CORPEOPLE

Are corporations people?

After I first read about and then watched on Youtube Romney affirming that corporation's are, indeed people (my friend) at the Iowa State Fair, the question lingered with me. This echoed through my head last week as I ran. 

So much so, I sought out a dear friend afterwards, who spends much of his professional life arguing the legal and philosophical answer to this question.  In his response to me he wrote, “The short answer is corporations are a collection of contracts to prevent a repeat of negotiations.  Who are the negotiations between?  Who drafts the contracts; benefits from them, and the like?  Why, people of course."

Then he went on to ask, “What is a corporation on a desert island?”

Though this question keeps getting thrown into the political arena, it certainly isn't a new one. For me it came to light back in my college days, when all things Ayn Rand and the principles of Objectivism were introduced to me by my aforementioned friend. In Rand's works, especially in Atlas Shrugged, she essentially personified corporations through her characters. 

She developed those corporate people in a manner, which made their pursuits almost inseparable from their person. It worked for me, in the bent of individuals building something bigger than themselves in their pursuit of happiness. And, I’ll go ahead and say it —  through self actualization. I believe to this day that the best of the best comes into fruition only by this, and mutual respect.

Rand's basic tenants always have lingered with me, not only in my professional life, but also through my individual pursuits and athletic endeavors.

Today I see it played out in a very basic level every day through swim coaching. You can be the best coach in the world, but each swimmer must be willing to find out who they are in the water. Realizing their best takes more or less time, depending on the individual. At my best, I’m a steward, helping an athlete realize their true potential. A team's success is measured through individual accomplishments.

Is a person who they are, based on the logo they wear, the team they represent, or the corporation for which they work?

That's a big no. It comes down to branding, and the effectiveness of a collective message. Whether it is a small group, comprised of individuals who together make a team, or a larger group of people who work for a corporation.

But it's more complicated than that, isn't it?

Are the characters in works such as Rand’s congruent with what we see today in corporate America? I would argue, “No.” Obviously her view was a utopian version of what corporate America should be, and sometimes is, but certainly not always. And I think it's this reality, which has people stumped — or at least me.

Corporations are comprised of a collection of individuals who, if the corporate branding is successful, identify in some way with the institution. The employees of said corporation act lesser or more on behalf of their employer, depending on their level of commitment. And their commitment isn't always so great. Frankly I see this all the time when dealing with folks who work for our government.

It gets more personal with family owned companies and smaller businesses. 

 In Rand’s world, when corporate commitment was on par with a life-long pursuit, I buy into the relationship between the two — institution and individual. But in today’s society when employees are fairly transient, how can they possibly relate to the core humanity of a  corporation as strongly?

In today's reality, when someone is acting on behalf of their employer, do they feel compelled to a lesser or stronger degree to hide behind that branding when the situation serves? Do folks use their corporate position to make the world a better place, or maybe sometimes, to achieve their own individual sustainability, to the better or worse of another?

That, too, is a yes.


So are corporations people? Still yes — and sometimes people behave badly. 


That last assertion is something upon which we can all agree.

iSpeak

I speak French.

Or at least my iPhone does. You type a word or sentence for translation, and it speaks back to you. How cool is that?

I learned this least week, which is one more reason to embrace my phone. I was more than ambivalent when my husband gave it to me recently. My thumbs never seemed to navigate right when I used his, and I didn't think I needed all the fancy accoutrements. But after months of never being able to reach me, he'd had enough.

I had a cell — only it never had any charge. Or if it had charge, then it had no minutes remaining. And when you spend as much time faraway from the familiar and as apart as we do, this was an issue for him. (Maybe it was my post about getting lost on a run without a phone that did him in …?.). While, communicating via phone isn’t my first choice, sometimes it’s my only.

Anyway, I’m a little bent out of shape that my phone speaks more languages than I’ll ever master.

We were in France last week. Whenever we travel I’m conscious of my communication skills (or lack thereof). I like to blend as much as possible, especially when I'm travelling alone or just with the kids —not only for safety, but for experience. Unlike the stories I heard growing up, I found the French people I met quite accommodating. But in the country where many don't speak English, I had to completely rely on my friend Andy, who is fluent. I loved listening to his conversations, although I had no idea what he was saying. He could’ve been saying, “Look at my friend over there, isn’t she a silly one?”

