by Holly Jahangiri | Feb 14, 2019
There’s a little game I refuse to play. It’s called, “You can’t be friends with me if you’re friends with [fill in the blank]!” My stock answer to that is, “Fine, I’m sorry you feel that way. I guess we can’t be friends.” I don’t care if the person saying it is my best friend at the time, and [fill in the blank] is someone I hardly know.
I also learned, back in grade school, not to judge someone based on others’ opinions. Oh, granted, others opinions hold some sway; I may be more cautious in getting to know someone if I’ve been given specific reasons to be, or I may be more open if people I trust and respect speak highly of the person. I can also be persuaded by facts – like rap sheets. But opinions and hearsay have no power, and it’s always wise to consider the source of your information or your feelings about something, before acting on it.
The Witch
One Halloween, my friends and I dressed up and met on the road to go trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. It was a small, close-knit village; my mom had grown up there, too, and many of my friends were children of her school friends. None of us could make a move without it getting back to our parents, so we were all pretty well behaved. And the neighborhood was safe; we were allowed to roam, mostly unsupervised, for several blocks at night, ringing doorbells and begging for candy, provided we only went to houses that had their porch lights on.
Just around the corner from my house, there was an older wooden home set back from the road, almost within reach of the railroad tracks. I’d never been there before, on Halloween, but the light was on so I started up the sidewalk. My best friend, Mary, and her sister, Val, stopped me.
“You can’t go there!”
“Why not?”
“Because that woman’s a witch. She hates kids. She’s got a gun, and she’ll shoot you. And she’s got a guard dog. He’s mean. He’ll eat you.”
I thought this was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard, but they were quite serious, judging by their wide eyes and pale faces. They tugged at my sleeve and tried to drag me away from the house. “The light’s on,” I said.
“So?”
“Well, wouldn’t the light be OFF if she didn’t want us to come to the door?”
“She’ll shoot you with her gun. She’ll sic her dog on you.”
I pulled free and marched right up to the front door. Val hung back, on the road, ready to run for help. Mary timidly joined me. I rang the bell.
The door opened, and the woman who answered it peered out at us through Coke-bottle glasses that made her eyes seem three times larger than normal. “Hello,” she said. She looked like somebody’s grandma.
“Trick or treat!” I said.
“Oh, do come in. You’re the first trick-or-treaters I’ve had all night. I was afraid no one was coming!” Her dog, a tiny little bundle of energy and enthusiasm, pressed his nose to the door and wagged his tail. “I’m Mrs. Morgan. And you are…?” She opened the door and we introduced ourselves. We stepped into a well-lighted foyer, where card tables were covered with little cups full of apple cider and plastic bags filled with homemade cookies. There were enough treats, there, for all the neighborhood kids.
Mary and I looked at each other. How could we tell this sweet old lady that the other children wouldn’t be coming? That the word on the street was, she was a mean old hag who liked to shoot kids and feed their bones to her dog? I bent down to pet the vicious mutt. He licked my hand.
We couldn’t do it. We drank some cider, took a bag or two of cookies, and told Mrs. Morgan we had to go – but that we’d be back.
After knocking some sense into Val and goading her into walking up to Mrs. Morgan’s house for cookies, herself, the three of us made the rounds and told everyone that they’d better go to the “witch’s house” or be branded chickens and idiots for life. We showed them the cookies they’d be missing if they didn’t. We told them all about the nice old lady and her yappy little furball “guard dog.” I think we made her night.
Mary and I became frequent visitors at Mrs. Morgan’s house after that, bringing her flowers from our gardens: bright yellow branches of forsythia, fragrant purple lilacs, red and pink tulips, and the occasional sticky, ant-covered peony bouquet. She always seemed delighted to see us, and spent hours telling us about herself, her family, her dog, and the history of the little town we were growing up in. She had an old-fashioned crank telephone and lots of antiques. Her house was one of the original resort homes back around the turn of the century, when the whole village was a resort and amusement park.
I finally confessed to my mom that I had befriended the woman everyone had said was a witch, despite worrying a little that my mom would be mad I’d spent so much time talking to a “stranger.” She laughed, and told me she knew Mrs. Morgan – who, Mom said, seemed old back when she was a kid. The kids had called Mrs. Morgan a witch back then, too, and Mom was glad I’d discovered the truth for myself.
The Bitch
Each year, on the last day of school, we were told who our teacher would be the following year. I was delighted to be moving on to Second Grade, but terrified by the news that my teacher would be Mrs. Hansen.
