I really love being able to sing along with the newest release from Pierce The Veil. Not many moms really appreciate all the work that these guys put into their music. Death Cab For Cutie, Green Day, and of course (with a sigh) My Chemical Romance are amazing groups too. My ringtone hasn't changed in 5 years, it's "I Gotta Feeling" from the Black Eyed Peas... it just seems right to have a cheery, positive song when the cell phone rings.
I bring up music because my life has been based heavily in it. Growing up, the "Heart of Rock and Roll was still beating" and there wasn't a time, when given the opportunity, that music wasn't playing, and I, singing along. I love all genres, for the most part, and go from hip hop, death metal, pop, and dub stepped stuff on a dime. I really am amazed that there's still people who can find another way to skin the vinyl off the cover and remold it. I am a sucker for those artists who can represent what The Clash did for me when I first heard them. I don't slam dance anymore, as my doctor has suggested that my bone density might not be able to withstand the punishment at this juncture of my physical life.
Shaking what my momma gave me? No... my mom and dad taught me how to Stroll , jitterbug, and Mash Potato. Television gave me some amazing inspiration. A great show had these girls in not-so -appropriate outfits dancing on our TV once a week. "Solid Gold Dancers" is what they called them. I wanted to be one of them! After years of emulating these moves, I 'brought it' one night to a dance floor of a night club in Boston. Some cute guy asked me to dance, and then questioned if I worked as a 'professional dancer'.... that was my warning shot that I should probably tune down my 'Solid Gold' performance on the dance floor!
Besides my love for dancing, I sang. Some would say I do an OK job carrying a note, but me, I never got to where I thought I should be, for a myriad of reasons. The surgery on my vocal chords and removal of my toncils, all in one operating room visit at the age of 17 kinda put the ka-bosh on my confidence and abilities. I still sing, just not as well as I'd like.
I had received some voice training in college, and before that, my vocalizations were everything from State competition pieces, opera, and fronting a garage band that covered Pat Benatar, Quarterflash, and Joan Jett.
When I moved to Boston, my weekends entailed traversing the city and visiting different places, 'finding' places I wanted to return to. One of those places was this lovely little tourist trap called "Lily's Piano Bar and Grill", right in Quincy Market at Faneuil Hall . There was a baby grand piano and a handsome, Berkley music student playing away every weekend. The glass enclosures that ran down either side of the building were noted, one as "North" the other as "South". I can't recall which side 'he' was on.. but you could always find him and the music by listening for the plinking of keys over the din of people.
I sang then, literally, for my supper. Even though I was gainfully employed, there was little in my budget for 'entertainment'. This gifted young man, his amazing musical ability, and the chance to sing in front of people without anyone laughing at me, was perfect. I'd be fed a bowl of chowder by staffers, make some tips, and some wonderful patrons would indulge me in adult beverages. Hour after hour during many beautiful Saturday afternoons were spent there, encouraging me to continue my love for music and singing.
Now days, my neighbors get to hear me singing in the shower if my bathroom window's open. They're most likely not impressed, as I skip from tune to tune, not recalling words, and sometimes, calling out just a few notes as my mind races form one song to the next. Music, to me, in many regards, is like playing a word association game. The difference for me is that when I sing certain chords, hit particular chorus lines, or maybe a stanza, my mind's soundtrack skips to the next song that I associate with that particular moment. God forbid I get on my Amy Lee kick... You're gonna hear all of the songs on the Evanescence "Fallen" album, some of them twice, then I'll finish it off with my stirring rendition of 'Call Me When You're Sober', hopefully to finish before the neighbors call about me!
Everything, from the rides on the school bus, cruising in my car, dancing around the house, celebrating with friends and family, it all has had some type of music associated with it. The songs might not be playing for all to hear, but in my mind's eye, the music is at full blast, like a bad 80's montage that's all good to me.
Just Another Day In Boston......
It really doesn't matter what I think, it's all about what I know.
Living in Boston for many years, the city that I still love, had changed me. There are protocols that don't necessarily 'fit' other areas of the United States, but I learned them when I moved there and adopted the culture. Watching what has unfolded the past week, I realized that some don't understand certain customs, traditions, and social protocol that is indicative to, and is part of the fabric of this great city, and those great folks that live there.
