In this issue of NCFR Report, you will read some amazing stories about excellence in mentoring. The idea to focus on mentoring came from a couple of sources. Raeann Hamon, our Program Chair from San Francisco conference, suggested a mentoring tribute slideshow before the plenary sessions. It was a hit. Thirty five mentees took the time to honor a mentor. At just the same time, NCFR was making the final plans to inaugurate the Felix Berardo Award. More on this later.

In keeping with this theme, I would like to tell my mentoring story. I've had three primary mentors; one in adolescence who may have saved my life and one as a young professional.  But when it was least expected, yet desperately needed, I was blessed with a third mentor-Paul Amato.

When I was fairly new to NCFR, in June of 2006, we had an unexpected change in leadership at NCFR Central with the sudden departure of our former Executive Director (ED). The Board wisely decided that it was best to conduct an exhaustive search for a first-rate ED, no matter how long it took, which was almost a year. In the interim a consultant, Linda Tacke, served as acting ED and coordinated the search.

One of Linda's other charges from the Board was to develop and recommend a plan to meet the organization's needs with human and other resources. Linda was a "take charge" gal and sized things up with breakneck speed. Until Linda came, my job duties were pretty circumscribed. My background as a family life educator and as an academic adviser was perfect preparation for administrative work at NCFR. I was safe. And comfortable.

In what seemed like just days, Linda Tacke conducted staff job analyses-then she asked what "made us tick" as people. She found out that I read family studies stuff as my pleasure reading. When I go on vacation, I don't take a novel with me. I take one of our journals. She asked "who in this office responds to inquiries from those looking for information on our research?"  The answer was, um, no one.  She was astonished.  She said, "Nancy-you're going to do this-beginning today." I was panic-stricken.  My hobby was now my job. I had no idea what I was doing. And Linda, with her MBA, couldn't help me. But worse yet, I had another problem-a paralyzing phobia.

Everyone is afraid of something. Airplanes. Dogs. Public speaking. Lots of people freak out in enclosed spaces-or would faint if they met a movie star. Not me. Let's say I became stuck in an elevator with Brad Pitt.  It wouldn't bother me a bit. After we'd rung the alarm bell and while we were awaiting rescue, I would introduce myself.  I'd ask about Angelina and the kids. I'd say how much I admire their humanitarian work. I'd tell him about NCFR and how one of our areas of research touches on an aspect of their lives-international adoption.  I'd mention that if they ever needed to know the names of a couple of the world's best authorities on the subject, they should give me a call. Then I'd hand him my card. As the firefighters opened the doors, I'd say goodbye and add, "Can we keep this little incident to ourselves?  If my girlfriends ever find out I was trapped in an elevator with Brad Pitt, I'll never hear the end of it."  Then I'd give him a warm smile and walk away.

The social anxiety I'd developed -and the irony here is exquisite- was a fear of scholars.  What could be more ridiculous?  It was as if I'd just gotten a new job at NASA and was deathly afraid of astronauts. Why? When I looked at the brilliant array of lights that is NCFR's marquee, I knew I was the dimmest bulb. My fear quotient for a given researcher was directly and positively correlated with the number of their citations I had seen in all the articles I was reading. Not only was my Master's degree eight years old, much of my fear came from the fact that the position I had held most recently was stay-at-home mom. For five years, the most important decision I'd made was whether I should serve peanut butter or grilled cheese.  As is true with many women reentering the workforce, I had no self-confidence. I thought my skills, particularly the intellectual, were hopelessly eroded. 

So there I was, with a brand new job that I felt unprepared for. The office was in a major reorganization. It was the hardest year of my professional life. Every night I'd come home and my husband George would pat my hand, literally and figuratively. He was helpless to help me-he is an engineer and doesn't know anything about my field.  He encouraged me to keep at it.  But he could see the stress I was under. If the choice came down to a career or my sanity, he wanted me to come back home. There were days-many days-when I almost did. But George kept hearing about this professor in Pennsylvania who was standing between me and despair.  

There's a Zen aphorism that is particularly appropriate here: When the student is ready, the teacher appears. To conquer my scholar phobia, the universe found Paul to help me-an Überscholar with almost 5000 scientific citations. During this year of crises, he became my genius umbilicus. He evidently thought that Linda Tacke's vision of having a staff research enthusiast at headquarters was a good idea because he hung in there with me. I know I was a wearying time and energy sink. Journalists and members would call me for information and, much of the time, I didn't have a clue. I became expert at saying, "I don't know, but I'll find out and get back to you!"  I'd zip off an emergency email to Paul. Many times there was just one word in the subject line-Help!  If he didn't know the answer off the top of his head, he'd know where to look. Once I asked for a demography factoid and, in 60 seconds, he was back at my inbox with, "It's in Caspar and Bianchi's book, Continuity and Change in the American Family-do you have it?"  I did. 

