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Tuesdays With Morrie

Tuesdays with Morrie

An old man, a young man,
and life’s greatest lesson

Mitch Albom


Acknowledgments


The Curriculum


It is the late spring of 1979, a hot, sticky Saturday afternoon.
Hundreds of us sit together, side by side, in rows of wooden folding
chairs on the main campus lawn. We wear blue nylon robes. We
listen impatiently to long speeches. When the ceremony is over, we
throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college,
the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham,
Massachusetts. For many of us, the curtain has just come down on
childhood.

Afterward, I find Morrie Schwartz, my favorite professor, and
introduce him to my parents. He is a small man who takes small
steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time, whisk him up into the
clouds. In his graduation day robe, he looks like a cross between a
biblical prophet and a Christmas elf He has sparkling blue green eyes,
thinning silver hair that spills onto his forehead, big ears, a triangular
nose, and tufts of graying eyebrows. Although his teeth are crooked
and his lower ones are slanted back-as if someone had once punched
them in-when he smiles it's as if you'd just told him the first joke on
earth.

He tells my parents how I took every class he taught. He tells them,
"You have a special boy here. " Embarrassed, I look at my feet. Before
we leave, I hand my professor a present, a tan briefcase with his


initials on the front. I bought this the day before at a shopping mall. I
didn't want to forget him. Maybe I didn't want him to forget me.

"Mitch, you are one of the good ones," he says, admiring the briefcase.
Then he hugs me. I feel his thin arms around my back. I am taller
than he is, and when he holds me, I feel awkward, older, as if I were
the parent and he were the child. He asks if I will stay in touch, and
without hesitation I say, "Of course."

When he steps back, I see that he is crying.


Study me in
my slow and patient demise. Watch what happens to me. Learn with
me.


"My dear and loving cousin . . .
Your ageless heart
as you move through time, layer on layer,
tender sequoia .


The Audiovisual


that's

It is our first class together, in the spring of 1976. I enter Morrie's
large office and notice the seemingly countless books that line the wall,
shelf after shelf. Books on sociology, philosophy, religion, psychology.
There is a large rug on the hardwood floor and a window that looks
out on the campus walk. Only a dozen or so students are there,
fumbling with notebooks and syllabi. Most of them wear jeans and
earth shoes and plaid flannel shirts. I tell myself it will not be easy to
cut a class this small. Maybe I shouldn't take it.

"Mitchell?" Morrie says, reading from the attendance list. I raise a
hand.

"Do you prefer Mitch? Or is Mitchell better?"

I have never been asked this by a teacher. I do a double take at this
guy in his yellow turtleneck and green corduroy pants, the silver hair
that falls on his forehead. He is smiling.

Mitch, I say. Mitch is what my friends called me.

"Well, Mitch it is then," Morrie says, as if closing a deal. "And,
Mitch?"

Yes?


"I hope that one day you will think of me as your friend."


The Orientation


It is my freshman year. Morrie is older than most of the teachers, and
I am younger than most of the students, having left high school a year
early. To compensate for my youth on campus, I wear old gray
sweatshirts and box in a local gym and walk around with an unlit
cigarette in my mouth, even though I do not smoke. I drive a beat-up
Mercury Cougar, with the windows down and the music up. I seek my
identity in toughness-but it is Morrie's softness that draws me, and
because he does not look at me as a kid trying to be something more
than I am, I relax.

I finish that first course with him and enroll for another. He is an
easy marker; he does not much care for grades. One year, they say,
during the Vietnam War, Morrie gave all his male students A's to
help them keep their student deferments.

I begin to call Morrie "Coach," the way I used to address my high
school track coach. Morrie likes the nickname.

"Coach, " he says. "All right, I'll be your coach. And you can be my
player. You can play all the lovely parts of life that I'm too old for
now."

Sometimes we eat together in the cafeteria. Morrie, to my delight, is
even more of a slob than I am. He talks instead of chewing, laughs


with his mouth open, delivers a passionate thought through a
mouthful of egg salad, the little yellow pieces spewing from his teeth.

It cracks me up. The whole time I know him, I have two
overwhelming desires: to hug him and to give him a napkin.


The Classroom


What happened to me?



In the campus bookstore, I shop for the items on Morrie's reading list.
I purchase books that I never knew existed, titles such as Youth:
Identity and Crisis, I and Thou, The Divided Self.

Before college I did not know the study of human relations could be
considered scholarly. Until I met Morrie, I did not believe it.

But his passion for books is real and contagious. We begin to talk
seriously sometimes, after class, when the room has emptied. He asks
me questions about my life, then quotes lines from Erich Fromm,
Martin Buber, Erik Erikson. Often he defers to their words,
footnoting his own advice, even though he obviously thought the same
things himself. It is at these times that I realize he is indeed a
professor, not an uncle. One afternoon, I am complaining about the
confusion of my age, what is expected of me versus what I want for
myself.

