President Obama's deficit reduction commission, headed by an independently wealthy businessman (Erskine Bowles) and a former senator with a guaranteed pension (Alan Simpson), has made public its recommendations for reducing the federal deficit. One web-site characterizes the recommendations as addressing issues that represent the "third rail" of American politics. (See: Talking Points Memo.)
There is no more highly charged third rail than Social Security.
A few years ago, when I was casting about for another book topic, I began to consider writing about Social Security. It seemed like something that might be worth the time and effort. Consider these few facts:
Fact One: Social Security was signed into law at the end of 1935, to take effect in 1937. The nation was in the throes of the Great Depression, and unemployment continued to be high, but at about the time that Social Security taxation became the law of the land, unemployment began to decline and employment to increase. After the new tax law took effect (because Social Security is, first and foremost, a tax), unemployment increased again. Why? Because it now cost employers more to have employees, since they were required to contribute a percentage of their employees' wages as the employer contribution of Social Security.
Fact Two: When the actuarial tables were run to determine what the appropriate contribution percentage should be, the calculations showed that the program would become bankrupt beyond 1965. FDR questioned the validity of the model used to compute the figures, and when he determined that the math was valid and correct, ordered that the actuarial tables provided to Congress only go through 1962.
Fact Three: The Supreme Court nearly overturned the Social Security Act as an unconstitutional form of taxation, prompting FDR to attempt to "pack the court" with more justices (whom he appointed, of course), but in May, 1937, the Court determined that Social Security did not constitute an unconstitutional tax.
(See: Social Security Online History)
Which lays the foundation for where we are today, as we begin the year 2011, and talk swirls in political circles about changing the retirement age and adjusting benefit amounts.
I have been paying Social Security since I was 16 years old. I can still remember the thrill of my first paycheck - $20, for 10 hours of work at a university library. It had already been determined that I would not owe income tax, so imagine my surprise, after I earned that first $400, to find that Social Security would now be taken from those wages!
That was 40 years ago, and as I get closer to the age of 65, Social Security is as much a third rail issue for me as it has been for the population, generally. When I was 40, I would have loved if the United States Government had told me to end my contributions to Social Security and put the same amount in an investment account of my choosing. Even with the recent reversals in the stock and bond markets, I at least would have had direct control over my money. It would have been especially helpful to have had that ruling 15+ years ago, because I was self-employed at the time - and 15.2% of my net income was sacrificed on the tax altar. - It's money not freely given, and under the terms of the government's social contract with me, I should get it back when I reach the current eligible age to draw it and at the benefit level that has been in place for most of my working life (and we won't even go into the craziness of the fact that a tax will be taxed again as "income").
Politicians are masters at using language that reduces the net emotional impact of an issue. The term 'entitlement' is fraught with connotations of spoiled, demanding children who have tantrums if they don't get exactly what they want when they want it. As we become increasingly inured to the term 'entitlement' as it applies to both Social Security and Medicare (because those tax payments are intertwined), it may become easier and easier to convince voters and their representatives that we citizens have asked too much of our government, and now we will have to give it up.
I would remind our government that they started asking me for that tax 40 years ago, and have been asking for it every working year since. If I paid for it, it's not an entitlement - it's my money. And I want it all back.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
The United States of Misogyny
On Wednesday, November 17, the United States Senate denied women one more opportunity to gain full legal parity in the workplace. In a 58-41 vote, the Senate defeated the Paycheck Fairness Act (S. 3772). This act, which had already passed the House and surely would have been signed into law by President Obama, would have closed gaps in the 1963 Equal Pay Act. That act lacked the legal teeth to help women prosecute, with some measure of potential success, unequal pay in the workplace. With the upcoming changes in the House and Senate, the chances of the bill being resurrected in the next Congress, let alone making it to the President's desk, are somewhere between slim and none.
After over 40 years of taking a stand for women's equality (I started young - learning about the National Organization for Women from a feminist high school social studies teacher at the age of 15 and being encouraged by my parents - yes, the plural is intended - to learn more about them), I am appalled at where we women still are in the societal pecking order.
I'll acknowledge a few strides: I have an M.B.A., earned over 30 years ago in the first wave of women attending professional schools; I have a daughter who is a pastor - a nearly unheard of female professional opportunity just a few years before she was born. My other daughter feels no pressure to be married, and I like to think my sons have a healthy respect for women. I will even throw in the fact that I was able to have certified nurse midwives and non-interventionist births, thanks to the demands of my contemporaries for more control over our bodies.
But...
During the 2008 election, I had the opportunity to participate in a symposium at the National First Ladies Library, and a reporter from Time Magazine noted how tough the press was being on Hillary Clinton, while it was letting Barack Obama off lightly. This reporter believed that then-Senator Clinton was under tougher scrutiny simply because she was a woman candidate. The reporter also went on to comment that while male candidates could easily get a few powder puffs on the face before they appeared on television, Senator Clinton needed at least an hour to get made up to be acceptable visually to the public.
Then there are the fashions that have come out this past year. They are nothing short of disturbing. Ripped fabric suggests sexual violence. A little show of lingerie in the hem or neckline suggests sexual teasing. The myriad buckles, fasteners, and laces of boots suggests bondage. My daughter tells me that she talks to mothers of little girls who are dismayed at the clothing available for 3-and 4-year old girls. It starts that young. I have a colleague, the father of two daughters, who has expressed dismay over the currently acceptable levels of promiscuity. He wonders if virginity will ever be the rule, not the exception, again. Once again, we are sending girls, and women, the message that their bodies are more important than their brains; being available for sex is preferable to being available to problem-solve.
Women also continue to be treated as second-class citizens in medical care - this despite the fact that they are the gatekeepers for health and wellness in their families. Most medications for conditions common to both genders are tested primarily on men; symptoms that may vary by gender are not readily acknowledged (case in point: a woman having a heart attack may never have chest pain, but she may have neck and jaw pain). In the arena of childbirth, the most essential and precious experience any women can have, doctors have regained control by insisting on medicalizing what is typically a non-life threatening event for over 95% of pregnant women. In fact, the case can well be made that if physicians would treat every potential labor as normal, instead of as a cesarean waiting to happen, they would more readily identify those situations where a cesarean is clearly indicated.
