I met Mo in 1988. She liked to be called Mo because she didn't like the formality of her given name Maureen, and although it seemed to make others uncomfortable to call a young girl Mo, they did it anyway at her insistence. "Maureen". They would say.
"It's Mo. Just Mo." She would answer.
"It's Mo. Just Mo." She would answer.
I often worried that the small nickname would eat away at her self-esteem. That she was too cute to be just Mo. That because she was so small in stature, it would diminish the size of her persona. Maureen seemed a much more suitable name for a young girl trying to develop a positive self image I thought. But, with no uncertainty, she was okay with Mo. She knew it suited her. So Mo it was, and so it should be, as it is all in the name. Those two letters summed up the little power house. Had I known the impact that those two letters would have on the rest of my life, the very reason that I sit here today; I would have never considered questioning the humble nick name. It was Mo, just Mo, and she was perfect.
Mo came into my life as a new hire in the Christmas Trim department I managed for the department store in which I worked. I remember interviewing her for the position. The Mo I met was a meek, young girl, in fear of direct eye contact, dressed head to toe in 80's black and short spiky dyed hair. She appeared in that moment to be lacking self confidence, and perhaps, I analyzed, she was a little misunderstood in life. "Perfect", I thought. "Oh the wisdom I can impart on her." My egocentric self reflected, and a sales associate in my department she became.
The weeks leading up to Christmas were challenging for Mo. Completely unfamiliar with the tradition of Christmas and the insanity which drives it all, Mo made every attempt to take a crash course while landing directly in the midst of all of the hoopla at the prestigious Dayton Hudson Department Store Company. In my vain attempt to educate her on Christmas and its true meaning, I played an ongoing stream of Barbara Streisand's Christmas album to instill in her that Jewish girls too could know the Christmas spirit. In retrospect, I think Barbara's frantic rendition of Jingle bells only added to the hysteria and panic of the chaotic trim department. Even for me, the calm and fearless leader of the very essence of Christmas retail, felt its' true spirit swirling around with reckless abandon. The final blow was realized when Mo and I were constantly victimized by the visual display department as we set up our tenth or eleventh 12' blue spruce, and could not adhere to the confines of each individual trees' theme as it was specifically explained to us in the Christmas Trim staff meeting. Our creative voices were not to be heard here, and we felt unappreciated at best.
Mo however, was not going to let this stop her from poking and jabbing me to step out of my miserably misfit managerial role. While we were in the stock room she would sometime coerce me into stepping aboard a four wheeled rolling cart, and she would push me as fast as she could in true "Thelma and Louise" style around to the service elevator. "Wanna go for a ride?" she would ask me with a Cheshire cat grin and wild laughter.
My answer which was always "No Way" was never an option. Around we would fly in my Anne Klein II suits and Kenneth Cole shoes with Mo all the while ignoring my discomfort and bellowing, "Slow down. We're going to crash and I am going to get fired." But the relentless Mo, channeling Dr. Seuss's wildly spontaneous "Thing One", refused to acknowledge my lack for the thrill of adventure.
It did not end there. Mo was constantly digging into my psyche and prodding me with uncomfortable questions about the direction that my life was taking, venturing into territory that no other employee in my group or even my other friends would ever dare to. She had no problem making me look at my life the way she saw it. I found it uncomfortable and tried to stop her but I was no match for the fearless Mo.
"Is this really it for you?" she would ask, "What are you doing here?" she would say with indignation. "Seriously Rhonda, you could be an MTV Veejay."
I would defend my position vehemently, explaining to her how great it was to be financially stable, and that I was making my way as an independent woman in the fascinating world of retail management. "And yes, Mo, this is really it!"
She would chase me down, and yell some more. "There is so much more for you. Open your eyes, and see in yourself what I see in you." she would say with complete and utter disappointment that I was so easily willing to settle into a life that did not fit who I was or who I really wanted to be. "You didn't dream of selling Christmas balls and wreaths."
She was right; I didn't dream it, but here it was, and there I was, safely within the confines of my adult responsibilities. And it was time to gear up for the day after Christmas; the grand finale, the big 50% off day. We had heard horrors about it. "Just stories" we thought. It was December 26, 1988 at 10:00 am. Mo stood atop the escalator looking down with anticipation as I heard a dull buzz of people approach. Then it got louder as the approaching feet hit the marble floor in cosmetics below. From the bottom of her gut a panicked call rang down the echoing ceramic tiled floor, "They're commmming!" As the words sang out of Mo's mouth, Hudson's was under siege by hundreds perhaps thousands of 50% off shoppers clambering to accessorize their homes with even more gusto and Christmas cheer next year.