"Have I told you about the tension of opposites?" he says. The tension
of opposites?

"Life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but
you are bound to do something else. Something hurts you, yet you
know it shouldn't. You take certain things for granted, even when
you know you should never take anything for granted.


"A tension of opposites, like a pull on a rubber band. And most of us
live somewhere in the middle. "

Sounds like a wrestling match, I say. A wrestling match." He laughs.
"Yes, you could describe life that way."

So which side wins, I ask? " Which side wins?"

He smiles at me, the crinkled eyes, the crooked teeth. "

Love wins. Love always wins."


"So many people walk around
with a meaningless life. They seem half asleep, even when they're
busy doing things they think are important. This is because they're
chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is


to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community
around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you
purpose and meaning."

In my sophomore year, I take two more of his courses. We go beyond
the classroom, meeting now and then just to talk. I have never done
this before with an adult who was not a relative, yet I feel comfortable
doing it with Morrie, and he seems comfortable making the time.

"Where shall we visit today?" he asks cheerily when I enter his office.

In the spring, we sit under a tree outside the sociology building, and in
the winter, we sit by his desk, me in my gray sweatshirts and Adidas
sneakers, Morrie in Rockport shoes and corduroy pants. Each time we
talk, lie listens to me ramble, then he tries to pass on some sort of life
lesson. He warns me that money is not the most important thing,
contrary to the popular view on campus. He tells me I need to be
"fully human." He speaks of the alienation of youth and the need for
"connectedness" with the society around me. Some of these things I
understand, some I do not. It makes no difference. The discussions
give me an excuse to talk to him, fatherly conversations I cannot have
with my own father, who would like me to be a lawyer.

Morrie hates lawyers.

"What do you want to do when you get out of college?" he asks.

I want to be a musician, I say. Piano player. "Wonderful," he says.
"But that's a hard life." Yeah.


"A lot of sharks." That's what I hear.

"Still," he says, "if you really want it, then you'll make your dream
happen. "

I want to hug him, to thank him for saying that, but I am not that
open. I only nod instead.

"I'll bet you play piano with a lot of pep," he says. I laugh. Pep?

He laughs back. "Pep. What's the matter? They don't say that
anymore?"


The First Tuesday We Talk About the World


Amazing

Is this what comes at the
end,


He enters the classroom, sits down, doesn't say anything. He looks at
its, we look at him. At first, there are a few giggles, but Morrie only
shrugs, and eventually a deep silence falls and we begin to notice the
smallest sounds, the radiator humming in the corner of the room, the
nasal breathing of one of the fat students.

Some of us are agitated. When is lie going to say something? We
squirm, check our watches. A few students look out the window,
trying to be above it all. This goes on a good fifteen minutes, before
Morrie finally breaks in with a whisper.

"What's happening here?" he asks.

And slowly a discussion begins as Morrie has wanted all along-
about the effect of silence on human relations. My are we embarrassed
by silence? What comfort do we find in all the noise?

I am not bothered by the silence. For all the noise I make with my
friends, I am still not comfortable talking about my feelings in front of
others-especially not classmates. I could sit in the quiet for hours if
that is what the class demanded.

On my way out, Morrie stops me. "You didn't say much today," he
remarks.


I don't know. I just didn't have anything to add.

"I think you have a lot to add. In fact, Mitch, you remind me of
someone I knew who also liked to keep things to himself when he was
younger."

Who?

"Me."


The Second Tuesday We Talk About Feeling Sorry for
Yourself

Let them wait


It is my junior year, 1978, when disco and Rocky movies are the
cultural rage. We are in an unusual sociology class at Brandeis,
something Morrie calls "Group Process." Each week we study the ways
in which the students in the group interact with one another, how they
respond to anger, jealousy, attention. We are human lab rats. More
often than not, someone ends up crying. I refer to it as the "touchy -
feely" course. Morrie says I should be more open-minded.

On this day, Morrie says he has an exercise for us to try. We are to
stand, facing away from our classmates, and fall backward, relying on
another student to catch us. Most of us are uncomfortable with this,
and we cannot let go for more than a few inches before stopping
ourselves. We laugh in embarrassment. Finally, one student, a thin,
quiet, dark-haired girl whom I notice almost always wears bulky white
fisherman sweaters, crosses her arms over her chest, closes her eyes,
leans back, and does not flinch, like one of those Lipton tea
commercials where the model splashes into the pool.

For a moment, I am sure she is going to thump on the floor. At the
last instant, her assigned partner grabs her head and shoulders and
yanks her up harshly.