Regardless of your politics, if you are honest you will admit that this country has exhibited a misogynistic attitude toward soon-to-be former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. When she acknowledged the loss of the Democratic majority in the House, she rightly outlined her accomplishments as Speaker during her two-year tenure. They are formidable, but they will somehow be lost in the noise that has repeatedly characterized her with the "B" word.
I did a quick search to find out how many countries have female heads of state. The answer is 15. Here's the list: Brazil. Liberia. Germany. Argentina. Australia. Kyrgyzstan. Iceland. Costa Rica. Lithuania. India. Finland. Ireland. Croatia. Trinidad & Tobago. Bangladesh. Slovakia. With the possible exception of Finland and maybe Australia, none of the other nations has what we would term a rich heritage of gender equality. Nevertheless, women have successfully risen to the top of the political ladder to lead their respective nations, while female candidates in this country continue to be the object of belittlement and ridicule.
We want to believe that we are a nation that champions equality of opportunity, but our experience and our history tell a very different story. The psychologists would say we're either delusional or we're in denial. Those of us who have yearned for total and unequivocal equality would probably say a few other, very unprintable things. Regardless of which label is applied, the realities of the situation are still the same: two and a quarter-plus centuries since the founding of the Republic; 90 years after the granting of women suffrage; and roughly 45 years since the passage of the Civil Rights Act, women are still trying to achieve the equality that should have been theirs, without question, from the start.
After over 40 years of taking a stand for women's equality (I started young - learning about the National Organization for Women from a feminist high school social studies teacher at the age of 15 and being encouraged by my parents - yes, the plural is intended - to learn more about them), I am appalled at where we women still are in the societal pecking order.
I'll acknowledge a few strides: I have an M.B.A., earned over 30 years ago in the first wave of women attending professional schools; I have a daughter who is a pastor - a nearly unheard of female professional opportunity just a few years before she was born. My other daughter feels no pressure to be married, and I like to think my sons have a healthy respect for women. I will even throw in the fact that I was able to have certified nurse midwives and non-interventionist births, thanks to the demands of my contemporaries for more control over our bodies.
But...
During the 2008 election, I had the opportunity to participate in a symposium at the National First Ladies Library, and a reporter from Time Magazine noted how tough the press was being on Hillary Clinton, while it was letting Barack Obama off lightly. This reporter believed that then-Senator Clinton was under tougher scrutiny simply because she was a woman candidate. The reporter also went on to comment that while male candidates could easily get a few powder puffs on the face before they appeared on television, Senator Clinton needed at least an hour to get made up to be acceptable visually to the public.
Then there are the fashions that have come out this past year. They are nothing short of disturbing. Ripped fabric suggests sexual violence. A little show of lingerie in the hem or neckline suggests sexual teasing. The myriad buckles, fasteners, and laces of boots suggests bondage. My daughter tells me that she talks to mothers of little girls who are dismayed at the clothing available for 3-and 4-year old girls. It starts that young. I have a colleague, the father of two daughters, who has expressed dismay over the currently acceptable levels of promiscuity. He wonders if virginity will ever be the rule, not the exception, again. Once again, we are sending girls, and women, the message that their bodies are more important than their brains; being available for sex is preferable to being available to problem-solve.
Women also continue to be treated as second-class citizens in medical care - this despite the fact that they are the gatekeepers for health and wellness in their families. Most medications for conditions common to both genders are tested primarily on men; symptoms that may vary by gender are not readily acknowledged (case in point: a woman having a heart attack may never have chest pain, but she may have neck and jaw pain). In the arena of childbirth, the most essential and precious experience any women can have, doctors have regained control by insisting on medicalizing what is typically a non-life threatening event for over 95% of pregnant women. In fact, the case can well be made that if physicians would treat every potential labor as normal, instead of as a cesarean waiting to happen, they would more readily identify those situations where a cesarean is clearly indicated.
Regardless of your politics, if you are honest you will admit that this country has exhibited a misogynistic attitude toward soon-to-be former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. When she acknowledged the loss of the Democratic majority in the House, she rightly outlined her accomplishments as Speaker during her two-year tenure. They are formidable, but they will somehow be lost in the noise that has repeatedly characterized her with the "B" word.
I did a quick search to find out how many countries have female heads of state. The answer is 15. Here's the list: Brazil. Liberia. Germany. Argentina. Australia. Kyrgyzstan. Iceland. Costa Rica. Lithuania. India. Finland. Ireland. Croatia. Trinidad & Tobago. Bangladesh. Slovakia. With the possible exception of Finland and maybe Australia, none of the other nations has what we would term a rich heritage of gender equality. Nevertheless, women have successfully risen to the top of the political ladder to lead their respective nations, while female candidates in this country continue to be the object of belittlement and ridicule.
We want to believe that we are a nation that champions equality of opportunity, but our experience and our history tell a very different story. The psychologists would say we're either delusional or we're in denial. Those of us who have yearned for total and unequivocal equality would probably say a few other, very unprintable things. Regardless of which label is applied, the realities of the situation are still the same: two and a quarter-plus centuries since the founding of the Republic; 90 years after the granting of women suffrage; and roughly 45 years since the passage of the Civil Rights Act, women are still trying to achieve the equality that should have been theirs, without question, from the start.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Welcome to Air Steerage
The Boeing 757 seats somewhere in the neighborhood of 225 passengers, crammed in groups of three, on each side of the aircraft aisle. Leg room is minimal. Service is even less. On a six hour flight, the airline we traveled created the impression that it was being magnanimous to serve us "complimentary" soft drink beverages and 'snacks' (peanuts, cookies, or pretzels). Let me point out here, before the diatribe gets worse, that these drinks are technically not 'complimentary,' in that the cost of them has been included in the price of my ticket. Therefore, I have already paid for the drink. Once the "service" was completed, the flight attendants disappeared into the plane, hiding behind a curtain in the galley, thereby discouraging any contact with us passengers.