Rather than hash out what the 'media reports' are saying about all of the craziness, let me tell you about the city on The Charles, the one from my point of view.
1) If you want to go visit a friend or family member, you don't 'drop in' normally, you call ahead. Boston streets and suburbs are tight, literally, emotionally, and physically. You live, like in other older, major cities, practically on top of your neighbor. Because everyone is physically close, it's a matter of giving someone space, about showing respect to your loved ones and friends.
Once a city filled with immigrants, its' families still live close to one another. 'Triple Decker' living usually means mom and dad live on the first floor, your sister and her husband live on the second floor, and you get to drag your groceries up to the third floor. Close enough to be there when family needs one another.
2) You know the neighborhood businesses and their owners like they were family too. My little apartment was directly above a wonderful little deli with a small wall dedicated to sundries. Gus and his wife immigrated from Abruzzi, Italy, raised their children, and made home-made sausages every other day in their deli. I was a young, single woman who made very little money. Once a week, Gus' wife would set aside a meal portion of their dinner for me, waiting for me when I got home from work. At least once a month, Gus allowed me to 'put stuff on the cuff'. My neighbor upstairs, "Mother Mary" would make me omelet sandwiches on toasted Italian bread for our Saturday lunches together. I, in turn, would run errands for her, help her move her furniture, or complete a project.
We all knew each other's birthdays, quirks, and likes. Chicken soup, tissues, and ginger ale would be left at my door if I was really sick. It was a family, it's what you did when you lived that close to one another in Boston. That's what someone who was "good people" did.
3) If you are a woman, AND you travel by subway or bus in Boston to work, you most likely wear sneakers. Even with an expensive skirt suit, socks and sneakers are the norm for most women. Cobble stone and brick lined streets and sidewalks are unforgiving to any pair of heals that a woman would wear. The added benefit to wearing sneakers, you could out-maneuver other people on the sidewalk. This comes in handy during rush hour, when you need to make the 5:15 Downtown Crossing train, the 6:10 bus out of Haymarket, or catch the Green Line from Park Street. Sneakers are about fast walking, fast moving, getting to where you want to be, when you want to be there.
4) Spring does not officially begin, nor is it celebrated in any grander fashion, than Patriots Day. This day is set aside for the REAL first Red Sox game. Before that, if you attended an earlier game, you were watching a winter warm up session. Sitting amongst the fans in the bleacher section, or now, perched on top of the Green Monster, you feel the breeze off the ocean, promising quietly, warmer days ahead. Winter can be harsh, it's cold grip releasing the choke hold on a beautiful parcel of land that begs to breathe in sunlight and warmth.
You show up in Hopkinton at 4:30 AM on Patriots Day, anticipating your brief encounter with world-class runners, and receiving a full sensory experience of humanity, wave after wave of running class, to begin their journey from this auspicious starting point. Homes throughout the town are open to all that wish to stop in for a cup of coffee, offering runners a place to stretch comfortably and wait for the time their wave is due to the starting line.
If you decide not to wake up that early, you bargain with your friends, which pub you will begin your marathon sojourn, close enough to the finish line to say "I was there". It is, after all, a right of passage. Many businesses are closed, and if they are not, a planned 'day off' is almost expected.
It is a joyous day, a day in which Bostonians celebrate their defiance against a monarchy that valued nothing but raw materials and money, not people. The acts taken over 230 years ago by brave men and women would define a new country, one that valued the individual and what they held important. A city, at numerous times, under siege from a hostile ruler.
A co-worker asked me the other day, "So, like, this is just a big 'day off' kind of thing?"
I reflected on that for a moment, and my response was just a nod. How could I relay to her what Patriots Day is to a Bostonian? It came to the forefront of my mind, how fiercely close and loyal Bostonians are to one another, and to their city. How this 'just another day off' really is about Spring coming to a beautiful city, the freedom that running gives, endurance of physical and psychological pain, the triumph of what we call 'The American Spirit'.
I guess to some, it could be viewed it as just another day, but, it really doesn't matter what others think about Boston, it's all about what I know.
