There are people who deal in various shades of gray.
There are people who deal randomly.
There are people who don't deal at all.
And then, since I've been working in the South, I've discovered, there are people who deal only in the black and only in the white.
And, trust me, I don't mean racially.
I mean, "these are the rules" or "this is what I was told" or "so and so told me to jump exactly this high".
I mean BLACK and WHITE.
In an earlier blog I mentioned the over-functionality of the Southern culture. And now I'm discovering this black and white thing. In the beginning, I had divided the South into two camps: the very, very, very nice (that part of the population who over-functioned..'you don't need any stupid ole' directions to the airport, let me drive ya, and I'll hitch home'. O.k.
And then there's the very, very, very passive-aggressive nice (you thought i was going to say stupid didntchya? I was but I changed my mind), that kind of nice that you know they don't really mean.
It's just inbred in the culture. They've gotta say, 'honey' and 'yes, ma'ame' and 'no, sir' and 'bless your heart', but what they're really saying is 'don't fuck with me you summabitch, cause you're workin' on my last good nerve, and this is the way it's done and that's that.'
But there is a definite order to things and most everyone down here seems all wrapped up in the details of something or other. Rules. Process. The way things are done. And they don't mean to be mean (read: stupid) but they can't help it. That's just how they was brung up.
Today for instance: big, huge campaign breaking next week and we're launching it at the home base.
An entire week of all of us execs sending out daily emails, and volunteers greeting people at the door with cupcakes with branded frosting, and pens that shine the logo on the wall, and paper, lots and lots of paper, and TEE-SHIRTS..
Now most people go ape shit over free stuff. Back in the day when I was opening malls and stores and the such and we'd have branded shopping bags, I'd see women as old as 90, cold cock some other octogenarian to the ground to get their shopping bag, and some other 'Debbie Diamond up her Ass I'm so rich' come up and claim to have have three sick kids at home and could she have bags for them too...yeah, like her kids want a fucking shopping bag.
Not too mention celebrities. When we would have designer shit that we gave away at various functions (more on that in later blogs), but suffice to say, I don't care if you're Goldie or Oprah, you are getting your free shit.
O.k. back to the South and the TEE-SHIRTS.
"So only employees get the TEE-SHIRTS. You have to see their employee badge and then they can get a TEE-SHIRT. So we'll hand out the paper with all these announcements on them (useless) and you hand out the TEE-SHIRTS."
Now keep in mind that the TEE-SHIRTS, for TEE-SHIRTS, are pretty nice..cool branded color, cool design, rolled up and tied up with a branded colored ribbon. And all the sizes are in different marked boxes with huge L-XL-1XL-2XL-3XL-4XL-and yes, because we are in the South, 5XL and let me tell you, no one asked if there was a difference between men's and women's sizes, because let me tell you, there weren't.
O.k. Black and White.
Remember TEE-SHIRTS only for employees, everyone gets two pieces of paper.
People start coming in and this events Nazi with a sweet, yet blaring southern accent starts barking out her instructions to her first victims (keep in mind with that passive-aggressive tone to her voice too)
"Hey, Miss Vivian..here's your sheet on this and here's your sheet on that, and then show your badge to Mr. John over there and git yuuur TEE-SHIRT, kay sugah?"
Keep in mind i'm standing exactly two feet away from Miss Thang. So Miss Vivian of course, looks at me, who's badge is proudly displayed on her massive chest and pushes it in my face to prove she's an employee and says "Mr. John I think I'll take a 4XXL" and I think to myself, "Don't say it. Don't say it" and what comes out is, "Here's one just for you, and don't forget to wear it tomorrow." Whew! That was close.
And Miss Vivian leaves just in time for me to hear the Nazi Southern Belle, purr, "Are you a contractor"? And i swear to God, there was instant silence, like the guy had been asked, "Scuse me Sugah, you a leper?"