Mo came into my life as a new hire in the Christmas Trim department I managed for the department store in which I worked. I remember interviewing her for the position. The Mo I met was a meek, young girl, in fear of direct eye contact, dressed head to toe in 80's black and short spiky dyed hair. She appeared in that moment to be lacking self confidence, and perhaps, I analyzed, she was a little misunderstood in life. "Perfect", I thought. "Oh the wisdom I can impart on her." My egocentric self reflected, and a sales associate in my department she became.
The weeks leading up to Christmas were challenging for Mo. Completely unfamiliar with the tradition of Christmas and the insanity which drives it all, Mo made every attempt to take a crash course while landing directly in the midst of all of the hoopla at the prestigious Dayton Hudson Department Store Company. In my vain attempt to educate her on Christmas and its true meaning, I played an ongoing stream of Barbara Streisand's Christmas album to instill in her that Jewish girls too could know the Christmas spirit. In retrospect, I think Barbara's frantic rendition of Jingle bells only added to the hysteria and panic of the chaotic trim department. Even for me, the calm and fearless leader of the very essence of Christmas retail, felt its' true spirit swirling around with reckless abandon. The final blow was realized when Mo and I were constantly victimized by the visual display department as we set up our tenth or eleventh 12' blue spruce, and could not adhere to the confines of each individual trees' theme as it was specifically explained to us in the Christmas Trim staff meeting. Our creative voices were not to be heard here, and we felt unappreciated at best.
Mo however, was not going to let this stop her from poking and jabbing me to step out of my miserably misfit managerial role. While we were in the stock room she would sometime coerce me into stepping aboard a four wheeled rolling cart, and she would push me as fast as she could in true "Thelma and Louise" style around to the service elevator. "Wanna go for a ride?" she would ask me with a Cheshire cat grin and wild laughter.
My answer which was always "No Way" was never an option. Around we would fly in my Anne Klein II suits and Kenneth Cole shoes with Mo all the while ignoring my discomfort and bellowing, "Slow down. We're going to crash and I am going to get fired." But the relentless Mo, channeling Dr. Seuss's wildly spontaneous "Thing One", refused to acknowledge my lack for the thrill of adventure.
It did not end there. Mo was constantly digging into my psyche and prodding me with uncomfortable questions about the direction that my life was taking, venturing into territory that no other employee in my group or even my other friends would ever dare to. She had no problem making me look at my life the way she saw it. I found it uncomfortable and tried to stop her but I was no match for the fearless Mo.
"Is this really it for you?" she would ask, "What are you doing here?" she would say with indignation. "Seriously Rhonda, you could be an MTV Veejay."
I would defend my position vehemently, explaining to her how great it was to be financially stable, and that I was making my way as an independent woman in the fascinating world of retail management. "And yes, Mo, this is really it!"
She would chase me down, and yell some more. "There is so much more for you. Open your eyes, and see in yourself what I see in you." she would say with complete and utter disappointment that I was so easily willing to settle into a life that did not fit who I was or who I really wanted to be. "You didn't dream of selling Christmas balls and wreaths."
She was right; I didn't dream it, but here it was, and there I was, safely within the confines of my adult responsibilities. And it was time to gear up for the day after Christmas; the grand finale, the big 50% off day. We had heard horrors about it. "Just stories" we thought. It was December 26, 1988 at 10:00 am. Mo stood atop the escalator looking down with anticipation as I heard a dull buzz of people approach. Then it got louder as the approaching feet hit the marble floor in cosmetics below. From the bottom of her gut a panicked call rang down the echoing ceramic tiled floor, "They're commmming!" As the words sang out of Mo's mouth, Hudson's was under siege by hundreds perhaps thousands of 50% off shoppers clambering to accessorize their homes with even more gusto and Christmas cheer next year.
They came running up the escalator steps, two steps at a time for the young and nimble, while we witnessed some of the older women clinging on to the escalator railing and hugging the side, trying to avoid injury from the vicious mob. Each mobster searching for that special treasure, scouring for the last great item, the best item. Mo and I and all of my other employees stood behind our registers intently ringing item after senseless item. We pounded on the keys all day. We rang and rang and rang.
Time flew and stood still all at once. Long lines brought weary, cranky shoppers, and as the hours passed, the seriousness of the first four hours became the high jinx of the next four. Mo and I were feeling slap happy and everything started to seem ridiculously funny. A young woman who had waited in line for at least an hour and a half approached Mo with a single, fragile, over sized glass bulb. "I am so excited," she said with a childish squeal, "I got the last one. I saw it in October, but I waited for the sale and hoped it would still be here and here it is!"
