ADjoined: The destinies of two creative crusaders

By Art Novak

ADjoined traces the development of two creative people destined to help each other meet the personal, ethical, and societal challenges posed by a world in flux.

Ted, a White male, growing up in the optimism of postwar America sees the world through rose-colored glasses, marries classmate (Kelly), has a son (Josh), and enthusiastically dives into his career as a gung-ho advertising copywriter in Chicago.
Riva, a Black Millennial female from St. Paul, Minnesota, has a more challenging childhood. Developing emotional difficulties in the wake of her parents' divorce, she finds comfort in social media, where she develops an online identity that eventually leads to an interest in copywriting.

These two disparate lives unfold separately in alternating chapters before converging in a college classroom. As teacher and student, Ted and Riva bridge their diverse life experiences with creativity, intelligence, and humor. Forming a symbiotic bond, they grapple with the ethical dilemmas facing advertising creatives engaged in a profession as all-encompassing and paradoxical as humanity itself.

ADjoined should captivate anyone involved or interested in the evolution of media, pop culture, and White/Black relations from the postwar era to the digital age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350910346

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Copyright © 2023 Art Novak

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

print ISBN: 979-8-35091-033-9

ebook ISBN: 979-8-35091-034-6

DEDICATION

To the writing of this book, which helped forestall

ennui in my retirement

To my crack research team, Google and Wikipedia

To Riva’s kindred spirits,

who left an indelible imprint in class

Advertising is the very essence of democracy.

—Anton Chekhov

Advertising is the genie … transforming America

into a place of comfort, luxury and ease.

—William Allen White

Advertising is the greatest art form of the 20th century.

—Marshall McLuhan

Advertising is the rattling of a stick inside a swill bucket.

—George Orwell

Table of Contents

Riva, 1997

Admonition

Teddy, 1946-52

Advantaged

Riva, 1998-2002

Adrift

Teddy, 1952-59

Adulation

Riva, 2003-07

Adversity

Ted, 1964-70

Adventure

Riva, 2008

Adaptation

Ted, 1972

Addled

Riva, 2009

Adamant

Ted, 1974-76

Advocacy

Riva, 2009 continued

Admiration

Ted, 1976-91

Advancement

Riva, 2010

Advisor

Ted, 1991-2002

Adjusting

Riva, 2010 continued

Adversarial

Ted, 2002-06

Adjunct

Riva, 2011

Adolescent

Ted, 2007-09

Ad-libbing

Riva, 2011 continued

Admission

Ted, 2009-11

Addiction

Ted & Riva, 2012

Adjuration

Ted & Riva, 2013

Ad nauseum

Ted & Riva, 2014

Adjudication

Ted & Riva, 2015

Adjoined

CHAPTER 1

Riva, 1997

Admonition

Iknow, I know, you’ll be wondering how a four-year-old (my status at the time) could possibly remember what I’m about to describe, especially since I was asleep for most of it. Well, okay, I don’t remember remember it. But I can imagine it as it might very well have happened. I’ve always had an extremely vivid imagination.

So play along with me. In our cozy St. Paul, 2nd-floor apartment that night, I imagine the most discernible sound was the rhythmic rapping of raindrops against my parents’ bedroom window. But not for long.

Mom was recovering from a nasty bout with the flu. Bolstered by a couple of pillows, she sat up in bed. She said two words, Let’s talk, spoken with an intensity suggesting not an invitation but a command.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, jarred out of his dead-end reflections, Dad knew a serious discussion was in the offing. Starting to feel like yourself again, huh?

She shook her head as if to shake the misconception out of his. This bug has taken a lot out of me. I’m exhausted.

Not too exhausted to talk?

Not too exhausted to talk, she echoed, matter-of-factly, but drawn out with a hint of wry amusement, just enough so Dad would be on board with the inevitable discussion at hand. In fact, he sensed Mom wanted more than a discussion. She wanted a dialectic. And she wanted to win it.

Joseph, you know I’m taking that promotion.

Joseph, not Joe, he thought. Never a good sign.

Of course you’re taking it. Damn! Probably the first Black female Assistant Marketing Manager at 3M ever! Can’t turn that down. God bless 3M. And God bless Caribou Coffee, guaranteeing to let me work only nights and weekends.