Well, the poor man WAS a contractor, and then Miss Thang says, "Oh, i'm so sorrrrry for you for that, but I can give you these two pieces of paper.." she looks at me, "But Mr. John, he does not get a TEE-SHIRT!"
Fuck! What am i supposed to do with that? Mr. Downhome kinda looks at me, ashamed like, and I shrug with "I'm sorry man, my hands are tied here, you're a contractor, you are bad!" He leaves dangling his two pieces of paper from trembling fingertips. I almost cried.
And then it occurs to me. I'm not an employee either. I'm a fucking contractor. I'm Miss Thang's boss, but I am a contractor.
"Hey! I shouldn't have a TEE-SHIRT. I'm a contractor."
"Haw! Haw! Haw!" she shrieked at me. "You're right. And if I had my way, you wouldn't git one neither...Haw! Haw! Haw!" Like she's just kidding. But we all know she's not kidding. She wants to rip my TEE-SHIRT right of my body. She hates me!
Black and White. And the only gray for many down here is that which is forced down their throat. They hate it, but they'll smile the whole time they stick in the shiv.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Take a Message to Garcia
Over-functionality is way over-rated.
Maybe it's because I now find myself in the South with my work with St.Jude
Children's Research Hospital, but a simple, "Can you give me directions to the airport?" inevitably ends with, " Why don't you follow me in your rental car, or better yet, why don't I drive with you, I'm sure someone at the Rental Car place can get me back? What time do you need to be there? Why do you get a rental car instead of the car service, then they could get you there? What airlines? Why? What? How? When?
"Never mind. I just map quested it."
Take a message to Garcia.
This story first came to my attention through a Copy Chief at Marshall Field's when I was Director of Creative Services.
The story takes place during the Spanish American War. Long story short, Spain invaded Cuba, blew up a US military ship, pissed off McKinley, who declared war on Spain, and needed to reach a certain General Calixto Garcia, a Cuban born Creole who was the leader of Cuban rebels. McKinley needed to get a message to Garcia so they could join forces against Spain. No one knew Garcia's exact location.
The task went to a Lieutenant Andrew Summers Rowan. All he was told was the message had to be given to Garcia and that he may be somewhere in the Eastern part of Cuba. Without one question, Rowan left to find Garcia. He delivered the message. Wham bam thank you ma'ame.
No, "Where is he? What does he look like? Who are his contacts? How do I get there? Does he need a ride to the airport after I find him?"
No questions, just got it done. Delivered the damn message to Garcia. P.S. We won the war!
When I first started at Marshall Field's my assistant gave me, rather forced upon me, the reputation of being a self-doer, or as she said, 'you're quite an independent guy aren't you?" According to her, I barely allowed her to answer my phone for me.
So I tried, I really did. I tried not to live by the rule of 'if you wanted it done right, I should do it myself'..but then the questions would start flowing: who, what, when, why...and truly, by the time I had answered any and all of those questions, I could have not only done it better, but a hell of a lot faster.
I ran my own company for ten years and didn't have an assistant or someone to do the calendaring and travel and detail work. I did it myself.
Now, don't think I didn't get used to that help after 15 years at Marshall Field's and Target but on any level we should all be working to take that message to Garcia. Just do it.
And, now, living by my own rule, when I want directions some place I just find out.
So, over-functionality for me, is just another example of someone covering their ass, of asking too many questions to make sure they're doing exactly what you could have done for yourself without the aggravation, to make sure that if something does go wrong they always have the caveat, "Well, you said...."
Call it initiative, self-starting, call it 'having a brain'. Call it whatever you want.
Just take the damn message to Garcia.
Maybe it's because I now find myself in the South with my work with St.Jude
Children's Research Hospital, but a simple, "Can you give me directions to the airport?" inevitably ends with, " Why don't you follow me in your rental car, or better yet, why don't I drive with you, I'm sure someone at the Rental Car place can get me back? What time do you need to be there? Why do you get a rental car instead of the car service, then they could get you there? What airlines? Why? What? How? When?
