A Totally Fun Thing I Would Absolutely Do Again: 2018 Soul Train Cruise

Soul Train, the televised presentation of ‘70s-‘90s music and dance, is a much beloved, iconic symbol of culture in the world of not just R&B music, but popular music around the globe.

My recollection of my teen years is filled with memories of gathering around the TV set in our Bronx apartment for the absolutely necessary weekly half hour of live performances by Black America’s hottest acts, funky dance moves performed by enthusiastic teenagers, and host and founder Don Cornelius’ unflappable cool. To relive these memories, hear those sounds, and enjoy a great oceangoing vacation sounded like a good bet – and that’s the premise of this particular cruise experience. You get the fabulousness of cruising to fantastic vacation locales, mixed with the nostalgia and musical excellence of the Soul Train brand.

I’d wanted to go on the cruise since it was first introduced; was even offered an opportunity to go back in 2014 but couldn’t get the time off. But thank the Lord, praise the Muses, and undying gratefulness to a dear friend, earlier this year I got to experience the Soul Train Cruise for myself. And it was AWESOME.

THE 2018 EDITION

For the 2018 sailing, we departed Jan. 27 from Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on Holland-America’s mega ship Nieuw Amsterdam. This was the Soul Train Cruise’s seventh annual voyage combining entertainment, nostalgia, tourism, and plain old-fashioned fun.

I felt lifted from the moment I came aboard, thanks to the music mixes being piped through all the public spaces, which totally sets the atmosphere. My companion and I were singing along on the elevators, two-stepping in the public spaces, finger-snapping in the dining room, and getting others to join in. People had flown in from all across the United States, and some parts of Europe and the U.K. There were couples and groups of friends, people in their 40s and people in their 80s. There were folks on board of all hues, and people for whom this particular cruise had become an annual tradition. We were connected by the music we all knew and loved, and the atmosphere on board was congenial.

After being shown to our quarters, which were fairly commodious and modern by ship standards, I couldn’t help but get excited by the prospect of being entertained day and night by live performances from many revered artists. Crowded into the Mainstage Theater auditorium seats, people from all backgrounds and from overlapping generations, swayed together as one, grooving along with the performers. It almost didn’t matter what acts were booked to perform – the excitement, appreciation, support for both the performers and fellow cruisers – was tangible all through the ship.

The 2018 Soul Train cruise featured Rose Royce, Howard Hewett, Jeffrey Osborne, the Trammps, the new Stylistics, the new Miracles, Eddie Levert, Gerald Alston, Marilyn McCoo & Billy Davis, the Pointer Sisters, the Whispers, and the indefatigable Charlie Wilson. Some of the performances were better than others, but the audience – there to relive their favorite memories with their favorite music – was not there to quibble. (For detailed reviews of the performances, see journalist A. Scott Galloway’s two-part coverage in EURWeb, beginning here.) The performances were spread out between midday, pre-dinner, and post-dinner times, in venues ranging from the two-story Mainstage theater, to the more intimate Billboard Lounge, and the party-hardy poolside areas. Dancers could visit the Crow’s Nest lounge after hours. And when the marquee acts weren’t on stage, there was a hard-working, soul singing sister named Alfreda who also entertained with a poolside band, and she was phenomenal.

Howard Hewett

Another highlight of the Soul Train Cruise experience was the chance to get more up close and personal with several of the name performers, something that isn’t easy to do at your average landlocked performance venue. Some of the acts took time to appear in small venues with the cruise host, Tony Cornelius, and velvet-voiced SiriusXM host Angela Stribling for intimate interviews that were also streamed on the ship’s circuit television channels. Consummate singer Jeffrey Osborne, who began his career as drummer for the band LTD, not only sat for an interview but later gathered drummers from the ship’s various performing bands for a fascinating drum workshop in the Crow’s Nest, explaining basic drum figures and giving live demonstrations, while Caribbean superstar Maxi Priest personally hosted a mixology class, stirring up original cocktails behind the bar of an upscale onboard lounge. Likewise, veterans Marilyn McCoo & Billy Davis of Fifth Dimension fame, hosted a workshop on marriage and relationships, revealing their own challenges and offering advice to those in the audience. These sessions gave cruisers a chance to get to know the performers in a casual setting. In addition, Chuck Gamble of Philadelphia International and SiriusXM’s Angela Stribling hosted specially themed gatherings for attendees.

Eddie Levert

Drummers talk craft.

2018 PORTS OF CALL

The Nieuw Amsterdam also took us to just two ports of call: Oranjestad, Aruba, and Willemstad, Curacao. These islands off the coast of Venezuela are popular Caribbean tourist destinations, and I wish I could have spent more time exploring them. A third tour stop was originally scheduled, but a rocky Caribbean crossing cut the itinerary down.


In Aruba, we visited the local Oranjestad market stalls then taxied past numerous hotel and condominium complexes to windswept Eagle Beach, where the sparkling turquoise waters were intensely salty and thus super-buoyant, a plus for anyone whose swimming and floating skills are less than stellar. WE opted not to rent lounge chairs hawked by a young man in Spanish, but we did partake when a vendor with a cooler of ice cream treats came by. The sun was pretty strong, so strong that our SPF actually failed us.

In Curacao the next day, we took a different approach, as we were sunburned and exhausted from the previous day. I booked a bus tour, one of several offered via the ship’s onboard excursion service, that would take us to three island locations. I figured that would give us a sense of the island and limit our exposure to the sun and too much walking! Tours gave cruisers opportunities to shop, visit the beaches, try water sports, visit cultural centers, and more.

For our tour, we stopped first at the original Blue Curacao factory, where the unique and internationally known liqueur is manufactured. Talk about making lemonade from lemons – seems the conquering Spaniards in the 16th century planted Valencia orange trees on Curacao, but the rocky soil yielded some tiny, bitter, green citrus fruits that were dang near inedible and useless until a man came up with a way to use the oil in the skin to create this tasty orange liqueur. The bottles are also unique as well. We viewed the exhibits about the process, then sampled some tasty Curacao-laced beverages on a shady patio and patronized the gift shop.

The tour bus then took us out of Willemstad into the countryside to visit a working aloe farm, listen to an explanation of how the plants are grown and buy some aloe products (great for our sunburns). Next, we motored on to an art cooperative, an indoor-outdoor space where artisans create the popular local figurines known as chichis. “Chichi” is the Papiamentu word for sister, and these figures of buxom brown ladies, created in different sizes and painted in various styles of dress, are extremely popular and potent symbols of Curacao culture.

WHY YOU SHOULD GO

First of all, cruising is one of the most popular and cost-efficient vacation packages, since the fun starts the moment you walk onto the ship. You walk onto one of these cruise line ships, and you have entered the floating mega hotel resort that is your base of operations for the duration. On Holland America, our room was spic and span, cleaned multiple times a day as we dined, danced, drank, spent time at the pool, and contemplated visits to the spa or workout rooms. The days we spent wandering the length and breadth of the Nieuw Amsterdam, we marveled at its enormity, efficiency, and design. The crew is unfailingly polite, cheerful, and eager to serve. Cruises are noted for all this, and their stops in beautiful, sun-drenched Caribbean ports. But most importantly, we were entertained by a series of beloved acts every day and night, and the Soul Train spirit – The Hippest Trip in America – was evident everywhere we went. But most of all, it’s the other people on board who really make the experience warm, friendly, fun-filled, and joyous. In other words, you’re going to experience a whole lot of Love, Peace and SOUL!