Wonderful! Mom said, with caustic sarcasm. I’ll come home dog-tired from a day of meetings or being chained to my computer — and you nowhere in sight, off making mocha macchiatos. Where’s my support system?

That’s how you see me? Your support system?

I’d like to see you as my husband. A little hard to do when I hardly see you at all. If I’m working days and you’re working nights, the marriage isn’t really working, is it?

Okay, I get where this is heading. The usual place. Dad’s posture crumpled. He practically disappeared into the mattress.

You’ve been to college, Joseph. You have a degree. And you’re an assistant manager — night manager — in a coffee shop. And you’re happy with that.

"Well, yes, happier. I tried it your way. It wasn’t working for me, remember?"

She ignored his train of thought, because hers was headed in the opposite direction. If we were both working real jobs, we could get Riva into that preschool —

"What do you mean, ‘real’ jobs? I have a ‘real’ job. Two in fact. Taking care of Riva is a real job. Better she spend her days with her dad than some flunky preschool teacher." The discussion followed the usual path, morphing into an argument, working up to shouting match.

I s’pose everything was different for them back at college. Back before they were Mom and Dad, they were Tonya and Joe. Her energy and drive must have fascinated Joe. She always liked to be the one on top, I’ll bet. I’m sure Dad had no issues with her aggressiveness then.

The classic mating of a Type A and Type B. Mother Nature, in her wisdom, must encourage such marriages. Maybe they produce children who are more balanced Type A minuses or B plusses. Maybe the differences help each spouse learn and grow. But on this night of their discussion, their predicament defied smooth resolution.

Dad hung in there. Anyway, you love working. And 3M will be around forever. He tried to defuse the tension with a facetious observation. "Although … Y2K is just three years away. New millennium. Could be the end of 3M … end of life as we know it. So what the hell are we even arguing about? Civilization could all go up in smoke."

Mom was unamused. 2001 is the millennium, Joseph, not 2000.

Innocuous, yet belittling, her retort brought Dad’s cool to a boiling point, all his self-restraint savagely unleashed. You just want to argue, woman. You just have to convince yourself you’re in the right about every damn thing. He sprung up and strode across the room, though he wasn’t quite ready to leave it. Fuck this shit.

Her rage now matched his own. "Goddammit, Joseph, I am in the right on this. When are you going to wake up and bring something to the table? she shouted. Find yourself a real job! Show an ounce of ambition for chrissake!"

An angry explosion of thunder — the sort that gives you a start and makes you fear nature — hit in perfect sync with the word ambition. Nature’s fury underlining the fury of human nature. Then the reverberation of that thunderclap suddenly gained the accompaniment of a banshee-like wailing. Mine.

When the thunder stopped, the wailing didn’t. Suddenly I was out there all by myself, no mistaking me. I’m not sure if it was the thunder that had suddenly scared me awake. Maybe the bickering had brought on a gradual coming to my senses. Or maybe, all along, I’d been the passive participant in a family meeting that had veered wildly out of control.

Mom and Dad nearly tripped over each other running into my bedroom, trying to kill two birds with one stone — escape their bad vibes and soothe those of a child who, by her very existence, had brought four years of added stress to the marriage.

CHAPTER 2

Teddy, 1946-52

Advantaged

Chiquita Banana set the trajectory of my life. This is what I believe.

The deep recesses of my brain might very well store memories that give weight to my imaginings. I wouldn’t be surprised if it all began on a muggy Chicago summer night in un-air-conditioned 1949. Mom and Dad — Carol and Alan Canby — tucked my three-year-old self into bed. Then Dad ambled into the living room of our third-floor walk-up and turned on the console radio that held sway there. As he was about to switch the station over to WCFL for the Sox-Yankees game, an effervescent Latin contralto butted right in:

I’m Chiquita Banana

And I’ve come to say —

Dad started nudging the dial, and Chiquita’s warbling dissolved into static. Wait! Carol commanded. I like that! Alan hung his head and caved.

In my bed, I no doubt would have heard Chiquita’s every word. All so comforting, so familiar. If your early childhood was not concurrent with the years this iconic señorita ruled the airwaves, that’s your misfortune. Throughout infancy and toddlerhood, her jingle probably racked up more airplay than any tune on the hit parade. How many times Mom must have dropped her dustcloth or coffee cup or Saturday Evening Post, hoisted me up from the floor or playpen, and mamboed cheek to cheek with me as Chiquita worked her magic.

