by Holly Jahangiri | Nov 4, 2018
Villanelle the Vote!
The lady holds her torch aloft, warm welcome beacon to us all.
Her steady message, one of peace, within a world that’s gone berserk,
But whispers, “Use your right to vote, lest our democracy should fall.”
Some cower in the shadowed corners; others rise in sunlight’s thrall
Where hope, ideals, and wisdom guide us from the fears that darkening, lurk.
The lady holds her torch aloft, warm welcome beacon to us all.
The lady welcomes all who yearn, for right and justice to stand tall,
In her book is written “freedom,” for young and old, for doctor, clerk –
But whispers, “Use your right to vote, lest our democracy should fall.”
Past history’s lessons have been cruel; the canons bring a deathly pall
Bonds break, while heartsick mothers cry and distant despots smirk
The lady holds her torch aloft, warm welcome beacon to us all
We’ve failed to heed the warning signs, so subtle sometimes, and so small
The lady stands her ground and beckons, bids us come to play, to work –
But whispers, “Use your right to vote, lest our democracy should fall.”
We stand here, the eleventh hour. Will we listen – heed the call?
Will we do our civic duty? Or will we, disaffected, shirk…
The lady holds her torch aloft, warm welcome beacon to us all
But whispers, “Use your right to vote, lest our democracy should fall.”
Copyright © 2018 Holly Jahangiri
A Little Backstory
Years ago, I ran an online poetry workshop. I asked, “Which form should I teach, next?” My friend Dale answered, “Villanelle.” I’d never written one; in truth, I’d never heard of one. I was too naïve to suggest that Dale go eat dog poop while I taught the class how to write a limerick, instead.
You can’t teach a thing if you can’t do a thing. So I figured out the basics and I wrote the blasted Villanelle:
Amusement Park II
A vibrant world of light and color, wild rides whose structures gleam!
On the tainted shores of Erie, life was carefree, full of joy –
Now it just seems tawdry, tarnished echoes of a tattered dream.
The rollercoaster ratchets up; hear the children’s happy scream
As it plummets to the water’s edge, a shiny metal toy.
A vibrant world of light and color, wild rides whose structures gleam!
See the peeling, gilt-edged carrousel? Life itself’s the theme –
Boardwalk barkers sell blind luck with every trick they can employ.
Now it just seems tawdry, tarnished echoes of a tattered dream.
Sticky hands and faces, hot dogs, cotton candy, and ice cream
Downed with quivering excitement by a girl in corduroy.
A vibrant world of light and color, wild rides whose structures gleam!
Into the garish funhouse door! Dizzy wonder reigns supreme
Lunging, lounging lizard man, the bearded lady, pretzel boy –
Now it just seems tawdry, tarnished echoes of a tattered dream.
The freaks take off their makeup (even they’re not what they seem!)
We once were young and certain that nothing ever could destroy
A vibrant world of light and color, wild rides whose structures gleam!
Now it just seems tawdry, tarnished echoes of a tattered dream.
Then I wrote another one describing how I felt about the form and the person who’d suggested it to me. I vowed never to do it again.
The Villainous Villanelle
This came up, somehow, on Facebook – a subthread of comments on my post asking everyone to commit to vote this Tuesday, if they hadn’t, already. I don’t want to start sending out “text a friend” reminders – I’ve had about 40 of them, already, myself! (It’s too important, though, to get angry about it, and it costs me nothing.) I mentioned that I’d once donated to a politician’s campaign, after he sent me a sonnet. (I’m a sucker for a sonnet. But Villanelle starts with “V” and “V” is for VOTE.) So, my friend Susan – who likes to post little poems now and then – promised to write a Villanelle, and I said that a good friend and leader never asks of others something they’re not willing to do, themselves.
And so, in the spirit of not letting anyone suffer alone, I wrote this. And Susan said, “Oh, it’s so on,” and sent me this. This does not count, and it depresses me, even as it makes me laugh.
Susan’s got till midnight, Tuesday.
by Holly Jahangiri | May 9, 2018
Oh, the power of social media! Where once we might have been limited to telling 15 of our closest friends about our negative experience with BrandX, we now have the bully-pulpit of blogs, Facebook, Twitter, and a host of other channels by which to trash our least-favorite brand of the moment. Using social media to complain can be very effective, or it can just trash a brand’s reputation to no good end.