Chatting with Angela Stribling, Marilyn McCoo and Billy Davis.

Bookings for the Soul Train Cruise 2019 have already begun – and the ship is already HALF sold! -- so make your plans now. The ship sets sail from January 20 -27, with stops in the Dominican Republic, San Juan, Puerto Rico, and Half Moon Cay. And the lineup looks out of this world: Motown legend Smokey Robinson, the beautiful and talented Gladys Knight, funk Pied Piper George Clinton (who recently said he’s retiring!), the incredible Stephanie Mills, hitmaker Evelyn Champagne King, funky Morris Day & the Time, smooth vocal trio Ray, Goodman & Brown, separate sets by classic memory making bands Bloodstone, New Birth, and the Chi-Lites, and EWF veteran Al McKay’s All-Stars performing the music of Earth Wind & Fire. I mean, that sounds phenomenal!

Drop everything, call your friends and family, tell your boss you will be on vacation that week, and get out your boogie shoes for the Soul Train Cruise. You won’t regret it. For bookings and info, start here.

Keep Your Head Up & Other Affirmations, Cliches, and Bon Mots To Keep It Moving

Times are tough. Many baby boomers I know are struggling to stay level in a topsy turvy universe. They are being edged out of their jobs by younger workers willing to work for less. Struggling to launch children into adulthood. Trying to help their parents with health and housing issues. Trying to maintain their own mental and physical health. All while watching the daily nightmare news from Washington with increasing dismay.

Earlier this week, surveying my own troublesome situation, I reached back in my mind for a song lyric to both sum up the issue and encourage me (I often think and communicate in song lyrics). I thought first of Tupac's "Keep Your Head Up," and also Soul II Soul's "Keep On Moving," but being a baby boomer I went even further back to a 1972 rock anthem by a one-hit wonder called Argent. The song, "Hold Your Head Up," had the lyrics I was seeking in the moment (though it has an overlong instrumental break with an insipid and damn near unbearable organ solo). I quote:

"And if it's bad, don't let it get you down, you can take it
And if it hurts, don't let them see you cry, you can make it
Hold your head up, ho! hold your head up, ho! hold your head high

And if they stare, just let them burn their eyes on your moving (movie?)
And if they shout, don't let it change a thing that you're doing
Hold your head up, ho! hold your head up, ho! hold your head high"

Great message, but the real power is in shouting the "ho!" as loudly as possible.

Listening to this got me thinking about our culture of relentless cheerleading and the numerous cliches and bits of folk wisdom that have developed around the ideas of not only powering through rough patches, but also daring to take risks. These little bon mots are ingrained early, and we never question them.

A couple of years ago I was working one of my many side gigs. This one had me grading essays written by sixth graders for a statewide literacy test in response to a prompt. Almost every paper offered some form of homespun wisdom, some variation on a theme, and I saw several of these sayings in more than one paper. Here are some of them:

1. You gotta be in it to win it.
2. You gotta risk it to get the biscuit.
3. History isn't made in the dark.
4. In life, you're the driver, not the passenger.
5. A closed mouth doesn't get fed.
6. If you're not getting better, you're getting worse.
7. Don't arrive at death safely.
8. If you're not living your dream, someone will pay you to help them live theirs.
9. Life is an uphill climb but if you look around the view is great.
10. Even a turtle has to stick his head out to get ahead.
11. Wishes are goals without action.
12. A lesson is a trophy for trying.
13. Don't live the What If lifestyle, live the Oh Well lifestyle.
15. You miss 100 percent of the shots you don't take.
16. Sometimes wrong choices lead to the right places.

Sure -- there is some inspiration to be taken from these perspectives, and also in the fact that today's schoolchildren are adopting a can-do attitude at such a young age. But there's also the possibility that for a statewide test, these kids are just dredging up what they think school authorities want to hear, and are parroting back the blather they get from teachers, coaches, and parents at every turn. Perhaps they will internalize the motivation and positivity these sayings are meant to engender.

In repeating these sayings here, I am reminded that this moment is only fleeting. I can make the next one better.

Interview Encounters I: Teddy P.

I joined Billboard in November 1987 as a copyeditor.

It was a big step backward, careerwise, moneywise, as I’d already been a section editor at Essence. But I’d made a brief misstep by leaving the magazine to double my paycheck as a public information officer at the New York City Housing Authority, a job I learned to hate very quickly. I was desperate to get out of City government and lucked up on the Billboard editorial support position. It was a great move for me, because all I was interested in then was music and writing. I’d worked for NYCHA for a grand total of 90 days when I turned in my resignation.

Nelson George was editor of the Black Music section, a part-timer who came into the office at 1515 Broadway to open his mail, turn in his stories and conduct other business. We’d met first at Essence, where he was a frequent contributor. Now that I was at Billboard, we sat on the same cubicle aisle. He made sure that I was usually the one to copyedit his stories because I’d seen his raw copy at Essence and I knew both the music and his turns of phrase. Sometimes his good buddy Reggie Hudlin would visit with him to shoot the shit and glom any castoff promo CDs or cassettes Nelson felt like giving away. Nelson was good for coming in with various associates and sharing the wealth of freebies while opening his mail. (It was during one of these sessions when I mentioned to Reggie that I was thinking of getting master’s degree in journalism, and he said, “Why take fishing lessons when you’ve already hooked a big fish?”)

After several months at Billboard I began asking Nelson to let me write a feature story. Finally Nelson said, OK, write me a story, here’s the publicity info, go for it. In my memory, that first story was on Teddy Pendergrass. I was excited. I was no stranger to writing stories or to conducting interviews, but I hadn’t spoken to many recording artists of any stature -- yet. In my estimation, Teddy Pendergrass was a Star with a capital S. His music had ruled a long stretch of my high school and college years. At this juncture, Teddy had already suffered the catastrophic 1982 automobile accident that had rendered him paralyzed from the waist down and had undergone intensive rehabilitation and therapy. His biggest hits – “Only You,” “Close The Door,” “Turn Out the Lights,” not to mention his work with Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes – were fifteen years or more behind him, but he had rallied since the crash. He’d had surgeries, rehab, therapy. He got around via a motorized wheelchair; he could talk and eventually he could sing again. During that period he had released hit duets with Whitney Houston and Stephanie Mills. He had also made a triumphant performance at the LiveAid concert in Philadelphia in 1985. Now, Elektra was releasing the 1988 album Joy, led by the feel-good single of the same name.

In the earliest days of writing Billboard I did exhaustive research for interviews. I listened to all of Teddy’s music, analyzed the entire advance CD track by track, wrote out thoughtful questions, and practiced my composure. I didn’t usually get rattled by famous people – fame being relative -- but as an introvert (albeit a high-functioning one) I could get nervous and geek out just meeting anyone new. My tried and true tactics were just to smile, be personable, and ask really good questions. Nothing stunts an interview quite like a bored interviewer who asks uninformed questions.

