If you've ever wondered what really goes on in your local police department, I'd suggest you find out if your city or town sponsors a Citizen's Police Academy. Then sign up.
At the very least you'll figure out what goes on during the in-between times, the stuff they don't show on TV, and if you're my kind of lucky, you'll get an exciting ride along with an officer who helps make the 10-week program all worthwhile.
When we last left on in this blog, I posted about the last place my curious nature had taken me, and that was to a stint as a kgb_ agent, answering text questions for pennies on the dollar. What it earned me was a shiny new Palm Pre and the chance to take my recent Twitter obsession mobile. Then I began to wonder who might be tweeting right here in my neighborhood. Add to that setup the healthy dose of Cops my husband has subjected me to for years, and toss in my need for constant learning.
Enter Chief Dan Alexander (@bocachief) and the Boca Raton Police Department spokestweeter (@bocapolice). As soon as I saw a message about a Citizen's Police Academy (CPA), a ten-week course about our police department, covering Everything-I've-Always-Wanted-to-Stick-My-Nose-Into-But-Never-Had-The-Chance, I jumped, tweet first.
"Sign me up" I tweeted, wriggling my toes in juvenile excitement.
I think the poor volunteer coordinator must have heard from me three times before class began.
"Sorry. I'm like a little kid with this." I explained.
I could hear her patiently smiling on the other end of the phone. She must get that line a lot.
So back to the CPA. My class happens to be the largest they've had, with 40 of us eager citizens standing in line to become informed on the machine that is our police department. The list of topics was impressive, covering everything from the high-tech communications system, to SWAT, to Crime Scene Investigation and all things in between. I settled in the first day, wondering what new bits of information I'd learn.
Turns out that the biggest lesson I learned had nothing to do with the proper usage of a tazer or the number of patrol cars on the streets of Boca Raton, It was the fact that police officers have to be some of the most tolerant and patient people on earth. Want proof?
With a class of 40 personalities, some of us squirmed in our seats as our presenters were interrupted several times during the course of each of the evenings. Yes, we were a curious bunch, but interrupting the speakers quickly began to become a point of irritation with several in the group. And I've got to give those presenters a whole lot of credit because they handled each question with professionalism and patience, delivering brief but complete answers that completely satisfied the query.
That's when I figured it out.
One of an officer's biggest challenges is to cut through to the crux of a problem or situation and filter out what's unnecessary. In an environment where everyone wants to Tell Their Whole Story, the officer has to keep in mind that it is just that- a whole story. And we've all got a million of them. One of the biggest talents or skills comes in listening to the thousands of stories they hear a year, and filtering each one down to its essence. Each one's got to feel like a psychology lesson topped with a 10-page literary term paper. And all of it due that day, most times that moment. I also got to see that skill and talent at work in the field with the officer I had the opportunity to ride along with for four hours. She's the person who really drove home what a tremendous asset a good conversation "distiller" can be, especially because she allowed each person to walk away feeling heard while still extracting all information necessary to her investigation. Customer service professionals could take good lessons from that officer.
The second lesson I'm taking away from my 10 weeks is that social media and community relations are a match made in public relations heaven. My interest in the CPA was piqued mostly because I saw Boca Raton as a progressive department making use of new technology to reach out to the community. In Florida, that's an effort not to be taken lightly. We're a state of transplants, especially in South Florida. Many of us have left our sense of belonging to a community behind, along with our winter coats and snow shovels. We're not just Transplants, but Uproots, accountable to fewer people than ever. The communities we've left were in some sense safer ones because of a communications network of neighbors, family, and friends. Back in my home of Rhode Island, it was a pervasive belief that if you messed with someone, you could be sure his cousin, uncle, friend, or neighbor was probably going to be close by to give assistance or give you up. The network of accountability was tightly knit.
Establishing new communities in far away places means leaving a void ready to be filled with something new. Departments like the Boca Raton Police Services are re-creating that sense of a network of neighbors and friends who have a direct line to each other in times of need, whether the need is for information or assistance.
