My Deodorant Weighs in on Caitlyn Jenner

We all know that Coke is more than a sugary brown liquid designed to ruin your teeth and remove paint from your car.  In fact, it's a lifestyle, it's a friend, and most important, it's a brand!  As marketers, we know that one of the keys to establishing loyalty to our brands is building an emotional connection between our brands and the general public.  We know that the connection with Coke is built on Happiness; Apple is on Imagination; Nike on Inspiration; and Facebook on Wasting Time.

And Lord knows, developing the brand essence which serves as the core of the connection does not come easily or cheaply.  Budgets are decimated as tons of quantitative and qualitative research are digested and regurgitated in support of extreme hypotheses.  I remember several brand building exercises where we theorized if our brand was a celebrity, who would it be?  If it were a car, what model would it be?  If it had a voice, how would it speak? For example a toilet paper could be perceived as speaking in a voice that is bold, confident, strong, and unafraid.

Brand Conversation

The longer we spoke around our long tables and the more we spent on research, the more we believed in our mission.  And I’m not saying this was a bad thing.  The most successful brands today including the ones I mentioned up top have succeeded in winning a place in customer’s hearts and minds as a result of their voice.  Those of us who are old enough will always remember Mean Joe Greene throwing his jersey at “the kid” in support of Coke and a Smile.  And the “once played” 1984 Apple Ad which fought Orwell’s vision of uniformity with one of individualism is one that still haunts many of us.  Both were responsible for giving their brands a voice or a personality to which consumers could connect.  The Voice of The Brand.  The Brand Voice.  It gave us marketers a seat at the table and something substantial to be proud of especially since we couldn’t make it through the advanced finance courses in grad school.  

The voice says, "Drink Me" 

But somewhere along the way… likely with the advent of social media… we may have started taking ourselves too seriously.  Through Twitter and Facebook, these voices were suddenly empowered to actually speak…and to do so several times a day.  As marketers, we had to give them something to say…something that would remain true to the essence of the brand, something that would connect with the consumer, something that would resonate.  We even talk about conversations with our brands.  And consumers (God bless them) have bought into it.  Coke and Nike have over 3 million Twitter followers while Disney has over 4 million.

 And we ourselves are drinking our own Kool-Aid.  A recent story in Advertising Age noted that brands were conspicuously quiet regarding the introduction of Caitlyn Jenner.  Seriously, have we arrived at a point where we expect our brands to intelligently opine on today’s controversial headlines?  And do so in 140 characters or less?

Ah, such a brut !

Well I took it to heart and I asked my deodorant what it thought of this whole Caitlyn Jenner thing and what it had to say was not too flattering.  Oh well, what do you expect from a Brut?  Anyway, you can take away my marketing creds, but if you want opinions on Caitlyn Jenner or any other current topics, ask your mother, your clergyperson, your coworker, or even a random old guy on the bus.  Those are the voices we need to hear and these are the emotional connections we all need to build.  And if you want to have this conversation over a Coke or even do it while chatting on your IPhone, more power to you.

My Contribution to the Decline of Mainstream Media

In 1997, when my kids were all under the age of 5 and I had watched more than my share of purple dinosaur videos with them, I was inspired to write a 1,500 word piece called “Thank You Barney, And Happy Passover, Too.”  If I say so myself, it was a sweet inspiring story about how as adults, we neglect to say the” pleases” and “thank yous“ that were currently being taught to our children by their imaginary video friends.  I explained that holidays such as Passover, with their own imaginary friends and symbols helped reacquaint us with the lessons of humility and appreciation that we had forgotten from childhood.

At the time, I didn't post the story to my blog since the term “blog” had not even been coined until later that year.  Instead I made paper copies of the story and mailed it off to over 50 Jewish themed newspapers across North America.  (I figured that if nobody in the United States would publish it, at least someone in Canada might be willing to show me some consideration.)  As it turned out, however, my piece did get accepted by The Detroit Jewish News for publication in their holiday issue and I received a check for $50.  I even screamed, “I’M PUBLISHED, I’M PUBLISHED,” while waving the check in the air.  I was very impressed with myself and to this day, I still have five copies of the browning newspaper buried in my basement.