Like her very own answer to a Christmas miracle she carefully set the enormous beautiful glass ball on the wrap stand. And with reluctant trust, she placed the bulb in Mo's care. Mo raised the ball slowly to admire it and look at the reflection the florescent department store lighting created in its' red glow. She held it up firmly, and for a long moment. Then, as if in slow motion, we all watched with a pregnant pause, as it crackled in Mo's grip and burst open with blazing force leaving shards of colored glass wafers all over the wrap stand and on the surrounding floor.
Mo looked squarely at the astonished customer, then at my blank face, and with all of the remorse and somber empathy she could conjure, she earnestly, with her hands still holding the hanger of the once perfect over sized ornament, said, "I am sooo sorry."
The jaw drawn woman tried in vain to piece together some of the larger glass shards, and with this, in the eleventh hour of the 26th day, I leaned down in a pretentious attempt to clean up the glass on the floor, and began to laugh. It started as the kind of laughter that you have to hold together in church, and turned into uproarious and contagious laughter that I could not hide even a little bit. I sat on the floor below my register, knowing that when I stood back up lines of people would be there glaring at me, but I would not stand, and I could not stand for what seemed to be a very long while.
"I want to speak to your manager." the outraged customer said angrily, as she watched the situation unravel into hysterics that were the manifestation of an entire season filled with daily reminders of contradictions and meaninglessness.
And there was Mo, with perfect comic timing, pointing down at me. And there I sat in mouth blowing hysterics on the ground; and I laughed, and I laughed, and I laughed. At that moment it was poignantly clear to me that all of our best efforts, and our good attitudes, and team building meetings, and Streisand music, that this could never be, and never was what I had hoped it was to be for me. That my search in life had merely just begun.
After the dust settled, and the trees were put away, it didn't take Mo long to realize that it was time for her to move on with her life. "I'm moving to Chicago. I'm going to film school. I'm going to make movies." It was as if she was saying she was going to the grocery store. There was no uncertainty in her decision, no doubt in her mind, that it was the right thing for her to do. "If you can make it there...you can make it anywhere."
"Isn't that New York?" I thought, but I knew she was going to do it, with or with out me.
After she left, emptiness filled my days. She would call me periodically at work and update me on the excitement of the world outside of the confines of the safe building that I called my life. "We're setting up for Valentine's day, and I am getting a promotion." I told her. And when we would hang up the phone, I would imagine the exciting uncertainty of her journey through life, and long to be brave enough to be a part of it all.
One day Mo phoned me at work, "It's St. Patrick's Day!" she said with great vigor, "They dyed the river green for you! You have to see this!" She went on with relentless description, "This is the greatest place. All of the people smile when they walk down the street, and their faces actually shine. These people in Chicago, they actually glow! It is unbelievable how beautiful everyone here is. You have to move here."
With all of the salesmanship of a great retail goddess on commission, she convinced me to leave my life, to leave all that was secure in Michigan, and try to make a life in Chicago together with her. A decision I would never have had the courage to make alone. So I moved to Chicago with nothing but my cat and my clothes, and the security of my deep friendship with Mo.
I'm not sure if it was the shining faces, the green river, or the veejay speeches, but somewhere inside of me I knew it was right. Not because I was so certain of myself but because Mo believed in me. She believed that I could do anything. And I knew that she could too. She showed me that I had courage that I had no idea that I even had. This little tiny person, who possessed the independence and strength of ten men, made me see that they did in fact, dye the river green just for me.
Today Mo lives in Seattle with her dog Wolfgang, doing what she set out to do: Make movies. She teaches video and photo shop editing, and she and her business partner recently began a film festival in the greater Washington area called The Tumbleweed Film Festival which offers an array of films, giving film makers like herself a venue to show their work. The Tumbleweed Film Festival is growing every year and will no doubt someday be one of our country's best.
I think of our amazing years together, discovering ourselves and Chicago. I am who I am because she taught me how to live my stories, not just tell them. As I journey back to those reflective learning moments, I realize that we meet the people who change our lives in the most profound ways in the least likely of places and times. When I first wrote this memoir in 2005, I sent her a copy of it and she reminded me of the Bergdorff Goodman credit card that was sent to her shortly after moving to Chicago and how outrageously funny we thought it was. On it was inscribed the name "Lady Maureen K. Fine". "Mo, just Mo." She said.