Living in Boston for many years, the city that I still love, had changed me. There are protocols that don't necessarily 'fit' other areas of the United States, but I learned them when I moved there and adopted the culture. Watching what has unfolded the past week, I realized that some don't understand certain customs, traditions, and social protocol that is indicative to, and is part of the fabric of this great city, and those great folks that live there.
Rather than hash out what the 'media reports' are saying about all of the craziness, let me tell you about the city on The Charles, the one from my point of view.
1) If you want to go visit a friend or family member, you don't 'drop in' normally, you call ahead. Boston streets and suburbs are tight, literally, emotionally, and physically. You live, like in other older, major cities, practically on top of your neighbor. Because everyone is physically close, it's a matter of giving someone space, about showing respect to your loved ones and friends.
Once a city filled with immigrants, its' families still live close to one another. 'Triple Decker' living usually means mom and dad live on the first floor, your sister and her husband live on the second floor, and you get to drag your groceries up to the third floor. Close enough to be there when family needs one another.
2) You know the neighborhood businesses and their owners like they were family too. My little apartment was directly above a wonderful little deli with a small wall dedicated to sundries. Gus and his wife immigrated from Abruzzi, Italy, raised their children, and made home-made sausages every other day in their deli. I was a young, single woman who made very little money. Once a week, Gus' wife would set aside a meal portion of their dinner for me, waiting for me when I got home from work. At least once a month, Gus allowed me to 'put stuff on the cuff'. My neighbor upstairs, "Mother Mary" would make me omelet sandwiches on toasted Italian bread for our Saturday lunches together. I, in turn, would run errands for her, help her move her furniture, or complete a project.
We all knew each other's birthdays, quirks, and likes. Chicken soup, tissues, and ginger ale would be left at my door if I was really sick. It was a family, it's what you did when you lived that close to one another in Boston. That's what someone who was "good people" did.
3) If you are a woman, AND you travel by subway or bus in Boston to work, you most likely wear sneakers. Even with an expensive skirt suit, socks and sneakers are the norm for most women. Cobble stone and brick lined streets and sidewalks are unforgiving to any pair of heals that a woman would wear. The added benefit to wearing sneakers, you could out-maneuver other people on the sidewalk. This comes in handy during rush hour, when you need to make the 5:15 Downtown Crossing train, the 6:10 bus out of Haymarket, or catch the Green Line from Park Street. Sneakers are about fast walking, fast moving, getting to where you want to be, when you want to be there.
4) Spring does not officially begin, nor is it celebrated in any grander fashion, than Patriots Day. This day is set aside for the REAL first Red Sox game. Before that, if you attended an earlier game, you were watching a winter warm up session. Sitting amongst the fans in the bleacher section, or now, perched on top of the Green Monster, you feel the breeze off the ocean, promising quietly, warmer days ahead. Winter can be harsh, it's cold grip releasing the choke hold on a beautiful parcel of land that begs to breathe in sunlight and warmth.
You show up in Hopkinton at 4:30 AM on Patriots Day, anticipating your brief encounter with world-class runners, and receiving a full sensory experience of humanity, wave after wave of running class, to begin their journey from this auspicious starting point. Homes throughout the town are open to all that wish to stop in for a cup of coffee, offering runners a place to stretch comfortably and wait for the time their wave is due to the starting line.
If you decide not to wake up that early, you bargain with your friends, which pub you will begin your marathon sojourn, close enough to the finish line to say "I was there". It is, after all, a right of passage. Many businesses are closed, and if they are not, a planned 'day off' is almost expected.
It is a joyous day, a day in which Bostonians celebrate their defiance against a monarchy that valued nothing but raw materials and money, not people. The acts taken over 230 years ago by brave men and women would define a new country, one that valued the individual and what they held important. A city, at numerous times, under siege from a hostile ruler.
A co-worker asked me the other day, "So, like, this is just a big 'day off' kind of thing?"
I reflected on that for a moment, and my response was just a nod. How could I relay to her what Patriots Day is to a Bostonian? It came to the forefront of my mind, how fiercely close and loyal Bostonians are to one another, and to their city. How this 'just another day off' really is about Spring coming to a beautiful city, the freedom that running gives, endurance of physical and psychological pain, the triumph of what we call 'The American Spirit'.