"Never mind. I just map quested it."
Take a message to Garcia.
This story first came to my attention through a Copy Chief at Marshall Field's when I was Director of Creative Services.
The story takes place during the Spanish American War. Long story short, Spain invaded Cuba, blew up a US military ship, pissed off McKinley, who declared war on Spain, and needed to reach a certain General Calixto Garcia, a Cuban born Creole who was the leader of Cuban rebels. McKinley needed to get a message to Garcia so they could join forces against Spain. No one knew Garcia's exact location.
The task went to a Lieutenant Andrew Summers Rowan. All he was told was the message had to be given to Garcia and that he may be somewhere in the Eastern part of Cuba. Without one question, Rowan left to find Garcia. He delivered the message. Wham bam thank you ma'ame.
No, "Where is he? What does he look like? Who are his contacts? How do I get there? Does he need a ride to the airport after I find him?"
No questions, just got it done. Delivered the damn message to Garcia. P.S. We won the war!
When I first started at Marshall Field's my assistant gave me, rather forced upon me, the reputation of being a self-doer, or as she said, 'you're quite an independent guy aren't you?" According to her, I barely allowed her to answer my phone for me.
So I tried, I really did. I tried not to live by the rule of 'if you wanted it done right, I should do it myself'..but then the questions would start flowing: who, what, when, why...and truly, by the time I had answered any and all of those questions, I could have not only done it better, but a hell of a lot faster.
I ran my own company for ten years and didn't have an assistant or someone to do the calendaring and travel and detail work. I did it myself.
Now, don't think I didn't get used to that help after 15 years at Marshall Field's and Target but on any level we should all be working to take that message to Garcia. Just do it.
And, now, living by my own rule, when I want directions some place I just find out.
So, over-functionality for me, is just another example of someone covering their ass, of asking too many questions to make sure they're doing exactly what you could have done for yourself without the aggravation, to make sure that if something does go wrong they always have the caveat, "Well, you said...."
Call it initiative, self-starting, call it 'having a brain'. Call it whatever you want.
Just take the damn message to Garcia.
Monday, November 17, 2008
THAT THING I SAW
That thing I saw.
That blandly hateful thing. No malice. No forethought.
Just dismissal.
That thing I saw, made me think twice.
It's amazing how easily we dismiss people (even animals for that matter). Not paying attention. Not in the moment, as they say. Not really seeing or hearing what is going on right now.
That's what I saw not too recently. It was done to me. And that was bad enough until I realized that I do the same thing, dozens of times a day. I have to say I used to be much more dismissive when I worked in my previous job.
It takes retiring from one job, where the most important decision is really not all that earth shattering, not really very relevant or 'important'. How often we sat around that board room table and said, "Hey, we're not curing cancer". And we'd all laugh and at least for a moment draw a little perspective out of that particular decision making moment. Talk around that same table always veered towards strategy or goals or objectives, something from the corporate sense of world, something, in the scheme of things, really not important.
It takes taking on a new job, one that deals with raising money for a cause, one that insists on making you aware of others moments in time.
It takes witnessing close friends' fighting and struggling with their child's terrible illness where they are forced into a very disturbing and painful 'now', a present moment, where strategy takes on a whole new meaning.
NOW... you are trying to cure cancer.
NOW... every decision is so important, and the ultimate decision doesn't always lie within your grasp or your control.
So being dismissive? It's not an option.
You don't get to dismiss me. Because I'm real.
And, more importantly, I don't get to dismiss you, no matter who you are. For all I know, you could be that friend fighting for their lives. Or that stranger, doing the same thing.
Except for that random, evil, uncaring socio-path (oh, and they're out there) I don't get to dismiss anyone or anything.
That's how I make each moment count.
That's how I see things more clearly.