“Oh, she’s mean.”
“She hates kids.”
“You won’t like her. She’s strict.”
I went home in tears and begged my mother to call the school. I just couldn’t have the dreaded Mrs. Hansen next year – for a whole year. After all, she was mean. And I had worked myself into a state: my eyes were red and puffy, my cheeks stained with tears, my whole body heaving with sobs at the utter injustice of it all. I knew my mom would come to my aid and save me from a fate worse than death. After all, we had moved so that I wouldn’t have my awful Kindergarten teacher in First Grade. (That’s another story for another time; suffice it to say that the woman truly did dislike me and actively worked to make me miserable. Furthermore, she “kidnapped” our entire class – okay, not kidnapped, exactly, but she took us on an unauthorized field trip to the donut shop on the city bus, because for some unfathomable reason she decided a class full of Kindergarteners needed to learn how to use public transportation. So yeah, my parents had reason to move when they learned she’d been “promoted” to First Grade at the same time I was.)
This time, though, my mom just smiled. “Have you met this Mrs. Hansen?”
“No. But everyone says she’s mean.”
“How would you feel if everyone said horrible things about you, called you mean, and people believed them, without getting to know you first?”
This was a trick. I knew it. I just wasn’t smart enough to avoid it. “Pretty bad, I guess.”
“Would that be fair?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing to Mrs. Hansen?”
“I guess.” I sniffled.
“Do you think maybe you could just give it a try? Get to know her for yourself, see how it goes?”
“But Mom–”
“If it turns out that she’s really as mean as everyone says she is, I’ll call the school and insist they move you to a different class, okay?”
“Okay. I guess. You promise you’ll get me out of her class if she’s really mean?”
“I promise.”
I tried not to spend my summer worrying about it. In fact, I pretty much forgot about it until the first day of school. I went to class wary. But the blue-haired old lady known as Mrs. Hansen didn’t seem all that scary. She wasn’t particularly mean; she simply laid out the rules and expected us to follow them. But she smiled, too. She might be okay.
A few weeks went by, and I don’t remember much about them. They were unremarkable. Mrs. Hansen was just a teacher, like all the others, only older than most I’d had. Probably eighty, at least. And she had that funny, blue, curly hair.
One day, she gave us a worksheet. I don’t know if I was bored or what, but I didn’t bother to fill in any of the blanks. I hadn’t been paying close attention, and didn’t realize we’d be required to turn it in – or that we’d be getting a real grade on it. I turned it in blank.
And I got my first “F” the next day.
“F”? Oh, my God. My parents would be furious. I was horrified. Little Miss Smartypants got an “F.” I grabbed my #2 pencil and proceeded to grind “I hate Hansen” into the margins of my paper, while my classmates corrected their errors. Apparently, I’d missed the part about correcting errors and turning the paper in again.
“Five minutes,” called Mrs. Hansen. “You have five more minutes, then I want those papers on my desk.”
I was screwed. I didn’t know the word “screwed” back then, but I understood the concept, and knew I was screwed beyond redemption. I frantically tried to erase the hateful words. Not because I didn’t mean them, but because now I’d added insult to “F” and that would surely mean a call home to my parents. They would not be amused.
Have you ever tried to erase ground-in pencil marks from manilla paper? Hmm? It can’t be done.
I turned the paper in. I don’t remember breathing, after that. The phone became a deadly snake, coiled and ready to strike. My adoring parents were going to kill me for this one.
The next day, Mrs. Hansen passed our papers back to us. I still had a big red “F,” of course. But beside my horrible, half-erased sentiments, the woman had written – in bright red ink – “I’m sorry.”
What?
She was sorry? Oh, God, no one could be sorrier than I was at that very moment. What did Mrs. Hansen have to be sorry for?
Then the worst happened. Those of us who had failed to raise our letter grade would have to come up to her desk for a private chat. I stood in line. My feet were made of lead. I wished God would just strike me dead. And then it was my turn.
Mrs. Hansen stood up. Our eyes met. And she did the strangest thing: she hugged me. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“So am I!” I said. We both cried. The rest of the kids thought we were crazy, but in that fraction of a second, I had found my favorite teacher ever.
Mrs. Hansen never did call my parents. About a year later, my grandparents were throwing a lawn party some twenty miles away, and who should be there but Mrs. Hansen and her husband. I was still afraid she might call – what teacher wouldn’t? – but she hadn’t. I didn’t like her being there at that party at all.
“What is she doing here?” I asked my mom.
