Obsessed with Conformity

They come in on cat’s paws called Benson and Hedges lights 100s. Because they’re girl cigarettes, they’re not real. You light up because there’s nothing else to do, and your friend stole some from his sister. His older, hot sister. 

And then you’re hooked. Mostly for the cool of it, but not really. The addiction takes hold quickly on the backend without you realizing it. 

Then comes the drink. And drugs. But mostly the drink, because it’s more accessible. Only, the drink is different. It changes you quickly, unlike the cigarettes. Which are now Marlboro lights with their clean white filters.

You’re 18. And you’re an electric God. Harm ricochets off of your armor like rain. You’re untouchable. You’d always heard that cigarettes will kill you, but they’re not. Not even close. Besides, smart people will find a cure for cancer one day.

Years go by. You can still swim a lap underwater. You’re good. More time passes. Your body starts to change. You’re not as limber as you once were. Your hair thins. The drink goes by the wayside in an attempt to stay sane. And breathing. But the cigarettes keep calling. Their only harmful side effect being the stench of class A tobacco on your clothes. Besides, surely they’ll cure cancer soon.  

You have a child. You swear you’ll quit. And while you do cut down, you can’t walk away. Your brain won’t let you. You chew the gum. Wear the patch. Suck the lozenges. And smoke. You take the drugs that “may cause night terrors” but give them up after three straight nights of gouging your eyes out with rusty spoons. 

Suddenly you realize that the real problem is the act of buying the cigarettes. But you do anyway. “And a pack of Camel lights,” you resentfully mumble to the child behind the bulletproof glass. 

Now there are two daughters, yet neither has ever seen you smoke. Staring into a mirror you think about what decades of intentionally inhaling poison has done to your body - and this weighs heavier on you than your fading armor. They never did cure cancer, but you can still swim a lap underwater. "There's still time," you convincingly state into the mirror as you breathe deeply into lungs like dirty sponges.

***

Jim MItchem

I live in NC, but grew up in the Deep South. I know what you’re thinking, that NC is the Deep South - but it’s not. I was born in Northeast Florida and lived there until I was 13, when my parents, who were very young and naïve, ripped my life out from under me and moved us to Baton Rouge, and then Houston a year later. I grew up thinking that anything above Interstate 10 wasn’t really the Deep South. Anyway, you're probably also thinking that Florida isn’t really "The South" because of all the Yankees there. Well, that might be true below I-4, but in NE Florida there were no Yankees - except for the ones in the Navy families. Just about everyone I grew up around spoke with a drawl and had red necks from being outside 11 months out of the year. Most importantly, every child used terms like ‘yes sir’ and ‘no ma’am’ and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘may I’ and so on. We were drilled on the idea of respect. Children back then were free to roam the neighborhoods all day with no parental supervision because all of the parents trusted their children to use their best judgment and utmost respect – representing their families well. Why? Fear of being beaten within an inch of our lives, that’s why. Well maybe not within an inch of our lives, but we definitely learned at an early age that respect for others was a top priority in life. And when we didn’t adhere to it, we were punished.  With paddles, belts and switches. Kids didn’t show their asses in public, throw tantrums or talk back to their parents in any way, where I grew up. When they did, I remember looking at them like they were freaks at the fair -  and thinking that they must have been Yankee children. Yes, my parents screwed up a lot, but the one thing they didn’t screw up on was instilling the concept of respect in their children. 

My wife is from NJ, and was raised an only child. I was the oldest of four children and the only boy. Our own children do not practice the hardcore terms of respect that I was raised on. And that’s party because none of their friends do. It's hard to instill practices that are not common in peer groups. I blame pervasive media (see Hanna Montana) for this, along with the fact that everyone’s transient these days and Yankee culture has completely infiltrated Southern culture. Plus, as mentioned earlier, NC isn’t really the Deep South. For all I know, they may have never said ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ here. 

And you know what? I’m ok with our children not saying 'yes sir' and 'no ma'am.' It sucked having to be so subservient as a child. Besides, we've got good kids who aren't disrespectful of most authority figures (other parents, teachers, coaches, etc.). Just us - the two people who brought them into the world and who provide them with basic necessities such as sustenance, shelter and transportation (not to mention all the fun stuff), that they routinely take for granted. Thanks to my wife's upbringing, and the fact that we don't endorse violence as a motivator, we do not employ corporal punishment. Yes, I’ve spanked them when absolutely necessary – so that they have a reference point - but they’re not outside breaking their own switches off of trees or anything. 