I met with Teddy in a hotel suite on Eighth Avenue, the theater district in New York. His hair had grown long and was slicked back, and he still had that dazzling smile, the full beard, and that great smokey, husky voice. He seemed willing and gracious, but I could tell instantly that he was tired. He’d probably done dozens of these promotional interviews, and as a quadriplegic his energy was probably limited. I’d come armed with a dozen detailed questions, but midway through I decided to curtail the interview. Teddy’s answers were getting shorter and shorter and the in-depth, memory-lane discussion I’d envisioned was not going to happen. I’m blessed and cursed with way too much empathy for others, so as his energy flagged and I sensed the publicist hovering, I wrapped it up. I’d gotten enough for the story.

So I thanked Teddy profusely and offered my hand to shake. There was an uncomfortable pause.

Oh my God. Even though the man was seated in a wheelchair right in front of me, I’d forgotten that Teddy Pendergrass is a quadriplegic with limited use of his hands. Awkward. I think his curled fist and my hand managed to connect in farewell, but I was momentarily mortified as I scuttled out of the room and into the elevator. In retrospect, it wasn’t that big a deal, but in that moment I felt that I’d been insensitive in the extreme.

Years later I was able to meet Teddy again in social situations in Philadelphia, thanks to my girlfriend Dyana Williams, and I was invited to be part of the production team for his Teddy 25 fundraiser at the Kimmel Center in June of 2007. I wrote the script for the all-star celebration of Teddy’s life that featured Bill Cosby, Mo’Nique, Ashford & Simpson, Patti LaBelle, Melba Moore, noted dance troupe Philadanco, Kindred, Julius “Dr. J” Erving, and others. It was a fantastic evening, and I was proud to have been part of it. Though Teddy had wanted it to be an annual event, unfortunately he didn’t get the backing and his health began to decline until he passed away in January of 2010.

I wrote the Teddy story for Nelson and it ran in the Black Music section. After that, Nelson was pretty generous with doling out the story assignments. The magazine didn’t pay me any extra for them, and Nelson could cover the artists without having to do the work himself – he had plenty on his plate already. It was a win-win situation. It was great for me, because I was building my Billboard clip list. When Nelson left the magazine to do bigger and better things, I was named editor in June of 1989. Thanks, Nelson and thanks, Teddy.

Up In Smoke: Memories Of A Bad Habit

A month or so ago, I had this really weird dream. I'll spare you the bizarre, surreal details, except this one: Me and Kevin Costner standing in a Wells Fargo way station. (I know, just go with it.) I had just taken out a cigarette; Kevin thought it was for him and took it from me, but then he saw that it was a Virginia Slim or Benson & Hedges -- something menthol, at any rate, long and skinny, from my real-life smoking past -- so he flipped it and stuck it in my mouth with a smirk. I reached in my pocket and pulled out an oversized pack of Marlboros in the red and white carton and he took one. It was like this funny little personal moment of comedy between us. Then he took a silver fliptop lighter and lit us both up. In the dream that cigarette was so good! I haven't had an entire tobacco cigarette since the '90s.

But that sent me on a total reverie about my smoking past.

I smoked cigarettes on and off for at least 20 to 25 years, surprisingly. In the 1970s black folks in the NY hood by and large smoked menthol: Kools, Salems and Newports. It was pretty ubiquitous. All the cool kids smoked. In high school, along with other grown-people habits this babyfaced good girl attempted to adopt, I started buying Newports from time to time to pose with in the smoking bathroom at school and at parties.(Yes, amazingly, we had a smoking bathroom where occasionally things besides cigarettes were consumed and where I knew many of my friends could be found.) I didn't inhale my cigarette, just puffed and blew. It gave me time to practice how to light and hold the thing.

My then-boyfriend Paul, a Jamaican born in England, was a smoker and I got to observe how he managed the habit. Cigarettes are delicate things -- they're made of thin paper and shredded tobacco, they break, get wet, come apart, and you gotta be careful not to set yourself on fire, get live cinders on your clothes, burn your fingers, or inhale the filter once you light 'em up. Because they need to keep their shape so you can suck air through, you can't put a death grip on them -- though I've seen some people pinch the filter flat to hold -- so you're prone to dropping them or flipping them across the room. When you accidentally dropped that last cigarette into a puddle, or tried to drop ash out the window of a moving car and either sprayed yourself with cinders or had the wind suck it completely out of your hand, that was a sad, pathetic moment.

One summer when I was 15 or so, I had a Jobs For Youth job at the Young Filmmakers Foundation down on Rivington Street in Manhattan. Jobs For Youth was a city program for summer jobs; Young Filmmakers had received grants to document youth arts programs around the city, with plans to broadcast on the local public service channels once they were produced. My boss Lillian and the main camera man, both Hispanic, smoked. I got coffee and snacks, carried equipment and sometimes monitored the audio, setting up the boom mikes and running the audio recorder. One day we were in a Harlem brownstone to film a group of congueros in a drum circle. On a break I asked the cute camera man for a cig. I was trying to impress this 20something Peruvian with my inordinate cool. Nobody had a light so I went to the stove. Instead of sticking the end of the cigarette into the flame till it caught and then inhaling, in my inexperience I put it to my mouth, leaned over and turned on the burner. Poof! As the flame shot up it singed off my eyelashes, eyebrows, and bangs in one whoosh. My face was only mildly burned, but I was brushing crispy bits of flash-fried hair off my shirt for the rest of the day, and I had to use makeup and hats for weeks to cover up my hair loss. Stupid kid.

I date my true smoking experience to my 19th birthday. I had just gotten back to Simmons for sophomore year during orientation week, purportedly as a volunteer to help incoming freshmen, and somebody, I don't remember who, brought me some herb as a present. I hadn't smoked much of that before. My freshman-year roommate Donna was a marijuana master, so it might have been her gift; freshman year she had kept a journal to document The Smallest Roach Ever, burnt pieces of rolling paper taped into a notebook with the date and the names of all who partook, but she figured out quick that I was only wasting the smoke and barred me from her sessions. Anyway, one of my two sophomore roommates was there, and some other girls from the dorms, and I got schooled in how to actually inhale. Up to then I didn't understand how to get the smoke into my lungs! Once I figured it out and was good and toasted, I remember jumping up and down saying "Ooh, ooh -- gimme a cigarette!" Because now I could stop perpetrating.

From then on I smoked. I smoked after meals, I smoked while studying, I smoked out at clubs and parties. As I recall, I smoked Newports to start, but then to I began with the Virginia Slims because they were longer and thinner and had a richer finish. We all smoked, most of my friends. Relationships with guys could start just through asking for a cigarette or a light, and of course you could still smoke everywhere in the '70s and '80s. It gave me something to do with my hands, and the nicotine fix kept me from being too tense. There was something incredibly calming and grounding about performing the ritual of pulling the cigarette from the pack, putting it in your mouth, finding a light, getting it lit, inhaling and exhaling, tapping the ash, configuring it in your hands. Today, people fiddle with their phones as their performance ritual, but without the physical interaction with the smoke.