"Whoa!" several students yell. Some clap. Morrie _finally smiles.


"You see," he says to the girl, "you closed your eyes. That was the
difference. Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to
believe what you feel. And if you are ever going to have other people
trust you, you must feel that you can trust them, too-even when you're
in the dark. Even when you're falling. "


The Third Tuesday We Talk About Regrets


By the start of my senior year, I have taken so many sociology classes,
I am only a few credits shy of a degree. Morrie suggests I try an honors
thesis.

Me? I ask. What would I write about?

"What interests you?" he says.

We bat it back and forth, until we finally settle on, of all things,
sports. I begin a year-long project on how football in America has
become ritualistic, almost a religion, an opiate for the masses. I have
no idea that this is training for my future career. I only know it gives
me another once-a-week session with Morrie.

And, with his help, by spring I have a 112 page thesis, researched,
footnoted, documented, and neatly bound in black leather. I show it to
Morrie with the pride of a Little Leaguer rounding the bases on his
first home run.

"Congratulations," Morrie says.

I grin as he leafs through it, and I glance around his office. The
shelves of books, the hardwood floor, the throw rug, the couch. I think


to myself that I have sat just about everywhere there is to sit in this
room.

"I don't know, Mitch," Morrie muses, adjusting his glasses as he reads,
"with work like this, we may have to get you back here for grad
school."

Yeah, right, I say.

I snicker, but the idea is momentarily appealing. Part of me is scared
of leaving school. Part of me wants to go desperately. Tension of
opposites. I watch Morrie as he reads my thesis, and wonder what the
big world will be like out there.


The Professor

What will become of you?"


"A teacher affects eternity;
he can never tell where his influence stops. "

The Fourth Tuesday We Talk About Death


The newspaper near his chair has a photo of a Boston baseball player
who is smiling after pitching a shutout. Of all the diseases, I think to
myself, Morrie gets one named after an athlete.

You remember Lou Gehrig, I ask?

"I remember him in the stadium, saying good-bye." So you remember
the famous line.

"Which one?"

Come on. Lou Gehrig. "Pride of the Yankees"? The speech that echoes
over the loudspeakers?

"Remind me," Morrie says. "Do the speech."

Through the open window I hear the sound of a garbage truck.
Although it is hot, Morrie is wearing long sleeves, with a blanket over
his legs, his skin pale. The disease owns him.

I raise my voice and do the Gehrig imitation, where the words bounce
off the stadium walls: "Too-dayyy . . . I feeel like . . . the luckiest
maaaan . . . on the face of the earth . . ."


Morrie closes his eyes and nods slowly.

"Yeah. Well. I didn't say that."


The Fifth Tuesday We Talk About Family


It is a winter in my childhood, on a snow packed hill in our suburban
neighborhood. My brother and I are on the sled, him on top, me on
the bottom. I feel his chin on my shoulder and his feet on the backs of
my knees.

The sled rumbles on icy patches beneath us. We pick up speed as we
descend the hill.

"CAR!" someone yells.

We see it coming, down the street to our left. We scream and try to
steer away, but the runners do not move. The driver slams his horn
and hits his brakes, and we do what all kids do: we jump off. In our
hooded parkas, we roll like logs down the cold, wet snow, thinking the
next thing to touch us will be the hard rubber of a car tire. We are
yelling "AHHHHHH" and we are tingling with fear, turning over
and over, the world upside down, right side up, upside down.

And then, nothing. We stop rolling and catch our breath and wipe the
dripping snow from our faces. The driver turns down the street,
wagging his finger. We are safe. Our sled has thudded quietly into a
snowbank, and ourfriends are slapping us now, saying "Cool" and
"You could have died."


I grin at my brother, and we are united by childish pride. That wasn't
so hard, we think, and we are ready to take on death again.


The Sixth Tuesday We Talk About Emotions


Do you believe in reincarnation? I ask. "Perhaps. "

What would you come back as? `If I had my choice, a gazelle."

" A gazelle?"

"Yes. So graceful. So fast."

" A gazelle?

Morrie smiles at me. "You think that's strange?"

I study his shrunken frame, the loose clothes, the sockswrapped feet
that rest stiffly on foam rubber cushions, unable to move, like a
prisoner in leg irons. I picture a gazelle racing across the desert.

No, I say. I don't think that's strange at all.


The Professor, Part Two


As my visits with Morrie go on, I begin to read about death_, how
different cultures view the final passage. There is a tribe in the North
American Arctic, for example, who believe that all things on earth
have a soul that exists in a miniature form of the body that holds it-so
that a deer has a tiny deer inside it, and a man has a tiny man inside
him. When the large being dies, that tiny form lives on. It can slide
into something being born nearby, or it can go to a temporary resting
place in the sky, in the belly of a great feminine spirit, where it waits
until the moon can send it back to earth.