Having just spent the better part of this last year studying the steerage conditions in which my grandparents traveled to arrive in this country, I was struck by the parallels between their excursion and my flight: crowded conditions, indifferent staff, inadequate bathrooms, and lack of policing of other passenger behavior.
On one particular flight, a passenger in the row in front of us had managed to conceal her alcoholic beverages as "3 oz. liquids" in the quart-sized plastic bag that can get through security. She spent the better part of the six-hour overnight flight getting up and down to get more ice and clean plastic cups. Why the otherwise disinterested flight attendants couldn't smell this passenger's breath and figure out what was going on - and put a stop to it - is beyond me. When the flight attendant came by, at the end of the flight, to clean up remaining trash, she merely laughed and said, "I wished I could have joined you."
A few months ago, columnist Peggy Noonan wrote in The Wall Street Journal that we pay people to treat us poorly. How right she is. A woman can get drunk on-board, mutter insulting things to passengers soto voce, and be allowed to remain on the flight. Whereas, had I fully expressed my frustration and anger at the treatment I was receiving from the airline, I likely would have been removed from the boarding line. I paid the airline to cow me.
I will acknowledge that air travel carries with it a set of anxieties that are wholly unique to this mode of travel. In addition to the normal risks that accompany air travel, there are the unexpected issues related to mechanics, hydraulics, and weather. There are increasing tensions as terrorists continue to find ways to use airplanes to conduct their attacks. And there are the dangers that an on-board passenger, or passengers, will put an entire aircraft at risk.
All the more reason, then, that airlines ought to be pushing customer service, care for every passenger, and passenger comfort to the forefront. We know that the FAA demands safety, and that airlines can skirt those regulations at their own peril. Since flight safety should be a given, airlines should treat each of us with dignity and respect. Most of us are flying because we have traveled to see loved ones, taken a vacation, or may be looking for a new place to live. We want the entire memory of our collective experience to be positive - not marred by the unwarranted hassles and indignities that seem to be the stock in trade of some airlines.
We are not "the huddled masses," as were our ancestors. Unlike my forebears, who never planned a return trip across the Atlantic once they arrived here, most of us, myself included, hope for another opportunity to travel again.
I guess I was mistaken in thinking that the indignities of steerage ended when the door to mass immigration closed in 1924. I guess I was wrong. The practice of demeaning passengers has now been transferred to the airport.
Having just spent the better part of this last year studying the steerage conditions in which my grandparents traveled to arrive in this country, I was struck by the parallels between their excursion and my flight: crowded conditions, indifferent staff, inadequate bathrooms, and lack of policing of other passenger behavior.
On one particular flight, a passenger in the row in front of us had managed to conceal her alcoholic beverages as "3 oz. liquids" in the quart-sized plastic bag that can get through security. She spent the better part of the six-hour overnight flight getting up and down to get more ice and clean plastic cups. Why the otherwise disinterested flight attendants couldn't smell this passenger's breath and figure out what was going on - and put a stop to it - is beyond me. When the flight attendant came by, at the end of the flight, to clean up remaining trash, she merely laughed and said, "I wished I could have joined you."
A few months ago, columnist Peggy Noonan wrote in The Wall Street Journal that we pay people to treat us poorly. How right she is. A woman can get drunk on-board, mutter insulting things to passengers soto voce, and be allowed to remain on the flight. Whereas, had I fully expressed my frustration and anger at the treatment I was receiving from the airline, I likely would have been removed from the boarding line. I paid the airline to cow me.
I will acknowledge that air travel carries with it a set of anxieties that are wholly unique to this mode of travel. In addition to the normal risks that accompany air travel, there are the unexpected issues related to mechanics, hydraulics, and weather. There are increasing tensions as terrorists continue to find ways to use airplanes to conduct their attacks. And there are the dangers that an on-board passenger, or passengers, will put an entire aircraft at risk.
All the more reason, then, that airlines ought to be pushing customer service, care for every passenger, and passenger comfort to the forefront. We know that the FAA demands safety, and that airlines can skirt those regulations at their own peril. Since flight safety should be a given, airlines should treat each of us with dignity and respect. Most of us are flying because we have traveled to see loved ones, taken a vacation, or may be looking for a new place to live. We want the entire memory of our collective experience to be positive - not marred by the unwarranted hassles and indignities that seem to be the stock in trade of some airlines.
We are not "the huddled masses," as were our ancestors. Unlike my forebears, who never planned a return trip across the Atlantic once they arrived here, most of us, myself included, hope for another opportunity to travel again.
I guess I was mistaken in thinking that the indignities of steerage ended when the door to mass immigration closed in 1924. I guess I was wrong. The practice of demeaning passengers has now been transferred to the airport.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
A Dream Fulfilled - Attending the 2010 National Book Festival
I cannot remember when I first learned about the National Book Festival. It was not on my radar screen the first time the festival was held, on September 9, 2001, and I have little recollection of an awareness of it the second year. But by 2006, I had learned that there was a one-day event on the National Mall that brought together some of the nation's bestselling fiction authors, outstanding non-fiction writers, and an array of children's and young adult authors. By 2009, I made up my mind that I would attend the event the following year (2010), if at all possible.
Our beautiful new granddaughter was very accommodating to her grandmother. She was born on September 19, without complications, and with mama and baby okay, I made my reservations to travel, by train, to Washington on the Saturday, September 25th, the date for the Festival.
I boarded the train shortly after 1 a.m. Saturday and slept most of the way to Union Station, arriving there at about 7:45 a.m. Following breakfast at a restaurant on the station's ground floor, I stepped outside into the beautiful, clear day. It was perfect weather for an outdoor event.
I had printed off walking directions, but they were useless without any sense of orientation - something critical since I have zero sense of direction. Two women were out walking, and I asked them for assistance. They were headed in the direction of the Mall, although they did not plan to attend the Festival. From California, the two had been visiting Washington, and, over the past week, had learned their way around. They had also been watching the pavilion tents being erected in preparation for the Book Festival.