So I was in the smoking culture at school in Boston and back in NY, but not around my family. If I came home to the Bronx reeking of tobacco smoke, I could always say it was because I'd been at a club or a party. I always had a pack of cigarettes in my purse, sometimes Newports, often Virginia Slims, sometimes Benson & Hedges, very rarely Mores (which were distinctive for their brown paper). They were relatively cheap back then -- 2 or 3 bucks a pack. I liked collecting matchbooks from the numerous clubs and restaurants I frequented across Boston and New York; I wasn't that good at keeping lighters, which always got lost. When I was home from college in the summers, I sometimes splurged on a pack of English Dunhills. The menthols came in a gorgeous double-wide forest-green package rimmed with gold, and being European to boot, they looked pretty damned sophisticated when you brought those bad boys out at parties. But I actually didn't like smoking Dunhills that much; they were dense and took forever to smoke (so dense that if you left one lit in an ash tray for too long it put itself out rather than burning to the filter), and they tasted thick too. Some of the crowd went further with the French Galoises, which were impossibly strong; and the bohemian crowd liked the clove cigarettes, which smelled interesting but gave me a headache. I liked my Virginia Slims.

Graduating from school and coming home to my parents' place in New York for good put a crimp on my smoking habits. I could only smoke outside of the house, and even while working I don't remember being able to light up at my desk. Smoking was basically for socializing only. I would go out for drinks with friends, or on dates, and we would smoke the night away. I remember sucking down a lot of kir royales and White Russians in those first months home from college in the early '80s, cigarettes at the ready.

When I met my former husband, the teetotaler, I had to whittle back my cigarette habit. Fortunately, and I don't know how I was so lucky, it was easy for me to cut back. I wasn't physically addicted, suffered no withdrawal, cravings, or other ill effects. I became a non-smoker during the early years of my marriage, but once I got to Billboard and entered the music industry, where every other person I met smoked, I started buying my own smokes again, if only to stop bumming off of people all the time. And life was fast paced, pressure filled, and there were too many parties and premieres, too many free drinks, too many people lighting up around me, and of course my marriage was in the toilet, so my smoking habit escalated. By the time I got my own place on Central Park West, working at Arista Records, I was a morning-noon-and-night smoker again.

I moved to Los Angeles in 1994, smoking habit well entrenched. Still, if it wasn't convenient or appropriate to whip out a cigarette, I was OK. I'm not sure that I would have been such great friends with certain people who became dear to me at that time if I smoked in front of them. But once again I could smoke in my own apartment, and did; I think even as I lost 40 pounds on Jenny Craig, I was still sucking on those cancer sticks.

I'm not sure when I finally put the cigarettes down for good. It's not clear to me when the final moment arrived. Those surgeon general warnings were pretty intense, and in Los Angeles the restrictions on smoking indoors were becoming more pervasive. It wasn't as easy to light up any and everywhere. And cigarettes also began to get crazy expensive. After paying 3 or 4 dollars for a pack for years, suddenly in LA my Virginia Slims shot up to 8 or 9 bucks. I noticed that there were certain people who reeked of smoke, you could smell them from afar, and I didn't want to be one of those folks. Plus, more and more people I met and liked were not smokers and rabidly anti-smoke. So I just stopped. I didn't miss cigarettes; it was a pain to always keep matches, to argue with people who complained about me lighting up, to get the smell out of my hair and clothes, to spend the money on keeping a supply.

After five years or so my weight started creeping back up and work got insane; I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea, but I wanted to go back to a ritual that would calm me down and might even burn off a few pounds. So I went right to the corner doughnut shop one morning and purchased a hard pack along with my coffee. I remember sitting at my little white kitchen cafe table in my Cochran Street apartment, with my little crystal ashtray, and determinedly whipping out that first cig from a fresh pack -- oh! that lush tobacco smell! -- and lighting up. And it was godawful. So nasty. I couldn't even finish it. And I was mad! But I also couldn't believe that I'd ever smoked at all, or had smoked for YEARS.

And that was pretty much it for me and cigarettes. Thank God.

Election Day Eve: A Few Scary Thoughts

Tomorrow is Election Day. I am trying hard not to panic, to be overstimulated, over-involved.

I did not watch the second Trump/Clinton debate in real time, because I knew that it would agitate and terrify me, and I wanted to get a decent night's sleep. But I did watch and re-watch the footage, the eye-rubbing spectacle of a grown man lurking and hulking behind the nation's first female candidate as though he both couldn't bear to have the camera off of him for a moment and that he was poised to strike, adder-like, at his opponent from behind.

I watched the third debate, with ever-widening eyes, as the Republican candidate continued to approach what should be reasoned political discourse as though it were a 5th grade playground standoff ("Wrong! Wrong!" "Such a nasty woman!") And so my terror deepened, and in the intervening weeks leading to tomorrow's finale, I have been engaging in mindful soothing techniques designed to detach me from the process.

But America, some of you are scaring the crap out of me.

I am terrified because despite all of the media punditry affirming that Trump is a bigoted, vile, self-inflating, narcissistic, ignorant, sexist piece of garbage, whose fame and riches have been bought at the expense of others, he has been elevated to the GOP's nominee by supposedly reasonable people and still -- despite all evidence affirming his unfitness for the role -- has a solid chance at becoming our next president.

For me, Trump is right up there with film depictions of Satan, talking dolls, and killer clowns as the embodiments of horror. He is my personal Boogey Man, and in fact this whole campaign is a Nightmare on America's Elm Street.

"But Janine, relax," say all of my friends, all the Democrats, most of the media, "this man CANNOT win the Presidency. Look at the ridiculous things he says and does! Look at this recent video, where he bragged about treating women like sexual objects and assaulting them against their will! Look at his complete inability to grasp basic tenets of policy and American government! Look at his admissions about not paying taxes, about eluding convictions on civil rights, sexual assault, fraud and nonpayment of bills! There is NO WAY!" The media daily pounces on the outrageous, unconscionable, mean-spirited, arrogant, xenophobic things this man does and covers them ad nauseam, assuring us through editorials -- many of them groundbreaking in their intent to un-endorse a Presidential candidate -- that Trump will never win.

And yet, I cannot rest in the certain knowledge that Clinton will be our next president.
Why?

I think I'm a fairly intelligent person. I'm no academic scholar, but I know a few things. I grew up in the South Bronx, I've seen poverty and illiteracy and drug addiction and teen pregnancy. But I also have a college degree. I know a lot of people, folks I've met throughout my career and my schooling and my travels, and most of them are really smart people. Smart people are my favorite people. They read. They stay abreast of things. They have traveled, domestically and abroad. They have been employed for most of their working lives, and many of their gigs would be considered white collar. Many of them own homes, have started businesses, drive decent cars. They know how to make informed decisions. Most of them have a reasoned world view, a strong sense of themselves and their cultural history, and many of them are committed in ways big and small to the overall welfare of their communities and to a sense of equality and social justice. And I am lucky in this regard to have this kind of circle. If you are reading this, you are probably in that circle.