During this formative early period, I can’t know for certain how many times I imbibed the enchanting Ms. Banana’s paean. Suffice to say, she left her mark. They tell me my first spoken word was not Mommy or Daddy but ’Nana. I was not referring to my grandmother.

In the kitchen, I made acquaintance with other colorful characters living on cardboard boxes, tin cans, plastic bottles, and glass jars. The Quaker Oats man, the Old Dutch Cleanser girl, the Jolly Green Giant, the Rice Krispies trio of Snap, Crackle, and Pop all became familiar friends. To them I owe much of the solid bedrock underpinning my sense of security and well-being.

Suffused throughout this bedrock was Mom’s seemingly constant presence. When I was a good boy, which I think I generally was, I could count on her spoon-feeding me crushed Nabisco Vanilla Wafers or Salerno Butter Cookies soaked in a bowl of milk, accompanied by her recitation of a tale she called Millions and Trillions of Cats. At Christmastime, we rode the L downtown to Marshall Field’s, where we could view the gargantuan statue of their local TV cartoon character and marketing weapon, Uncle Mistletoe, towering over Field’s atrium. Then we’d take escalators up to the hallowed Walnut Room to rendezvous with Dad for lunch.

Dad faithfully went to work every day and just as faithfully came home every evening. He could always count on Mom to have dinner on the table within minutes of his arrival. Even though Dad wasn’t physically present as much as Mom, he clearly played some critical role in making the household machinery run like clockwork. He and Mom existed to tend to my every need. Yet they gave me the sense they needed me even more than I needed them. I was not just their son but their sun. They revolved around me, the center of our universe.

As I transitioned from toddler to kindergartener, more and more of that universe came into focus. I distinctly remember big brother, Donnie standing in front of a mirror, dramatically mouthing the words and mimicking the gestures of Mario Lanza’s Vesti la giubba from Pagliacci. And I can still hear Dad informing Donnie that Lanza’s version didn’t measure up to Enrico Caruso’s — one generation passing on its wisdom, or at least its perspective, to another. But Dad’s pronouncement would not dissuade Donnie from forcefully arguing his case. Even in high school, he exhibited the passion of a successful prosecuting attorney.

And if I exhibited the passion of a future advertising creative, perhaps it was manifested in what I took pleasure in cobbling together. I would tie multiple pieces of string together until I had a length of maybe 60 feet. Then I would pick up one end and slowly drag the string around the house as I repeatedly intoned the drawn-out incantation, Come-on-futz-ers. Mom, Dad, Donnie, and anyone else who happened to be in the house would be mesmerized, waiting to find out what was at the end of the string, curious to discover just what futzers were. I was learning how to advertise. My string held the attention of my audience, so I’d say it qualified as highly effective teaser advertising. Of course, lo and behold, when the last bit of string wound around the corner, there was nothing there, simply the end of the string!

But actually there was something there. Laughter. The onlookers would laugh at the dramatic letdown. And I would revel in the knowledge that I had created that laughter. At some level, it must have hit me: advertising yielded results!

My imagination extended beyond the home. In some faraway realm, but in some way watching over us, a character named God existed. I imagined a majestic figure perched on a throne and wearing an ornate hooded robe. He held power above all others, but just below Him sat another hooded deity, President Truman.

Order and stability reigned in this universe. About the only thing to fear was some dread disease called polio. One night when I lay in bed, I thought I could feel my leg stiffening. I charged into my parents’ bedroom, waking them up by yelling, Mommy, I’ve got polio! They seemed to take the news in stride, partly because they were still half asleep, mostly because, a few days earlier, I had rushed into their bedroom yelling, Mommy, my heart stopped beating!

Imagination and neuroticism go hand in hand. One afternoon, Donnie and I were watching the White Sox game on TV, and I was agitated. The Sox were way out in front, so there was no apparent reason for my panic. What’s the matter? Donnie asked. I can’t stop swallowing, I said. Upon hearing this and realizing I was serious, Donnie couldn’t stop laughing. For several years after that day, whenever we were together, he would sadistically start singing When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano, which would get me compulsively swallowing again. Sadism — it’s the birthright of all big brothers.

