That’s right, I have a nail guy. His name is Louie. With his sister, he runs a manicure/pedicure/tweeze-your-eyebrows joint in my neighborhood in Chicago. I spend about 30 minutes or so with him every 2-3 weeks to get my fill done, acrylics on three fingers and the thumb of my right hand. Louie is one of my favorite guys, so I want to share his story a bit.

First, a bit of background. I don’t have any tattoos, and the piercings in my ears have long since grown in, but I do maintain one subtle body modification: fake nails. I’m a classical guitarist, so I depend on strong, unbreakable nails on my right hand. To get a solid tone, the nails on the right fingers need to be just a bit over the tip, and then a bit longer on the thumb. As a prodigious nervous nail-biter, keeping nails this length au naturel would just not be possible.

I actually first got them before starting on classical guitar. I was into country blues style finger-picking and experimenting with different finger picks. I like to play really hard, digging into notes, and most finger picks are designed for you to play nimble and quick. When I used them, they’d just twist off. One night sitting around a table of guitar players at an open mic, someone mentioned that he heard of some dude who had ceramic nails glued on and got an amazing tone with them.

The thought of that fascinated me, as well as the total commitment to the instrument it represented. I didn’t know anything about nails or nail shops, but I was pretty sure there was a place at the mall that did that. So that week I went down to the Ann Arbor Mall, found the uppity hair salon/spa that had a nail tech, and asked for ceramic nails.

“Ceramic nails? What the hell is that?” she said. “OK, then”, I replied, “what do you got?”. And I proceeded to get my first set of acrylics, and learned the procedure of coming back every couple weeks for a “fill”, whereby they fill in the new growth under the fake nail. I immediately loved playing guitar with them, and I’ve had fake nails on my right hand ever since. It’s made for many interesting moments.

Moving to Chicago, getting my nails done became a whole new adventure. There are literally nail shops on every corner in the city, catering to all social classes, most of them run by Vietnamese immigrant families. As you can imagine, they don’t get too many male customers, and it’s always fun to explain why I’m there and to receive funny looks, especially from the Puerto Rican women who live in my neighborhood.

I enjoy the ritual, and when you get into a pattern with one shop, you really get to know the family. Getting nails done is a very intimate thing, you’re very close, your hand is being held and you place an enormous amount of trust in the tech (one wrong move and the pain can be unbelievable). But even still, as someone who grew up in a comfortable middle class suburb it can make you feel a bit weird. Unlike the places at the mall, the neighborhood nail shops are quite inexpensive (they have to be), so you figure they can’t be making much money. And while I may be a fun client, you witness a lot of shittiness in terms of rude customers, who themselves are scraping every dollar. And there are crazy language barriers, with English, Spanish and Vietnamese all simultaneously audible. Even on a good day though, even with the nicest people, you’re still scrubbing peoples feet.

I’ve been going to Louie for the past couple years, after moving to a new apartment near his shop. Though the Vietnamese nail techs are mostly women, it’s not unusual for there to be a male tech as well. The male techs are almost always older though, no teenage boys (lots of teenage girls), and likely of the generation that immigrated after the war and started the shop in the first place.

That is Louie’s story, but it took a while to get there with him.

I am always happy to not converse with folks who are doing my nails or cutting my hair, I’m happy to talk too, but if I sense they are focusing on a doing a good job, I figure let them do it. From the start though, I could sense that Louie was more comfortable in his skin that the average person, let alone the average nail tech. Louie loves to talk.

Louie is in his mid-50’s, he immigrated to the US as a young man in 1975, right after the Vietnam war ended. The Vietnamese immigrant community in Chicago is pretty insular, they keep a strong connection with each other and the old country (financed by the nail industry), and in America they’ve built an impressive (and mostly invisible) subculture, with their own pop stars, celebrities, etc. My impression is that, especially with the older generation, they don’t really pay attention to American popular culture or politics. They work hard, support each other and get by.