Language barriers leave me feeling vulnerable, and I don’t like that. 

In high school I spent a lot of time at my friend’s house realizing I couldn't understand a lick of Korean. She is first-generation, and her parents who came from South Korea often spoke their native language at home, especially when her grandparents came for a visit. 

I remember a time at dinner when I was fairly certain her grandparents were making fun of me during the meal. (It could’ve been their laughter and general nods in my direction that gave me a clue.) After we left she confirmed it. They wondered how much my Amazon self could consume with their silver chop sticks, since I couldn’t keep hold of anything. (Unlike their wooden counterparts, they are slippery!).

Early in our married military life we lived in San Antonio. I worked downtown at the symphony. It wasn’t long before I felt the impact of the “merging of the Americas.” I realized I could only understand about half the conversations happening around me.

I took German through high school and college. It took too many years to put it to the test, and I now know just enough to know I don’t know enough. But I got by better there than in Normandy.

French is a voluptuous language. I loved listening to people speak around me. It seems all the words are formed in the front of your mouth, ready to burst out — all juicy and plump like a peach in summer. I began mimicking the sounds I heard, sort of like the fiction “Mockingjays” I read about in The Hunger Games.

German, in contrast, feels stuck in the back of your throat. You must almost spit out the words.

Italian is sex on a stick. Or at least that’s how I felt when I was in that country.

While English seems almost universal, it also travels around the whole of your mouth, depending on the words. And depending on where you are, it may feel like a language not your own. Have you ever heard a Scotsman speak?

Maybe it’s the simple notion of reaching someone on their own terms, that I crave.

Body language works, and I cherish the moments in life when you know you’ve come to an understanding with someone upon making eye contact. At one point over the weekend, the housekeeper came in looking for the dog (who we let in, b/c it was raining). We sized each other up, because neither of us could understand a word the other was speaking. She looked at me and said something terse. It wasn’t hard to tell she was miffed; nothing lost in translation there.

The French countryside was everything it’s cracked up to be. The vast fields of yellow rape seed you see during the Tour de France already are everywhere. Cyclists are prevalent, too. Even on the narrowest of roads, motorists seem respectful of them. This language; the culture and all its nuance,  you cannot capture in or on a screen. We went for a few runs. Everything went uphill. While the views from above are spectacular,  my legs were screaming — in English.

Each time I return from a place I’ve enjoyed, I resolve to resolve to learn more. It all begins with speech. Maybe soon I can have a conversation with my iPhone...

THINKING OF YOU

Do you believe in the Butterfly Effect?

I think I do…

I am here, so close to where we were, physically, then

But it is 2012 now.

I wonder

how best to commemorate

In your honor

With respect and humility

For the fact, that, I wasn’t the one

You were —

And they were, but

I always feel so close to your pain that first day.

(I do not portend to know about all the days since)

Being back here

For the first time in years

Forces me to face

March 31, which always brings

Overwhelming emotion filled with memories of

The dawn of tragic loss, unconfirmed.

We first made coffee

just for the motion of doing.

And then you asked me how….

…and I still don’t know the answer,

only it’s what they want to do.

Sometime later,

I made you ride a bike,

And you went,

just for the motion of doing

But you couldn’t see —

You said it was a blur

(between the ativan and no contacts)

I wanted you to feel

nothing but wind in your face

just for the motion of doing

I acknowledge and remember

so many special things about each and every one, in words and actions …

They are everywhere.

In peoples’ thoughts, I read.

In my own, I feel.

But I also want to hear

How you are

And what the kids are doing lately

Your family legacy flourishes through their sweet faces

And your smile

Affirming life moves on

In silence now, and without you

I think about the time

we spent here in tandem,

but I also want to

celebrate everything

you’ve worked so hard to build since —

always remembering,

(we never forget) as we

keep moving forward from

Seven years ago today.

In loving memory of those we lost on March 31, 2005; the nine men who comprised the crew of Wrath II, 7SOS, USAF, RAF Mildenhall.

In honor of all those they left behind.

We remember.