Admittedly, sometimes, it feels like they deserve it.
On the other hand, saying “You SUCK, BrandX! You are the WORST people on the planet!” is kind of a waste of everybody’s time. You know – be very specific. “You suck” is hardly an actionable complaint. Maybe you think you don’t care, and you’re vengefully hoping they never figure out how to make it better, because there’s a sucking black hole for companies like BrandX and you’d be delighted to see them buried in it, under 16 tons of elephant poop. You’re righteously angry, and you have the faceless Internet Horde on your side. You’ve got Brands A, B, and C gleefully courting your business now and offering you competitive discounts. BrandX made you feel like a nobody, but its competitors know just how important and valuable you are. They’ll treat you right.
Did you bully the other kids on the school playground? Did that get you “in” with the popular kids?
I’m willing to bet money that somewhere down the line, BrandA, BrandB, and BrandC all suck – for someone. Maybe even for you, once they’ve courted you and won your business. How disappointing is that? And if all you do is shout, “YOU SUCK!!” in all caps, they still won’t know what they can do to make your life any happier. Sure, they’d all like for you to like them (believe it or not, no company has on its annual goals, “Get 70% of our customers pissed off at us, for one reason or another”), but if you bully them and don’t say anything but “You suck! Everybody go tell BrandX how bad they suck!” and start swearing at and about them, they’ll give up trying and focus on the nice people. Because, really, you’ve just told them that there’s no reasonable thing they can do to make you a happy customer. They’re not going to chain you up and make you keep buying BrandX when you’ve just announced to 5 billion people that you will never do that again.
On the other hand, if you go through the proper, normal channels to get redress for your grievances with BrandX, and still get no satisfaction, you’re not wrong to vent, or to use social media to communicate with the brand. In fact, if you tweet out, “Hey, @BrandXSocialMedia, I got put on hold for 16 hours, fell asleep, and came back to find my support ticket was closed without a fix!” you may get help from higher up and maybe they can prevent the problem from happening to other customers. Everyone’s happy. The larger brands probably have millions – if not billions – of products out there. Honestly, if only .01% of a million customers are unhappy, that’s still 100 unhappy people. It’s not like they’re trying to screw you over, personally.
Now imagine there are only 100 customer service reps trying to respond to everything from “How do I turn this thing on?” to “I’m getting an error code 666666 – does that mean my digital display toaster’s now possessed by the devil? Why the frig didn’t I just stick with the old one where I just pushed the damned bread down with my jam knife?” You can imagine how a generalized “You suck” just sinks right to the bottom of the to-do list, even as it demoralizes real human beings who probably don’t suck and had nothing to do with whatever pissed you off in the first place.
I’m not here to judge. I’ve been guilty of ineffective bitching and moaning on social media, too. I’m just here to offer some tips on more effectively using social media to communicate what you want and need from brands. They’re usually quite sincere when they say they want to “engage” with you, but you have to help by meeting them halfway. A few things they will always need from you: contact info (and a way to get that privately, unless you want it blasted all over the ever-lovin’ Internet), specifics of the problem or suggestions, and assurance from you that it really is worth their time to make it right. That’s “assurance,” not “threats.”
Complain to the Right Person!
Try to make sure you’re complaining to the right social care account, first. How do you know? Does it have a little “Verified” checkmark in a blue circle? Does it contain some variant of the word “Support” or “Service” or “Help” in the handle or bio? Is it active? Look at the Tweet stream, news feed, or recent posts to see if anyone’s minding the store. If it hasn’t Tweeted at all in 473 days, is it fair of you to complain that it didn’t respond to you in two?
Spelling and Grammar DO Matter!
Make sure that you spell BrandX and its products’ names correctly – just like what you see on the packaging for their thing you bought. You’d be amazed at how much this helps those folks searching through the haystack. Odds are, Coca-Cola™ won’t find an obscure reference to “koca koola.”
When a thing has a billion mentions in social media, odds are pretty good that the folks reaching down into the haystacks to find your sharp-tongued barbs are using software to search through large amounts of aggregated data (think “ginormous, machine-baled haystacks – like, all the haystacks on Google”) for what it is the brand is doing well, and what it is they’re doing poorly. Your use of simple, declarative sentences will get faster attention and action than using clever metaphors and sarcasm.
