Good for the soul

It's Monday, and Jimmy Buffett fans are learning that it, indeed, will be alright.

It’s the first Monday after the death of Jimmy Buffett, and he has kept his promise. For the most part, everything is alright. And it’ll continue to be alright. The virtual wake of memories and remembrances flooding social media is a testament that the pirate who looked way past 40 taught us how to live.

     Mother, mother, I don’t remember when I first heard Buffett, but I loved him enough at 13 to spend my babysitting money on Volcano, a gift for my friend Lisa’s 13^th birthday. Not the typical Bonnie Belle lip gloss, clutch purses, nail polish kits, and Teen Beat magazines, this gift appealed more to her parents and their friends.

     I considered diving into the pool to escape watching the adults pore over the lyrics on the album sleeve, gushing about the gift I was certain would end up in their album collection.

     Assimilation is the name of the game during adolescence. A delicate balance, we try to fit in as we straddle the tightrope between childhood and adulthood. No one called anyone an “old soul” back then. Given today’s usage of the moniker, I suspect I may have been one. I just didn’t know it, and certainly wouldn’t have embraced the label. Unlike other teens, I enjoyed adult conversations, unsure of whether it was okay to admit that I didn’t always connect with pop culture the way my peers seemed to.

     Hearing Volcano always transported me back to that moment of discontent, but I continued to enjoy Buffett’s music, even when the other girls in my college dorm in Pittsburgh chided me for listening to him. How could they have never heard of Jimmy Buffett, I wondered. Still, I continued to play my Son of a Son of a Sailor and One Particular Harbor cassettes in my boom box.

     The boy who would become my husband also loved Buffett. His sister Nancy took him to his first Jimmy Buffett concert when he was 14. Years later, he suggested “Buffett” for our son’s middle name. We settled on Anthony, to honor my mother and grandmother, Ann and Anne, respectively. We joined the local Parrothead Club, and thanks to the “Save the Manatee” events, we have a small collection of Buffett memorabilia.

     Some of history’s best writers never receive the recognition they deserve. Although Buffett’s Tales From Margaritaville, Where is Joe Merchant? and A Pirate Looks at Fifty topped the New York Times’ bestseller list, he never received mainstream recognition for his music. The Grammy nomination ballot for an award he never won hangs in our office, protected behind glass.

      Fins, Margaritaville, and Volcano are songs we all know by heart, but true fans know that the beach-bum persona belied the introspective poet who could string together words that became anthems for living.

     “It’s been a lovely cruise…”

     It’s true. Life can be lovely – and more – when we choose to embrace our identity and destiny, like Buffett did. Lucky for him, he perfected the concept of living unapologetically. He recruited others to do the same.

     My husband and I have enjoyed dozens of Buffett concerts, and we even met him a few times. A highlight was seeing him play a private show in Havana, Cuba. Thanks to my husband’s status as St. Petersburg’s mayor, our family was invited to join the delegation that accompanied the Tampa Bay Rays when they played the Cuban National Team in 2016.

     There’s no denying the perks that sometimes came with politics, but it wasn’t always smooth sailing. During my 22 years as a political spouse, I often fought labels given to me by others and myself, which made it difficult to craft an identify apart from my husband. I was called was a Stepford Wife, arm candy, even a secret weapon.

     Only toward the end of Rick’s political career did I learn to embrace the idea espoused in Buffett’s Oysters and Pearls. I learned to take chances. When asked, I led. I started to figure out who I was meant to be.

     Political life is disruptive, like the journey a grain of sand endures before becoming a pearl. Winning 7 out of 8 elections was wonderful, but each one upended our life in different ways. Throughout most of those years, I largely remained on the periphery, save for the occasional events and parades where we appeared as a couple or with our kids. When my husband was elected mayor in 2013, our lives changed overnight. I wasn’t prepared for the attention given to the First Lady of St. Petersburg. I was invited to present awards, speak about civic engagement, and sit and be photographed for interviews in local magazines.

     Most political spouses do not have the benefit of a team that crafts an identity, communicates a consistent message, and provides talking points when needed.  We enter the political world as enthusiastic supporters, fierce allies, and loyal comrades. We balance being a supportive spouse with nurturing our own goals, interests, and passions. Some see us as a nicely dressed package of sound bites and clichés. Others see us as an equal partner in the political package.

     Politics was my husband’s job. For me, it was a path to self-identification.

    “How do you do this?” was the number one question I was asked. Rarely was I asked what I did for a job. People knew all about Rick, but they didn’t know me. Rick’s 8^th and final political campaign was his most contentious. Even though he earned a 2^nd term as St. Petersburg mayor, the rose-colored lenses through which I’d viewed the political world early on were now muddied. That divisive campaign prompted many non-political people to take a sudden interest in me, wondering how I survived politics. Soon after the election, someone I’d never met inquired, “So how do you do this?”

     Before I could answer, he did, with his own question.

     “You’re really just arm candy, aren’t you?”

     This man’s seven words catapulted me back to that 13-year-old girl at the pool party. I wanted to escape. Where was the pool?

     The penance for that comment was an earful about my longevity as a city resident, my job as a public relations manager, my family, and my voluntarism. I buried the label and changed the conversation’s trajectory. I suspect he no longer viewed me as arm candy.

     It’s not only political spouses who must author their own stories. We all are tasked with determining who we are, and how we show ourselves to the world. Years of practice trained me to prepare, respond and deflect diminishing comments while barely taking a breath. Instead of being a delicate grain of sand, I am the strong pearl Buffett sang about.

     Embracing opportunities for growth disrupts norms and stereotypes that threaten to keep us comfortable, hidden in the proverbial oyster shell. During that final political campaign, Monsignor Robert Gibbons, the leader at my childhood parish, St. Paul’s, occasionally messaged me with suggestions for Rick.

     After Rick was re-elected, he and Monsignor met for lunch. While dissecting the campaign, Monsignor called me Rick’s secret weapon. Better than arm candy or Stepford wife, but still a label.

     Before that election, I never considered myself a secret weapon, but how we show ourselves to the world helps us win the game of life. Learning how to craft my identity apart from my spouse’s was just as hard as it was when I was 13.  

     My husband is no longer a politician, but my growth continues. Like Jimmy sang in Trip Around the Sun, “only time will tell if it was time well spent.” Nurturing ourselves deserves our time. Like a grain of sand that becomes a pearl, may Jimmy’s words continue to cause that perfect disruption that is good for our souls.