As I look back at my first professional story, I appreciate how smart and effective the publishing system was back then.    My place in the literary pecking order had been defined and established by a series of editors or gatekeepers who actually judged me based on the quality of my writing.  If I wanted to move up from Detroit Jews to Chicago Jews or even New York Jews, I had to write better.  Taking it further, if I wanted gentiles to read my work, I really had to step it up.  Such were the barriers to entry.

Flash forward 18 years.  If I had written the piece this year, I simply would have put it up on Blogger, perhaps rereading it once or twice for typos before hitting the post button.  I would have tagged the hell out of it with every term ranging from matzo to dinosaur, shared it with my fellow Dad Bloggers where we would engage in a virtual daisy chain of mutual links that would actually ensure my story would show up in places outside of Detroit.  Shortly thereafter, I would post it on my Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter and Pintrest pages.   And guess what?  It would get read and I would convince myself that I was a writer. 

Taking it further, my story would be part of a smorgasbord of other blogs, memes, lists, opinions and new content which was published that day. And together, our army of  wanna be writers and photoshoppers would compete with stories from The New York Times, The New Yorker and The Washington Post –presenting an alternative to the stories that really matter and those that shape our common wisdom and experience.

You see, thanks to the internet, everyone can be a writer and everyone can be a publisher.  And if you have a cat, you can be a video journalist.  And since everyone can be a publisher or a videographer, there are no editors to judge whether your article actually meets meaningful standards.  There are no gatekeepers to reject you from every publication except for one in Detroit.  All you need is a publish button and your words are out there.  With some knowledge of Search Engine Optimization and social media, you can even find yourself an audience.

In fact, viral news outlets such as BuzzFeed, Reddit,  Memebase specialize in the lists, memes, and snarky chats that have become the cyber equivalent of fart jokes and Mad Magazine.   What’s worse is they are giving the quality mainstream media a run for their money because while their investment in infrastructure and socially sourced material is minimal, their content is being gobbled up by those that have come to appreciate digestible sound bytes rather than something more substantial.

When I was in the 4^th grade, we would read the NY Times once a week during social studies class.  I will always remember the lesson when Mrs. Hinton taught us how to patiently fold the paper so we could read it in crowded places.  She explained that it took significant effort to read what was inside The Times, but it was worth it.

Later in life, I always had a good feeling when I would ride the subway and see rows of commuters folding the newspaper like Mrs. Hinton taught us as they absorbed the stories and issues that came alive in the pages of The Grey Lady.   People would talk about what they read.  And they would remember it.  Today, our reading habits are so fragmented that thoughtful discussions among friends and colleagues has been replaced by casual sharing and liking.

Circulation is way down for The Times and they are involved in a fight for survival. Meanwhile my blog has reached 6,000 pairs of eyeballs which is how things are measured these days.  It’s nice to be read and I appreciate your eyeballs (I really do) but I miss a time when being published was really something special.        

Pop's Megillah

It's been a while since I've blogged and  I appreciate people teling me to return to it.  All I can say now is that I will ... honest.  Until then, I am taking the  liberty of reprinting a piece which I wrote about 13 years ago regarding my dad and our celebration of the Jewish holiday of Purim which happens to be today.  It's called Pop's Megillah.  Whether you are Jewish or Gentile, I wish everyone a Happy Purim and even more important...peace. 
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Wayne, New Jersey. The makeshift traffic signal flips to green and the noise level in the shul races from zero to sixty. Graggers flail wildly in the hands of four-year-olds, accompanied by the foot stomping and bench banging of those too old to wave a child's toy, but eager, nonetheless, to drown out the name of the evil Haman.

After a half minute of chaos, the redheaded girl on the bimah, displaying the deftness of a future cheerleader, twirls the two-sided signal and it becomes a red light again. True silence is never achieved, but it is time for the congregation to quiet down so the reader can proceed reading the Story of Esther.

Red light -- stop! Green light -- go! I am oblivious to the mayhem around me because I am focused on another story of Purim, my Purim, which is found in a 19th century pencil-high brass cylinder that contains "Pop's Megillah.” Pop is gone now; he has been for over 12 years. But on Purim I am by his side like on no other day of the year, not even his birthday, not even his yahrtzeit.