INSIDE OUT

I just got back from a run —not just any run,  but one of those rare, life-affirming epic experiences.  Your feet feel fleet, so much so, they barely touch the ground. Instead they more or less hover in rotation just above ground level. These are the runs for which we runners strive, and it's true — you get this endorphin rush known as "runner's high." It certainly isn’t an every day occurrence. But we remember in between, enough to keep us tying our laces and heading out the door. Even on the dreariest of days.

Dreary wasn’t the case today, though. The weather in England is amazing at the moment, making outdoor ventures all the more appealing. Horace and I were feeling so good, we went off our beaten path and ventured into new territory.

It was only after we crossed a bridge, followed a path around a cow field; ran over the lip of a canal and down a single track along the water when I realized I was totally and completely alone. And I wasn't sure where I was in relation to home. Running with Horace makes me a little braver than maybe I would be normally going into the woods. It was amazing and peaceful.

I was really enjoying myself watching Horace wade into the water to catch some ducks, when I suddenly thought no one knew where I was … and my husband is away. I thought, "Home is a hell of a lot further than my house..." So my moment of sanctuary was quickly morphing into stress.

I began to imagine the kids coming home and finding the house empty. I wondered if I found myself in trouble and dialed “999” on my phone, would the constabulary geo track me? Then I realized I forgot my phone. As I watched Horace shy away from getting too wet and give up on the ducks, I wondered how mighty a protector he would prove to be, if pressed.

It was then I decided to reign Horace in and try and find a more beaten path…

As I went along, I thought about a survey I found in the paper the other day. It was a personality test  of sorts to determine whether one is introverted or extroverted. I had time to waste waiting for my truck in the shop, so I took it. Turns out, according to this particular Q&A, I’m so far introverted, I’m almost inside out.

Have you ever taken one of those? I mean, by the time you are my age, which is mid-40s, one must recognize some things about oneself. If not, then, that is a challenge (and a bit sad, really). But sometimes when your characteristics are illustrated in a new way, it really gives pause. At least it did for me.

I choose individual pursuits. I run. I swim. I cycle. I love to cook and read, and play my guitar. My two constant companions on a daily basis are my dog, and the view of my adopted horse in the back field. There is no mistake. I love my friends. So much so, I cling on to those near and dear ones with white-knuckled fists. I love having company. So much so, I treat it as a big event and really try to make it special for everyone. But when it’s over, and everyone has gone home, I tend to be worn out and look forward to quiet.

That's just me.

Zoe is working on her Science Fair project at the moment. Since her interests right now lean toward becoming a brain surgeon (that's our Zoe — go BIG or go HOME!), she kept coming up with things like, for example, testing the effects of different drugs on brain functionality. After we talked her down from this one, she chose a study revolving around handedness, and how it may or may not be linked to personality.

I'm left handed. 

She asked me the other day what the word "introverted" means. Hmmmm….

...Eventually, I found my way. After about a half mile or so running in what I thought was the right direction, I came across a more trodden path. Then a big tanker flew right over my head, which is a familiar sight and sound. I knew I was near the flight path for landing, so I just followed it home.

(Does handedness have anything to do with personality? I have no idea. I'll let you know how Zoe's experiments play out)

CAUGHT

Today we had one of those “Daddy’s Away” Fridays, when the kids and I follow a different tune. Our daily rhythms vary when we’re not trying to stay in sync with the usual goings and comings of my Air Force husband, and sometimes we just make it up as we go along, especially when the kids were younger and didn’t have so much going on. There was no school today, so the hours floated, as they do when schedules are for not.

We were walking out of the library when I heard the base speakers pipe up. This tune I knew.

I thought, “CAUGHT!” And for a moment my thoughts and memories crashed into each other.  

It reminded me of a solo piece by David Parsons of the same name. It was one of my favorites. He choreographed it on himself. It required great athleticism of the dancer (for me, Michael Cornell at BalletMet Columbus), who was strobed at intervals, caught in different positions, both on the ground and in the air. That was a different time in my life. But for an instant my then self and now self merged. I saw the shape of the dance in my mind, and I felt strobed in action.

I always wondered what it felt like… but this time I was caught in the parking lot on RAF Mildenhall.

The girls were already inside the truck. Without speaking, Tres and I, as if we were choreographed, immediately stood at attention and faced the sound of our National Anthem. It has become automatic, this movement; a natural extension of our life.  We know this beat.