They left me at the Mall, and I stepped onto what was, for me, hallowed ground. Books and reading have always been an integral part of who I am. While I am not quoted as having lamented, as my oldest daughter did at the end of her first week of kindergarten that she had been in school for an entire week and had not yet learned to read, I do still recall that first heady sense of recognizing words in print - even if they were as arcane as "See Spot run."
It was still early - a little after nine, with the speaking events not scheduled to start until 10. I used the time to visit an Information booth and acquire a poster and a tote bag, and I browsed the Pavilion of the States. I was deeply grateful to have visited it early, because by mid-afternoon, the pavilion was so thick with people you had to stand in line to get to each state's exhibit.
Gordon S. Wood, a Revolutionary period scholar, was the first speaker in the History and Biography pavilion. He was, in fact, the warm-up act for the second speaker, former First Lady Laura Bush. It is a mark of our hyper-vigilant society that I did not give a second thought to the security check I passed through as I entered the pavilion both to hear Dr. Wood and to assure myself of a seat for Mrs. Bush's appearance. It was only after I departed the pavilion at 11:30, and re-entered later without a security check, that I realized the security was related to her appearance.
Mrs. Bush exudes a delightful warmth and charm, and like the rest of us who gave her a standing ovation, I appreciate her role in making the festival a reality. Moreso, I appreciate the fact that she has always been open about her love of books and her love of reading - legitimizing a passion that has always been a bit awkward when trying to have a conversation with others -try explaining to people why you do not know who is on "Dancing with the Stars" or the names of the finalists on "American Idol." (It's actually amazing that I even know these programs exist!)
Nell Painter Irvin, author of "A History of White People," followed Mrs. Bush, and Dr. Irvin was thought-provoking. When I listened in the same tent at the very end of the day to David Remnick, author of a biography of President Obama entitled, "The Bridge," I wished that the two authors had appeared side-by-side. Dr. Irvin believes that race is a political construct that is no longer relevant; Remnick's book, which I have read, makes the case that Obama constructed a racial identity for himself when he entered adulthood. It would have been an interesting discussion - had it occurred.
The speakers in the Contemporary Life pavilion raised some interesting questions about our lives, especially Professor Henry Petroski, who talked about the difference between science and engineering - making the case (convincingly, I thought) that engineering goes hand-in-hand with innovation, whereas science can sometimes stifle innovative thought.
The Fiction speakers whom I heard were interesting and inspiring. Their focus was not to read from a recent work, but to talk about the writing process. I, as a writer, appreciated hearing about it from those whose names are better recognized in the vast pool of authors than is my own.
Late in the afternoon, as I headed back to the History & Biography pavilion after hearing Dr. Petroski, I was stopped by two staff members of the Library of Congress, who asked if they could videotape me for material they would post to the LOC's website about the festival. I was a walking advertisement for the Library of Congress already. I wore a ball cap with the Library's name embroidered on the front, and a shirt with books printed on it, also purchased, during a prior visit, from the LOC's book and gift shop.
What did I think of the Festival? they asked. I know I gushed, but I replied that it was marvelous. The ability to listen to authors, to hear what audience members where thinking when they asked their questions, to engage in the free exchange of ideas in the public square - it was an intellectual high that one often does not experience. It was also energizing to be in the presence of so many others who are excited about books and ideas.
And, they asked, what was the value of reading? I noted the phrase on the winning bookmark - somewhat paraphrasing it from memory - that with reading, you can be anything, go anywhere, or think anything.
The day was magnificent, and I my finally fulfilled dream of attending a National Book Festival, with the hope that it will be the first of many similar dreams in the years to come.
Our beautiful new granddaughter was very accommodating to her grandmother. She was born on September 19, without complications, and with mama and baby okay, I made my reservations to travel, by train, to Washington on the Saturday, September 25th, the date for the Festival.
I boarded the train shortly after 1 a.m. Saturday and slept most of the way to Union Station, arriving there at about 7:45 a.m. Following breakfast at a restaurant on the station's ground floor, I stepped outside into the beautiful, clear day. It was perfect weather for an outdoor event.
I had printed off walking directions, but they were useless without any sense of orientation - something critical since I have zero sense of direction. Two women were out walking, and I asked them for assistance. They were headed in the direction of the Mall, although they did not plan to attend the Festival. From California, the two had been visiting Washington, and, over the past week, had learned their way around. They had also been watching the pavilion tents being erected in preparation for the Book Festival.
They left me at the Mall, and I stepped onto what was, for me, hallowed ground. Books and reading have always been an integral part of who I am. While I am not quoted as having lamented, as my oldest daughter did at the end of her first week of kindergarten that she had been in school for an entire week and had not yet learned to read, I do still recall that first heady sense of recognizing words in print - even if they were as arcane as "See Spot run."
It was still early - a little after nine, with the speaking events not scheduled to start until 10. I used the time to visit an Information booth and acquire a poster and a tote bag, and I browsed the Pavilion of the States. I was deeply grateful to have visited it early, because by mid-afternoon, the pavilion was so thick with people you had to stand in line to get to each state's exhibit.
Gordon S. Wood, a Revolutionary period scholar, was the first speaker in the History and Biography pavilion. He was, in fact, the warm-up act for the second speaker, former First Lady Laura Bush. It is a mark of our hyper-vigilant society that I did not give a second thought to the security check I passed through as I entered the pavilion both to hear Dr. Wood and to assure myself of a seat for Mrs. Bush's appearance. It was only after I departed the pavilion at 11:30, and re-entered later without a security check, that I realized the security was related to her appearance.
Mrs. Bush exudes a delightful warmth and charm, and like the rest of us who gave her a standing ovation, I appreciate her role in making the festival a reality. Moreso, I appreciate the fact that she has always been open about her love of books and her love of reading - legitimizing a passion that has always been a bit awkward when trying to have a conversation with others -try explaining to people why you do not know who is on "Dancing with the Stars" or the names of the finalists on "American Idol." (It's actually amazing that I even know these programs exist!)