On Purim, I am seated beside him some 35 years ago in a Bronx Shteibel not far from Yankee Stadium. Fussing uncomfortably on a splintered dark brown bench, I listen as the bearded, aged chazan chants the Story of Esther from beneath a yellowing tallis. I watch as my father's eyes move rhythmically with the chanting from right to left, right to left, so as not to miss a single word of the telling. Although I am a mischievous eight-year-old boy, I know not to disturb my father for he appears to be a traveler as well.

Is he in the land of Shushan along with other Jews on a spiritual pilgrimage of hope and inspiration? Maybe for a minute or so, but more likely he is in the Warsaw suburb of Pelcowizna, where as an eight-year-old, he too sat next to his father, a learned craftsman, jeweler, and scholar who commissioned a handsome sum to have his megillah created so that on Purim, he could bask in the luxury of his heritage.

Keeping the megillah safe over the years

Does his father, my Grandpa Mendel realize that his proud and sturdy Megillat Esther would one day find its way to the Golden Medina and that it would be treasured by his grandson whom he would never meet? He very well might have, because he also fashioned by hand a sturdy brass cover for his megillah that has served as its protection across the many miles that it has traveled.

This small "chamber of memories” exhibits the dents and black marks of its age, but in addition to protecting the megillah, it joins with it to provide me a deep attachment to the holiday and a still growing connection to my father and his father as well. For no matter where I may be on Purim, I hold fast to it like a relay runner holds his baton, knowing just how precious it is within my grasp.

As the reader ends the chanting with the words "l'chol zaroh,” the little redhead puts down her traffic light and I return to the Bronx shteibel along side my pop. His smile is one of deep accomplishment. The reading is finished and we begin our task of rolling the megillah back into its case so it is ready for next year. The task of rolling is quite methodical and precise. I hold onto one side by the corners as my dad, rolls the delicate parchment as tightly as possible without adding additional stress to its aged body.



Just a few of the many sections of Pop's Megillah

If not done right, the megillah can't fit
back into its brass covering and we must unroll it and begin again. As dad rolls, the letters and the history glide past. Its small rips and discoloring indicate not only the years gone by, but more so, that this is one well-read megillah. I cannot imagine one year out of the last 100 that each word of this megillah has not been pored over and savored. One day it will be my turn, and I will continue the chain. "But where are the vowels?” I think. "How am I going to possibly follow the reading without the vowels?

It is March of 1990. Pop is gone now. There was never any hankering over his possessions. I simply tell my brother, Mark, that I need the megillah and he understands. I take the megillah with me to an early morning reading at New York's Garment Center Congregation. I am among friends as these are the men with whom I have said Kaddish in the year following my pop's passing. I proudly show them its brass cover. I remove the megillah and share with them its wrinkles and its smells. They listen intently as I tell them about its previous owners and they smile for me.



"Vayihi Bemai Achashveros... "

The rabbi begins the chanting. "Vayihi Bemai Achashveros... It happened in the days of Achashveros. " It takes more concentration than I have ever given anything, but I am following along without vowels. I forego the gragger and I especially forego any side conversations. I pray that I don't have to sneeze for if my eyes leave the megillah, I will surely lose my place.

My place is back in the Bronx next to my pop, listening to a story that has been told over and over again on this exact day. While I treasure many of his possessions, it is a special joy knowing that I can share an exact moment, every year, when our eyes focus on the same small letters, our hands hold onto the same weathered parchment, and our children understand the importance of it all.

Generations.  My father, my brother, Mark and me.

My place is the D'Arcy Street Talmud Torah in downtown Toronto where my father and his family lived for 12 years because the Land of the Free had limited visas available to Polish Jews. My place is back in Pelcowizna at a time of Jewish prosperity and peace, before the world caved in on us.

My place is on a long line of Jews who live during times of anti-Semitism and despair when no less than our very survival is at stake. Times when we hope God hears our calls and inspires us and helps us in our struggle; times during which we hope that we finally will be able to live in peace among the nations of the world.

My place is on this line behind my Pop and Grandpa Mendel and in front of my sons for whom the three of us pray daily. The hope lives on in all of us, and until our vision of peace is fulfilled, I hold onto some memories and I smile.

Farewell, Dear Kiki

Our family consisted of Janice and me, Zachary, Michael, Jeremy … and Kiki.