That's how, the thing I saw, made me think twice.
That blandly hateful thing. No malice. No forethought.
Just dismissal.
That thing I saw, made me think twice.
It's amazing how easily we dismiss people (even animals for that matter). Not paying attention. Not in the moment, as they say. Not really seeing or hearing what is going on right now.
That's what I saw not too recently. It was done to me. And that was bad enough until I realized that I do the same thing, dozens of times a day. I have to say I used to be much more dismissive when I worked in my previous job.
It takes retiring from one job, where the most important decision is really not all that earth shattering, not really very relevant or 'important'. How often we sat around that board room table and said, "Hey, we're not curing cancer". And we'd all laugh and at least for a moment draw a little perspective out of that particular decision making moment. Talk around that same table always veered towards strategy or goals or objectives, something from the corporate sense of world, something, in the scheme of things, really not important.
It takes taking on a new job, one that deals with raising money for a cause, one that insists on making you aware of others moments in time.
It takes witnessing close friends' fighting and struggling with their child's terrible illness where they are forced into a very disturbing and painful 'now', a present moment, where strategy takes on a whole new meaning.
NOW... you are trying to cure cancer.
NOW... every decision is so important, and the ultimate decision doesn't always lie within your grasp or your control.
So being dismissive? It's not an option.
You don't get to dismiss me. Because I'm real.
And, more importantly, I don't get to dismiss you, no matter who you are. For all I know, you could be that friend fighting for their lives. Or that stranger, doing the same thing.
Except for that random, evil, uncaring socio-path (oh, and they're out there) I don't get to dismiss anyone or anything.
That's how I make each moment count.
That's how I see things more clearly.
That's how, the thing I saw, made me think twice.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Gotta love the Brooklyn Target store...
Target has a culture. I don't mean that in an elitist way, or a jingoistic way or any way...they do. Fast. Fun. and Friendly. Red shirts of some type (if you work in the store) and khaki pants or skirts of some type (if you work in the store).
Minneapolis has a huge contingency of Somali, many of whom work at Target. And I remember feeling almost Target national pride when the Somali women would keep to the red and khaki but instill their own culture to it; wrap around khaki skirts with elaborate tunic kind of red tops. I felt, hey, there they are, carrying some product to a Target shelf to keep it stocked (ha! as if) but they could just as well be carrying a load of laundry down to the river in their Target, culturally-correct, garb.
It seemed pretty consistent, the way Target team members handled themselves. They all seemed to buy into the fast, fun and friendly culture, and except for the big-butted, capri pant wearing, curler in the hair, Betty Bag of Donuts shopping the aisles, you pretty much saw a sea of red and khaki.
Until I got to the Atlantic Terminal store: oh, the red and khaki was still there. Couldn't get away from that, but fast, fun and friendly? Yes. But definitely their own version.
I always had certain expectations of New York and its people. This is the place where, especially in Brooklyn, seeing a film is an interactive experience. I sat in the top row of a Brooklyn theater one night watching a scary film (can't even remember the name) but it was scary. You know the rumors or urban myths about people in the theater talking back to the screen? Well, it's no myth. There were all kinds of " Oh no you din't". "Girl, you open that fuckin' door and you get what you deserve.." I don't mean sotto voce, I mean, screaming at the top of their lungs, and then giggling and then screaming some more and then series of 'fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck..she did NOT just open that door'.
Stuff like that. And when the enormous black woman, who was also alone and sitting next to me, grabbed my arm and then my hand, and gave me a look that said 'tough shit, I'm scared and you're the closest thing I have to protection' and then proceeded to pound on my arm everytime that woman DID open the door, well, then I knew, that the Brooklyn 'culture' was a whole different zoo of animals.
Cut to: Atlantic Terminal Target. Pre Christmas, a crazy time regardless. Buying something in Electronics. I know right away that I'm not in Kansas or Minnesota anymore when I ask a team member (Edward) if I get the Ipod Player here can I pay for it here? And he looked at me, real scared like, and turned and walked away. So I stood in line with about five other people.