Phobias are real-and terrifying. Social anxiety has sent many of its sufferers to emergency rooms, convinced that they're in the throes of a coronary event. My anxiety was palpable in another time zone-it evidently traveled through the fiber optic cable just fine. One of his replies began with three words, in all caps; NANCY-CALM DOWN!!!  I remember the basis for that one. To make some conference arrangement, I needed to call one of our eminent scholars and ask for a favor. Every time I tried to pick up the phone, my tongue seemed to swell to quadruple its size.  I felt as if I had a pork chop hanging out of my mouth. Imagine one of our leading researchers picking up the phone and hearing, "Greetingths. Thith iz Nanthy Gonthaleth at N-thee-F-R Headquarterths."  I just couldn't do it. So Paul made the call for me.

The most salient memory of that year is devastatingly embarrassing. But I think enough time has elapsed now that I can write about it without gagging. I was putting together an issue of NCFR Report on the theme of Divorce and Relationship Dissolution.  As we all know, Paul is one of the world's leading researchers and demographers in this area. He agreed to write an article on the consequences of divorce for adults and children.  But I wanted to run another short article answering one of the most frequently asked questions -What is the divorce rate and how is it calculated?  I couldn't impose on him to write another piece. "I know!" I thought. "I'll create a draft and ask him to review it."  There would be no risk involved, because I wouldn't print a word without his blessing. I read everything I could, scoured the U.S. Census website, cobbled something together, and zipped it off to Pennsylvania. I was so proud of myself for trying!  

Later that day, I got an email saying, "It needs a little work."  [Let's all pause here for a collective cringe.] I realized what I had done; I'd just taken the lyrics to Blowin' in the Wind, reworked them, and sent them back to Bob Dylan for comment.

About 10 minutes after that, he'd obviously read it again because I got a second email that said, "Don't do anything with this until you hear from me, OK?"  I tried to recover my fumble with a bit of humor: "No problem. Take your time," I typed. "I'm busy pondering a few profundities about the Deinstitutionalization of Marriage which I plan to fire off to Andy Cherlin."  I wanted to disappear. The supermarket tabloids are always telling us that we're at risk for UFO abduction, but the Mothership is never around when I need it.

Within 24 hours, a revision was in my inbox. He said something like "I just tweaked a thing or two."  Right.  There were only about three sentences I recognized as my own. But as I took all of this in, some kind of mental switch had flipped. My worst fear had been realized-I'd just made a fool of myself in front of a world authority. And I was still breathing.

Not long thereafter, Paul gave me a nickname: Grasshopper. I didn't understand the reference, so I went to Wikipedia and there was the definition. "Grasshopper" is a term currently used in jest referencing an inexperienced person who has much to learn. Its use originates from the television show Kung Fu in which the student, Young Caine, is taking instruction from his Master Po who nicknamed his student "Grasshopper" as a term of endearment.  That was the point at which I knew I would make it. Paul was telling me a couple of comforting things; 1) that I could learn what I needed to know and 2) he was my willing mentor.

At the end of my annus horribilis, our new Executive Director Diane Cushman had arrived, and I adored her. I learned a bit more about family research along the way, and I got pretty good at locating information myself. Over time, my distress calls to Paul were being replaced with friendship and humor. That Fall, after over a year of email coaching, I finally got to meet him and his lovely wife, Lu, the week of the annual conference in Pittsburgh. And you know what?  I'm not afraid of scholars anymore.

Mentors reach out to people who have potential and who are willing to work hard. In retrospect, I can see what Paul saw. No matter how dim my bulb was, it was obvious that I was painfully earnest. NCFR was in a critical transition. The last thing the organization needed was to lose any staff member who cared that much. Paul loves NCFR, too, and he figured out that the best way he could support the organization at that unique point in time was to provide support for me.

There's a lot of talk about glass ceilings and old boys' clubs, and I know many women have done battle with these barriers. But there are men, like Paul, who are standing on the glass ceiling and whacking at it from above with a 20 pound sledge. There was no reason for him to help me. I could never pay him back. I live five states away and can't even sit for his cats or mow his lawn. It was just human decency-and first-rate mentoring.

We've all met those climbers who never hobnob with anyone who can't advance their careers.  At social events, they look right through you, scanning the crowd for someone more important to talk to.  If the stories I've heard are true, NCFR is just about devoid of such people. There are scores, if not hundreds, of Pauls who have "grown Grasshoppers" in NCFR-and there is little recognition for this, until now.  Beginning at our upcoming annual conference, the organization will be conferring its inaugural Felix Berardo Award. The family of the late Professor Berardo established a memorial award in his honor. Dr. Berardo credited much of his success to his mentor F. Ivan Nye and wanted to formalize a way to honor those who nurture junior colleagues.  The Berardo family created an endowed award that will be given annually to honor an NCFR member with an outstanding gift for mentoring. Complete information about the award and the nomination procedures are on our website. The deadline is May 1. The first ever Berardo award will be conferred in Minneapolis this November.

Paul, I don't know how to thank you except to say that if you ever need a kidney, it's yours.  Might as well. You'll always have a piece of my heart anyway. Oh-just one last thing, and it's very important. If the first draft of my disastrous demography article ever sees the light of day, you are dead meat.