Kiki was Christine Affouye Koffi.  She came from The Ivory Coast leaving her homeland, her family, her two daughters and her son about 22 years ago to earn money and to make a better life for them all.  She did it the only way she knew how -- by becoming a part of other people’s families and loving them.    



Kiki and her boys

Christine became a part of my family when she moved in with us about 18 years ago.  The twins were about one and a half.  Jeremy was not yet born.  Zachary and Michael could not pronounce Christine, so they shortened it to Kiki which she has been ever since.  Kiki was a native French speaker.  At first, we were concerned that the boys would not be with a native English speaker to help them acquire language.  It never mattered.  Kiki loved my boys and when Jeremy was born, she adored him as well.  She would hug them and play with them, cook for them and smile at them and always made them feel special.   She would lovingly say, “a tu…” to them.  Directly translated it means “to you...”  When said with love, it means so much more.  And she made Janice and I feel loved as well.  She called us Mommy and Daddy. We ate our meals together and asked each other about our days and little by little, thanks to her improving English and my returning French, we learned more about Kiki and her family back home. 

It is an amazing person who can leave her family when her children are so young and take care of other people’s families.  It is an amazing person who can miss her own children for years and still love someone else’s children without a trace of anger or resentment.  I remember one week when I had focus groups at work, I missed tucking in the boys 3 nights in a row.  I told Kiki that it was terrible that I haven’t seen my kids in 3 days.  She said, “Daddy, I haven’t seen my babies in over 5 years.”   It was the only time that she ever reminded me.

Kiki and Jeremy

Kiki went home to Brooklyn on Friday evenings although in more recent years she moved to the Bronx.  She cooked, she cleaned her apartment, and most important, she went to church every Sunday where she was part of a wonderful community from different French speaking African countries.  She was a deeply religious person and travelled everywhere with a well worn bible.   On Sunday night, she took the subway to the Port Authority and caught a bus back to Wayne where I met her and drove her home to our family.

When Janice cut her work hours and the kids began attending pre-school, we had to find another family for Kiki to love.  She would still be working for us if we couldn’t find the right family.  But we did find her a new family by asking around and reading classified ads.  Janice drove Kiki to the interviews and even more than the new families were interviewing Kiki to see if she fit the bill, Janice was interviewing the new families to see if they fit the bill.  Over the years there were Barbara and Bob and their daughter Catherine, Hindi and Jeff and their kids Noah and Dara, and most recently Mike and Lauren and their son, Jake.

But no matter where Kiki went, she added to her growing family.  We all kept in touch with each other and we all spoke to each other to check in.  Originally it was to see what kind of food Kiki liked.  Later on it was just to say hi and exchange stories of Kiki and the kids. 

Kiki and Alfred

One of our biggest thrills with Kiki came about 5 years ago.  We helped arrange for Alfred, Kiki’s 20 year old son to come to live in the United States.  We worked with a lawyer, filled out paperwork and one weekday afternoon, Janice drove Kiki to JFK to greet the son whom she had not seen since he was about 5 years old.  In addition to cooking, and cleaning, and church, Kiki now had something extra special to go home to on weekends.  Alfred enrolled in community college and began working in a restaurant.  On occasion, Kiki and Alfred would visit us on a Saturday afternoon to see how we were all doing.  And of course, Kiki called on Mother’s   Day, on Father’s Day and for the Jewish New Year.

This past Friday afternoon Janice received a phone call.  Kiki had passed out at work.  Janice went to Morristown Hospital as soon as she could.  Alfred arrived shortly thereafter.  Kiki was on life support.  Excessive bleeding from her brain.  It was not fair.  Kiki was only 1 year older than both Janice and me.  She had survived open heart surgery a few years back and had been doing well.  She was with another family who adored her. She had hopes of one day seeing her daughters and grandchildren.

But the doctors said she was essentially brain dead and was being kept alive by machines.  We returned to the hospital on Saturday.  We sat by Kiki’s bed and were joined by Hindi and Jeff who showed up as well to say goodbye.  We reminisced.  We showed pictures and told stories.  Kiki’s friends came from her community in the Bronx.  Women wearing similar dresses and head scarves.  They refused to accept the prognosis.  They gathered around Kiki’s bed and chanted and prayed and petitioned God on behalf of their sister, their aunt.  They said they believed in miracles.  And Alfred wanted to believe in them too.