From the get go, Louie was different. He loves talking sports and politics, and having a male customer once in a while is probably a great relief for him. Louie loves gambling, plays the sports books, and heads to the casino on his off days. Listening to Louie pontificate on the Bears in his broken English is seriously among the funniest things I have ever heard.

That’s how it starts. Funny little conversations about what’s on the store TV. I often stop in late in the afternoon, so I get the benefit of being there while the news is on. From there we get a sense of where were each coming from, even though I can’t really figure out Louie’s crazy politics. Louie also digs music and owns a guitar. He has these CDs of Vietnamese guitarists playing traditional songs mixed in with strange covers of Western pop hits.

The comfort level deepens and over the months we move on to stories about our families. Louie has two adult daughters in Los Angeles from his first wife. One is a doctor. And he has a 5 year old boy at home from his second. Louie loves to talk about women, and everything you can imagine he says, he says. Of course, he’s funny as hell on every topic, with the wisdom of life lived hard.

By the way, Louie’s Nail Style shop is open 7 days a week, more or less 10am to 8pm. My 30 minute sessions with him are $10. Every once in a while, he refuses payment.

After a year or so he mentions that he’s heading back to Vietnam to visit his family, and this opens the door to every Apocalypse Now fanboys questionings on what it means to be Vietnamese, and to have grown up in the war experience.

Louie grew up in small fishing village in Southern Vietnam, and his father was a fisherman. As teenager he moved to Saigon, the Southern capital, now known as Ho Chi Minh City, and took jobs that assisted ARVN, the Southern Vietnamese army that the US was there to support against the Communist Notherners.

In 1975 the Northern army captured Saigon and all of South Vietnam as the US pulled out. To gain control of the country and stamp out resistance, the Communists started a campaign of rounding up those who supported ARVN to be placed in work camps (aka, concentration camps), where they’d be essentially worked to death, if not killed outright beforehand.

Louie recognized this situation and did what nearly a million of his fellow countrymen did: he set to escape. By boat.

In a fishing boat filled with 47 people, Louie cast off in the middle of the night from a spot on the coast of central Vietnam, headed for some small islands halfway, where there were rumored to be makeshift shuttle services to Hong Kong. Kind of like the underground railroad, but in the open ocean. I would encourage you to look at a map.

There were a few different routes people took, some went to Malaysia, others to the Philippines. Louie’s craft was afloat in the open water for three days and three nights. They not only had to fear the elements and they’re own ability to navigate, but some known waterways were also patrolled by Chinese ships who were assisting their communist allies by capturing the traitorous “boat people”.

Louie knew that if the boat was captured it would’ve meant execution, or worse, so he was prepared. Under his seat was a box of grenades. It was a pact amongst the passengers, if they were to be captured, they would blow themselves up and take down their capturers with them.

Three days on the open ocean and they made their destination. And they got to Hong Kong. From there he applied for refugee status to the US, and it was the least we could do to accept. He came to Chicago and opened a nail shop.

Louie loves being an American, and he bitches about the little things with the best of us. He’s an educated, hard working, middle-aged man who does nails and scrubs feet, and keeps a good humor about it. Louie is my hero.

I told him recently, “Louie, man, you did it. You are the American Dream. You immigrated here with nothing, started a business, raised a family and your daughters are successful upper-middle class professionals”. Louie laughed, I was right, but it’s never that easy.

The hilarious thing? Louie hasn’t spoken to his daughters in 5 years, or I should say, they haven’t spoken to him. He doesn’t think they respect what he went through to give them the life they have. I can imagine to his daughters Louie is the hard-headed old world father who can’t relate to their lives. That’s a problem with the American Dream, I guess, your kids become Americans.

Anyways, that’s Louie, my nail guy.

Neil Dixon Smith is a solo classical guitarist who performs for private parties and weddings, and rocks out on electric guitar in the band Más Trueno. You can check him out at neildixonsmith.com, and drop him a line at neildixonsmith(at)yahoo.com

As a result of the people I’ve met and the relationships I’ve built over the last few years through my efforts with KnowResolve, all of that has slowly started to change. The concept of “community” has gradually become something that I’m not just becoming aware of and open to, but something that I’ve started to crave. There are many caring and supportive people that I owe a debt of gratitude to for this of course, but in this moment, I’d like to focus on person … Dave Jackson.

