By David Sher
I wrote about Sam Tenenbaum, aka The Great Kaiser, when he passed away last year.
I wrote about my regret, my guilt, my failure to support him.
But I never expected what would happen next–or the lesson he would teach me, and all of us, from beyond the grave.
For those who didn’t know Sam, he was a true Birmingham original–a wrestler and an opera singer. Two passions that seem worlds apart, yet he embraced them both with equal enthusiasm. He was the kind of person who defied easy categorization, who lived fully and authentically, and who touched people’s lives in ways both dramatic and quiet.
He was also a childhood friend.
A Friendship I Failed to Support
I didn’t buy the book he wrote about his life when he was alive. That simple act of support–buying a book from a friend–I couldn’t manage because I thought he was being too persistent in asking.
The guilt has stayed with me.
But everyone kept asking me: “Are you going to read the book?”
So I did.
And I’m glad.
What I Found in His Words
Sam’s book isn’t just a memoir. It’s a window into the heart of someone who understood what it means to be human–gloriously imperfect, occasionally pushy, but ultimately loving. Reading his words about his own mother gave me something I didn’t expect: grace.
In the book, Sam writes about being with his mother as she was dying.
“As fate would have it, on that Sunday morning, I was the only one there in the room with her. I could see that she was fading. Her vital signs ebbed toward a flat line. I could not bring myself to say anything. I felt strongly that she wasn’t really there anymore, and it seemed like I would only be talking to myself. Instead, I kissed her on the forehead, held her hand and felt her go peacefully.
As I did, I thought about everything she had ever done for me.
Then I thought about an incident, toward the end, when I got frustrated with her because of something minor. I think I had asked her if she wanted me to bring her home some supper and she told me she wanted fried chicken. I was surprised because she hadn’t been eating much of anything, much less something as substantial as fried chicken, but I gladly got it for her.
When I brought it to her, she had turned up her nose and told me, “I never ordered that.
I still hate to even admit it, but I got short with her and told her she most certainly did order it and she had to eat it because she was wasting away. It’s strange, sometimes, the things you think about in such important moments. The most important person in my whole world was thinking about a little spat over fried chicken.
It didn’t mean anything at all in the grand scheme of life, then. Something as quickly as that thought flitted into my mind it evaporated.
Something came over me and I realized that there are precious few times in life that really matter, and that when you love someone as much as I love my mother, as much as she loved me, you don’t have to be perfect. Neither does the other person. You love each other just exactly as you are.”
The Lesson in the Fried Chicken
Reading this, I felt something lift.
Sam Tenenbaum–this icon of Birmingham, the Great Kaiser–got short with his dying mother over fried chicken. And he carried that with him even as she passed. But then he understood: love doesn’t require perfection.
I didn’t buy Sam’s book when he was alive. I didn’t show up for him the way I wish I had. But reading his words now, I understand something he already knew: we don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be human, and we have to try.
Permission to Be Imperfect
Sam’s book is a gift. It’s honest about his flaws, his regrets, his moments of impatience. And in that honesty, there’s permission for the rest of us to be imperfect too. To mess up, to feel guilty, to wish we’d done better–and then to forgive ourselves and keep loving anyway.
I still feel the pain of not supporting Sam when I could have.
But now I also feel gratitude. Gratitude that I finally read his words. Gratitude that he shared his own struggles so openly. Gratitude that Birmingham had someone like him, someone who understood that the messiness of being human is part of what makes love real.
If you haven’t read Sam’s book, do it. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s true. And in a world that demands perfection, truth is what we need most.
Also, it might make me feel a little less guilty.
David Sher is the founder and publisher of ComebackTown. He’s past Chairman of the Birmingham Regional Chamber of Commerce (BBA), Operation New Birmingham (REV Birmingham), and the City Action Partnership (CAP).
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