Nell Painter Irvin, author of "A History of White People," followed Mrs. Bush, and Dr. Irvin was thought-provoking. When I listened in the same tent at the very end of the day to David Remnick, author of a biography of President Obama entitled, "The Bridge," I wished that the two authors had appeared side-by-side. Dr. Irvin believes that race is a political construct that is no longer relevant; Remnick's book, which I have read, makes the case that Obama constructed a racial identity for himself when he entered adulthood. It would have been an interesting discussion - had it occurred.
The speakers in the Contemporary Life pavilion raised some interesting questions about our lives, especially Professor Henry Petroski, who talked about the difference between science and engineering - making the case (convincingly, I thought) that engineering goes hand-in-hand with innovation, whereas science can sometimes stifle innovative thought.
The Fiction speakers whom I heard were interesting and inspiring. Their focus was not to read from a recent work, but to talk about the writing process. I, as a writer, appreciated hearing about it from those whose names are better recognized in the vast pool of authors than is my own.
Late in the afternoon, as I headed back to the History & Biography pavilion after hearing Dr. Petroski, I was stopped by two staff members of the Library of Congress, who asked if they could videotape me for material they would post to the LOC's website about the festival. I was a walking advertisement for the Library of Congress already. I wore a ball cap with the Library's name embroidered on the front, and a shirt with books printed on it, also purchased, during a prior visit, from the LOC's book and gift shop.
What did I think of the Festival? they asked. I know I gushed, but I replied that it was marvelous. The ability to listen to authors, to hear what audience members where thinking when they asked their questions, to engage in the free exchange of ideas in the public square - it was an intellectual high that one often does not experience. It was also energizing to be in the presence of so many others who are excited about books and ideas.
And, they asked, what was the value of reading? I noted the phrase on the winning bookmark - somewhat paraphrasing it from memory - that with reading, you can be anything, go anywhere, or think anything.
The day was magnificent, and I my finally fulfilled dream of attending a National Book Festival, with the hope that it will be the first of many similar dreams in the years to come.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Dear Macy's....
Dear Macy's Department Store:
Here is how you lost $150 worth of sales in the last two weeks.
As one of your credit card holders, you regularly fill my Inbox with announcements of special sales, promotional offers, and "deals." And, from time to time, those messages do what you want them to - move me to go to your web site, and shop.
Just for the record, I typically shop online because I live out in the boonies, 12 miles from a convenience store with gas pumps and 25 miles from a shopping center. With time as much at a premium as money, if I can order it online, I do.
And so it was, just the other week, that I received an e-mail that promised me free shipping on purchases of $99 or more, including bed and bath items. We had just bought a new, queen-sized mattress set for our guest bedroom, and I needed sheets. Since I had purchased a wonderful comforter from you (on-line) several months earlier, Macy's web site was my first stop. I found some sheets that I wanted at a very good price; so good, in fact, that I selected a set of king-sized sheets for our own bed, both because of the price, but also because I would then qualify for the free shipping (I thought). Then, I selected a mattress cover for the new bed. I was ready to check out.
On the check-out web page, I entered the promotional code for free shipping. My order totaled over $100, and as far as I could tell, I qualified for that premium. But, according to your web site, I did not. A message, in red, appeared at the top of the order page screen: The items in your order do not qualify you for this promotion.
I double-checked both the way I entered the promotional code, and the terms of the code (as, at least, I understood them to apply), and tried again. Once again, the red-lettered notice appeared at the top of the screen. I was invited to call a customer service number, but my experience with customer service phone calls, in general, is that it is better termed "customer no-service." With my typical off-colored language response, I abandoned your web site, and went to my favorite on-line shopping place: Target.
Imagine my delight when the first thing I saw on the Target home page was: Free shipping for orders $50 or more.
I located the sheets that I wanted and a mattress cover, which came to just over $50. No hidden requirements, no need to buy another set of sheets. Free delivery. Macy's, you just lost a sale.
Fast forward a few days. My Mary Kay sales rep has been slow getting my facial cleansers to me, so I decided I would take advantage of another offer that you, Macy's, had sent to my Inbox: an Estee Lauder promotion. Once again, I click on macys.com, go to the Estee Lauder section, and click until I get to the cleansers section. I start looking for what I want - products for women with dry skin. I find the cleanser, but where's the toner????
After about five minutes of trying to locate what I want, my frustration level has reached its peak. I'm still pretty ticked off at you about the time I wasted "shopping" for sheets and feeling ripped off by your unmet promises of free shipping. Google, bless its little, electronically-intrusive heart, has put some ads at the bottom of the screen, and one of them takes me directly to EsteeLauder.com.
Immediately, I feel enveloped in an electronic female world. I am invited to join that world, for which I am promised an immediate gift (free shipping on a $35 order), a chance to chat with an expert, and access to all of Estee Lauder's goodies.
As was the case with my Target purchase, my Estee Lauder purchase moved along quickly, easily, and was fun. If Estee Lauder could figure out how to make some perfume waft through the computer screen's electrons, I could almost feel as if I'm directly in their salon.
The piece de resistance was when I opened my Estee Lauder package when it arrived, the third business day after I placed the order. Inside the nondescript cardboard box was a tissue-wrapped package, sealed with an "EL" sticker, in its signature script. Just because I live on a farm does not mean I don't want to feel elegant and feminine. I will admit that I even "oohed-and-ahhed" a little when I looked at my pretty pink items inside the tissue wrap.
Many years ago, a president of a Chamber of Commerce in a neighboring county told me that the Internet would transform how we shopped. He said it would allow rural areas to thrive, because people would be able to purchase the same items then only available if you drove to a city. He was uncannily prescient. However, Internet sales are not a given. Like bricks-and-mortar selling, selling via the Internet requires an acknowledgment of competition and promotional savvy.