The first time I met Dave was about 4 years ago, before a suicide prevention presentation that I was delivering to the students at L’Anse Creuse High School North where Dave was the principal at the time. Dave wanted to introduce me to his students and present me with a small gift on behalf of the school. His address to the students was not about demanding their respect and attention, but rather one of empathy and community. He talked about how important it was to be kind to each other because we never know what’s going on in someone’s life, what’s going behind someone’s smile. I remember thinking that that was the first time I’d ever heard a principal talk like that to a group of students.

I remember feeling welcomed in that community that day, and it was an amazing experience. It was another crack in the armor that I’d contained myself in for so long. Over the next few years, I would get to know Dave a little better on a professional level as he continued hosting the presentation each year, continued introducing me (and presenting me with gifts from the school!), and supported our request to host a walk for suicide prevention at the school. Dave told me many times over during our conversations how important he felt youth suicide prevention was and how important it was to care for the students’ total needs – not just their academic ones. He was a compassionate man, and a strong leader. I deeply respected and admired Dave and I could tell that the students did as well through passing interactions with them in the hallways.

At our first walk, Dave not only came out to support and participate, but he also made pancakes along with his friend Vince for everyone who attended. He addressed the students before the walk, and he participated in the walk as well. When it came time to present the school with half of the funds that we raised through the walk, I was invited to come to the homecoming pep assembly and present the check before the entire student body.

Since that first presentation, I’ve been able to build relationships with staff members and students alike, and I feel good every time I walk into the building. Like this is a community that welcomes me, like this is a place where I belong.

Sadly, suddenly, and unexpectedly, Dave passed away this weekend from a heart attack. It hasn’t even been a year since he retired as principal. I’m incredibly saddened by his passing, but I also feel a deep sense of gratitude for having known him, and learned from him. As I sit and reflect on each memory that I have in my heart with him, what comes to mind is how grateful I am for how he welcomed me into his community.

Today, I am also reflecting on how many people’s lives he has been able to inspire as a coach, mentor, friend, principal, and leader. It’s something we should all aspire to. He certainly inspired my life, and I am forever grateful for that.

My last correspondence with Dave was over this past Thanksgiving, I had sent an email out thanking everyone who had supported KnowResolve’s efforts over the years, and I got the following reply from Dave, even though he had already retired from his job as principal:

Dennis,

I want to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving as well. We want to thank you for supporting the community of LCN.

Dave

Thank you Dave, for welcoming me, and for making me feel like I am a part of your community. Along with thousands of others, I will miss you. The presentations and walk this spring will not be the same without you here.

My heart goes out to Dave’s family, friends, colleagues, and all of the students who were inspired by this great man’s influence and compassion.

He picked me up and we grabbed lunch at a place across the street from the Opera House before the show. We were seated upstairs, in front of the windows with a perfect view to the Opera House entrance. As we talked and ate and watched people filing into the theater, I noticed a guy on the sidewalk playing a trumpet for the people passing by. I wasn’t sure if he was homeless or not, but he looked pretty tattered.

I watched as most of these people who were supposedly there to support culture walk right past him – not paying any attention, not making eye contact, not sparing a dollar to drop into his jar. A few people dropped some cash, but most of them just walked on by.

I said to Jim “look at all these people, supporting the arts, dropping $80 a piece for tickets to this show, completely ignoring the culture that is right in front of them. When we’re done eating, we’re going down there to give him a few bucks and listen to him play.” And that’s exactly what we did. We walked across the street, dropped a few bucks into his jar and stood there listening as he played a pretty decent version of the theme song from The Godfather. It was really cold out that day, and there he was, playing his heart out for all of these people, most of whom seemed to care less. His eyes were watering, from passion, or the cold, or possibly a combination of both.