The doctors were hoping to have Alfred on board before they withdrew life support.  But he was not on board.  How could he be?  Without him the process of Kiki’s passing would be drawn out.  Janice spoke with the doctors and nurses and then sat down with Alfred.  She took his hand and hugged him and tried her best to explain the circumstances.  It was the very least she could do … to show her love and her concern to the son of the woman who did the same for our sons for so many years.

Today, the friends continue to come, the prayers continue to be said.  But God has already decided.  I don’t know why but he has decided to take a young woman with a perfect soul and a beautiful heart away from us, a woman who lived a life of humility, who gave and gave and loved and loved.   A woman who never got to see her own grandchildren back in The Ivory Coast but a woman who loved and cared for so many families with such tender love and such warm spirit.

It is an amazing person who can leave her family when her children are so young and take care of other people’s families.   Today, there is one less amazing person in the world and for that, so many of us are heartbroken.  A tu, Kiki.  We will miss you so much.

 

Legs, Limbs, and Privacy

Martin should be enjoying The Stanley Cup 

There were legs and there were limbs.  And they weren’t attached to where they were supposed to be attached.  The finish line at The Boston Marathon was anything but a scene of joyous celebration.  Instead it was a surreal and sudden war zone where dreams jogged to a violent death.  It was a place where seven year old Jane Richard lost her leg.  It was also where she lost her eight year old brother, Martin Richard.

In the aftermath of the chaos, another set of siblings, related to the Richards by the vilest of  circumstances, were planning the next phase of their adventure.  A spur of the moment trip to New York City – Times Square to be precise. That was where Dzhokhar and Tamerlan Tasarnaev planned to set off their remaining explosives.  Dzhokhar Tsarnaev told the FBI under interrogation that he and his brother were heading to New York to cause more destruction, blow off more legs, and destroy more lives. 

Fortunately, the boys never made it to New York.  For on the day of the Boston Marathon, surveillance cameras at The Lord & Taylor Store across from the Forum Restaurant, where the second bomb exploded, revealed the brothers with backpacks in one shot and without them in another.  The FBI correctly ascribed a linkage between the missing backpacks in the second shot and the brothers’ role in the Marathon bombing.  In doing so, they violated the privacy of so many people who were also photographed that day by the store cameras.  Was it a fair price?  Unfortunately in this case, we can agree that it was.    

Where we cannot agree is when we learn that Verizon Wireless, in addition to AT&T and Sprint provide information on every single call routed through their networks to the NSA, and has been for perhaps seven years.  We cannot agree when we hear that Google, Facebook, Microsoft, Yahoo, AOL, Skype, YouTube, and Apple all have some sort of arrangements with the NSA.  The only major on-line player who has denied NSA requests thus far is Twitter, which is OK since it is next to impossible to relay bomb-making instructions in 140 characters or less.

What he must be thinking now

We cannot agree because we just don’t know the magnitude of the attacks that have been prevented.  The reason we don’t know, simply put, is because they have been prevented.  They have been prevented with the help of records obtained from phone companies and on-line companies.  They have been prevented because our privacy was violated.  Our privacy was violated and I am very OK with that … for now.  But before George Orwell climbs out of his grave and takes me to the woodshed, allow me to explain.   

I still believe we live in the greatest country on earth.  I still believe in the powerful words of the Gettysburg address that we have a government of the people, by the people, for the people.  I believe this means that the people’s best interests are at the core of how our government acts.  I also believe that there are millions of differing points of view on what constitutes the best interests of the people.  To me (and perhaps selfishly so) my best interests lie in taking a bus every morning through the Lincoln Tunnel and not having it be blown up around me … the same goes for the Wall Street building in which I work.  To me, my best interests lie in the safety of sons who are attending colleges in major metropolitan areas which have already both been targeted by terrorists.   

I am OK with the Government’s ability to go through my phone records or my web browsing history.  Perhaps if I was into bomb making, illegal weapons purchases or child pornography, this would be more of an issue for me.  But for now, I am happy that the Government might be investigating people who choose to dabble in these areas.  As it is, we voluntarily share information on our locations, our purchases, and our interests with anonymous people and businesses around the world.  For now, I am glad to see that our Government is keeping pace.  If I’m OK with Mark Zuckerberg and Sergei Brin being able to track my movements, I am OK with the NSA doing so as well.