Time flew and stood still all at once. Long lines brought weary, cranky shoppers, and as the hours passed, the seriousness of the first four hours became the high jinx of the next four. Mo and I were feeling slap happy and everything started to seem ridiculously funny. A young woman who had waited in line for at least an hour and a half approached Mo with a single, fragile, over sized glass bulb. "I am so excited," she said with a childish squeal, "I got the last one. I saw it in October, but I waited for the sale and hoped it would still be here and here it is!"
Like her very own answer to a Christmas miracle she carefully set the enormous beautiful glass ball on the wrap stand. And with reluctant trust, she placed the bulb in Mo's care. Mo raised the ball slowly to admire it and look at the reflection the florescent department store lighting created in its' red glow. She held it up firmly, and for a long moment. Then, as if in slow motion, we all watched with a pregnant pause, as it crackled in Mo's grip and burst open with blazing force leaving shards of colored glass wafers all over the wrap stand and on the surrounding floor.
Mo looked squarely at the astonished customer, then at my blank face, and with all of the remorse and somber empathy she could conjure, she earnestly, with her hands still holding the hanger of the once perfect over sized ornament, said, "I am sooo sorry."
The jaw drawn woman tried in vain to piece together some of the larger glass shards, and with this, in the eleventh hour of the 26th day, I leaned down in a pretentious attempt to clean up the glass on the floor, and began to laugh. It started as the kind of laughter that you have to hold together in church, and turned into uproarious and contagious laughter that I could not hide even a little bit. I sat on the floor below my register, knowing that when I stood back up lines of people would be there glaring at me, but I would not stand, and I could not stand for what seemed to be a very long while.
"I want to speak to your manager." the outraged customer said angrily, as she watched the situation unravel into hysterics that were the manifestation of an entire season filled with daily reminders of contradictions and meaninglessness.
And there was Mo, with perfect comic timing, pointing down at me. And there I sat in mouth blowing hysterics on the ground; and I laughed, and I laughed, and I laughed. At that moment it was poignantly clear to me that all of our best efforts, and our good attitudes, and team building meetings, and Streisand music, that this could never be, and never was what I had hoped it was to be for me. That my search in life had merely just begun.
After the dust settled, and the trees were put away, it didn't take Mo long to realize that it was time for her to move on with her life. "I'm moving to Chicago. I'm going to film school. I'm going to make movies." It was as if she was saying she was going to the grocery store. There was no uncertainty in her decision, no doubt in her mind, that it was the right thing for her to do. "If you can make it there...you can make it anywhere."
"Isn't that New York?" I thought, but I knew she was going to do it, with or with out me.
After she left, emptiness filled my days. She would call me periodically at work and update me on the excitement of the world outside of the confines of the safe building that I called my life. "We're setting up for Valentine's day, and I am getting a promotion." I told her. And when we would hang up the phone, I would imagine the exciting uncertainty of her journey through life, and long to be brave enough to be a part of it all.
One day Mo phoned me at work, "It's St. Patrick's Day!" she said with great vigor, "They dyed the river green for you! You have to see this!" She went on with relentless description, "This is the greatest place. All of the people smile when they walk down the street, and their faces actually shine. These people in Chicago, they actually glow! It is unbelievable how beautiful everyone here is. You have to move here."
With all of the salesmanship of a great retail goddess on commission, she convinced me to leave my life, to leave all that was secure in Michigan, and try to make a life in Chicago together with her. A decision I would never have had the courage to make alone. So I moved to Chicago with nothing but my cat and my clothes, and the security of my deep friendship with Mo.
I'm not sure if it was the shining faces, the green river, or the veejay speeches, but somewhere inside of me I knew it was right. Not because I was so certain of myself but because Mo believed in me. She believed that I could do anything. And I knew that she could too. She showed me that I had courage that I had no idea that I even had. This little tiny person, who possessed the independence and strength of ten men, made me see that they did in fact, dye the river green just for me.
Today Mo lives in Seattle with her dog Wolfgang, doing what she set out to do: Make movies. She teaches video and photo shop editing, and she and her business partner recently began a film festival in the greater Washington area called The Tumbleweed Film Festival which offers an array of films, giving film makers like herself a venue to show their work. The Tumbleweed Film Festival is growing every year and will no doubt someday be one of our country's best.
I think of our amazing years together, discovering ourselves and Chicago. I am who I am because she taught me how to live my stories, not just tell them. As I journey back to those reflective learning moments, I realize that we meet the people who change our lives in the most profound ways in the least likely of places and times. When I first wrote this memoir in 2005, I sent her a copy of it and she reminded me of the Bergdorff Goodman credit card that was sent to her shortly after moving to Chicago and how outrageously funny we thought it was. On it was inscribed the name "Lady Maureen K. Fine". "Mo, just Mo." She said.
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