Twitter
Look, Twitter may be great for getting a brand’s attention, but it’s hard to provide a really good description of the problem, let alone a resolution, in 140 characters. First of all, if you’re going to approach a brand’s customer service Twitter account, it’s a good idea to Follow that account first, so that they can Follow you and send you a private, direct message to get more information. Unless you just want to blast your phone number and/or email to them in a public tweet: “Hey, @BrandXSupport, call me at 555-555-5555 so I can tell you you suck to your face!”
Seriously, whoever’s manning that account probably doesn’t suck and really doesn’t want to lose you as a customer. They may or may not be able to resolve your issue in a couple of Tweets, but if they can, it’s a win-win. Help them to help you. Try a pleasant Tweet, first.
If that doesn’t do the trick, maybe write a simple blog post about exactly what’s going on – make it very clear, so that anyone can understand exactly what the problem is and what you’d like to see BrandX do about it. Then Tweet something like: “Hey, @BrandX, you suck and here’s why: bit.ly/why-brandx-sucks ” You get to vent, and BrandX has another chance to make it right for you.
Facebook & Google+
It really helps to make sure, when venting to BrandX, that you’re actually on a real BrandX page, and not one of numerous fake BrandX pages. Because the fake ones are probably run by FlyByNight. FlyByNight probably isn’t a competitor of BrandX – they’re working all sides of the street and trying to sell whatever they can sell – or, worse yet, trying to build up an email marketing list or contact database they can sell or exploit. Or maybe they were set up by another disgruntled customer who got there, first, and now you’re just commiserating – but BrandX may not even realize it. Make sure that when you say “BrandX you suck,” your complaints aren’t falling on deaf ears.
If you want BrandX to lower its prices, don’t go yelling at it in some far-flung, remote, nobody-ever-goes-here site. They may eventually find your complaint, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack and that means they have to hire more hands to reach into the haystack – raising costs for everybody. Serious complaints left on BrandX’s doorstep will likely be reviewed before the “Hah! Tag, you’re it! Betcha can’t find me!” complaints.
Review Sites
Obviously, a verified purchaser’s review will be taken more seriously than someone who may or may not own anything by BrandX. With so many paid reviewers out there, it’s only fair to the actual customers. And speaking of fair, my Grandfather used to say, “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” Okay, so who the hell wants to attract a bunch of flies? No one. But if you write a fair and balanced review, including whatever positive points you can sincerely say about BrandX without gagging or feeling the flames of eternal damnation licking at your feet for lying, your opinions and experiences will be taken much more seriously than if you appear to be a shill for Brand Y, or someone who holds a personal grudge against BrandX.
The existence of paid reviews also makes photos (preferably of you, holding your BrandX lemon) and video (wherein you get on your webcam and show off your BrandX lemon or talk about your personal experiences with BrandX) much more valuable than mere text and pretty pictures pulled from BrandX’s own site. Pictures and video are great for showing exactly what the problem looks like, sounds like, and where it is.
Fake reviews may fool the search engines, sometimes, but they rarely fool a brand or a savvy customer.
Blogs & The Open Letter
All of the tips above apply to blogs, as well. The nice thing about blogs is that it gives BrandX a chance to compose a thoughtful reply and engage with you. That is, if they can find your post. You know the whole argument about which is king: content or marketing? If BrandX can’t find your blog, let alone your post, drowning in the sea of 450 billion other blogs out there, you’re going to get mad at them for ignoring you, aren’t you? Play fair – see the Twitter section of this post, above. Go directly to BrandX and say, “Hey, I’ve got a problem. I describe it here – bit.ly/why-brandx-sucks – can you share this with someone at BrandX who can fix this for me?” At this point, you may consider including other active BrandX Twitter accounts, assuming the support account hasn’t helped, yet.
I had two great experiences with 24 Hour Fitness and their social media customer service. One involved empowering employees to make the customer experience better, and the other involved a weird experience with billing. To be fair, after complaining about them, I made sure to give them well-deserved kudos for how they handled my grievances. I’d like to encourage them, and other brands, to keep up the good work. Aren’t you more motivated by praise than by being bashed over the head with a virtual 2×4?