“He knows if you’ve been bad or good. You better be good for goodness sake … better be good for goodness sake.”   --The Boss and The Big Man

I was at a concert several years back when Bruce Springsteen and the Boys sang Santa Claus is Coming to Town.  The crowd exploded when Clarence Clemons echoed his iconic “better be good for goodness sake.”  I imagine that this was before people knew that the technology existed by which being good for goodness sake could actually be tracked.  I appreciate how people’s opinions may have changed since then.  And more important, I appreciate that we live in a society in which these changes of opinions can be expressed freely.

And just because I want to keep my limbs and buildings and bridges intact, I don’t ever want my Government to lose sight of the fact that they are a government for the people.  I love that the press has been filled with viewpoints from around the country on both sides of the surveillance issue.  I love that fearing a public backlash, Facebook and Google are publishing their policies and history regarding NSA requests for user data.    I love that I have friends and colleagues on both sides of the issue and I love that some are adamantly upset and are letting the government know about it.  And I love the fact that the Government is engaged in open dialogue with us.

I love the fact that I have used the phrase “for now” several times in this post.  It means that if the time comes,  I can change my opinion, write another blog and protest with people who feel the same way as I do.  But for now (there I go again) I am thankful that we are feeling safe in what has become a very dangerous world.   For now, I mourn with the Richard family and I celebrate that instances like The Boston Marathon bombing are in fact being prevented on a regular basis.  To me, that's what a government for the people is about.

Stay safe.  Happy Father’s Day, Everyone.

Where Have You Gone, Burt Roseman ?

I guess you could have called Steven Roseman a friend of mine.  We were 7 years old.  We played with the same group of neighborhood kids and we attended the same elementary school.  Our families were friendly with each other, our moms chatting for hours in front of our apartment buildings at a time when people were not forever rushing off to do something else.  But Steven was the type of kid who cried easily; he spoke in a whine, ran awkwardly, and if you had last pick when choosing sides for sports and you got stuck with Steven, the result was a foregone conclusion.  And then he’d whine some more.

So I hit him.

I cannot say how many times I hit Steven over the course of our friendship.  It was after all, some time ago.  And other than hitting Steven, I was not a bad kid.  My teachers loved me. I got excellent grades in school.  I was funny and I amused my friends and my family with my quick wit and charm.  In fact, I was a good kid.  But sometimes when Steven and I were together and he was acting in an annoying manner, I felt like something had to be done.

So I hit him.

Never in the face, mind you.  It was usually on the shoulder or back.  Once however, I gave him a good punch in the belly.  That was quite the show stopper.  Steven dropped his school books and ran upstairs to his apartment sobbing uncontrollably.  I had wondered if I had gone too far.  I couldn’t just go home because Steven’s books lay on the ground.  The honorable thing for me to do was to wait for Steven to come back down and retrieve his books.  I would tell him I was sorry and that would be that.

But Steven didn’t come back down.

Instead, his father Burt did.  And before I could apologize for what I did and before I could hand him Steven’s books, Burt grabbed me tightly by my shirt and pushed me against the wall.  He then lowered his head and tobacco breath to my level to ensure that I heard and smelled every word that he was about to say.  Our noses almost touched as he spoke forcefully.  “Listen to me and listen to me good, you piece of garbage,” he said deliberately as his face grew redder. “If you ever touch Steven again… hell, if you ever talk to him again, I will put you through this wall.  Do you understand?” Words were not an option to a child frozen in fear, so I just nodded yes.  Satisfied, Burt loosened his grip and walked back into the apartment building.

I can honestly say that this incident was one of the most frightening of my entire life.  I can also honestly say that as time goes by, Burt Roseman has made a tremendous impact on me as both a child and a parent.  As a child, whenever I saw Steven walking down the street from that point on, it was me who crossed the street to avoid a confrontation.  I was fearful that Steven would say hi to me and I would respond hi back thus setting the wheels in motion for Burt to keep his promise to me by putting me through a wall. 