After he finished the song, he took a short break to talk to us. We told him how much we dug what he was doing and he said “thank you”. He asked if we were brothers, and we told him yes. He told us that he could tell, and that it made him happy to see two brothers spending time together. He told us that he had a brother too, who played the saxophone and was a few blocks away somewhere, playing his instrument too. I asked him if they played every day, and he said yes – wherever and whenever there was an opportunity.

I asked him what he thought about all these people who just walked on by, not paying him any mind, or sparing a dollar or two to support what he’s doing. He said he doesn’t really think about it. He said “some people dig it, some people don’t. Some people drop a dollar, and some people don’t. I’m out here for the music man, it’s about the music for me.”

I shook his hand and we headed into the theater for the show. I couldn’t help but think about how awesome his attitude about it all was – that at the end of the day, it was about the music for him. I was grateful that he was there, and for the music and the conversation that he shared with us.

I hope that next time you see someone like him, out in the cold, out on the street, playing from the heart, that you will consider supporting his art by giving him a few moments of your time to listen and maybe a couple bucks too.

Thanks for reading, and thank you Jimbo, for an awesome show and a great afternoon, I love you man!

Cheers,
- D

There’s an old saying about the creative process:  “good artists borrow, great artists steal.” For those out there who may be teaching themselves a few chords on a guitar or a piano with hopes of maybe writing a song or two down the line, I thought I’d riff on this idea bit. For to me, it’s a call to action.

I was once at a party with a circle of friends that included some musicians and after listening in on some shop talk I heard someone exclaim “I love music so much, but I could never pick up an instrument. I’m just not a creative person.”

At the moment I was stunned into a polite silence and just let it go. But internally I was screaming: What!?!? That is crazy! There are many, many pleasures of playing music. The mere physical action of making sounds itself is good enough for several lifetimes. And there are mountains and mountains of relatively simple but deeply satisfying forms of music out there that one could learn in a matter of months. If you love music and want to experience it from the inside, that door is always open to anyone.  “Being creative” has nothing to do with it.

But I get it. In our world we put a value on artists who “create their own work”, whether it’s a local band or a national celebrity. And for those getting started this can be very intimidating. I think there’s also something like a “Hollywood myth” out there that the creative process is some sort of magical thing, reserved for mad geniuses. “Artists” are freak special beings who receive rushes of divine inspiration, and produce fresh fully formed visions as original material.

Now, I’m not saying there aren’t some serious freaks out there. But they are rare, rarer than you think. And I’m not saying that creativity doesn’t happen in rushes. I myself can relate that the best songs I’ve written came out all at once in a matter of minutes. But a car can’t drive fast unless there’s a road to drive on, and if you want to capture lightning in a bottle, well, you kinda first need a bottle. In other words, I could take advantage of a sudden idea, because I had already trained the hands to change chords in rhythm, and I already had a developed a sense for “what a song is like”.

I remember when I first started playing guitar, all my heroes were songwriters. All the ways a song could make me feel, or crack me up, or make me think, it all just seemed amazing. I imagined that songwriters all had notebooks, so I got a notebook and started transcribing lyrics to my favorite songs (eschewing lyric sheets, I listened and figured out the words myself, which made for plenty of awesome and seemingly authentic crossings out and speculative scribblings). I wanted to fill up my notebook that way, so I could then flip through it and imagine what my lyric book should look like. How many verses and chorus repetitions there should be. How many words should be on a line, on a page. Etc.

I was then hit by sudden rush of divine inspiration – I looked at the lyrics to a favorite tune, this time by counting the number of syllables in each line. Instead of worrying about “being creative” and coming up with something wholly new, I just focused on filling in new words to the same number of syllables, keeping the rest of the song the same. And when I sang back the new words on the same chords, in the same strum, something magic did happen – it didn’t really sound like the other song anymore. The new phrases caused the melody to change a bit. As far as the world was concerned, I had my first original tune.