What I'm trying to say is that I don't know anyone personally who would vote for Trump (and if I do, they are wisely keeping that information under wraps).

But I'm starting to think that the enclaves of smart, well-read, informed people in this country are still relatively few, insulated, and rarefied.

Now this is not an argument for the merits of a Talented Tenth or a ruling class. But this country is divided by race and by class, something few of us like to admit or discuss. And I'm just saying that my views -- our views -- are not necessarily majority views. In the larger scheme of a broad and diverse 50-state nation, what you and I might consider smart and informed and for the common good is viewed by another part of the population as elitist, bleeding-heart, and out of touch. For these folks, "liberal" is a dirty word. These are U.S. citizens whose lives I can only begin to conceptualize and whose ideas and experiences I can't speak for. These are folks who haven't had access to, nor interest in nor time for the kinds of things people in our circle take for granted and their culture and family history includes values and opinions that are vastly different. What is truly concerning though is that over the years there has been a surge of prideful know-nothingness that borders on the delusional. And this is where things start to seem like we've all been set down in some sort of alternate universe.

I get it -- There are people out there for whom the 8-year presidency by an African American Democrat has been a stunning affront to their values and principles. These are voters who feel that a massive wrong has been dealt them that must now be righted in their favor, and the Day of Reckoning is at hand. And no amount of articles in The Washington Post, New York Times, Huffington Post, Vox, Slate, BuzzFeed, Rolling Stone or The Hill explaining the ways in which Trump is a preposterous and dangerous choice is going to sway them -- indeed, will ever be READ by them. So as we are consuming all of this material and reassuring ourselves that Trump will be trounced on Election Day, I fear we have been lulled into complacency.

Because while some of the Republican leadership is pulling back from their endorsements of this candidate, the ground-level voters have coalesced. The more boorishly Trump behaves, the more his supporters love him. The more shocking he is, the more they are convinced that his disregard for protocols and decency are in fact the right attributes to become their politically anointed dragonslayer. They WANT a guy who will pull down the political scaffolding that's been carefully erected through years of deal brokering, law making, inclusionism and foreign policy and laugh in the faces of the ones who built it. They WANT a guy that puts people of color, immigrants, women, and gays "in their place" (off the map, behind the wall, invisible and unrecognized). The fact that they have chosen this blowhard know-nothing as their hero is astounding, but as we stand astounded, this guy is getting headlines and grabbing up voters who cheer every time one of his infractions gets under our skin.

Further, a group of people -- including women -- who shout "Jail The Bitch!" and wear "Stop The Cunt, Vote Trump" T-shirts about Hillary Clinton, one of the most qualified politicians of any gender for the presidency, is not a group of people who are turned off by one "grab 'em by the pussy" comment made on a bus 11 years ago.

Please allay my fears, smart people. Hillary Rodham Clinton may have her flaws. But there is no such thing as a perfect candidate, and her flaws are minuscule compared to Donald J. Trump's transgressions.

Vote for a better America than Trump and his cronies would create. Please. End the nightmare and banish the circus.

Holiday Help: That Time I Worked Retail

I’m working a desk job in Washington, D.C., these days, doing what I spent much of my career doing: Writing. But three years ago I was employed at a major department store, putting in 30 hours a week. It was my only source of income at the time. While there is nothing remarkable in that – hundreds of people earn a living that way – it was remarkable for me.

I’m a writer. I’ve written and edited at consumer and trade magazines, websites, and radio syndicators. Editor at Billboard. Editor at Essence. Daily news writer for syndicated radio. Interviewed major recording artists and other notables and celebritiess. That’s been my gig: A computer, a phone, a notebook and a microphone. But in November of 2012, my situation got tight. I’d moved from California to Virginia to be closer to family, and during that time I struggled to find meaningful, full-time work. I was in the wrong market, but couldn’t move again. Desperate to tide myself over, I swallowed my pride and filled out an application for holiday help at a major department store. Next thing I knew I was hired.

It’s a blessing to be employed anywhere. I know this, intellectually. But the moment I started the gig, I grappled with Why Me? Syndrome. Working at the department store – even a store I happened to love and still love as a customer -- felt like a punishment, a comedown. I didn’t choose a career in retail management; I wasn’t a student or senior citizen earning extra cash. To me, at my age,in my predicament, I thought retail was what happened to people who couldn’t do better.

Yes, I thought, it was all my fault. Lack of career foresight, weak financial management, a knack for the right decisions at the wrong times and plain old bad luck had conspired to dump me into “can I help you?” land. Worse, I had placed myself in an extrovert’s ideal role – talking to strangers – except I’m a dyed-in-the-wool introvert for whom each social encounter is an energy suck. Yes, I had signed up for my own personal hell. It seemed only fitting that the official employee uniform was black on black.

I was given two days of self-managed video training and cut loose onto the selling floor. My post was in fragrances, front and center when customers came in from the mall. At gift time, people make beelines for fragrances. They’re personal without being too personal, they’re expensive without being too expensive, and scents don’t have to be sized, so they’re great gifts for everyone.

My first few days on the floor, I was miserable. However low I had imagined the position to be, it was nonetheless challenging in ways I hadn’t anticipated. In trying to memorize selling policies, transaction codes, product details, special promotions, employee guidelines, and the names of my coworkers, I felt completely out of my league. A failure even at this! Ah, the irony. The truth was my perfectionism kicked in, with an expectation that the work would be so easy that I would immediately kick ass. When I found myself stumbling around, my feet hurting and my snobby ego crushed, I decided that I hated working there with the fire of a million white hot suns. But as I got the hang of things, I came to appreciate it a bit more.

OUT ON THE FLOOR

My official title was “holiday support ringer,” or in plain talk, a cashier. If I managed to engage a customer, I was supposed to lead them to an actual salesperson, who earned points and commissions for sales, whereas ringers did not. At first, this was good because I didn’t know the fragrance lines, the perfume lingo, or even where to find the products on the displays. But the other ringers – legion for the holiday season – were either unaware or in willful defiance of their non-selling status, causing much conflict. More than a few lectures were doled out in shrill tones by the sales team to the baby ringers.

Eventually it got so busy that the vendors and associates let me ring their sales. It was the best way to master the register and the product lines. Alas, math is also not one of my strong suits. Credit cards, checks, gift cards I had down. But when someone handed me actual cash, I stumbled. In a single day I misrang three cash purchases, one at the height of the Saturday evening rush. The other associates were all like “It’s OK, don’t worry about it” but their faces said plainly, WTF??? Can’t you do anything right?

CAST OF CHARACTERS

I thought of it as the Circus Maximus because of the sheer number and variety of people constantly orbiting the display cases on what felt like a repetitive track. The salespeople, who were store employees, and the vendors, employees of cosmetics companies like Chanel, Calvin Klein, or Gucci, never stayed in one place. They circled the floor trying to scare up prey – er, customers. During Black Friday weekend and the days leading up to Christmas it got plenty loud as they pitched customers with snappy patter, the lure of flashy packaging, and the heady scent of splash cards. The ringers followed them in undulating packs, hoping for a chance to ring up the sale like hyenas waiting for the lions to finish feeding to have at the leftovers. Except sales associates and vendors could ring up their own sales and often did as a way to provide extended customer service.