I'm not sure how much convincing it's going to take to have other police and community service professionals follow the lead of those utilizing Social Media as a community assistance tool, but I hope they're well on their way to researching what's happening here in my neighborhood. I've gotten a glimpse of an exciting model, a terrific Big Idea.
CPA graduation is tonight. I'm going to see if I can convince my family to throw me a graduation party. ;)
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Boca, Steal This Tweet
Is human potential lost, or just crippled?
The key question isn't "What fosters creativity?" But it is why in God's name isn't everyone creative? Where was the human potential lost? How was it crippled? I think therefore a good question might be not why do people create? But why do people not create or innovate? We have got to abandon that sense of amazement in the face of creativity, as if it were a miracle if anybody created anything.
- Abraham Maslow
Maslow's got a point when he asks, "Where was the human potential lost? How was it crippled?" But I think he's off base in asking why everyone isn't creative. I don't buy it. Part of the reason this blog exists is because over the course of years in the corporate world, I've worked in cubicles alongside some amazingly creative people who were wellsprings of bright and big ideas, regularly churning out three or four at a time. It's possible that one or two of those hundred ideas is currently in the works, but most never made it past the point of being bounced off of a few friends. How many are abandoned only to evaporate into thin air?
The problem is not that we're not creative, but that few of us want to gather up the strength to fail. We know chances are good that a bright new concept will find itself facing a series of tall brick walls. That risk is exactly what big ideas are made of!
Risk aversion is the counterweight balancing human potential.
That statement is an obvious one, but acknowledging it is most often used to give ourselves an out. We can explain away our reasons for limiting our own potential by convincing ourselves we're just being smart. Unlike Maslow, I don't believe the potential is lost at all. Instead, it's crippled by the fact that though we know a degree of risk aversion is necessary, we have no idea how to work past that counterweight even when we'd like to try. Maybe we should try desensitizing ourselves to failure. Why not build, right from our conceptual launchpad, a clearly outlined plan for several potential areas of failure and an even stronger and more detailed plan for the steps to recovery. So what if we don't fail in the exact way we'd imagined, we will still have worked through the exercise. Why not gather a group of friends who not only pat you on the back for your bold new idea, but help you face the potential for public humiliation, then assist in formulating that plan for recovery? Put the possibility that you will make a mess out there for your friends to see and let them give you feedback.
Is a better question the one no one really wants to ask: "How do I practice my failure"?
I want to find a mentor to teach me just that. If you have a wellspring of experience in that area, you can count me in as a fan.
Your Next Big Idea: You.
Here's a snippet from comment left on my last post on how to screw up your next Big Idea:
"How do things change if the purpose of your big idea is *you* and not *the idea*? "
What an excellent question, and my assumption is that the writer is asking about promoting their personal brand. Well, it's quite obvious from the long hair on my head and the fact that I don't have my own action figure that I'm no Seth Godin, but I don't think the rules should be changed one iota whether you are asking strangers to look favorably upon a person, place, or thing.
I'm an advocate of promoting things, Big (and small) Ideas, and even people, by the artful weaving of damned good stories. We already know that storytelling is how we most authentically connect to each other. Advertisers who spend hours crafting even the smallest tagline are attempting to condense an entire story, relying on common knowledge to fill in the rest. Do we give that same energy to our own tagline?
As an experiment, write out the story you tell yourself about yourself when no one is looking. While most of us throw a lot of negative self-talk around, why not indulge in crafting yours out in its entirety, then when you've finished your masterpiece run back through the tale and toss out every negative point you've made. Take out the part about how you always say something stupid in the meeting, trip on your high heels, or miss the error in your blog post. Remove the lens of clients, family, and friends, because if you look at yourself through their eyes, that's when you'll have the tendency to describe what you do in cliches.
Rather than: Senior Database Programmer
You are: Knowledgeable in the craft of finding meaning in random bits of information. Weaver of bytes. Restorer of order from data chaos.