Don’t get me wrong, our children love us. But when it’s time to do something to help the family, or when they’re told to do something specific and they don’t feel like doing it – they pout, talk back or throw tantrums. And this bothers me terribly. On Friday, both girls had the opportunity to learn about respect in a new way. 

In the past, when they would react disrespectfully, we’d put them in their rooms or remove certain privileges – and that would work in the short term. But then as soon as they’d forgotten the lesson, they’d pull the same stunts again.  Maybe the punishments weren’t severe enough? Maybe corporal punishment was in order? Maybe we should ship them off to places where respect can be enforced by people who are well trained in it? Or, maybe, it was time for a lesson in contracts?  

On Friday, after two separate bouts of disrespectful actions aimed at us, I’d had enough. I revoked privileges that would have had the girls spending the night at (separate) friends' houses, and decided that this wasn’t enough. So, as both girls were writing stories to me as to why they were being punished, I sat down at my computer and this one long sentence poured out of me like I was Atticus Finch: 

I, Agatha Rose Mitchem (10), do hereby acknowledge that from this day forward, my disrespectful actions to my family and friends will result in the revocation of rights and privileges that include, but are not limited to, extracurricular activities such as soccer practice, soccer games, sleepovers, summer camps, movies, play dates and other things not listed here that will be selected at the complete discretion of Jim and Tina Mitchem. 

I created one for our seven-year-old with different activities, then added signature and date lines for the child and both parents. I think the kids were in awe of the legalese as they silently read the contracts with eyes like saucers. Sure, I wasn’t really saying anything new here – as we routinely revoked privileges in the past, but this was different. This was in writing. And it had a fancy, lawyerly font at the top of the page stating ‘Contract for Respect.'

So far, it seems to have worked. Which is to say, they haven’t been disrespectful to us in a couple of days. But no doubt, they will. And when they do, I’ll frame the contracts and put them in their rooms so I can just walk in and point to them whenever there’s a flare up. 

Well see what happens. 

***

Jim Mitchem

Coffee. Children. Dogs. Cleaning a desk and preparing to write. Too much preparing. A bite to eat, and then sitting down. The phone rings, naturally, and I take it outside. It’s clearer out here. 

I pace the perimeter of the yard like a king surveying his dominion - apologizing to the grass as I needlessly trample it. I am coherent. Sharp. The call ends and I linger outside as the dogs demand that I engage them. 

I throw a ball. Scratch a chin. Rub ears. And then return inside to a cool and shady office where a laptop sits squarely in the center of a clean black desk. Its dimly lit screen in energy saver mode. I sit down and write a few words against the howl of raging sirens racing past - and get lost. 

Some time later, a car door closes outside my window. The voices of children rise like seductive sirens calling me to jump off of my moving train. I take one last look back inside the passenger car in search of the word that will lead to a string of new words - but it eludes me. I smile, shake my head and announce, “Well - I’ll see ya boys.” to the men silently reading newspapers, wearing top hats and smoking pipes. They quickly look in my direction, and then with a singular ‘SNAP' - turn pages and bury faces. Some days, they don't even know I'm there. 

I close my eyes, leap and land back outside where I’m greeted by two little girls who call me Daddy. 

I’m like a king.

***
Jim Mitchem 

Yesterday I had the opportunity to meet Peter Shankman. You probably know of him, so I don’t have to give you those details. What you probably don’t know is that he’s a really good guy. I met him via Twitter over the winter, and he happened to be in Asheville yesterday, so I drove over from Charlotte. We had a coffee and then I sat in on his keynote address at the Carolina Connect conference, which focused on modern communications – cloud computing, social media, that kind of stuff. Most attendees were business types. I guess they always are at these things. Anyway, on top of being a good guy, Shankman electrified the audience. Now I know what you’re thinking – that I’m kissing ass here. But I’m not. He really is an outstanding presenter (no slideshow necessary). He covered a lot of material, but the one thing I took away was how he ended the address on attracting and retaining audiences in social media: “Want to keep your audience’s attention? Learn to write. Bad writing is destroying this country.” 

Which brings me to something I’ve been saying for more than two years here – copywriters are the perfect people to engage in this medium.  I wrote a post called Revenge of the Copywriter in January 2009. I encourage you to read it. In fact, I’ll wait. 