Then the department managers would drop in to rally the staff about exceeding their sales numbers, or harangue the ringers over housekeeping tasks like cleaning the counters, wrapping gifts, setting up displays, or moving stock. All of this while piped in holiday music burned our ears and gaggles of shoppers pushed through the deliberately constructed maze of merchandise fixtures designed to slow them down and catch their eyes.

The regular sales team came in all shapes, sizes, colors, and religions. There was a motherly East Indian woman who never wore deodorant; heavily made up Ukrainians; a boisterous, big boned sister who called customers “honey,” “baby,” and “gurrrrl,” and whose whole down-home act charmed customers of every color into buying anything she shoved at them. There was a 20something mixed chick in exquisite face paint who only spoke to customers; a couple of Italian mid-career ladies in dyed hair and too much face powder; some 20-something Latinas; a Filipina grandmother who wore elaborate scrunchies to match her ‘80s outfits; a slight 60something Chinese lady who disdained the others; and a softspoken yet eagle-eyed sister. Most of the sales associates were highly competitive, gossipy, and resentful of the others --though they would never admit to being that petty. Still, “she stole my customer/ my sale/ my hours” was a constant theme.

The ringers were mostly younger, filling in time between semesters or trying to earn more for Christmas gifts for their kids. One girl was pregnant and barely made it through a month before her doctor put her on bed rest; another girl looked like a model and wore six-inch heels onto the floor.

The vendors were another class altogether – not store employees, they were there to push their own brands. Some were friendly, but others behaved as though they were erstwhile supermodels or high powered cosmetics executives who should not have to fraternize with the riffraff of run-of-the mill store employees and holiday temps like me.

The department manager was a classic metrosexual who looked all of 25. He resembled Brit actor Jonathan Rhys-Myers, if that means anything to you, with aquamarine eyes, spiked hair, and a bee-stung pout. He was attractive and could have been a model himself, but he had the distracted, driven air of a calculated career climber. He wore sharp, skinny-leg suits and barked out stunted orders as if calling the score of a tennis match and not managing actual human beings. Talking to him left me with the feeling that I was needlessly bothering him with bullshit and there were more important places he needed to be in that moment. Manager Boy was also a lightning rod for conflict. When the younger staffers weren’t fawning over him, he was setting people against each other or issuing contradictory directives. A couple of months after the holiday rush, he left for a non-retail management gig.

With every shift, the cast of characters on the selling floor changed, partly due to the labyrinthine work schedules. No one had regular hours. You had to go online and bid for available shifts weekly, and the start and end times were always slightly different. Maybe this plan kept employees from colluding in some way, or just diffused the clock in/clock out process, but it also made it near impossible to hold another job. You could go online to snag your preferred shift, only to find that someone had beaten you to it. Since you had to work a minimum number of hours per week in order to keep the job, you were forced to pick up shifts that weren’t as convenient. Employees were allowed to swap shifts, but this caused animosity too, because when you went hat in hand to beg someone to trade shifts and they said no, you weren’t inclined to feel kindly toward them afterward. This resentment spilled out onto the selling floor.

COMPANY RULES

Even during lulls, employees were never to lean or linger in one place too long. Sitting was verboten. I never knew exactly where to be as the pack of saleswomen circled the imaginary track around the counters. Time often slowed to a crawl as I paced and posed and paced some more, occasionally asking customers if they needed assistance that I was in no way equipped to provide.

As it was, learning to stand on my feet for hours almost broke me. Athletic shoes were not allowed. I tried standard flats, but they offered little support and my ankles felt ready to cave in. I must have gone through 12 pairs of different footwear – indeed, even bought shoes that I thought could improve my dilemma. Limping home with tears in my eyes at the end of those first few shifts was humbling in the extreme. I was struck by the class differences between those allowed the luxury of sitting to do their work and those who must remain upright morning to night. I was soft from years of sitting. I tried cold water soaks and massage, but a couple of my toes went numb from nerve damage and have yet to recover. People were fond of telling me I was wearing the wrong shoes – but it seemed that any shoes I wore were the wrong shoes. I noticed that most of the sales associates had huge tote bags stashed behind the counters so they could change shoes a few times during the day.

Another rule: No eating on the sales floor. You were allowed 15 minutes for a break and 30 minutes for lunch -- barely enough time to get to the break room, wash your hands, microwave or unwrap a meal, choke it down, and clock in on time. And it was even less time to dash through the mall to the food court. If it was busy, many salespeople and vendors didn’t take breaks at all in order to meet their sales numbers.

SCRATCH & SNIFF

One side effect of working in fragrances was that I was covered in smellaciousness for the duration. While suffering through my first couple of shifts I actually felt dizzy enough to faint just from the olfactory overload. Another day, Dandy Manager Boy sent me to the second floor to be that annoying person who spritzes customers. I sprayed so much perfume while scenting splash cards that my nail polish actually disintegrated and my thumbnail became stained with fragrance. It was months before my hand stopped reeking of Prada Candy. Driving home after hours of pushing Calvin Klein and Burberry and Gucci and Chanel, my Jetta smelled like a flower bomb.

My preference was men’s fragrances. I’ve been known to buy men’s cologne and wear it myself because I find many women’s scents too flowery or cloying. Plus, working the men’s lines was easy. Most men don’t like shopping; further, they often wear scent to gratify a partner or attract a date. They were quick to take advice from a female sales person, and buy so they could get the process over with. Women were the tougher sell. They would pick up and try every single tester on every single counter of the four cosmetics bays, sometimes more than once. Sometimes they would spritz themselves liberally and walk away. If they bought, they wanted all the bells and whistles – gift wrap, promo gifts, extras. And it was women who would buy the fragrance on Saturday and return it on Sunday.

LIVING IN THE LIFE

As the weeks turned to months, the other holiday part-timers dropped away, but I continued to clock in through January, February, and March. I was still sending out resumes for full-time editorial work, but getting no response. As the holidays faded and the employee throng thinned out, Manager Boy told me I’d been upped to associate sales person, able to earn commissions above my hourly wage.

By this time I knew all the players left on the sales floor. I had developed a special fondness for Chanel Bleu and Paco Rabanne Millions for men, and Gucci’s entire line of women’s perfumes. I did stints behind the counters at Estee Lauder, Fashion Fair, and Origins. I didn’t mind standing on my feet anymore; in fact, walking, standing and bending – not to mention never having time to eat during the day -- shaved off ten pounds. I made my sales goals 90 percent of the time. Working retail had become less of a trial, but it still fell far short of what I imagined my career to look like. And in the end, my paycheck seemed to only cover my gas and meals.

The final straw was a run-in with the Fashion Fair saleswoman. My shift put me behind her counter several times a month. Cosmetics were tougher to sell than fragrances, and each of the 30 products offered could have dozens of shades. A customer could ask for a cream-to-powder foundation in Sienna, and I’d have to search through three drawers and a couple of cases to find it. New shades would be introduced, old ones phased out, or it would be so popular that we’d be out of it. This was complicated by the fact that the writing on that packaging is hella small. It could be frustrating. At one point I even made myself a scrawled map of the bay to find things. But I’d always put things back in order. And then the Fashion Fair lady – someone I’d considered to be a friend or at least friendly -- accused me of stealing her sales and messing up her cases.