I could see and hear the 'guest' first in line, asking a similar question...because as it turns out she had been standing in line for quite a long time only to be told by Saquista or Virgina (rhymes with Vagina) that she couldn't perform her transaction there because the product manager (Edward as it turns out) had told them they had to go to main checkout. The guest, being white, and not Jewish, did as she was told.
By the time I got up there, Saschachawatch, had just about had it. Every single one of the people in front of me had been told by Edward something very different then she was led to believe by the very same Edward. I reached her finally and asked the same question, Ipod player in hand: I merely started with, "I asked Edward...." and that's as far as I got. Edward happened to be walking down the main aisle and Javeeta caught him out of the corner of her eye.
"edward!" Seething, low but seething. "EDward". Little louder. Edward is having none of it. He keeps walking. "EDWArd". O.k. pretty loud now and I'm thinking I'm about to witness a whole new culture of Red and Khaki. "EDWARD. You muthuhfuckuh, donchyou be walking by like you din't hear me callin' you."
Oh my God! He's doing just that. Edward is pretending he doesn't hear Jack O Lantern and he's just about out of sight. I hold my breath.
"EDWARD! EDWARD! EDWARD! I'M JUST GOING TO KEEP ON SAYING IT UNTIL YOU COME BACK HERE MOTHERFUCKUH".
He's not coming back.
"EDWARD. EDWARD.EDWARD."
Now I have never heard a team member, anywhere, talk above a normal voice, "..may i help you find something"? But Bashika was not only screaming at the top of her lungs but was MF this and MF that..all the time wearing the Red and Khaki. And I thought well, you know what, this is the Brooklyn culture and instead of reporting her like some kind of Target nazi (yes, rumors of red kool-aid are true) I needed to embrace this version of Fast, Fun and Friendly. And then she was talking at me.
"You believe that mutherfucker"?
"No, no. I don't believe that fucker".
" I mean, i spos he tolt you you could pay for that here"?
"Nope. The fucker wouldn't even answer me."
" Moootheeerfuckker."
"Yepper."
"Tell you what honey, since that fuckuh won't answer me, I'm going to let you pay for that here."
"Thank you, ah...(I look at her team member name badge)..thanks Jennifer."
"yo welcm' baby."
Merry Fucking Christmas!
Minneapolis has a huge contingency of Somali, many of whom work at Target. And I remember feeling almost Target national pride when the Somali women would keep to the red and khaki but instill their own culture to it; wrap around khaki skirts with elaborate tunic kind of red tops. I felt, hey, there they are, carrying some product to a Target shelf to keep it stocked (ha! as if) but they could just as well be carrying a load of laundry down to the river in their Target, culturally-correct, garb.
It seemed pretty consistent, the way Target team members handled themselves. They all seemed to buy into the fast, fun and friendly culture, and except for the big-butted, capri pant wearing, curler in the hair, Betty Bag of Donuts shopping the aisles, you pretty much saw a sea of red and khaki.
Until I got to the Atlantic Terminal store: oh, the red and khaki was still there. Couldn't get away from that, but fast, fun and friendly? Yes. But definitely their own version.
I always had certain expectations of New York and its people. This is the place where, especially in Brooklyn, seeing a film is an interactive experience. I sat in the top row of a Brooklyn theater one night watching a scary film (can't even remember the name) but it was scary. You know the rumors or urban myths about people in the theater talking back to the screen? Well, it's no myth. There were all kinds of " Oh no you din't". "Girl, you open that fuckin' door and you get what you deserve.." I don't mean sotto voce, I mean, screaming at the top of their lungs, and then giggling and then screaming some more and then series of 'fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck..she did NOT just open that door'.