As a parent, I admire the fact that he put an end to a situation and made his child feel safe.  And while I am fully aware that Burt’s actions today would likely get him arrested and even jailed, he stopped the bullying of his child.  I thought of Burt several years ago when one of my sons came home after taking a punch to the head from a neighborhood punk.  (I guess the rules had changed regarding punches to the head).  I found out the name and address of the kid and was about to pay a visit.  However Janice wisely convinced me that the phone was the proper route to go given my rage at the situation.     

On the phone, the kid’s mom was apologetic.  Channeling my inner Burt, I told her to take her apology and shove it and instead convince me why I shouldn’t go down to the police station to file an assault report.  After listening to her plead for understanding, I told her that I documented the situation and I needed her to know that if her son came anywhere near mine, I would file a police report.  I told her that if any of her sons’ friends came near my son, I would file a police report.  I told her that if my son happened to trip over his own two feet during the course of the day, I would be filing a police report and I would also be reporting the incident to his current school principal as well as the principal of the prestigious private school to which he was applying.  

 Thank you, Burt Roseman, you inspired me.

This week, I read in the newspaper about Gabrielle Molina, a 12 year old Queens Girl who hanged herself in her bedroom.  She was teased by her classmates who called her a slut, mocked her for her failures with boys and even teased her for her choices in music.  She was beaten up by her former best friend, in an incident that was taped and posted to YouTube.   She was a pretty, sweet young girl and now she was dead.

I do not know her tormentors because they are minors and cannot have their names mentioned in the media.  Perhaps they did not consider themselves to be bad kids either.  But an unspeakable tragedy happened as a result of their actions. 

And today, the arsenal of weapons available to tormentors has grown far beyond a punch in the head.  E-Mail,YouTube, and Facebook, are the new tools of bullies.  They have even enlisted a new class of bully, the types that are not physical with their assaults, but who have words that live and hurt forever at their disposal.  With cyber-bullying, they can carry out their assaults any time of the day or night in the safety of their own homes.

I wonder what would Burt Roseman do now? 

I don’t think he would be threatening to put kids through walls.  That was part of another era.  I like to think Burt would have adapted.  He would be visiting the homes of bullies and laying down the law with their parents.  I think he would call the police and he would visit teachers, and principals and school boards.  He would enlist the help of other parents to put rules and legislation in place that would seek to prevent bullying.

And I think Burt would appeal to the parents of good kids.  I think he would beg them to be on top of their kids to ensure that they were not acting in a bullying fashion with their hands, their mouths, or their on-line behaviors.  I think Burt Roseman would see how bullying has escalated in recent years and would be shocked.  As parents, educators, legislators, and kids, we need to be shocked as well and be vigilant in ensuring that our good kids are not participating in behaviors that can have consequences which are far more catastrophic than a punch in the belly ever was.

Jerome Collins and The Three Hour Gang

Jeremy:	I read your blog about Jason Collins coming out of the closet.
Me:	Thanks. Did you like it?
Jeremy:	It was OK.  Wasn’t Jason Collins also the name of the guy who beat you up in the 7th grade?
Me:	No, that was Jerome Collins
Jeremy:	Why don’t you blog about him?
Me:	Because of the off-chance that he is not in jail right now and has suddenly learned how to read, I am afraid he may wish to do it again.
Jeremy:	I really love that story.
Me:	Thank you.  Which part of your father's pummeling entertained you the most?
Jeremy:	I guess all of it.
Me:	I think I’m going to take a pass on Jerome Collins.  In fact, I was thinking about taking a week off from the blog.
Jeremy:	The blog is too new for you to take a week off.  You need to maintain your momentum.
Me:	Why are you such an annoying person?
Jeremy:	Genes.
Me:	Your mother?
Jeremy:	No.

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We used to refer to middle school as Junior High School.  And since Joseph Pulitzer was not a roll off your tongue kind of guy or even a president, we simply referred to our school by it’s municipally bestowed, “JHS 145.”  I was in the SP Program at 145 which combined 7^th, 8^th, and 9^th grade into 2 years, the goal being to enter high school as a sophomore and finish it in 3 years.  On the other side of the spectrum were those students who seemed intent on stretching out their public school experience as long as possible.  I will tackle them later, or perhaps more aptly, they will tackle me.