“Who? Mrs. Hansen? Oh, she and your grandmother have been friends for years. Didn’t I ever tell you? Mrs. Hansen was my Eighth Grade teacher!”
Uh, no, Mom…you omitted that little detail.
Once again, my mother let me discover the truth on my own. And years later, when I ‘fessed up to what I’d done back in Second Grade, my mother assured me that Mrs. Hansen had never betrayed me to her. “It was between the two of you. You resolved it, didn’t you? That’s all that mattered.”
I kept in touch with Mrs. Hansen until the day she died, sometime when I was twenty-one. Her son wrote to me and told me how much my friendship and letters had meant to her over the years, but words were inadequate to describe how vitally important her teaching and friendship had been to me over the years.
by Holly Jahangiri | Dec 28, 2018
I have many friends who live in the little box under my desk. Now and then, I’m lucky enough to meet them, face to face, sometimes decades after cementing our friendships online.
In 2016, I posted an interview by my friend Todd Kruse of artist Carl Yoshihara. Those two have taught me to appreciate abstract art, with their open, playful, and unpretentious attitudes towards all acts of creation. At that time, Carl lived in California, but recently moved back to Maui. What a fun coincidence! I asked if he might have time to meet up for lunch, and whether he had any insider tips for us tourists. He called me and gave me some great ideas and pointers. He was going to be on the mainland visiting his own family during the first two days of our visit, but that worked out perfectly and we were able to meet up for lunch mid-week, after my snorkeling adventures. By then, I was ready to get out of the sun, for my own good!
And while we enjoyed hours of conversation over good food, feral chickens, homemade pie, and coffee, I knew for a fact we were kindred spirits when we both looked over at the Shave Ice hut and simultaneously exlaimed, “Bumble!” Not two weeks earlier, I’d half-jokingly told my husband we should have attended a Christmas character brunch at the Gaylord Texan Dallas Resort in Dallas – not because I wanted my picture taken with Santa or Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but because I wanted a photo and autograph with the Bumble, that super-bouncy Abominable Snowman. I’m glad I held out for this, instead.
If you’ve read Gratitude and a List, you know that some of my closest, most trusted friends are women I have yet to meet in person. When my son was 12, some of us camped together, with our kids, at Lassen Volcanic National Park. I spent a happy weekend in San Antonio with Debra, and another, years later, in Dallas, with Hadass, Ceci, and Debra.
While I was in Hawaii, I could not resist an island hop to Oahu to meet up with Vanessa. I was so excited to finally get to meet her that I flew out on the first flight, and back on the last. Fortunately, it’s easy to find the Kahului Airport in the dark, at 5:00 AM. Not so easy to find the rental car in a construction zone at 11:00 PM, but I managed! Though we had never met, Vanessa picked me up from the Honolulu airport at 7:00 AM in pouring rain.
As we drove around the island, the rain began to abate. As the sun peeked from behind the clouds, we enjoyed coffee and breakfast in a valley, near the water, beneath Oahu’s stately cliffs.
After breakfast, we continued our drive around the island. Each view was more breathtaking than the last. I used to fantasize about running away and living as a beach bum in Hawaii. I could live on pineapple and pork. I could even eat poi, if taro root was all I could find. And as Vanessa drove me around Oahu, I found the spot where – in my imagination – I would pitch my tent.
I won’t tell you exactly where that is, but I’m changing my name to Maid Marian.
I wandered a bit in the city while Vanessa attended a meeting. I enjoyed a leisurely visit to the Hawaii State Art Museum, wandered around the interior courtyard of the State Capitol, and took a stroll around ‘Iolani Palace. I said hello to the statues of Queen Lilioukalani and King Kamehameha I, and took selfies under the shade of a walking Banyan tree that seemed to go on and on and on.
Vanessa and I explored the fresh markets in Chinatown and had a delicious ramen lunch. She gifted me a beautiful lei of Hawaiian white ginger, the soft scent of which wafted around me for hours, even as the delicate blossoms began to wilt. I got so many compliments on that gorgeous lei! We ascended the Aloha Tower – a first for both of us – and enjoyed an incredible view in all directions.
Later, I’d attend 7th night Hanukkah celebrations at a synagogue in a Buddhist temple, before heading back on the last flight out to Maui. It was a happy exhaustion I felt, as I climbed into bed that last night in Maui.
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!
Each year, on the last day of school, we were told who our teacher would be the following year. I was delighted to be moving on to Second Grade, but terrified by the news that my teacher would be Mrs. Hansen.
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