I guess to some, it could be viewed it as just another day, but, it really doesn't matter what others think about Boston, it's all about what I know.
Hand Wringing In The Dark: What Grammy Taught Me
Most folks that I know share wonderful memories of time with their grandparents. I've got a few of them myself. No, I'm not going on a diatribe of what occurred from ages 3 to 19, but I figured it would be a great 'self reminder' to write out what Grammy taught me to hold as important.
There are often times as a parent when I question how I've handled my children and issues that crop up on a daily basis. The situations at work that might frustrate some, I try to take a step back and decide the best course of action. When thinking of how my actions and reactions appear to acquaintances, friends, or random strangers, I try to be mindful. Grammy taught me that my actions can and do effect all parties involved, however small it may seem.
My favorite memories of Grammy and her wisdom are those that I will always cherish. The visits to her home while I was in my first years of college were amazing. One of thirty two (yes 32) grandchildren, you tend to feel as though you're 'lost in the crowd'. My visits to her after classes provided me the opportunity to get to know my grandmother as a person, not just the lady that could out-cook, out-bake, and out-clean my own mother.
One visit brought me to her home after a harrowing teenage day. I just wanted warm cookies, milk, and someone to tell me how much they loved me. We sat in the kitchen for a short time, overlooking the arbors of grapevines and the many rows of pine trees that stood in her back yard. After the comfort food, we moved to her immense living room. Sitting on the ottoman of the chair Grammy reclined in, she began to ask me how things were with my friends and classmates. I began to recount to her, a tale fitting of a typical teen. I relayed to her how one of my closest friends had used a secret I told her against me. Blackmail for the most part, of the emotional type. As I opened up about the sordid (or so I thought at that time) details, Grammy sat, nodding her head, then tilting it to one side. She was thinking about how she was going to respond.
Waiting on her pearls of wisdom, expecting her to give me advice about the exact issue at hand, Grammy asked me a question instead. "Why are you doing that with your hands Suzy?"
Hadn't she heard a thing I just told her? I bled my heart out, told her stuff I wouldn't tell my mom, and all she's interested in are my hands?
Grammy had watched every bit of my movements, my breath, and specifically, how I was wringing my hands, all while listening to what I was SAYING.
"Suzy, you tell me that this young lady is your friend. Would a true friend have you wringing your hands about your relationship with them?" The bomb had been deployed by this petite woman, whose soft voice could pierce even the thickest armor.
To this day, I consider my relationships by the hand-wringing that does or does not happen.
A year or so later, and many more visits, I was driving by Grammy's home. I had planned on stopping in to see if she needed anything, or if she was up for some company. It was getting dark. There were no lights on in the house that I could discern. A few times, I had pulled in after dark, and not seeing lights on in the house, left. She was older, and most likely in bed early, so this wasn't much of a concern.
I don't know what it was, there were no 'issues' or problems to solve this time. I just merely wanted to see her. My mind raced to thoughts of her being ill, or worse yet.... Hopping out of my little red Mustang, I made my way to the back porch and rapped on the door. A moment later, the light ticked on, and there she was. She invited me in directly to the living room. It was too late to be eating, and the kitchen had been cleaned for the night.
When we arrived in the living room, there was one small light. It was a battery powered lantern. Perched perfectly next to her reading chair, it gave off just enough light to illuminate a few feet away. She had been reading by this light just a few minutes before my arrival.
When I asked why she used this, Grammy explained that because it was just her, there was no need to have 'a bunch of lamps blazing through the night'. I then imparted to her the number of times I had passed by or pulled in the driveway and left, because I didn't see any lights on in the house. She giggled, patting her small, work-worn hand on my knee.
"What is it that I would need to see? If I truly need to see something, I will shed light on it, or just simply put the thought aside until morning. There is nothing that I need, nor want to see in the dark that wouldn't look immensely better in the light of day." What an illuminating thought!
Grammy relayed to me that if there was something to be done, it should be done during the daylight hours. If it was still pressing on my heart, set it aside, it would be there, waiting for me to deal with it in the morning. We began chatting about the deeper meanings of how a life could be run in a more efficient manner. She shared about her latest read All Creatures Great and Small, telling me how much she enjoyed the characters.