I once had a horrendous experience on a particular airline that’s based in Philadelphia (and now owned by a larger airline). I mean, seriously – if they were the last airline on the planet and I had to get from Maine to southern California, I’d seriously consider walking. It would probably take me five years, but I’m pretty sure the whole experience would be much more pleasant. I tried complaining to the desk agent. I filled out a comment card and left it with a flight attendant. I filled out a second comment card and mailed it. I wrote a lovely snail mail letter to the head of Customer Service. I wrote a not-so-nice snail mail letter to the head of Customer Service. And finally, I posted that same letter as an open letter on the Internet. I mean, I was angry and they didn’t respond to me at all. But some of their pilots and flight crews did. They logged in and created accounts on the platform I was using for blogging at the time, just so they could leave comments on my post. They wanted me to know they shared my pain. They expressed their frustration with customers’ attitudes, and I agreed they had some legitimate gripes. They wanted me to understand that the things that went wrong that trip were way beyond their control. And I assured them that I knew all these things – that the pilots and flight crews had been the only saving grace for this airline. But I never got any official response at all from the airline about my specific complaints.
When a customer goes to this much effort to reach a brand, odds are, they don’t want to hate the brand. They want restitution, not retribution. When the employees start commiserating with the unhappy customers, there’s an even bigger problem. Sadly, I’d still want to walk, if this were the last airline on the planet.
But to be fair, they are (amazingly) still in business (albeit owned by a much better airline, now), and my daughter recently had a much more positive experience with the same airline and for that, I’m glad. It has not been a good month for air safety, and I will admit that I held my breath and said a special prayer for her and this airline till she was safely home. Yes, I still hold a grudge, years later – but getting my child safely from here to there is how you start to chip away at it.
Originally published on It’s All a Matter of Perspective,
by Holly Jahangiri | Oct 17, 2016
After I posted “31 Ways NOT to Use Your Blog,” many of you goaded me, egged me on, encouraged me in my mischievous plan to write a series of posts wherein I break blogging rules I created as a tongue in cheek response to Microsoft’s proposal for “31 Ways to Use Your Blog” over a decade ago. How could I resist temptation like that? As with any form of writing, you can break the rules – and often should – provided you’re doing it very deliberately, with your eyes wide open, and provided you’re aware of the potential consequences.
Here’s a nice, bookmarkable, automagically updating post with links to all my rule-breaking blog posts:
I hope you enjoy them, and I hope that my breaking them doesn’t get me banned from the International Brotherhood of Bloggers or disowned by my family!
Discussion
What does the phrase, “rules are meant to be broken” mean to you? Do you agree or disagree? Would you qualify that with “always,” or “sometimes,” or “never”?
What “rules” have you read (and taken to heart) when it comes to blogging?
What blogging “rules” have you read, here or elsewhere, that you think are utter bunk?
Talk to me in the comments, below!
by Holly Jahangiri | Oct 15, 2016
I’ve already broken the cardinal rule of social media – the one that says, “Do not Friend your coworkers on Facebook, and for the love of all that’s holy, never Friend your boss or blog about work.” No one wants to be dooced, even if Heather A. swears she never was. And yet, if you can’t be friends with the people you spend 8-12 hours a day with, five days a week, who can you be friends with? I’ve thrown caution to the wind and Friended nearly 70 of them.
I was once invited to cover a work-related social media event – to blog and tweet about work. “It’s a trap, isn’t it?” I thought. It was weird, like breaking the fourth wall, and my anxiety showed – according to the folks who asked me to do it, I sounded too formal, stiff, and buttoned up. They’d invited me because they’d read my personal blog and wanted that voice and personality – not the neutral, personality-less voice I’d perfected in thirty years of technical writing.
That’s like the time my parents took me to New Orleans when I was just seventeen. I tried to impress them by acting terribly mature and not slurring my words after downing a Hurricane at Pat O’Brien’s, and only managed to convince my mother I was a lush. “Young lady,” she said to me, pointing a finger at my nose as I got ready for bed, “you hold your liquor too well!” Damn. I could’ve been having a tipsy good time instead of doing that half-baked impression of a tea-totalling schoolmarm.
I have also not forgotten that time, back in the late 1990s, that I made a deal with Legal: I wouldn’t write about work, and they wouldn’t claim copyright on any novels or children’s books I might write during the term of my employment. Well, they’ve held up their end of the deal.
I have plastered exactly 3.2 times the number of required FTC disclosures on any posts dealing with work, and this one’s no exception: “No coworkers were harmed in the making of this post, and while names have probably been changed to protect their privacy, they know whether they’re innocent or not. I’ll leave it to them to out themselves in comments, below.”