In the past, when I've listened to, or read, quarterly reports on department store sales, I've assumed that the sales declines in larger, "legacy" stores, like Macy's, are because of a company's age, which often also means the company has less nimble management. If my recent experiences with Macy's web site are any indication, the company may have some management "hardening of the arteries." A failure to grasp that it's the little things that can make a big difference add up over time. By not giving me a $6 savings in shipping, Macy's lost a $100+ sale.
Target has long been an on-line ordering favorite; Estee Lauder is now going to be added to the list. And, Macy's, you've got some work to do to stay on my list. Don't count on my loyalty just because I have one of your credit cards.
Here is how you lost $150 worth of sales in the last two weeks.
As one of your credit card holders, you regularly fill my Inbox with announcements of special sales, promotional offers, and "deals." And, from time to time, those messages do what you want them to - move me to go to your web site, and shop.
Just for the record, I typically shop online because I live out in the boonies, 12 miles from a convenience store with gas pumps and 25 miles from a shopping center. With time as much at a premium as money, if I can order it online, I do.
And so it was, just the other week, that I received an e-mail that promised me free shipping on purchases of $99 or more, including bed and bath items. We had just bought a new, queen-sized mattress set for our guest bedroom, and I needed sheets. Since I had purchased a wonderful comforter from you (on-line) several months earlier, Macy's web site was my first stop. I found some sheets that I wanted at a very good price; so good, in fact, that I selected a set of king-sized sheets for our own bed, both because of the price, but also because I would then qualify for the free shipping (I thought). Then, I selected a mattress cover for the new bed. I was ready to check out.
On the check-out web page, I entered the promotional code for free shipping. My order totaled over $100, and as far as I could tell, I qualified for that premium. But, according to your web site, I did not. A message, in red, appeared at the top of the order page screen: The items in your order do not qualify you for this promotion.
I double-checked both the way I entered the promotional code, and the terms of the code (as, at least, I understood them to apply), and tried again. Once again, the red-lettered notice appeared at the top of the screen. I was invited to call a customer service number, but my experience with customer service phone calls, in general, is that it is better termed "customer no-service." With my typical off-colored language response, I abandoned your web site, and went to my favorite on-line shopping place: Target.
Imagine my delight when the first thing I saw on the Target home page was: Free shipping for orders $50 or more.
I located the sheets that I wanted and a mattress cover, which came to just over $50. No hidden requirements, no need to buy another set of sheets. Free delivery. Macy's, you just lost a sale.
Fast forward a few days. My Mary Kay sales rep has been slow getting my facial cleansers to me, so I decided I would take advantage of another offer that you, Macy's, had sent to my Inbox: an Estee Lauder promotion. Once again, I click on macys.com, go to the Estee Lauder section, and click until I get to the cleansers section. I start looking for what I want - products for women with dry skin. I find the cleanser, but where's the toner????
After about five minutes of trying to locate what I want, my frustration level has reached its peak. I'm still pretty ticked off at you about the time I wasted "shopping" for sheets and feeling ripped off by your unmet promises of free shipping. Google, bless its little, electronically-intrusive heart, has put some ads at the bottom of the screen, and one of them takes me directly to EsteeLauder.com.
Immediately, I feel enveloped in an electronic female world. I am invited to join that world, for which I am promised an immediate gift (free shipping on a $35 order), a chance to chat with an expert, and access to all of Estee Lauder's goodies.
As was the case with my Target purchase, my Estee Lauder purchase moved along quickly, easily, and was fun. If Estee Lauder could figure out how to make some perfume waft through the computer screen's electrons, I could almost feel as if I'm directly in their salon.
The piece de resistance was when I opened my Estee Lauder package when it arrived, the third business day after I placed the order. Inside the nondescript cardboard box was a tissue-wrapped package, sealed with an "EL" sticker, in its signature script. Just because I live on a farm does not mean I don't want to feel elegant and feminine. I will admit that I even "oohed-and-ahhed" a little when I looked at my pretty pink items inside the tissue wrap.
Many years ago, a president of a Chamber of Commerce in a neighboring county told me that the Internet would transform how we shopped. He said it would allow rural areas to thrive, because people would be able to purchase the same items then only available if you drove to a city. He was uncannily prescient. However, Internet sales are not a given. Like bricks-and-mortar selling, selling via the Internet requires an acknowledgment of competition and promotional savvy.
In the past, when I've listened to, or read, quarterly reports on department store sales, I've assumed that the sales declines in larger, "legacy" stores, like Macy's, are because of a company's age, which often also means the company has less nimble management. If my recent experiences with Macy's web site are any indication, the company may have some management "hardening of the arteries." A failure to grasp that it's the little things that can make a big difference add up over time. By not giving me a $6 savings in shipping, Macy's lost a $100+ sale.
Target has long been an on-line ordering favorite; Estee Lauder is now going to be added to the list. And, Macy's, you've got some work to do to stay on my list. Don't count on my loyalty just because I have one of your credit cards.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
How the Other Half Lived
"How the Other Half Lives" is the title of a book, published in 1890, by author and social reformer, Jacob Riis. The New York writer photographed and wrote about the deplorable filth and crowded conditions of New York's Lower East Side. This was during the years of the greatest influx of immigrants into the United States in its history, and the Lower East Side was the most densely populated piece of real estate in the country (possibly even the world) at that time.
A trip to the New York Historical Society a week ago confirmed what I had suspected since undertaking some family research: that some of my family members had lived in the squalor that Riis's photo essay depicted. With the aid of maps, we identified the address of my paternal great-grandparents on Broome Street. "A traditional dumbbell tenement," the librarian told me. "How do you know?" I asked, looking at the drawings. "You can tell be the shape of the building," he said, pointing out the hand-drawn indentations that look like a dumbbell weight in the center of the rectangle. "This was one of the bad ones, wasn't it?" I asked.
"The worst of the worst," he replied. "Have you seen Jacob Riis's pictures?"
I nodded.
"It was like that."