As our visit ended, Grammy walked me back to the kitchen, turning on a few lights for me along the way. She gave me a hug and kiss, and as I walked down the slate stairs and walkway out the back door, she gave me her parting comment: "Sometimes, it is better to be in the dark. Certain things aren't always pleasant to view, no matter the type of light."
Knowing the deeper meaning of Grammy's words, it was not just about cheating the power company. It was not having to know what every other person is doing, thinking, or saying. It comes down to too much noise in the head that is unnecessary.
I like sitting in the dark, it frees my spirit.
There are often times as a parent when I question how I've handled my children and issues that crop up on a daily basis. The situations at work that might frustrate some, I try to take a step back and decide the best course of action. When thinking of how my actions and reactions appear to acquaintances, friends, or random strangers, I try to be mindful. Grammy taught me that my actions can and do effect all parties involved, however small it may seem.
My favorite memories of Grammy and her wisdom are those that I will always cherish. The visits to her home while I was in my first years of college were amazing. One of thirty two (yes 32) grandchildren, you tend to feel as though you're 'lost in the crowd'. My visits to her after classes provided me the opportunity to get to know my grandmother as a person, not just the lady that could out-cook, out-bake, and out-clean my own mother.
One visit brought me to her home after a harrowing teenage day. I just wanted warm cookies, milk, and someone to tell me how much they loved me. We sat in the kitchen for a short time, overlooking the arbors of grapevines and the many rows of pine trees that stood in her back yard. After the comfort food, we moved to her immense living room. Sitting on the ottoman of the chair Grammy reclined in, she began to ask me how things were with my friends and classmates. I began to recount to her, a tale fitting of a typical teen. I relayed to her how one of my closest friends had used a secret I told her against me. Blackmail for the most part, of the emotional type. As I opened up about the sordid (or so I thought at that time) details, Grammy sat, nodding her head, then tilting it to one side. She was thinking about how she was going to respond.
Waiting on her pearls of wisdom, expecting her to give me advice about the exact issue at hand, Grammy asked me a question instead. "Why are you doing that with your hands Suzy?"
Hadn't she heard a thing I just told her? I bled my heart out, told her stuff I wouldn't tell my mom, and all she's interested in are my hands?
Grammy had watched every bit of my movements, my breath, and specifically, how I was wringing my hands, all while listening to what I was SAYING.
"Suzy, you tell me that this young lady is your friend. Would a true friend have you wringing your hands about your relationship with them?" The bomb had been deployed by this petite woman, whose soft voice could pierce even the thickest armor.
To this day, I consider my relationships by the hand-wringing that does or does not happen.
A year or so later, and many more visits, I was driving by Grammy's home. I had planned on stopping in to see if she needed anything, or if she was up for some company. It was getting dark. There were no lights on in the house that I could discern. A few times, I had pulled in after dark, and not seeing lights on in the house, left. She was older, and most likely in bed early, so this wasn't much of a concern.
I don't know what it was, there were no 'issues' or problems to solve this time. I just merely wanted to see her. My mind raced to thoughts of her being ill, or worse yet.... Hopping out of my little red Mustang, I made my way to the back porch and rapped on the door. A moment later, the light ticked on, and there she was. She invited me in directly to the living room. It was too late to be eating, and the kitchen had been cleaned for the night.
When we arrived in the living room, there was one small light. It was a battery powered lantern. Perched perfectly next to her reading chair, it gave off just enough light to illuminate a few feet away. She had been reading by this light just a few minutes before my arrival.
When I asked why she used this, Grammy explained that because it was just her, there was no need to have 'a bunch of lamps blazing through the night'. I then imparted to her the number of times I had passed by or pulled in the driveway and left, because I didn't see any lights on in the house. She giggled, patting her small, work-worn hand on my knee.
"What is it that I would need to see? If I truly need to see something, I will shed light on it, or just simply put the thought aside until morning. There is nothing that I need, nor want to see in the dark that wouldn't look immensely better in the light of day." What an illuminating thought!
Grammy relayed to me that if there was something to be done, it should be done during the daylight hours. If it was still pressing on my heart, set it aside, it would be there, waiting for me to deal with it in the morning. We began chatting about the deeper meanings of how a life could be run in a more efficient manner. She shared about her latest read All Creatures Great and Small, telling me how much she enjoyed the characters.