Spider Redux
These are true stories, originally posted on another blog in 2010.
Backstory
2001 was a particularly horrendous year for most of us, in one way or another. Even before 9/11, my mom was critically ill; it was an emotional rollercoaster. Imagine that, by the time the following events occurred, my nerves were pretty much shot to hell. There really isn’t any nice way of putting it – they were seriously damaged and misfiring on all cylinders. Add to that a debilitating spider phobia, and you have the makings of “Scary Movie 9 1/2.”
This is from a journal entry written at the time:
There is a TARANTULA on my back porch! I was sitting out there reading – in my bare feet – and saw it hop up to the doormat. I thought it was a TOAD, and leaned in for a closer look. [S]haking, I grabbed a can of bug spray – and tried to beat it senseless. (Well, duhhhh – it’s FLYING INSECT SPRAY, and useless against spiders!) That’s breaking the rules, of course – the rules being that if a spider is outdoors, where it belongs, I normally leave it alone. I have some sense of fair play. But a spider as big as my hand violates some unwritten rule, somewhere, surely…
Never fear, crazy arachnophiles, I didn’t succeed in beating it to a bloody, lifeless pulp. It jumped just a nanosecond before I whacked it into next Thursday. It’s still out there, waiting… biding its time… along with the its friends, the copperheads. Now I’m sitting here, writing this, feeling creepy crawly imaginary things brushing lightly against my skin in the dark…
Oh, but it gets better. Just one week later, we were about to leave for a much-needed vacation in California and I came home to find my father-in-law face down on the dining room floor. He was fine, as it turned out; he had an upper respiratory infection and was too weak to stand up without help. But at the time – let’s just say my mind had had about all it could handle:
…if you doubt I’m on the edge now, you should’ve heard the B-grade horror movie scream I let out last night… I was looking for a shoe, pulled the curtain back, and mistook [what I saw] for a (possibly live, possibly poisonous) SNAKE!! What was the name of the woman who made her fame and glory as “the screamer” for all those awful late-night horror movies? I had her all beat to hell, I swear! (I am NOT normally a screamer, truly I’m not. If I saw a mouse in the kitchen, I’d probably jump up and sit on the counter until I figured out how to trap and release it, or kill it, but I wouldn’t SCREAM. [T]he only thing that rates this kind of screaming is a fully grown rattlesnake coiled up in a box held by your own child and shakin’ his tail in the middle of your living room – certainly NOT a scrawny, dried-up, most-definitely-dead earthworm stretched out on the windowsill. Scared K witless, but J.J. wisely ignored me and went on making travel plan changes…]
I didn’t try to help with the last-minute alterations in our itineraries, because after lunch at my favorite Vietnamese restaurant the next day, I opened my fortune cookie and read: “Any arrangements you make today will be final.”
Flash Forward a Few Years…
So, this morning, I noticed that W had left his French homework on the table. He was halfway to the bus stop, but I glanced at my watch, quickly calculated the odds of catching him, grabbed the paper and my car keys, and ran for the garage. Stopped dead in my tracks, about a foot from the driver’s side door and let out a shriek to wake the dead. There, on the window, was an evil-looking, pitch-black spider – the kind that jumps. He had, as far as I could tell before squinching my eyes shut and trying to bring the shudders under control, a few white dots on his back. Each time I moved closer to the door handle, he jumped closer to the door handle.
Weird thoughts ran through my head: “For sale. Honda Accord Hybrid, excellent condition. Free to anyone who will get this creature out of my garage.” Now, if it had just been a question of getting to work, I’d have said, “Never mind. I’ll work from home today.” But no – I was a mama on a mission, and my son had worked hard on his forgotten homework last night. So after batting at the thing for a while with a piece of cardboard and driving it between the window and the doorframe, where I could temporarily pretend “if I can’t see it, it can’t see me,” I hurriedly got into the car and shut the door. After all, it was on the outside. Sort of. I mentally ran through all the possibilities of Honda’s car door construction techniques and decided I had time for the two minute drive. Ew, ew, ew…
Needless to say, I handed my son his homework through the passenger window.