Sometimes, they say, the moon is so busy with the new souls of the
world that it disappears from the sky. That is why we have moonless
nights. But in the end, the moon always returns, as do we all.

That is what they believe.


The Seventh Tuesday We Talk About the Fear o f Aging

Forget what the culture says. I have ignored the
culture much of my life. I am not going to be ashamed. What's the big
deal?

enjoy


embrace

The Eighth Tuesday We Talk About Money

The Ninth Tuesday We Talk About How Love Goes On


In the South American rain forest, there is a tribe called the Desana,
who see the world as a fixed quantity of energy that flows between all
creatures. Every birth must therefore engender a death, and every
death bring forth another birth. This way, the energy of the world
remains complete.

When they {hunt for food, the Desana know that the animals they kill
will leave a hole in the spiritual well. But that hole will be filled, they
believe, by the souls of the Desana hunters when they die. Were there
no men dying, there would be no birds orfish being born. I like this
idea. Morrie likes it, too. The closer he gets to good-bye, the more he
seems to feel we are all creatures in the same forest. What we take, we
must replenish.

"It's only fair," he says.


The Tenth Tuesday We Talk About Marriage


Get me out of here!'


the little ordinary things that everyone ought to do . . . "


Okay, question, I say to Morrie. His bony fingers hold his glasses
across his chest, which rises and falls with each labored breath.

"What's the question?" lie says.

Remember the Book of Job?

"From the Bible?"

Right. Job is a good mare, but God makes him suffer. To test his faith.

"1 remember. "

Takes away everything lie has, his house, his money, his family . . .

"His health."

Makes him sick.

"To test his faith."

Right. To test his faith. So, I'm wondering . . .

"What are you wondering?"


What you think about that?

Morrie coughs violently. His hands quiver as he drops them by his
side.

"I think, " he says, smiling, "God overdid it. "


The Eleventh Tuesday We Talk About Our Culture

Whack!


It is 1979, a basketball game in the Brandeis gym. The team is doing
well, and the student section begins a chant, "We're number one!
We're number one!" Morrie is sitting nearby. He is puzzled by the
cheer. At one point, in the midst of "We're number one!" he rises and
yells, "What's wrong with being number two?"

The students look at him. They stop chanting. He sits down, smiling
and triumphant.


The Audiovisual, Part Three


A Brief History of Time


The Twelfth Tuesday We Talk About Forgiveness


"I've picked a place to be buried."

Where is that?

"Not far from here. On a hill, beneath a tree, overlooking a pond.
Very serene. A good place to think."

Are you planning on thinking there?

"I'm planning on being dead there."

He chuckles. I chuckle.

"Will you visit?" Visit?

`Just come and talk. Make it a Tuesday. You always come on
Tuesdays. "

We're Tuesday people.

"Right. Tuesday people. Come to talk, then?"

He has grown so weak so fast.


"Look at me," he says.

I'm looking.

"You'll come to my grave? To tell me your problems?"

My problems?

"Yes.'

And you'll give me answers?

"I'll give you what I can. Don't I always?"

I picture his grave, on the hill, overlooking the pond, some little nine
foot piece of earth where they will place him, cover him with dirt, put
a stone on top. Maybe in a few weeks? Maybe in a few days? I see
mysef sitting there alone, arms across my knees, staring into space.

It won't be the same, I say, not being able to hear you talk.

"Ah, talk . . . "

He closes his eyes and smiles.

"Tell you what. After I'm dead, you talk. And I'll listen."


The Thirteenth Tuesday We Talk About the Perfect Day


"I heard a nice little story the other day," Morrie says. He closes his
eyes for a moment and I wait.

"Okay. The story is about a little wave, bobbing along in the ocean,
having a grand old time. He's enjoying the wind and the fresh air-until
he notices the other waves in front of him, crashing against the shore.

" `My God, this is terrible,' the wave says. `Look what's going to
happen to me!'

"Then along comes another wave. It sees the first wave, looking grim,
and it says to him, `Why do you look so sad?'

"The first wave says, `You don't understand! We're all going to crash!
All of us waves are going to be nothing! Isn't it terrible?'

"The second wave says, `No, you don't understand. You're not a
wave, you're part of the ocean.' "

I smile. Morrie closes his eyes again.

"Part of the ocean, " he says, "part of the ocean. " I watch him
breathe, in and out, in and out.


The Fourteenth Tuesday We Say Good-bye


Graduation


How about Tuesdays with Morrie


Mitch Albom

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Tuesdays with morrie

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