As our visit ended, Grammy walked me back to the kitchen, turning on a few lights for me along the way. She gave me a hug and kiss, and as I walked down the slate stairs and walkway out the back door, she gave me her parting comment: "Sometimes, it is better to be in the dark. Certain things aren't always pleasant to view, no matter the type of light."
Knowing the deeper meaning of Grammy's words, it was not just about cheating the power company. It was not having to know what every other person is doing, thinking, or saying. It comes down to too much noise in the head that is unnecessary.
I like sitting in the dark, it frees my spirit.
Can You Believe What I Think They Said?!
Loving social media isn't always easy. Certain protocols, mostly 'learned' along the way, definite 'dos and do NOT's' that online society deems appropriate. You inevitably learn not to post something in all caps, or create too many posts in a given amount of time on Facebook.
When e-mail was introduced, there was a wide berth, but there also wasn't a lot of folks using it. If you are old enough to remember, the 'normal' office in the late 80's had a couple of computers. One, in particular, was the word processor's computer. The 'word processor' was a person who usually had a year or two of computer science education, and knew their way around a QWERTY. The novelty of sending a message from desk to desk was considered lazy and efficient.
Flash forward to MultiMate letters. Now, THERE was a word processing system. AOL was all the rage, and everyone wanted to hear 'You've got mail!' Let's not get into the awkward 'fashionable attire' of the time. Over time, 'others' were given the opportunity to 'dial up' to the world wide web.
We've come a long way baby. Tonight, after an evening with friends, I retired to my corner of the couch, pulled out the netbook, and started checking my e-mails (mostly junk mail). Went to my Facebook site, scrolled quickly through my feed, then answered a few notes that were direct messaged to me. I guess that my evening's conversations were not enough, as two of them appeared to be from the same people that I had just spent three hours with at the coffee shop. One was a reminder that I needed to show up for a 'girl's afternoon'. The other was a plea for a smart phone inadvertently left in the back seat of my vehicle. Simple comments, regards sent, smart phone delivered back at 1:30 AM to it's rightful owner.
Much of our conversations tend to be just that, simplistic conversations, interspersed with shared pictures of our weekend, generalized observations of life and the issues that we face. On occasion however, we are all 'guilty' of either venting our latest pet peeve or airing our grievances, politics, (fill in your favorite 'things you should not talk about at the bar') out on social sites. The magic of social media, coupled with our innate sense of our First Amendment rights, and the idea that others will rally behind our just causes. Sometimes, just once in a while, those messages are covert comments to a particular few. Undercutting, back-biting, nasty bits of ourselves that are dressed up as something less than.
It is just such a situation that has played out, more than just once, and not just my own experience. I have seen how adults play the role of insecure 13 year olds, taunting others, and ridiculing those they do not like or agree with. These venomous comments are interspersed between the family pictures, the 'friends night out' photo, and the ever popular memes of the day. I am not standing on a bully pulpit, claiming to have never taken part in the jousts and jabs. I have, over the years, become a much more savvy and sophisticated user of social media.
About a month or so ago, I posted a comment about how some adults act like children, and I'd rather deal with 9 and 10 year olds, they're more honest and upfront. I was making a commentary about a case that I was watching on television. Because EVERYONE knows what I am doing and thinking about when the post was made, the assumption was carried. Within a period of 2 hours, I received a number of direct messages. Guess I had ruffled a few feathers. More accurately, my message worried a lot of folks. They were trying to decipher exactly what THEY had done or said that would make me post something about THEM! Apparently, a few folks had not been on best behavior, nor had they lived up to the hype that they had posted on their site.
Thinking that things were taken care of and cleared up, I went to work the next day. After enough 'glares and stares', a few co-workers stopped me to ask how things were going. After dancing about the subject for a short time, one of them questioned the basis for my commentary online from the previous night, wanting to know who at work were the guilty party/parties. They seemed disappointed that there was no bits of juicy gossip to partake in. Even further yet, there was a bit of disbelief that I would be posting about something that didn't have anything to do with them or someone that they were aware of. It was a wake-up call. People were reading my posts and discerning what they wanted to read into it. Even when it had nothing to do with them, there was an example that came to their mind, something or someone that triggered a correlation.