After my initial, “DOH!” moment. I tipped my head back, looked at the sky and listened. I heard birdsong, sort of backing up the rhythm. Instead of feeling resentful for being held up (and for what? Like 3-5 minutes?) I let go and allowed the moment and the music to wash over me. It was nice.

The anthem is played in three parts at precisely 4:30pm on United States military installations world over. This is a daily occurrence. Most days it doesn’t give such pause. But today, I looked over and wondered if moments like this one will resonate with my son as they sometimes do with me. My relationship with our national anthem has evolved into something quite profound over the years.

On other days, when I’m more alert and conscious of the time, I often observe people running into buildings when they know it’s 4:29. You don’t have to stand at attention when you’re inside of a building. Anywhere, outside, you must stop and face the music — literally.

I looked around after the completion of the music and noticed no one else was outside.

My reflexes didn’t always snap into attention at the first sound of the drums. I remember years ago in San Antonio, I was doing laps in the base pool. I was new to active duty life (and married life) and wasn’t aware of the protocol.  It took me a minute to realize everyone else was halted in their lanes. I stopped swimming, heard the music, then realized I’d missed my cue. I stood at attention mid-lane. Luckily it was shallow enough for me to stand.

While this particular rhythm didn’t always feel natural to me, it does now. It is this culture in which my children have grown up. This tune they know. I wonder if I can continue to introduce them to the other pieces of my life, as well. Here is CAUGHT by David Parsons:

MIRROR, MIRROR ...

I’m having a “Nora Ephron” day. 

I say this, because every time I have one of those self-loathing situations that drags out, anywhere from moments to days, when you just feel badly about absolutely everything in direct relation to you, I think of her book, “I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts About Being a Woman.” I read it a couple of years ago. Her words linger.

In church yesterday, someone complimented me on my necklace. It’s this heavy wooden black affair I usually wear when I don’t like the look of my neckline. I said, "Thanks. It's my 'Nora Ephron' necklace.”

On days when I look into the mirror and think these things, I simultaneously wonder if I’d be bothered as much if I had less time to look into the mirror and ponder my gray hairs, my neck, etc. If I were more important, making bigger contributions, etc. — probably not. Maybe.

I read an article in yesterday’s Sunday paper about Demi Moore. I’m not in the states right now. I don’t Twitter. (Is Twitter now a verb?) I had no idea about the Demi Moore/Twitter thing until I saw it in The (London) Sunday Times.

That might be just one of the millions of ways Demi and I differ. When I feel badly about myself, I hide — my neck or sometimes my entire self. I can’t imagine feeling badly and jetting myself out into the stratosphere in a leopard-skin bikini.

That just makes me sad — not only for myself (because I wouldn’t DARE strike a pose in a leopard-skin bikini), but for Demi and for all women, everywhere. I worry for my daughters and my daughers’ daughters. Because in spite of the countless amazing contributions women are making to society  — what has changed?

Today I logged on to get my CBS Sunday morning fix, and watched a story about 1940s starlet Hedy Lamarr, who shared the screen with the likes of Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy. She was voted “most desirable” pin-up during World War II.  She was beautiful. She was also smart. She invented and patented a model for frequency hopping for secret communications. While the Navy did not utilize her work then, it is widely utilized now by the military. She gave the patent to the Navy.

I went on watching, only to discover in her later years, she became a recluse, due to botched cosmetic surgery and her loss of self-worth, according to her son. She died alone in her late 80s somewhere in Florida.

In a larger context, my mirror moments and the news of the day speak to me about women in society and how, despite the best efforts of countless, we tread the same waters, moored by many — society, the media, ourselves.

And it all starts in our heads, or maybe on our heads  — self-image and outward appearance seem to work in unison. I wanted to set an example for my daughters; let them know that growing old doesn’t have to be feared or — here’s that word again — loathed.

I spent the last year or so consciously not addressing my ever-increasing gray hairs. It was as much an extension of being tired of finding a new, trusted stylist each time we move, then repeating past mistakes with storebought products, as it was a test. I wanted to see if I could do it — if I could permit myself to let my hair go by way of nature. I wanted to somehow show my daughters how beautiful they are from the inside out. I wanted to set an example.

Tomorrow, though, I have a hair appointment. 