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What did you think? I wrote that a couple of months after arriving on Twitter, and stand behind the core ideas to this day. Why? Because I know copywriters. Now you might think that copywriters only specialize in writing witty headlines and that this doesn’t translate to a medium that needs to respond to customers, promote content or solve problems - and that these areas require a different skill set. But you know what I say to that? You don’t know copywriters. 

I started a Linkedin Group called Copywriter’s Guild in 2009. It’s nearly up to 2000 worldwide members and let me tell you - we’re all different. There are copywriters who write really crappy billboards, but who are geniuses at explaining complex medical procedures. There are copywriters who specialize in specific industries like financial and retail. There are copywriters who speak different languages. But you know what they all have in common? They’re professional communicators who can write to any voice, or any brand strategy. Which is more than I can say for the intern you hired to manage your twitter account, or the account executive you asked to tweet some pictures. 

Copywriters are still the best people to manage your social media campaigns. So why not hire one or two? Either that or go back to college and learn how to write effectively and with resonance and then get a few years of real-world experience under your belt before you unleash your talent in social media. 

Shankman was right. In the world of social media, the written word is king. Success here is contingent on your ability to engage and hold the attention of your audience. Hire people who already understand how to do this. 

***

Jim Mitchem, copywriter

Osama Bin Laden is dead. Unlike many of my friends, I don’t feel vindicated, however. And don’t give me the ‘you’re not a New Yorker – you don’t know how it feels’ crap, either. It’s true, I didn’t know anyone directly who died on 9/11/01, and I wasn’t in the city when it happened, but for you to imply that every American citizen didn’t feel what happened that day in a way that affected their core forever, then you’re delusional. I don’t care whether you were at ground zero when it happened or were on a shrimp boat in the Gulf, what Osama Bin Laden planned that day left a lasting impression on everyone on the planet. Americans, nay, peace-loving humans everywhere suffered deeply and collectively. In my 46 years, it was the worst day of my life. 

I don’t know about you, but Bin Laden hasn’t really been a daily thought of mine for most of the past decade. Sure, he was forefront for a few weeks, and then during the anthrax scare, and whenever he’d release a video or audio recording from a cave. But the fact that he was scurrying around in dirty sandals halfway around the world wasn’t a huge priority in my life. And he wasn’t a factor in how I lived. Except for the fact that now I need a fucking passport to get to the Bahamas. 

The end of the first Iraq War felt like a victory. Curing cancer would feel like a victory. Killing a punk terrorist ten years later feels like the next move in a long chess match. 

I’m ok with everyone feeling happy that we just chopped the head off of the snake that bit us, but after ten years, thousands of lives and billions of dollars - I don’t feel much like celebrating. He’s one man. This doesn’t feel like a sweeping victory. And I have no intention of 'remembering' the day this mass murderer died. He doesn't deserve that much space in my head, nor that much respect. 

If it’s cathartic for you to sing the National Anthem in the streets while fireworks go off above you, then do it. Get it out of your system. Because if you think for one second that somehow Bin Laden’s death means that we’re all suddenly safer - you’re naive. Remember, jingoism breeds martyrdom. And the Islamic extremists don’t really need another reason to plot terror. 

Yes, this is a great day for America. And yes, as petty as it is, I’m glad that the guy I voted for was in office when it happened. But let’s not carry Bin Laden’s head around on a stick. We're better than that. 

***

Jim Mitchem is a USAF Veteran and is proud of the men and women who sacrifice so much to keep us safe.

Sitting at my desk. A pile of unnecessary receipts on the floor next to me. It’s the end of the month and things are getting reconciled. A stream of sunlight enters and floods the corner of my right eye, then bounces in my eyeglasses with every punch of a key. I type very deliberately.

A little dog walks across the receipts, oblivious to their significance, and puts his front paws on my left leg. He stretches and wags. I ignore him. So he whimpers and leaps. Little dog is now on my lap. I have to push back from the keyboard a few inches to accommodate him - and when I do, the sunlight shifts. Now it splashes directly onto the right lens. I’m squinting. In fact, I’ve had to backspace and correct a few words in these past two sentences. I don’t trust my fingers and must see the screen because little dog has decided to lie across my right arm. And he’s perfectly comfortable bouncing up and down with each keystroke. It’s his dinnertime. He’s going to win this.

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I return from feeding the beasts and glance down at the crumpled receipts again. As I’d cleared them from the register earlier, I noticed all the ones from our trip to Charleston last week. Now they’re just memories. Being crumpled makes it official. It’s like that every month when the receipts remind me one last time of a dinner, movie, or trip to the vet - before I file the memory away in the great archive of my mind. 