Mission accomplished, paper delivered, I pulled back into the garage and steeled my nerves. I considered climbing over the console and out the passenger’s side, but just then my husband appeared to take the trash to the curb and get to work. Trying for a show of bravado I did not feel – not in the least – I flung open the door and leaped towards the back of the car, hoping I didn’t uncover a whole nest of the damned things. “Oh, Godohgodohgodohgod…the things I do for my kids!” I cried, rather in the manner of a martial artist yelling a ki-up.
“What’s the matter?” asked my husband. I fought the urge to tuck and roll into the fetal position and suck a thumb. I gave him the short version while trying to maintain a sort-of-adult façade. And this is just one of many reasons I’ve stayed married to the man for nearly 30 years: He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say, “What the HELL?” He quite helpfully suggested: “Why don’t you walk around the other side of the car?”
Why didn’t I think of that? I gave him a great big hug befitting the hero that he is, and sent him on his merry way. Now, another cup of coffee while I try to figure out how to dispose of the car—er, the spider IN the car.
A few moments in Google tells me that my little hitchhiker is probably Phidippus audax, or the Daring Jumping Spider. Like that makes it all better.
9:15 AM – Insidious Phidippus is still hanging out on the car, only now he’s traversing the top of it. We play a little game of tag (not sure which of us is “it”) while I try to collect the proof that this thing lives on my car. Hard to get a picture on my cell phone when my hands are shaking and he’s jumping around and the lighting’s bad.
9:30 AM – I duck into the car really, really quick and look around. OMG, he’s peering at me through the windshield. Objects in windshield tinting are absolutely as large as they appear!! Eeeeeek!
9:45 AM – Park in the garage at work. It’s about four miles from home, and I was driving 30-40 mph most of the time. Phidippus Rex is mocking me. Actually, he looks like I’ve just roused him from a nap. On TOP OF MY CAR. How did he not blow off? He looks at me. I look at him. “Off! Get off my car, you murderous beast!” He just sits there, mocking me. I look up at the ceiling of the parking garage. There are some freaking HUGE webs up there (doesn’t anyone ever run a broom across the cement?)… “Make some new friends,” I urge Phidippus Rex. “I just can’t be…whatever it is you want from me. Like…dinner.” It occurs to me, glancing up at those webs, that Phidippus may not be my biggest problem. With a deep shudder, I exit the garage and make my way to my cubicle.
1:10 PM – I’m hungry. Maybe it’s gone. Or not. I’m not sure which I’m hoping for. If it’s still there, that’s just seriously “Night Gallery” creepy. If it isn’t, I’ll always wonder where it went. Like…in the air vents. I talk to a coworker while trying to steel my nerves. He decides to walk me to my car and slay the beast. (Or just see for himself whether it’s all that impressive or I’m just being a major wuss.)
1:15 PM – Damned if Phidippus Rex isn’t pretty much where I left him. Wandering around aimlessly atop my car. Really, WTF? Why? (“Babies” flits through my brain, only to be shoved upward and out by screaming nerves.) JP kills the beast with an ironically captioned poster pulled from the window in the hallway. “Connect with THAT!” I cry, feeling strangely bereft.
Phidippus Rex is dead. He looks rather…small. JP has robbed him of his power. Long live JP!
Lunch was good, too.
Today
I have paid for blogging this, many times over. It amuses JP and BT to no end. BT mocks my spider phobia by posting spiders on my Facebook wall. I’m rethinking the wisdom of Friending coworkers, after all. Naaah, JP and BT have both earned the right to jest, and are kind enough to do it gently.
BT loaned me his horse, so that I could turn my cubicle into a stable. (By the way, come November 1, the feed bag will be full of Swedish Fish. There’s deliciously decadent chocolate for anyone who mounts this on RD’s cube wall.
Besides, BT makes sure I’m well fed when my ankle’s broken and keeps me supplied with wipes for my eyeglasses – no doubt to make sure I can clearly see the taunting spiders he posts on my wall. RP (who, himself, gets up to mischief like lobbing crumpled balls of paper at my head while I’m videoconferencing with my manager and our VP) is probably trying to figure out how he can get in on this, but calculating his odds – given my pitching arm is getting pretty good, and my back-handed, over-the-shoulder aim is frighteningly accurate. He sits within easy range.