Think about it, how amazing is that? You can post anything that you want on your blog, Twitter account, or Facebook page, and immediately, there is a line drawn between you and some other issue or person at hand. So many experts on social media have warned us about this. They've discussed how to 'clean up' your site, what you might want to avoid posting if you are on the job hunt, or further yet, what you should NEVER post if you work in any particular profession. There are social media specialists that are taking a handsome sum away from companies to tidy up loose ends. There are life coaches, marketing professionals, and public relations personnel working overtime to make certain that there is nothing out there that would be a detriment to the company employing them. Even the federal government monitors social media to make certain our greater good and security are not jeopardized.
So, what does this mean for all of the 'free spirits' who want to voice their ideas? Have you thought about what you're posting? Did you consider the comments that are made about your comment? Were you focused on those people that you weren't focusing on, making certain they caught your subtle sarcasm that wasn't even directed at them?
Enough questioning for now. Post at will.
When e-mail was introduced, there was a wide berth, but there also wasn't a lot of folks using it. If you are old enough to remember, the 'normal' office in the late 80's had a couple of computers. One, in particular, was the word processor's computer. The 'word processor' was a person who usually had a year or two of computer science education, and knew their way around a QWERTY. The novelty of sending a message from desk to desk was considered lazy and efficient.
Flash forward to MultiMate letters. Now, THERE was a word processing system. AOL was all the rage, and everyone wanted to hear 'You've got mail!' Let's not get into the awkward 'fashionable attire' of the time. Over time, 'others' were given the opportunity to 'dial up' to the world wide web.
We've come a long way baby. Tonight, after an evening with friends, I retired to my corner of the couch, pulled out the netbook, and started checking my e-mails (mostly junk mail). Went to my Facebook site, scrolled quickly through my feed, then answered a few notes that were direct messaged to me. I guess that my evening's conversations were not enough, as two of them appeared to be from the same people that I had just spent three hours with at the coffee shop. One was a reminder that I needed to show up for a 'girl's afternoon'. The other was a plea for a smart phone inadvertently left in the back seat of my vehicle. Simple comments, regards sent, smart phone delivered back at 1:30 AM to it's rightful owner.
Much of our conversations tend to be just that, simplistic conversations, interspersed with shared pictures of our weekend, generalized observations of life and the issues that we face. On occasion however, we are all 'guilty' of either venting our latest pet peeve or airing our grievances, politics, (fill in your favorite 'things you should not talk about at the bar') out on social sites. The magic of social media, coupled with our innate sense of our First Amendment rights, and the idea that others will rally behind our just causes. Sometimes, just once in a while, those messages are covert comments to a particular few. Undercutting, back-biting, nasty bits of ourselves that are dressed up as something less than.
It is just such a situation that has played out, more than just once, and not just my own experience. I have seen how adults play the role of insecure 13 year olds, taunting others, and ridiculing those they do not like or agree with. These venomous comments are interspersed between the family pictures, the 'friends night out' photo, and the ever popular memes of the day. I am not standing on a bully pulpit, claiming to have never taken part in the jousts and jabs. I have, over the years, become a much more savvy and sophisticated user of social media.
About a month or so ago, I posted a comment about how some adults act like children, and I'd rather deal with 9 and 10 year olds, they're more honest and upfront. I was making a commentary about a case that I was watching on television. Because EVERYONE knows what I am doing and thinking about when the post was made, the assumption was carried. Within a period of 2 hours, I received a number of direct messages. Guess I had ruffled a few feathers. More accurately, my message worried a lot of folks. They were trying to decipher exactly what THEY had done or said that would make me post something about THEM! Apparently, a few folks had not been on best behavior, nor had they lived up to the hype that they had posted on their site.
Thinking that things were taken care of and cleared up, I went to work the next day. After enough 'glares and stares', a few co-workers stopped me to ask how things were going. After dancing about the subject for a short time, one of them questioned the basis for my commentary online from the previous night, wanting to know who at work were the guilty party/parties. They seemed disappointed that there was no bits of juicy gossip to partake in. Even further yet, there was a bit of disbelief that I would be posting about something that didn't have anything to do with them or someone that they were aware of. It was a wake-up call. People were reading my posts and discerning what they wanted to read into it. Even when it had nothing to do with them, there was an example that came to their mind, something or someone that triggered a correlation.