The earth turns just enough so that the sun dips behind a live oak branch and leaves me alone.

Thick, sweet jasmine rides into the room on a breeze.

***

Jim Mitchem

I wrote a piece of fiction a while back that was intended to remind us of how lucky we are to breathe. How at any moment, life as we know it can change. And how schlepping through basic daily routines might appear mundane, but are really gifts intended to be celebrated. 

This morning at 3:30 I was in the midst of a dream when everything turned white. Then, house-rattling thunder. I sat up. My wife was already awake and on her phone monitoring the radar and the twitter feed of Brad Panovich, our trusted local meteorologist. The Piedmont of NC was in the crosshairs of a line of storms that wreaked havoc on other parts of the SE US, leaving a trail of death and destruction. “It’s started,” she said. 

During the 11 pm news the night before, meteorologists on the three main local networks were all saying the same thing – that they’d never seen the atmosphere in Charlotte as ripe for tornadoes as it was this night. And that the main line of storms were due to arrive while everyone was sleeping.  

More lightning and thunder. 

Somehow, I fell back asleep. But not before thinking about how precious little we really control in our lives. We tend to go through life thinking that if we plan the right way and take the proper steps to ensure we reach our goals, everything works out for us. That by virtue of our will, we have full control of our destiny during our blip on the timeline. Yes, I’ve said it before - but the idea of control is an illusion. Ironically, when we reach our goals or when things go favorably in life, the illusion of control becomes more realistic. But all it takes is one moment to remind us that we’re just fragile, fallible, insignificant carbon life forms with no real control at all. Humility, sometimes, is a bitch. 

I have no idea how I went back to sleep this morning. Maybe it’s because I knew we did what we could to prepare for the storms – even to the point of putting a sledge hammer in the basement in case we were trapped by debris after our house had been reduced to matchsticks. But I think it’s because I’m one of those people who understands that acceptance is key in life. That next to adjusting the thermostat, I’m not in any real control at all. My wife, on the other hand, got no sleep. 

This morning, our house bustled with the routine weekday rush to get to work and school. We'd been spared. We didn't even lose power. We were lucky. Others didn't wake up to such seemingly mundane routines, however. And my heart is with those people today. Just like it was with the people of Japan. And Haiti. And Chile. And the family of the person who will die on the highway commuting to work because a truck driver in the oncoming lane spills coffee on their lap and swerves at the exact right moment. 

When you beat a life-threatening disease, your reward is to live some more. Don't tell me that every breath isn't a gift. Try to accept that today. And be grateful. 

***

Jim Mitchem

Photo credit

1) Sarcasm is easily misinterpreted on the phone. 

2) I have a face for radio and a voice for Twitter. Which is to say, I don’t like my voice. 

3) Having to hold my hand up to my ear while someone drones on and on. 

4) Having to commit to the time it takes to have the actual phone call. Email is intermittent. You get to it when you get to it. Then again, I do email right away. Get it done, and all that.

5) I like paper trails. I’ve been burned more than once by someone committing to something on the phone; not following through; then not remembering committing to it at all. 

6) I have bad hearing. Sure, it’s just in one ear, but still  (and I use the good ear for the phone) – talking on the telephone means subjecting yourself to the limits of your senses. When something’s in writing, there’s no mistake about what’s being said. 

7) Awkward silences and knowing when to hang up. With email, it’s a quick ‘very best,’ a signature line, and boom - you’re done. 

8) It’s a computer, not a walkie talkie. Look, I know you still like to talk on the phone. So did my grandmother. I’m not an old lady – I don’t like squawking. 

9) I don’t do dictation. Too often I am asked to take notes on the phone. Really? How hard is it for you type a list in an email and hit send? Why must I try to write something down with a phone up to my ear then type what I just wrote so I can do something with it? Besides, my handwriting is really bad these days. 

10)  Stream of consciousness. I hate that on the phone you’ve got to interrupt someone to get a thought out. Then they think you’re a dick, but you’re really just thinking out loud. In real time. No, on the phone you have to take turns. Then there’s some weird etiquette about who goes next, and then you respond or whatever. In email you get what you want out. Then someone else does. Back. Forth. In writing. No mistakes. 