It came down to something someone once said to me about giving birth naturally, which I also thought I wanted at one time. He simply asked, “Would you go to the dentist and deny yourself Novocain?” A big comedy strip, type "NO!" bullseyed into my brain; still does whenever I think of it.

If resources are available, accessible, affordable, then why not utilize them to make ourselves more comfortable … with ourselves, in the mirror, and otherwise. But to what end? What are the boundaries? What are the cyclical effects? I wonder … maybe I’ll just have a trim, donate the rest to charity and keep thinking about it…


"The color of truth is gray..." — Andre Gide

365

Last week Christians world over entered the season of Lent, mostly giving up something of pleasure or vice for 40 days and nights. Some dove in after partying like a Rock Star. My family and I experienced some of that in Eindhoven during a swim meet, which coincided with Carnival. It was fun to watch, but I kept thinking it would take many about that long to recover from their hangovers.

In England, we ate pancakes the night before in one last symbolic indulgence on Shrove Tuesday. Meanwhile, I viewed friends' posts and listened to others with interest as those around me considered their sacrifice. Notions of change ranged from subtle to extreme; or even none at all, depending on the individual.

Lent is an old English word meaning, “lengthen.” While pondering what I might let go for 40 days, I noticed a post from a friend who is returning home after a 365. A “365” is what military members refer to as a year-long tour of duty, which does not include family members.

365.

365 trumps 40.

365 days in the desert is a long time. The sacrifices made by the entire family are many. And often, as I’ve witnessed, those effected put forth such positivity, it’s easy to forget the endurance it must take for everyone involved. 

My friend returning home documented his experiences this past year through a gifted eye followed by a trail of photos he shared on Facebook throughout his deployment.  The images brought context and insights to his daily life. Intended, I believe, for his near and dear, he paid forward perspective to many of us who otherwise would have no clue what it means to spend a year in Afghanistan, away from family.

At the same time, another friend is considering a year to come without her husband, as it seems he will be assigned a 365. They await word. I look on as she considers life in his absence.

Like many military spouses I know, she is stoic. She doesn’t appear phased. But I imagine as she navigates through her days with her busy family, she also mentally negotiates all it will take for her to do everything without her partner. It’s exhausting just thinking about it. People say you take one day at a time, thus the term, "another day down."

A 365 is a sacrifice my friends endure with grace. And it offers such levity to me during this Lenten season. For me it's a bridge. What is that saying, something about the strength of a country carried on the shoulders of but a few? Ah — I'm sure to muddle it.

But I try to remember as I anticipate the question some friends pose — the “WHY?” question. As in, why would you spend your life this way? Most people I know who are members of our voluntary armed forces or married to someone who is, are a gentle, pensive, adventurous folk who feel a sense of duty and at some point beg the question, “What would the world look like without us?”

But that’s beyond the scope of my thoughts today. Today I simply try and fathom the length of a 365.

It’s a commitment many take in stride, while others simply cannot embrace. Babies are born. People die. Birthdays are celebrated. Children are soothed. Beds are made. Stories are read. Holidays and seasons come and go. 

In 40 days, folks return to chocolate and wine, and Facebook for another year before considering letting them go again. In contrast, it seems forever — a year.

And it is a long time, when you break it down to daily life, especially when the kids are small; growing and changing daily. Many people I know create symbols of “another day down.” Some string 365 beads or candies for the kids to remove daily in their countdowns to when their beloved returns.

Another friend dove into work during her husband’s year away. Though she is a lawyer by trade, she became a substitute teacher and worked as many days as she could get. Meanwhile, she coached; taught in church; made fitness goals. It seemed the busier she was, the less time she had to feel lonely, or so I imagine.

My family has, so far, not endured this particular period of military penance. Five or six months is the longest we’ve been apart at one time. Not everyone undergoes 365s, but out of the one percent of US citizens who serve in the military, more and more seem to be learning to live through one.

During the Vietnam era, the tour of duty for the majority of the soldiers and Marines was a year. But this memory is distant for those of us who were infants at the time or in our childhood.

It is better now for families, I imagine. We now are able to keep in touch via voice and video in real time. This helps bridge the divide and keeps the memories of small children in check.

During this pensive time of year, as winter slowly gives way to spring, why not reach out to someone you know whose sacrifices bring levity to our own gestures of endurance.





"Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few." — Winston Churchill in regards to The Battle of Britain