Looking back, it wasn’t that serious, but she caught me wrong. She was the Queen of Fashion Fair, she considered that cosmetics bay to be her own personal domain, and I had encroached. Which was ridiculous. I’d been assigned to that counter, I had sales goals to make too, and it was a store not a museum, I retorted. OK, I screamed. With my hand on my hip. My neck might have been going too. And then tears came, because I cry when I’m angry and can’t scratch someone’s eyes out.

I had to leave the cosmetics area and hide in the back of the menswear department to calm down. This store is that lady’s life, I realized. She will be at that counter next year and the year after that, and her pride and joy is keeping those little metallic cosmetics packages lined up in exacting rows inside those glass cases. But it ain’t your life.

NOT MY LANE

Fortunately, I got a line on another short-term job that paid better and was able to quit my gig at the department store. But once that assignment was wrapped, four months later, I wound up selling cosmetics for the same store again, just in another location. This time I was permanently assigned to one beauty brand, slinging eye shadow, lipstick, and skincare products. But I’m not a natural salesperson and that again became apparent. Though I wear cosmetics, I’m not a beauty product fanatic like many of my co-workers. I muddled through from July to October, when I locked down my current job.

As I said, it’s a blessing to be employed anywhere. I was thrilled to get out of the retail world. But I gained respect for the people who work there. It’s not an easy row to hoe, and the constant pressure to meet sales goals can subtly grind away at the morale of the employees during those down periods.

So next time you are in a major department store and an employee rushes over to say “Can I help you?” -- please be kind. It could be you.

What'samatta With WMATA? A New Yorker's rant against DC Metro

Ah, the daily commute! One of the necessary evils of working in a big city. I grew up in NYC and since the age of 12 was riding the subway a minimum of twice a day, so I knew the system and I knew the ropes: Move quickly, don’t block anybody’s way, be aware of your surroundings, use common sense. And you could ride anywhere in the system for a standard fare. NYC was dirty and there was crime and it wasn’t perfect, but it was an efficient system that set my expectations for how a city’s transit system should be. Admittedly I have been gone from the daily NYC grind for 20 years, and I’m obviously older, so my perspective may be skewed. But despite the Washington Metro being named the Number One public transit system in the U.S. by a firm called SmartAsset (should be called SmartAss), I’ve been in the VA-DC-MD area for four years now and this is not my experience. Riders are throwing in the towel and going back to driving (if I had better night vision for driving I probably would, too). Metro in DC sucks on multiple levels.

Here are 12 admittedly somewhat personal quibbles with the system:

1) Metro trains do not meet my definition of a "train." They are high-speed conveyances that approximate a train. They are more like "trams," those people-moving automated transports first put into use at amusement parks and other attractions. The Metro "trains" have drivers but no conductors, they lurch along an electrical track but the driver seems not to have the same controls as New York’s older, more traditional trains. Because of that, the Metro ride is herky-jerky as hell; a sudden stop can wrench your arm or throw you to the floor. These Metro drivers often can't hit their marks because of the imprecise braking controls so they will slow to a stop in the station -- fooling folks who gather by the doors -- then pull up to a second or even a third stop before opening the doors.

2) The electrical wiring along the tracks smokes frequently, so there is a constant noxious smell billowing through the tunnels that I am surprised no one complains about. You can tell it's poisonous. Last year there was an electrical tunnel fire when a train was caught between stations, and one woman died and others were hospitalized due to smoke inhalation.

3) The doors are horrible; they have no sensor mechanism to reopen if they close on something and they are so sensitive that leaning on them can cause the entire train to go out of service. And trains frequently go out of service. During rush hour, many train operators are so focused on keeping to a schedule (or are just oblivious) that they will slam the doors and move to the next stop regardless of how crowded the station is. This means that oftentimes not everyone who wants to get off gets off, and not everyone who wants to get on will get on. I've seen strollers, children, and the disabled smashed in the doors. I've seen children separated from parents, husbands from wives, and people from their bags. In July 2015 The Washington Post reported a news story about a man pulling the emergency brake outside of L'Enfant Plaza and jumping off with a 10-year-old; turns out dozens of riders helped him pull the brake because the doors had shut and separated him from his other child, a terrified 5-year-old boy.

A new recent Metro study undertaken after dozens of red light violations and near collisions shows that many Metro drivers are just tuned out. Which means riders are at the mercy of sleepwalking zombies.

4) Despite the fact of rapidly-closing doors, Metro riders are notoriously nonchalant in their movements. They have very little hustle or awareness. When those doors open, people stroll out like they have all the time in the world, and then you have to shake a tailfeather to get on so you won't be the one quashed or excluded. But people are clueless. They saunter just inside the doors and stand there, as though there aren't 30 people behind them. Tourists are the worst -- they take one step onto the train and gawk around like "Wow, so this is a train?" Or there's that guy who, regardless of how many people are getting on, insists on maintaining his spot in the doorway. I want to shriek MOVE THE FREAK INTO THE TRAIN!!! I have been known to push on occasion, something I know is awful and rude. But if there is room on the train, I don't have time for selfish, lackadaisical bullshit, I have some place to be and I'm not gonna be left on the platform because of selfishness and lassitude. A public service campaign about how to step lively could help.

5) People are just self-involved in general. The number of commuters sleepwalking along the platforms looking at their phones is legion. They have only a dim idea of where they are actually walking, they don't gauge the pace of the crowd, they don't have a sense of walking in a straight trajectory, they aren't paying attention. Metro is all puffed up and crowing about a new deal increasing the availability of cell phone signals in many stations, but I say CUT OFF ALL SIGNAL ACCESS!! Just have emergency call boxes! People don't have any common sense about what constitutes an appropriate place to check their devices, and most are just doing it to look important. Really? Really? Words With Friends or Candy Crush is so compelling that you are zigzagging and slowpoking in front of me during the height of rush hour??? Gah!! They are a shade worse than the people with the big headphones who can't hear anything in the real world, like the fact that you are coming up on their right or left while they are road-hogging. I won’t even get into the people who stop short in front of you, especially exiting an escalator, or who dart into your path without looking both ways. I want to hurt them. I have been known to step hard on the backs of their heels with my size 10 shoes. Again, get those PSAs cranking about common sense and pedestrian traffic in the Metro.

6) Part of the problem with people not moving into the trains is the way the cars are constructed. Trains in New York have the seating the long way against the walls, or a mix of horizontal and vertical seats, and there is a wide aisle with vertical and horizontal rails where commuters can stand and hold on. Here in DC, the older metro cars have two-fer seats stacked up on either side, auditorium style, so the aisle between is very narrow for riders to stand in and there’s often only a railing on the seats themselves to grab hold. If you're sitting you have to annoy your neighbor to get in and out of the inside seat. And the seating is one size fits all, a problem of comfort for both the plus-sized and those who must share with them. Newer cars introduced to the system last year are better, but they aren't yet ubiquitous.