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Jim Mitchem

We left Charlotte for this 700 square-foot home in Charleston early Tuesday afternoon and arrived in downtown as the locals were leaving. Thanks to google street view, we knew it was going to be a small house, but there’s no way to prepare for this kind of small. Which is to say, our own house is small, as far as houses go (ours was built in the 1940s), but we’ve managed pretty well with our limited space. This place, however, is like a house from the Revolutionary War. You know how when you visit historic places and walk through the sleeping quarters and wonder how the hell anyone actually lived there? That’s how this place feels. The walls are layered stucco, and the floors ancient wooden planks covered in an innocuous layer of fine black dirt that has probably been recycled in this area for centuries. I’d guess that the property is worth something since it’s located near the hospital and medial school - but honestly, a shipping container probably has as much living space. 

The house belongs to one of my wife’s friends who stays here with his wife and child fairly often. And while this kind of lifestyle works for some people, it doesn’t for me. It's not that I think I'm better than living like this - I'm just not comfortable with it. This is like urban camping. And I have never had the urge to sleep outside on the ground away from plumbing and electricity. Living in this space is for kids who are stopping off for a couple days while skipping a semester at NYU to backpack down the east coast – not people in their 40s schlepping over from Charlotte with two kids, a dog, three orthopedic pillows and a Keurig coffee maker. 

No, we didn’t come here to hang in the house. We came for the beach, the aquarium and to take in Charleston for the first time. And we're really grateful for my wife's friend letting us stay here. Besides, the house is simply a place to crash for the next few days. It's just this trip is not really anything like a 'vacation.' There will be no unwinding, I'm pretty sure. Yet, in the end it will be a great trip. It always is. My wife is amazing like that, and we’re the kind of family that loves to simply be away together. However for now, I’m worried that the walls of this place might open up and swallow us as we sleep. That is, if I can find any. 

It's 2:00 a.m. - I think I just saw a fucking ghost. Lights out. 

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Jim Mitchem

Earlier today I tweeted that my life had been threatened at a traffic signal. I think I owe it to you to explain a little. 

First, today is the first day of spring break. The kids are home. The wife took the week off. Tomorrow we’re going to Charleston for a few days. So today was a great day to get my wife and kids into the USPS for their passports. We arrived around 1030. By 1230 we'd gone a few feet, and I had to go to the bathroom. They don't have public restrooms at the Post Office.  Nice, huh? So I drove home. A quick turn, a grab of a few snacks, and I was backing out of the driveway - when I saw a car up the road screaming down our street. I continue to back out. He was going to hit me. I stop. He flies by me, honking, and flipping me off. I breathe, then decide to follow him. My kids are downtown with my wife standing in the same exact spot (they weren't on the line with me all morning, so I wasn't being  selfish about driving home alone to go to the bathroom. Besides, I already have my passport. I just want all that to be clear) so it was just me and this guy. I look up, and he actually stops on my street, as if he’s waiting for me. I gun it. Then he guns it. I guess he was surprised I didn’t skulk back into my driveway or something. I have no idea. Anyway, we get to the bottom of our hill and he stops. Because there’s a stop sign. Which surprises me considering he was jut doing probably 60 in a 25 on a neighborhood street, honking and flipping its residents off. So I pull up next to him. He’s huge. Middle linebacker huge. But I’m right, and I take charge of the conversation. “Hi, I just wanted you to know that it’s 25 mph on our street.” Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t like Mr. Rogers. I was stern. With unforgiving eyes. Eyes that quickly notice he’s tightly gripping a screwdriver. “That’s fine but I’m going to stick this fucking screwdriver into your chest if you get out of that car.” 

Over the next one-half second I think 1) I don’t drive a car. 2) This dude is holding a screwdriver, looks like an NFL practice squad goon and is worried about me getting out to MY car? 3) He just threatened to kill me. For backing out of my driveway. I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “But why?” 

“BECAUSE I’M SICK OF ALL THIS SHIT!” And he sped off. I pulled up behind him at the light up the street and snap a picture of his license plate. No, I’m not going to post it here. I still might call the cops, but only because I think this guy might go off on someone else. He didn’t actually scare me. I was in the right. But still...

I then drove back downtown and waited with my people for another hour before they got their passport applications processed and we got to pay the US State Department for the freedom to move around the world. “We can go to Hawaii now!” My wife said. I sighed. Then told her about what had just happened. 

This is what we get for letting them change the tax day

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Jim Mitchem - My wife didn’t really say that. But I couldn’t wrap this blog post up, and it sounded funny. So there’s that. Have a nice day.