You get the idea.
Take your new story from the reworked positive pieces. This is your forward-facing personal brand.
Use it to tell your new story often, and tell it consistently. Create your blog, dream up your posts, write your 140 character tweets, and pimp your LinkedIn profile with this new tale in mind. Let it go viral whether through word of mouth or your social media bio. Append as your story grows and allow everything you publicly post filter through it. That's how you live the Big Idea that is You. Now, I'm off to take my own advice.
So, what's your story? Because that's the Biggest Idea you'll ever have.
"How do things change if the purpose of your big idea is *you* and not *the idea*? "
What an excellent question, and my assumption is that the writer is asking about promoting their personal brand. Well, it's quite obvious from the long hair on my head and the fact that I don't have my own action figure that I'm no Seth Godin, but I don't think the rules should be changed one iota whether you are asking strangers to look favorably upon a person, place, or thing.
I'm an advocate of promoting things, Big (and small) Ideas, and even people, by the artful weaving of damned good stories. We already know that storytelling is how we most authentically connect to each other. Advertisers who spend hours crafting even the smallest tagline are attempting to condense an entire story, relying on common knowledge to fill in the rest. Do we give that same energy to our own tagline?
As an experiment, write out the story you tell yourself about yourself when no one is looking. While most of us throw a lot of negative self-talk around, why not indulge in crafting yours out in its entirety, then when you've finished your masterpiece run back through the tale and toss out every negative point you've made. Take out the part about how you always say something stupid in the meeting, trip on your high heels, or miss the error in your blog post. Remove the lens of clients, family, and friends, because if you look at yourself through their eyes, that's when you'll have the tendency to describe what you do in cliches.
Rather than: Senior Database Programmer
You are: Knowledgeable in the craft of finding meaning in random bits of information. Weaver of bytes. Restorer of order from data chaos.
You get the idea.
Take your new story from the reworked positive pieces. This is your forward-facing personal brand.
Use it to tell your new story often, and tell it consistently. Create your blog, dream up your posts, write your 140 character tweets, and pimp your LinkedIn profile with this new tale in mind. Let it go viral whether through word of mouth or your social media bio. Append as your story grows and allow everything you publicly post filter through it. That's how you live the Big Idea that is You. Now, I'm off to take my own advice.
So, what's your story? Because that's the Biggest Idea you'll ever have.
Vera's a Natural Blue
I’d heard Vera’s distinctive voice and thought her singing style fell on the right side of a moaning wail. Though I didn't know who she was, with a single verse, I understood a lot about where she came from.
Friday night is one reserved for dinners with friends from my last job but since leaving a few years ago, the threads that connect us are wearing thinner. I’m beginning to resign myself to our drift away from each other, and there was a time I would have waved it off as inevitable. As I get older, though, I'm not so glib. I find something a little mournful in the fact that during a life we go through people. People go through us.
A few hours into this particular Friday's get-together, my sister and I left the restaurant and headed for that tiny hookah bar I keep complaining about but can’t seem to stay away from. Shisha is apparently now good stuff in my book. But it’s a trendy way to spend an evening and we’re aware of wasting idle time with yet another passing fancy. We’ll enjoy hookah bars until the next hip thing comes along and justify our visits with the fact that the establishment supports local artists, including our most talented cellist friends. It's when the artists become overrun by the late night arrival of the fashionista crowd that we’re apt to roll our eyes at their air-kiss greetings and bulky designer purses. Last Friday the scenery was no different. Except for a few minutes when Vera Hall grieved and cried.
There were only a dozen of us in a room meant to hold no more than 30 or 40. We hunkered in groups under dim red lamps and talked mostly about nothing. But when you’re in a hip bar, you feel the need to behave as if you’re engaged. Conversations about nothing aren’t just common, they become necessary to keep the ambiance.