After boarding the subway at Union Square, emerging from the subway station at Delancey and Essex Streets is like stepping into another world. Union Square is not without its homeless and a few obvious addicts, but it is by and large populated by middle and upper middle class parents, college students, and fifty-somethings. Those on the Lower East Side, before you get into the section that is now heavily Chinese, remind me of the people from my childhood on the streets of downtown Pittsburgh. It is a mix of those who have lost limbs or eyes, whose clothing is literally threadbare, whose "down and out" station in life is clearly visible in their vacant stares and lined faces. It is a reminder that in a land of plenty, when we can find the money to build military bases on foreign soil, we have marginalized those whose luck has run out.
From everything I have been able to research, that visible evidence of despair most likely characterized my great-grandparents. After enduring filth and degradation in steerage to come across the Atlantic Ocean in the belief they were embarking on a a journey to a better life, they quickly discovered that America's streets, far from being paved with gold, were strewn with animal manure and human waste. While some of their peers threw up their hands in despair and returned to Russia and Eastern Europe, my great-grandparents found each other, married, and had children. Their middle son, my grandfather, was the only one of the three boys to have children of his own.
This is what I marvel at: that it has taken three generations for the nightmarish conditions of being an immigrant to materialize into the "American dream." Yet, I cannot help but wonder, as I get ready to become a grandparent myself for the second time, if there will still be some wisps of that dream for my grandchildren to take hold of.
I grew up with the tacit understanding from my parents that they desired that I have a better life than the one they had experienced. I was pushed to think big career-wise, and my parents were a not a little unconcerned when I opted for a marriage and a "lifestyle" ahead of income. In the days of my 20s and 30s, the option to choose lifestyle in the belief that the income would take care of itself was a carryover from the post-World War II years, when we believed, as a nation, that our prosperity was never-ending.
Now, in my 50s, I rue some of those naive decisions, recognizing that, as the Bible has timelessly warned, wealth (even a nation's wealth) is fleeting. I watch my children step with great confidence into worlds I wanted to enter, but which, at the time, were closed to me either because of my gender or because of a lack of opportunity to demonstrate my talent. But I also know that another reason these worlds have opened for my children is because money has been invested to democratize access to careers that were previously closed to "the masses." Nevertheless, as I look at our crumbling infrastructure, see the creeping federalization of our financial and social services markets, and wonder if we will be choked by regulations that do not necessarily "reform" so much as they hinder, I wonder whether my grandchildren will find themselves pushed back in time to an era that my parents were anxious to see their children avoid.
The ascent out of poverty is difficult because it is just that - a climb - an effort that has gravity operating against it. The descent back into poverty, because it goes downhill, is relatively faster. We have taken much for granted over the last two generations. It is time to reconsider - will our children's children enjoy the prosperity we have experienced, or will they chronicle our lives as "how the older ones lived"?
A trip to the New York Historical Society a week ago confirmed what I had suspected since undertaking some family research: that some of my family members had lived in the squalor that Riis's photo essay depicted. With the aid of maps, we identified the address of my paternal great-grandparents on Broome Street. "A traditional dumbbell tenement," the librarian told me. "How do you know?" I asked, looking at the drawings. "You can tell be the shape of the building," he said, pointing out the hand-drawn indentations that look like a dumbbell weight in the center of the rectangle. "This was one of the bad ones, wasn't it?" I asked.
"The worst of the worst," he replied. "Have you seen Jacob Riis's pictures?"
I nodded.
"It was like that."
After boarding the subway at Union Square, emerging from the subway station at Delancey and Essex Streets is like stepping into another world. Union Square is not without its homeless and a few obvious addicts, but it is by and large populated by middle and upper middle class parents, college students, and fifty-somethings. Those on the Lower East Side, before you get into the section that is now heavily Chinese, remind me of the people from my childhood on the streets of downtown Pittsburgh. It is a mix of those who have lost limbs or eyes, whose clothing is literally threadbare, whose "down and out" station in life is clearly visible in their vacant stares and lined faces. It is a reminder that in a land of plenty, when we can find the money to build military bases on foreign soil, we have marginalized those whose luck has run out.
From everything I have been able to research, that visible evidence of despair most likely characterized my great-grandparents. After enduring filth and degradation in steerage to come across the Atlantic Ocean in the belief they were embarking on a a journey to a better life, they quickly discovered that America's streets, far from being paved with gold, were strewn with animal manure and human waste. While some of their peers threw up their hands in despair and returned to Russia and Eastern Europe, my great-grandparents found each other, married, and had children. Their middle son, my grandfather, was the only one of the three boys to have children of his own.
This is what I marvel at: that it has taken three generations for the nightmarish conditions of being an immigrant to materialize into the "American dream." Yet, I cannot help but wonder, as I get ready to become a grandparent myself for the second time, if there will still be some wisps of that dream for my grandchildren to take hold of.
I grew up with the tacit understanding from my parents that they desired that I have a better life than the one they had experienced. I was pushed to think big career-wise, and my parents were a not a little unconcerned when I opted for a marriage and a "lifestyle" ahead of income. In the days of my 20s and 30s, the option to choose lifestyle in the belief that the income would take care of itself was a carryover from the post-World War II years, when we believed, as a nation, that our prosperity was never-ending.
Now, in my 50s, I rue some of those naive decisions, recognizing that, as the Bible has timelessly warned, wealth (even a nation's wealth) is fleeting. I watch my children step with great confidence into worlds I wanted to enter, but which, at the time, were closed to me either because of my gender or because of a lack of opportunity to demonstrate my talent. But I also know that another reason these worlds have opened for my children is because money has been invested to democratize access to careers that were previously closed to "the masses." Nevertheless, as I look at our crumbling infrastructure, see the creeping federalization of our financial and social services markets, and wonder if we will be choked by regulations that do not necessarily "reform" so much as they hinder, I wonder whether my grandchildren will find themselves pushed back in time to an era that my parents were anxious to see their children avoid.
The ascent out of poverty is difficult because it is just that - a climb - an effort that has gravity operating against it. The descent back into poverty, because it goes downhill, is relatively faster. We have taken much for granted over the last two generations. It is time to reconsider - will our children's children enjoy the prosperity we have experienced, or will they chronicle our lives as "how the older ones lived"?
