill at home on the Kenai Peninsula. SGK coaches provided a walker’s handbook, stretching workout, weekly guidance, and encouragement by e-mail—even a guide to selecting the right shoes—but life got busy, and Jennifer slacked off a bit. Plodding to the end of a Saturday practice hike, she felt like she’d whipped it good, until she realized she’d walked only 12 miles. Facing 20 miles a day three days in a row, she was a little nervous.
Bright and early on November 21, 2009, mother and daughter joined four thousand walkers and volunteers for the opening ceremony at Del Mar Fairgrounds.
“It was awesome to see my mom in the survivor’s circle,” Jen says.
“But the coolest part was all these people who’d come out to cheer us on. Thousands of people all along the way in crazy outfits and hats, waving signs, offering us candy and cookies and tequila shots.”
Energizer had supplied tall pink Energizer Bunny ears for everyone. Upbeat music played. It was cold, but a wave of warm energy swept Jennifer and Tina along. They didn’t talk about cancer; they talked about life, happily chatting, catching up. As the morning sun climbed higher, they took off their jackets and tied them around their waists, walking briskly. At the first of many pit stops, San Diego police officers working security danced with the ladies waiting in long lines at pink Porta-Pottys. Breast humor was everywhere.
Pins stitched like baseballs:
SAVE SECOND BASE!
Scrawled on the back of a minivan:
THESE BOOBS ARE MADE FOR WALKING!
On a sandwich board:
STOP THE WAR IN MY RACK!
After lunch in La Jolla, the walkers pushed on through Torrey Pines to Pacific Beach, and finally arrived at the base camp in Mission Bay. Blues musicians warmed up on the lawn. Local youth groups had labored all day, setting up tents to create a temporary village. The extraordinary community came together, people of all ages, sizes, religions, races, and persuasions. This was one of those rare, precious moments when differences didn’t matter. Everyone was there for a common purpose. Exhausted and limping with blisters, Jennifer and Tina toyed with the idea of checking into a hotel, but they decided to stick with the group.
“Mom and I were wiped out, but determined to see it through,” Jen says. “We heard so many stories along the way. Mom met a lot of survivors who were two or three years out of chemo. When she said she’d made it more than ten years, they were so thrilled. I hadn’t realized before what it means to someone going through it to see this woman
walking
, living her life, happy and healthy.”
They iced their aching feet, crawled into sleeping bags, and crashed, not even vaguely aware of the breakfast crew up and working at three in the morning.
Day 2, rain threatened, but morning mist burned off to reveal another beautiful afternoon. Tromping a wide circle through Ocean Beach, Jen and Tina didn’t talk much.
“We were just together, making it through, looking at the stunning scenery along the coast. A peaceful, bonding kind of thing.”
Waiting in line for a shower that night, Jen met a woman who’d just finished chemo.
“My doctor advised against it,” the woman said, “but I had to be here, even if I can only do two miles a day. I can’t believe I finished two twenty-mile days with everyone else.”
If she can do it
, Jen figured,
so can I
. She spent some time in the party atmosphere of the supper tent, iced her feet, and hit the sack.
As the walkers made their way through Balboa Park on Day 3, bikers roared by, wearing helmets with nipples. Loudspeakers blared “I’m a Survivor.” People danced. High school cheerleaders shook pink pom-poms. Families shouted
thank you
, holding up photos of loved ones they’d lost. Volunteers stood ready with cold water and warm hugs. With many walkers, including local CBS news anchor Barbara-Lee Edwards, blogging and tweeting along the way, the word was out, and crowds swelled. A San Diego Police Department chopper hovered over the finish line, cheering people in over the loudspeakers.
“The closing ceremony was incredibly powerful,” says Jennifer. “We each had our triumph shirt. Mine was white; mom was in pink with the other survivors. I walked with these great people we’d met along the way, and as we came in, each of us was given a pink rose. There was this outpouring of gratitude. As exhausted as we all were, it meant so much.”
The Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure, from opening moment to closing ceremony, is a masterfully planned, professionally coordinated event that makes grown men cry. Even the coolest hipsters describe it as life changing. We live in a cynical world. Some roll their eyes at the idea of grown women in bunny ears, dogs in pink tuxedos, and bikers in nipple helmets. Some feel this sort of frivolity trivializes breast cancer. But it’s an experience no one within shouting distance can ignore and no one in attendance will ever forget. The moment that always gets to me in the closing ceremony is the march of the survivors; as they enter the arena, all the walkers hold up one shoe. It’s a simple thing, but it makes me weep. Here’s someone who just
walked 60 miles
, saying to these survivors, “I did all I could, and I did it for you.”
We can’t overstate the importance of the millions of dollars generated
for cancer research, but the impact of the SGK 3-Day for the Cure is in the lives it changes as well as the lives it saves. It speaks to the tandem goals of survival and survivorship: You fight for your life. Then you live your life, regardless of what others think of your particular mode of self-expression.
We’d like to think we’ve come a long way since Ike and Tina couldn’t sit down at a Dallas lunch counter, but there are still private clubs in the United States that I, as a Jewish woman, would not be welcome to join. The diversity of participants at SGK events bears witness to what a brutally equalizing sledgehammer cancer is. Breast cancer has no religious or sexual preference, no race, no age, no political predilections. But in cancer
treatment
, those differences cost lives. At this writing, a woman diagnosed with breast cancer in predominantly African American Cook County, Illinois, is far more likely to die than her white counterpart in Peoria.
How long?
asked Martin Luther King Jr., and we’re determined to answer,
Not long
.
As we expand our global reach, cultural biases throw out as many roadblocks as scientific conundrums, but there are times—scientific collaborations, support functions, social gatherings—when we’re able to sweep all that aside, if only for a moment, to illuminate our reason for being. It never happens as quickly or easily as we’d all love for it to happen, but every once in a while, crossing one bridge to build another, we hold hands and allow ourselves to speak the diplomatic language of light.
In October 2009, at the second Bosnia and Herzegovina Race for the Cure, more than 2,500 Bosnians, Muslims, Croats, Serbs, and Jews came together side by side with one goal. A regional conference was held by the Women’s Health Empowerment Program, which cultivates leaders, creates support networks, and facilitates patient-physician communication throughout the former Soviet Union, eastern Europe, Israel, and the Palestinian territories. It’s tremendously encouraging to see these meetings of disparate hearts and minds.
Thirty years ago, at Suzy’s funeral service, the synagogue was jammed with people who had nothing in common but their love for Suzy. Rabbi Goff stood before the assembled crowd and said, “We gather here today as a community. Some of us are Jews and some of us are Christian, but at a
time like this those kinds of distinctions are unimportant. Because Suzy loved people—all kinds of people—whether they were Jews or gentiles, rich or poor, black or white. Her commitment was to the goodness she tenaciously sought for in others, and inevitably found. There was nothing petty or parochial about her, and we who have gathered to celebrate her life, do so in keeping with the breath and the universality of her spirit.”
That gathering of souls, that universality of spirit, has been a guiding vision for this organization.
Behind the scenes at the San Diego 3-Day for the Cure, an amazing team of diverse, committed volunteers works hard all year to create an experience that evokes deep feeling and a safe environment in which to express it. But the most profoundly moving moments are the ones we could never orchestrate. As Jennifer walked into the arena for the closing ceremony, she saw a woman at the side of the road, cheering on the walkers, calling out thanks.
“She was bald, really thin, clearly in chemo. It was obviously a struggle for her to be there. One of the walkers passing by had given her that pink rose, then somebody else gave her one, and another and another until she had sixty or seventy roses piled higher than her little arms could hold. They were spilling onto the ground around her feet as she stood there with tears streaming down her face.”
In that moment, every mile, every step, every blister was worth it.
“We were all like …
yes
” Jennifer says. “This is why we’re here.”