Remind me why I chose two weeks before Halloween to bring all this up again – in front of my esteemed colleagues? Oh, yeah, “Here, hold my beer while I proceed to break all the ‘rules’ I wrote about in “31 Ways Not to Use Your Blog #FridayReflections“!
by Holly Jahangiri | Jul 16, 2016
Walking to raise money for charity is nothing, these days. By that, I don’t mean it’s not a fun and worthwhile, healthy activity that does good – just that there’s really no challenge in it if you get the same donation whether you walk or oversleep and miss the event altogether.
I remember signing up for the March of Dimes twenty-Mile Walk-a-Thon, as a kid. I eagerly solicited pledges and particularly enjoyed the large, $1-2/mile pledges from adults I knew had sized me up and bet against me. I’ll show you, I thought. My determination grew stronger with each skeptic’s raised eyebrow.
The morning we started the walk, it was chilly – maybe 60 degrees. I was dressed in jeans, thick socks, tennis shoes, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. I carried a lightweight backpack with a different pair of shoes, and hoped to be carrying the sweatshirt if the day got warmer.
Instead, less than five miles into the walk, it started to rain. By seven miles, it was snowing. By ten or twelve miles, it was snowing hard. Another walker, a teenaged boy, and I huddled together in doorways of downtown Akron businesses for warmth. We couldn’t see anyone walking ahead of us or behind us, and assumed that most had given up. We were tempted to give up, but neither of us were quitters and I guess we were full of adrenaline. One thing was certain, though – we had to get warm and dry, and I had to get a change of clothes, or we were going to die.
We looked down the side street; the only business that appeared to be open was the Chat Noir Lounge. We shuddered at the neon sign and decided that was no place for us – especially as it was about a block off the main route and no one was likely to find us there if we ran into trouble. Our only other choice was the no-tell motel nearby. The clerk was gay and openly so; he was also quite gracious about letting two sopping wet, half-frozen kids use the phone and sit in the lobby, dripping onto the vinyl chairs and linoleum floor.
We waited while my parents brought me a change of clothes; I dressed in the back seat of their car. My legs were blue from the dye on my jeans; the jeans had frozen stiff and stuck to my legs, cracking at the knees each time I bent them. My parents explained that the March of Dimes was giving the full twenty miles’ credit to anyone who managed to make it to the fifteen mile mark, in view of the horrible weather and hardship involved in making it that far.
The young man with me – I don’t know that we ever exchanged names – and I decided that wouldn’t be quite fair. My parents agreed, though they’d have preferred to take me home right then and there, and to heck with claiming fifteen miles, let alone twenty. So we trudged onward, though knee deep snow. We checked in at the fifteen mile mark, and kept trudging. At 18 miles, the sun came out. I stopped at Wendy’s for a burger; the young man went on, knowing that if he stopped again, his legs would quit working. I hurried to catch up, after wolfing down a double with cheese.
We both made it, and claimed our twenty miles. I saw him briefly, at the mall; we grinned at each other and hugged, as if we’d survived a war. I never saw him again. I was especially proud to collect on my pledges that year, knowing I’d really earned every penny. I was just 12 years old at the time.
Amusement Park II
A vibrant world of light and color, wild rides whose structures gleam!
On the tainted shores of Erie, life was carefree, full of joy –
Now it just seems tawdry, tarnished echoes of a tattered dream.
The rollercoaster ratchets up; hear the children’s happy scream
As it plummets to the water’s edge, a shiny metal toy.
A vibrant world of light and color, wild rides whose structures gleam!
See the peeling, gilt-edged carrousel? Life itself’s the theme –
Boardwalk barkers sell blind luck with every trick they can employ.
Now it just seems tawdry, tarnished echoes of a tattered dream.
Sticky hands and faces, hot dogs, cotton candy, and ice cream
Downed with quivering excitement by a girl in corduroy.
A vibrant world of light and color, wild rides whose structures gleam!
Into the garish funhouse door! Dizzy wonder reigns supreme
Lunging, lounging lizard man, the bearded lady, pretzel boy –
Now it just seems tawdry, tarnished echoes of a tattered dream.
The freaks take off their makeup (even they’re not what they seem!)
We once were young and certain that nothing ever could destroy
A vibrant world of light and color, wild rides whose structures gleam!
Now it just seems tawdry, tarnished echoes of a tattered dream.
Then I wrote another one describing how I felt about the form and the person who’d suggested it to me. I vowed never to do it again.
The Villainous Villanelle