7) Back to the Metro drivers -- too many abuse the public address system, haranguing commuters with ceaseless announcements and ridiculous patter. Why do they hold the erroneous belief that their post qualifies them to be radio DJs or certified city tour guides? While each station should be clearly announced, and one welcome statement at the end or start of the line is fine, enough is enough. Too many train operators make loud, florid announcements at every single blessed station and throughout the ride as well – often stating the obvious. They need their ears boxed, hard. SHUT THE F%$@#* UP! I'm not interested in tuning in to RADIO METRO! Some of us are trying to think about the day ahead or behind. Some of us are reading or catching up on e-mails. Some of us are just trying to get those last few minutes of peace before the bullshit waiting for us at work or at home.

I'm telling you, it is sheer torture to be subjected to a continuous, 40-minute loop of a shouted "Gooooooood morning, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Washington Metro Train, riding from your home depot in Greenbelt Maryland all the way to Franconia Springfield in the great state of Virginia through Downtown Washington, the District of Columbia, our nation's capital! Sit back and enjoy the ride and have a fabulous day wherever it is you are going in our fine city! We are here to serve you and hope you ride with us again! Please remember to use all the doors when you are boarding the train! I'm grateful to be here today and every day and remember: Without you there is no me! (Yes, someone actually said that yesterday.) All aboard ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and welcome to the Green line, next stop today will be [HellFire Station], the second station on our route and the great state of Maryland, traveling through the exciting and historic District of Columbia, Please remember to take all of your precious belongings with you. Watch your step getting off and make extra certain that you have a wonderful day wherever you go.... " This noisy disruption makes me want to end my life immediately, like I want to start cutting and slashing and bleeding out right in the damned aisle.

Even worse is the fact that most of these happy pappy train jockeys are clueless about how to use the microphone properly. They put it too close to their mouths so their words are unintelligible or just deafeningly loud. They let an open window whistle and shriek through it, or they place it too close to a speaker so we get painful squalls of feedback, or they just keep the microphone open all the time so we hear a constant stream of migraine-inducing noise. At the other end of the spectrum are train operators whose announcements are a feeble, incomprehensible joke. Why bother if you a) can't speak clearly, b) cut the mike on too late or off too soon, c) have a faulty intercom system, or d) failed Reading Comprehension class? (There is a stop called Judiciary Square. Pronunciations include JEW-da-sherry, Ju-DISH-oo-Warey, and JEW-dish-ree. Then there is one operator who seems to have some New Orleans-style affection and calls each stop a “stay-shee-OHN.”)

By the time I step out of the Metro, I am completely stressed out, with my ears ringing and my nerves a-jangle.

8) Speaking of incomprehensible, the WMATA insists on frequently and formally referring to those on board as "customers" rather than riders, commuters, or the perfectly logical "passengers." Being called a "customer" reminds me of johns at a strip joint or rubes at a medicine show.

9) I guess at the high prices I’m forced to pay for each ride, I should be called a “customer.” The Metro constantly complains about not making enough money due to low ridership, but the high rates it commands – and charging ever-escalating fares depending on the distance ridden – are just ridiculous. And if you have to park before getting on, look out. I live in northern Virginia; it costs me almost $16 a day to commute to work. A roundtrip fare in New York—bus or subway -- is $5.50. If the DC Metro cost less, more people would ride. But service has to be better. Metro is always repairing things, so single-tracking extends wait times for trains; no service between stations on weekends forces people onto buses to go just one stop; and outside of peak hours you will see your life pass before your eyes before a train shows up. Added to that, elevator service at a number of stops is spotty, so if you have mobility issues you are forced to get out at a station you don’t want and again wait to board a bus back to where you do want to be.

10) Many of the underground stations are impossibly dim. As someone with vision problems, I feel uniquely handicapped, like I need a flashlight. Or better yet, one of those headlight helmets for descending into mines. I’m always worried that I will slip, trip and fall. Or walk into a wall. Or bump into someone and make them fall. Or trip over a child. I worry that we all will tumble ass-over-elbows into the tracks because of one misplaced step. When I get off at a station I am frequently just following the person in front of me because I can't see a thing before my eyes adjust to the darkness. It can feel scary when I can't see the edge of the platform or the height/depth of that first step. People have piled up behind me when I stick my foot out to test if that last step is actually the last step. And it's hideous becoming that slow obstacle person that I was just complaining about above.

11) The stations are dangerous. They're nice-looking, if you like atmospherically-lit slabs of molded concrete, but the fact that the indoor ones are poorly lit and weirdly constructed makes them a hazard for everyone. A man sat, slipped and fell behind one of the low concrete walls a few months back; he wasn't found for days. Also treacherous are those terra-cotta colored hexagonal tiles used as flooring. The tiles break and wobble, they catch a woman's high heels, and they are slippery when wet. I busted my ass one drizzly morning on an outdoor platform trying to hustle onto the train, like in a slapstick movie pratfall, and as soon as I got up another lady went down in exactly the same spot. If one of the tiles goes missing, you could break your ankle stepping into the hole left behind. Supposedly Metro is replacing the tiles, but they should have gotten it right the first time. The cost of constantly replacing these gizmos is astronomical. And what's with the little kiosks on the outdoor platforms? Did no one think these through? Purportedly they are weather breaks but they are open at the bottom, letting in the wind, the rain, and the snow, so who wants to sit there? Because they are metal and plastic, in the summertime they are sweatboxes. What were these MTA people thinking when they designed this crap?

12) Security on these trains has been a joke that they’re just starting to rectify. When I rode the NYC subway, it was a regular thing to see Transit Police going car to car or posted up on the station platforms. I hardly ever see uniformed police or security officers on the Metro trains or platforms. If I see them at all, they are hanging out by the fare booth. This is a problem. In recent months there have been stabbings, robberies, and assaults on the train and the platforms. As I mentioned, many of the stations are ridiculously dim and cavernous. If there is more than one exit, they are far apart, and even then, the station may be a good distance below ground.

I was dropped off at the Wheaton Station in Maryland one fall morning and experienced an interminable and concerning escalator ride down to the station – 230 feet, in fact, the longest escalator in the Western Hemisphere! While that may be some sort of architectural marvel, it is a security nightmare. During a non-rush hour it was terrifying because a lone rider – me!-- is isolated and vulnerable, particularly at the point where you can’t see the top or bottom. If the escalator were to suddenly go out of service, anyone with a physical disability would be up shit’s creek. If a wolfpack raced down the stairs, punched you, robbed you, sexually assaulted you, knocked you down, you would be hard-pressed to pursue or even be heard calling out, and it’s a long ride to any escape or assistance. Even with video cameras available, who is watching and how soon could someone respond?

Too many spots in the underground system are ripe for riders to be preyed upon. A deal was just struck to improve safety on the Metro system through a new oversight agency, and Metro has increased the police presence – we’ll see if it makes a difference.

People want a safe, effective, reliable, moderately priced transit system that doesn’t hold them hostage to unnecessary inconveniences and human folly. Let's hope WMATA can continue to address the issues of safety in the system to help boost service and ultimately ridership numbers.