Admittedly these little eccentricities of mine were frivolous and foolish. But they fit the tenor of the times to a t. And they served the function of averting terminal boredom. My ride through childhood proceeded so smoothly that foolishness — the level of harmless conflict you’d encounter on a Leave it to Beaver episode — was about as bumpy as it got.

To be honest, polio didn’t really scare me much. Deep down, I believed it was something that happened to other kids, not me. In my world, nothing rocked the boat and nothing ever seemed to change. What was, always was, always would be.

Small wonder Chiquita Banana sounded perpetually enthusiastic and unstressed.

CHAPTER 3

Riva, 1998-2002

Adrift

"S plit can mean divorce. It’s a breaking apart. But when people say, Let’s split, it has an additional meaning — Let’s get the hell out of here."

When Mom and Dad divorced, they didn’t just break apart. They got the hell out of their comfortable, Craftsman-style home. Each moved into a more spartan, no-frills apartment, Mom in Roseville (where I stayed most of the time), Dad on St. Paul’s East Side. Mom wasn’t at 3M anymore and had found a new job. She probably could’ve afforded to stay in our house. Maybe she just wanted to show Dad he wasn’t the only one making a sacrifice because of the breakup.

But I think I sacrificed the most. Some kids seem to handle divorce just fine. I was not one of those kids. Split has a third meaning. When Mom and Dad split, I felt split, as in torn apart, viscerally, right down the middle.

Maybe that explains why, as a five-year-old, I developed a love of Legos. They provided an opportunity for me to put things back together, to counteract the splitting apart. I would sit for hours on our back porch in Roseville bringing lonely little tiles together, turning them into animals or people or houses. One night, so wrapped up in seeing how high I could build a tower before it collapsed, I didn’t even notice Mom recording my efforts with her video camera.

I guess what made it so tough for me was that I loved my parents equally, loved them and liked them (I don't think you can truly love unless you like). A child of divorce can run into problems when she really loves both parents but the parents no longer love each other. Miss Abramson, the psychologist Mom and Dad eventually sent me to, told them I was suffering from a form of cognitive dissonance, meaning I was struggling with two feelings that were incompatible. According to Miss Abramson, if I loved my parents but they didn’t love each other, I’d probably start believing one of two things: either I was mistaken in loving both of these people, or they were mistaken in thinking they no longer loved each other. I went with the latter.

At first I tried to sell myself on the idea the separation was temporary. Mom and Dad are just being silly, I thought. They’re acting like children. When the divorce became final, I grew angry, with both of them. The jumble of love and anger created more cognitive dissonance in my nine-year-old brain. Because of the anger, I began punishing my parents by every passive-aggressive means at my disposal: doing poorly in school, spending long hours in my room, not eating dinner (and then scarfing down ice cream and cookies late at night). Because of their love for me, I probably knew, at some level, that I could get away with this behavior. Rarely did I pass up an opportunity to test my parents’ love.

Thus the Tuesday sessions with Miss Abramson. When Mom and Dad both told me I needed someone to talk to, I didn’t object. For one thing, I was just thankful they had at least found something they could agree on. More importantly, I didn’t want to continue living with the feeling of being numb to the world.

Miss Abramson was a veteran psychologist, a no-nonsense, roll-up-your-sleeves professional. I had the impression she was energized by the notion she was saving the world, one child at a time. The room where our sessions took place immediately felt like a safe harbor to me. Knowing someone was trying to untangle whatever I was feeling or suppressing gave me an anchor.

She believed in administering a battery of tests, and I was fine with that. Every week it was something new.

Riva, today we’re going to play a fun little game. I’ll start to read a sentence, and I want you to complete it. There are no right or wrong answers, Just say the first thing that comes into your mind, okay?

Okay.

Here we go. Ready?

Ready.

I wish I could be … happy.

Almost as quickly as I vocalized my responses, she jotted them down.

When I grow up I can … understand stuff better.

I am proud … of nothing.

I get angry when I … wake up in the morning.

It’s nice to … read.

I want to … live with Mom and Dad in our old house.

School is … a lot of White kids.

If I could be someone else … I would be Rudy Huxtable.

I get angry when … things break.

What bothers me is … when I have to get up in the morning.

I … want to live with Mom and Dad in our old house.

When I look at other boys and girls and then look at myself, I feel … different.

I am happy when … I hear a song I like.

I will never be … five years old again.

I cry when … things get ripped apart.

My last response gave her pause. "Why do you feel so