Think about it, how amazing is that? You can post anything that you want on your blog, Twitter account, or Facebook page, and immediately, there is a line drawn between you and some other issue or person at hand. So many experts on social media have warned us about this. They've discussed how to 'clean up' your site, what you might want to avoid posting if you are on the job hunt, or further yet, what you should NEVER post if you work in any particular profession. There are social media specialists that are taking a handsome sum away from companies to tidy up loose ends. There are life coaches, marketing professionals, and public relations personnel working overtime to make certain that there is nothing out there that would be a detriment to the company employing them. Even the federal government monitors social media to make certain our greater good and security are not jeopardized.
So, what does this mean for all of the 'free spirits' who want to voice their ideas? Have you thought about what you're posting? Did you consider the comments that are made about your comment? Were you focused on those people that you weren't focusing on, making certain they caught your subtle sarcasm that wasn't even directed at them?
Enough questioning for now. Post at will.
What My Teenager Taught Me About Social Media, Acceptance, and other Stupid Stuff
My daughter is a co-conspirator. She has become my raison d'être in writing out what I need to write, addressing what I've had rattling in my grey matter for some time. It is due in no small part to a mother's love and want for understanding what she's 'going through'.
Social media was around before she could make her way around a keyboard, click a mouse, and post innocuous comments. I introduced her to my world of social media when I went back to college. Showed her a site that some kid created to link up other college students. I was using it to keep in contact with all my younger, hipper counterparts. When she was old enough to begin socializing on the net, I assisted her with an account. Now, the tables have not completely turned, but we are linked, site by site, arm in arm with each other as we navigate what is out there in the Brave-Not-So-New www.
A car ride to the store just the other night is what reminded me that although I may have endured some of the growing pains that my girl has/will face, I have certainly never had to confront some of these 'rites of passage' in such a public way as most of our kids do now. Oh, for those parents that say 'my kid doesn't engage in social media'... that's great. THEY might not, however their reputation, comments, and likeness do, no matter what, thanks to the 'classmates' and 'friends'.
I have not felt the slings and arrows of being un-friended at 15 by my 'bff' who just posted that deep, dark secret she swore to NEVER tell. Telling of tales, of those horrors we want to keep buried (exept to our buddies). Those things 20 or 30 years ago would take a whole school year to make it to 50 people, now only take a nano-second to get to 1,000.
The InstaGrammed weekend 'doings' of those friends, while sitting home waiting for them to call and get an invite, didn't happen to me. I didn't know, nor did I care, as it was after the fact.
Flaming was something that happened when you walked too close to the bonfire set up at the keg party in the woods.
My girl and I talk, alot. She and I agreed that I am not the uber 'sheltering' type of parent, out there fighting teachers for the A+, calling other parents and asking them 'Do you know what your child said to mine?', or telling her she can't watch an R rated show because it contains the same profanity that she hears already on the bus or in school. I'm a rebel like that. When those 'sticky issues' rear their ugly head (because they will), we talk about it. Discuss the context of everything said and done, review what we think about it, how it makes us both feel. Earnest discussion, deep moments.
On that ride, she imparted to me that most of her friends consider her the 'go to' when there are daunting 14/15 year old issues at hand. They turn to her to vent, ask for guidance. My girl's inevitable young wisdom is imparted, and, like most parents or trusted adults, goes unheeded many times. She tells me that a vast majority of her friends 'have no clue'. Wise beyond her years, she has had the opportunity to bounce off ideas, thoughts, and feelings. She's gotten her share of 'real life' from her folks. She's debating on whether or not she'd want to be a psychologist, weighing out the fact that listening to other's troubles on a daily basis might be a drain to her aura of self.
I have to acknowledge that as often as we talk, as much time as we do spend with each other, there are things that my girl will face that I will never be able to completely understand or feel. She is sailing on her own, with me as the 'radio', into unchartered territory.
As I turned our car into our neighborhood, I realized something ~ Pierce the Veil tickets were still on sale ~ my girl had hmu on fb about it.
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