My friends were a mix of my fellow SP class mates plus kids from my afternoon Hebrew School class.  At this point you are probably thinking “WOW, kids from the SP program AND Hebrew School..  What a cool group that must have been!”  Well, we certainly thought so.  We harassed our substitute teachers as well as those girls who had not fully developed by the age of 14.  We played poker a couple of days a week after school and we wore denim jackets, which were called dungaree jackets.  They were “bright blue new” and definitely not faded.  They allowed minimal arm movement and made a rustling noise if you tried too hard.

 At one Friday poker game Todd was excited to show us something great.  It was a round embroidered patch with a picture of a snake on it.  He saw it when he was in the fabric store with his mother and decided that it would be a great idea if we all sewed snake patches onto our dungaree jackets and become “kind of like a gang.”  “We could call ourselves “The Snakes,” he added, demonstrating his fine-tuned flair for the obvious.   He was so positive that we would be enamored with his idea, that he took out seven more patches from his bag and gave one to each of us.  Now I was not a student of gang history at the time.  However, I was fairly certain that the tougher ones did not trace their roots to a visit to Jo-Ann’s Fabrics with one’s mother. 

And speaking of mothers, none of us were adept at sewing, so the task at hand lay in convincing them of the benefits of “snake camaraderie” and then having them sew the patches on the back of our jackets.  Doing our homework, taking out the garbage, and running errands -- we had the weekend to apply the charm and work our magic.  On Monday, we would show up in our Snake Dungaree Jackets and win the admiration of our friends and schoolmates. 

I unfortunately was dreading the embarrassment as I could not convince my mother to ruin the beautiful dungaree jacket that she had paid $11 for by sewing a snake on it.  Todd and four others were successful in convincing their mothers to do the deed.  Jeff and Stewy did poor jobs of sewing on their own emblems but at least they were part of the gang. 

Come Monday morning, we stood together in the school yard – my clean patchless jacket identifying me as a snake outcast -- when a critical lesson of gangdom was about to begin.  Clarence Longer, Jerome Collins and their posse came up to us and complimented us on our cool gang jackets.  We almost bought their admiration as sincere until they told us that since we were formally a gang, we were formally trespassing on their turf and that after school in the school yard, they were going to formally beat the shit out of all of us.

“Wait a minute,” I said turning around, my back facing them.  “I’m not a snake.  See,” I pointed, “no patch.”   When I turned back around, the tough kids were already walking away as we looked at each other in despair.  And thanks to my lame protest, I also happened to snag a few looks of disdain as well.  During the course of the school day, The Snakes got desperate.  Jeff and Stewy were thankful for the poor sewing job they did and started pulling out the threads of their snake patches with scissors from the art class.  Lee and Carl threw their jackets in the garbage can in the bathroom.  Todd faked an asthma attack and had the school nurse call his mother to pick him up early. 

3’o clock came and we decided that the school yard might not be the best place to congregate and walking home as a group might not be the wisest thing either.  I was walking home quickly, eyes constantly looking back over my shoulder when maybe 2 blocks from school, my path was blocked by Jerome Collins.  He was the tallest kid in the 7^th grade as I believe he was the previous year as well.  He wore a white t-shirt which had a box of Newports rolled up in one sleeve.  He wore black jeans without the nerd cuff and a new pair of black Chuck Taylors.  As I tried crossing the street he blocked my path and said in a muffled voice “you the biggest snake of all.”  And if that bit of irony and symbolism didn’t hurt me enough, he then powered into me with a fist to my stomach that bounced me off a parked car and onto the sidewalk.  A small group of students looked down on me as I took deep breaths and tried my hardest not to cry.  I was successful for all of 3 seconds when I started wailing. Mission accomplished, Jerome walked away and lit up a cigarette. 

Another day in the life for Jerome Collins.   As for me, snake patch or not, I never wore a dungaree jacket again.

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Me:	Do you like the draft?
Jeremy:	You seemed to cry a lot more when you told me the story.
Me:	I’m allowing myself literary license.
Jeremy:	What does that mean?
Me:	It means that each embarrassing detail need not be embellished.
Jeremy:	I guess that’s why you failed to mention pissing yourself as well.
Me:	I guess.   Why do you continue to be such an annoying person?
Jeremy:	At least I’m not a snake.