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Getting Charged Up
Pioneer woman. Rosie the Riveter. General Electrician.
If this were a segment of "Sesame Street," those three terms might beg the implied question: "One of these things is not like the others." But, aha, they are all alike - each term refers to women who found they had new skills and new strengths previously undiscovered. The last term refers to me.
It has become an axiom of life on this farm that nothing goes wrong as long as my husband is home. Let him be away on business, or in Alaska to be with our daughter, and all hell breaks loose. That happened, again, with wretched regularity, last month when my husband was away on a week-long business trip.
We have a tankless water heater, which has worked perfectly fine in the year and a half since it was installed. Then, without knowing why, we were without hot water. We waited three days for a plumber to finally show up, only to discover that one of the internal breakers had tripped and needed to be reset. Aaaahhh, the joys of running hot water.
But not for long.
After a long work day and an hour's worth of farm chores in this blistering heat we have been experiencing, I looked forward to a relaxing and cleansing shower before I sat down to dinner. It was not to be - no hot water.
We will not discuss my reaction here, as I like to convey the image of that of a person of faith - which carries with it the implication that I have a fairly clean vocabulary. Let that implication stand.
I had plenty of opportunity to practice my 'clean' vocabulary after I got my husband's voice mail, and not my actual husband, on the phone. Fortunately, he called me back pretty quickly, and he coached me on how to fix the problem: turn off the breakers; take off the cover to the water heater (the unit is a rectangular box mounted on a wall), and look for a little switch that resembles the top of a retractable ballpoint pen. I followed the instructions, pushed down the offending button, and voila!, hot water. A sense of accomplishment, and, finally, my shower.
However, you will note above that I said, all hell breaks loose when my husband is gone, so one little household maintenance item was not enough.
The next evening, I was getting ready to ride my bicycle, when I remembered that I needed to refill my water bottle. The electric fencer that keeps the wires charged to keep the cattle in the pasture, and the predators out of it, is situated near the water pump. As I leaned over to turn on the spigot, I noticed the distinct absence of the clicking sound indicating that the fencer is working.
I double checked the plug, changed out the extension cord to see if the one in use had gone bad, and realized that the fencer had failed. Fortunately, there was a spare in the storage building. I went in the house to get the safety ladder, and then, after disconnecting the plug and turning off the appropriate breaker, I studied how the mounted fencer was wired. I proceeded to disconnect the wires, and for the time ever, used a power screw driver to remove the mounting screws.
The real challenge was to hold the replacement fencer and screws in place simultaneously while I tightened the screws. The cattle, fascinated by my movements, stood in a group by the wire and watched me, as if I were their scheduled nightly entertainment. I figured that if I could keep them entertained, I wouldn't need to replace the fencer.....
A thunderstorm was coming, and the lightning and thunder were too close for comfort. I was not interested in having a "shocking experience." I finally secured the fencer, connected the wires, plugged it in, and turned the breaker back on. I checked for a fence charge, and we were good to go.
Step aside, Rosie. There's a new gal in town.
If this were a segment of "Sesame Street," those three terms might beg the implied question: "One of these things is not like the others." But, aha, they are all alike - each term refers to women who found they had new skills and new strengths previously undiscovered. The last term refers to me.
It has become an axiom of life on this farm that nothing goes wrong as long as my husband is home. Let him be away on business, or in Alaska to be with our daughter, and all hell breaks loose. That happened, again, with wretched regularity, last month when my husband was away on a week-long business trip.
We have a tankless water heater, which has worked perfectly fine in the year and a half since it was installed. Then, without knowing why, we were without hot water. We waited three days for a plumber to finally show up, only to discover that one of the internal breakers had tripped and needed to be reset. Aaaahhh, the joys of running hot water.
But not for long.
After a long work day and an hour's worth of farm chores in this blistering heat we have been experiencing, I looked forward to a relaxing and cleansing shower before I sat down to dinner. It was not to be - no hot water.
We will not discuss my reaction here, as I like to convey the image of that of a person of faith - which carries with it the implication that I have a fairly clean vocabulary. Let that implication stand.
I had plenty of opportunity to practice my 'clean' vocabulary after I got my husband's voice mail, and not my actual husband, on the phone. Fortunately, he called me back pretty quickly, and he coached me on how to fix the problem: turn off the breakers; take off the cover to the water heater (the unit is a rectangular box mounted on a wall), and look for a little switch that resembles the top of a retractable ballpoint pen. I followed the instructions, pushed down the offending button, and voila!, hot water. A sense of accomplishment, and, finally, my shower.
However, you will note above that I said, all hell breaks loose when my husband is gone, so one little household maintenance item was not enough.
The next evening, I was getting ready to ride my bicycle, when I remembered that I needed to refill my water bottle. The electric fencer that keeps the wires charged to keep the cattle in the pasture, and the predators out of it, is situated near the water pump. As I leaned over to turn on the spigot, I noticed the distinct absence of the clicking sound indicating that the fencer is working.
I double checked the plug, changed out the extension cord to see if the one in use had gone bad, and realized that the fencer had failed. Fortunately, there was a spare in the storage building. I went in the house to get the safety ladder, and then, after disconnecting the plug and turning off the appropriate breaker, I studied how the mounted fencer was wired. I proceeded to disconnect the wires, and for the time ever, used a power screw driver to remove the mounting screws.
The real challenge was to hold the replacement fencer and screws in place simultaneously while I tightened the screws. The cattle, fascinated by my movements, stood in a group by the wire and watched me, as if I were their scheduled nightly entertainment. I figured that if I could keep them entertained, I wouldn't need to replace the fencer.....
A thunderstorm was coming, and the lightning and thunder were too close for comfort. I was not interested in having a "shocking experience." I finally secured the fencer, connected the wires, plugged it in, and turned the breaker back on. I checked for a fence charge, and we were good to go.
Step aside, Rosie. There's a new gal in town.
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