All I did was write some new words that fit a musical pattern that I “stole”, but did I “write a song?”. Let me save you years of therapy right now: yes, I did.  And more importantly, it got me going, it gave me a “way in”, a process by which to be creative. This practice helped me to see patterns in the kind of songs I liked, and over time I came to see how if you learn a pattern, then vary one small element to the pattern, something unique is sure come up. Which then led to new songs.

And then as I’ve learned more about the history of different styles of music, and read interviews with my favorite songwriters, you see that this is how it’s done, and that this is how it’s always been done. Learn music that you love, copy it with your own sentiment, repeat.

Great artists steal. What I love about that line is that there’s no half stepping it. If you dig it, take it, it’s yours. You can worry about the publishing rights down the line.

Neil Dixon Smith is a solo classical guitarist who performs for private parties and weddings, and rocks out on electric guitar in the band Más Trueno. You can check him out at neildixonsmith.com, and drop him a line at neildixonsmith(at)yahoo.com

I first met Paul in gym class in 10th grade – it was my first year at Chippewa Valley High School after having moved from St. Clair Shores. My father had recently died and I had a lot of emotions that I didn’t know how to handle. I was uncomfortable, insecure, and sad or angry most of the time and I didn’t know anybody in this strange new place.

I compensated for my angst and insecurity by acting out in very strange and unusual ways like running around the gym by myself singing ‘Weird Al’ songs and bouncing tennis balls off the wall. Most people (including Paul) did not find this amusing, they just thought I was crazy.

My first real interaction with Paul was when I attempted to sell him a water purifier in the locker room. “You can pee in this thing and the water will come out clean and pure!” I told him. My aunt convinced me that I could make money selling these things (and signing other people up to sell them) and so this is what I was trying to sell to Paul.

Paul was not interested or amused and told me to stay away from him.

There was something about Paul that intrigued me though. He was a very quiet and mysterious guy. He had long hair and wore Metallica shirts everyday. I thought he was one of the coolest guys I had ever seen and I wanted to be friends with him. Over the next two years I would continue saying “hi” to Paul in the hallways and he would just walk on by. I was never sure if he was ignoring me or if he was just wrapped up in his own world, unaware of what was going on around him. I thought there might also be a pretty good chance that he was stoned, but to this day, Paul swears it wasn’t so.

By the time senior year came around I had made a few friends, but Paul was still not one of them. On the first day in photography class I was sitting at a table by myself. The room was setup shop-style and each table had four stools around it. I was the only one in the room without someone at my table, and then Paul walked through the door. Paul was late to class.

I shouted excitedly, “Hey Paul! Over Here!” waving him over to my table. Every other seat in the room had been filled already, so Paul had no other choice. He sat down, and we would both very shortly discover that we liked the same bands, we were both learning how to play the guitar, and it wasn’t long before we were going over to each others houses every day after school to jam. That was almost 20 years ago and Paul remains one my closest friends.

I suppose my point is that we find the people who matter by being authentic. 

We can meet hundreds of people and form a massive amount of meaningless relationships by trying to fit in. There’s a lot of pressure (in high school and beyond) to conform. But we don’t need hundreds of friends, and meaningless relationships are pointless.

You don’t have to conform. Be who you are. Even if it’s what other people might consider weird. Especially if it’s what other people might consider weird. Eventually, you’ll find the people that count. (btw, Seth Godin wrote an awesome book called We Are All Weird).

Yes – we open ourselves up to judgement, ridicule, and exclusion. But it’s all personal growth. Eventually, we arrive at the discovery that it doesn’t matter who doesn’t like us, it’s the ones who do that count. The people who gave us a chance and took the time to discover and explore those bonds. The people that know and love and accept us for all that we are… the good, the bad, the weird, and everything in between.

Do you have a story you’d like to share about how you met one of your best friends? Please feel free to comment below. Thanks for taking the time to read, cheers!

- D

Special thanks to Paul for sitting down with me to re-visit the past and confirm that every detail of this story is true to its word!