Stuff like that. And when the enormous black woman, who was also alone and sitting next to me, grabbed my arm and then my hand, and gave me a look that said 'tough shit, I'm scared and you're the closest thing I have to protection' and then proceeded to pound on my arm everytime that woman DID open the door, well, then I knew, that the Brooklyn 'culture' was a whole different zoo of animals.
Cut to: Atlantic Terminal Target. Pre Christmas, a crazy time regardless. Buying something in Electronics. I know right away that I'm not in Kansas or Minnesota anymore when I ask a team member (Edward) if I get the Ipod Player here can I pay for it here? And he looked at me, real scared like, and turned and walked away. So I stood in line with about five other people.
I could see and hear the 'guest' first in line, asking a similar question...because as it turns out she had been standing in line for quite a long time only to be told by Saquista or Virgina (rhymes with Vagina) that she couldn't perform her transaction there because the product manager (Edward as it turns out) had told them they had to go to main checkout. The guest, being white, and not Jewish, did as she was told.
By the time I got up there, Saschachawatch, had just about had it. Every single one of the people in front of me had been told by Edward something very different then she was led to believe by the very same Edward. I reached her finally and asked the same question, Ipod player in hand: I merely started with, "I asked Edward...." and that's as far as I got. Edward happened to be walking down the main aisle and Javeeta caught him out of the corner of her eye.
"edward!" Seething, low but seething. "EDward". Little louder. Edward is having none of it. He keeps walking. "EDWArd". O.k. pretty loud now and I'm thinking I'm about to witness a whole new culture of Red and Khaki. "EDWARD. You muthuhfuckuh, donchyou be walking by like you din't hear me callin' you."
Oh my God! He's doing just that. Edward is pretending he doesn't hear Jack O Lantern and he's just about out of sight. I hold my breath.
"EDWARD! EDWARD! EDWARD! I'M JUST GOING TO KEEP ON SAYING IT UNTIL YOU COME BACK HERE MOTHERFUCKUH".
He's not coming back.
"EDWARD. EDWARD.EDWARD."
Now I have never heard a team member, anywhere, talk above a normal voice, "..may i help you find something"? But Bashika was not only screaming at the top of her lungs but was MF this and MF that..all the time wearing the Red and Khaki. And I thought well, you know what, this is the Brooklyn culture and instead of reporting her like some kind of Target nazi (yes, rumors of red kool-aid are true) I needed to embrace this version of Fast, Fun and Friendly. And then she was talking at me.
"You believe that mutherfucker"?
"No, no. I don't believe that fucker".
" I mean, i spos he tolt you you could pay for that here"?
"Nope. The fucker wouldn't even answer me."
" Moootheeerfuckker."
"Yepper."
"Tell you what honey, since that fuckuh won't answer me, I'm going to let you pay for that here."
"Thank you, ah...(I look at her team member name badge)..thanks Jennifer."
"yo welcm' baby."
Merry Fucking Christmas!
Saturday, November 1, 2008
It's almost a cliche...
It's really almost a cliche...the Manhatten skyline from the Promenade in Brooklyn. You look at all those buildings, all those windows...all those buildings that are there now, and the two that once were there and are now gone.
All those windows, all those lights, all those lives. Windows, lights and lives present and now gone. Gone from the cliche, making what seems almost ordinary one minute, extraordinary the next with what is absent. Gone.
And while we're at the East River: I don't think there's anything more haunting, sadder and yet comforting than an old, abandoned pier. A pier that now has shrubs and grasses growing on it and long-ago used railroad tracks on it; tracks that end in the East River
All those windows, all those lights, all those lives. Windows, lights and lives present and now gone. Gone from the cliche, making what seems almost ordinary one minute, extraordinary the next with what is absent. Gone.
And while we're at the East River: I don't think there's anything more haunting, sadder and yet comforting than an old, abandoned pier. A pier that now has shrubs and grasses growing on it and long-ago used railroad tracks on it; tracks that end in the East River
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