Vera sang a Natural Blues. When Moby’s recording began, and before the sampling of her 1937 song, it was just background trance music softly pumping energy into the room. When Vera's voice rang through, at least ten of us, including the bartenders and servers, stepped outside race and class to cry our natural blues with her. We sang the tune’s repeated chorus to no one and everyone, stopping in mid conversation to become absorbed in the lyrics, letting our gaze wander to a painting on the wall, or to the front door. I watched as we all began a synchronous bob and soft wail, closing ourselves off from everyone and reaching out to no one. For a very short time, in the middle of a place we were supposed to appear guarded and fashionable, our need to sing a common song was greater.
We still hear you, Ms. Hall.
Friday night is one reserved for dinners with friends from my last job but since leaving a few years ago, the threads that connect us are wearing thinner. I’m beginning to resign myself to our drift away from each other, and there was a time I would have waved it off as inevitable. As I get older, though, I'm not so glib. I find something a little mournful in the fact that during a life we go through people. People go through us.
A few hours into this particular Friday's get-together, my sister and I left the restaurant and headed for that tiny hookah bar I keep complaining about but can’t seem to stay away from. Shisha is apparently now good stuff in my book. But it’s a trendy way to spend an evening and we’re aware of wasting idle time with yet another passing fancy. We’ll enjoy hookah bars until the next hip thing comes along and justify our visits with the fact that the establishment supports local artists, including our most talented cellist friends. It's when the artists become overrun by the late night arrival of the fashionista crowd that we’re apt to roll our eyes at their air-kiss greetings and bulky designer purses. Last Friday the scenery was no different. Except for a few minutes when Vera Hall grieved and cried.
There were only a dozen of us in a room meant to hold no more than 30 or 40. We hunkered in groups under dim red lamps and talked mostly about nothing. But when you’re in a hip bar, you feel the need to behave as if you’re engaged. Conversations about nothing aren’t just common, they become necessary to keep the ambiance.
Vera sang a Natural Blues. When Moby’s recording began, and before the sampling of her 1937 song, it was just background trance music softly pumping energy into the room. When Vera's voice rang through, at least ten of us, including the bartenders and servers, stepped outside race and class to cry our natural blues with her. We sang the tune’s repeated chorus to no one and everyone, stopping in mid conversation to become absorbed in the lyrics, letting our gaze wander to a painting on the wall, or to the front door. I watched as we all began a synchronous bob and soft wail, closing ourselves off from everyone and reaching out to no one. For a very short time, in the middle of a place we were supposed to appear guarded and fashionable, our need to sing a common song was greater.
We still hear you, Ms. Hall.
Pumpkin
We want pumpkin muffins because we remember living in the place of crispy macintoshes and ribbed globes of deep orange, and because we miss the teasing bite of sweet spice. Mostly, it's because commercialized seasonal offerings make up all of the Autumn we now know.
This is the second time our Starbucked paths have crossed today, so I take notice. He's taking his muffin outdoors, letting it carefully balance on a perch of ceramic plate decorated with paper lace. Creamy ivory clangs once as he sets his dish on a table, followed by the distinct rattle of a bouncing fork. His other hand wraps around a throw-away plastic cup that's much better suited for outdoors. Later I'll realize that in positioning the plate, he has precisely calculated the length of his arm's reach. I will understand why his feet are so stiffly planted in front of him to create a perfectly shaped lap.
He's making last minute seating adjustments with a small bit of ceremony, and he begins to try out his snack.
I'm engaged in conversation but remain aware of the images on the periphery. It's windy, and rather than lift the entire muffin to trap a bite in his mouth, he insists on delicately partitioning it with his fork. I take note of this because he's dropping bites that bounce from his lap whenever a strong gust pushes through and the accidental bounty is attracting what look like finches. He tries to catch but misses two forkfuls, then fills the stainless steel with a third and new portion.
Stubborn.
Because I move to a different table to escape some of the strongest breezes, my new seat allows a view of the still pink and deep damage that draws a wide scar around his jawbone. I take in the artificial aid tucked halfway behind his ear and then begin to actually see him even as I'm trying not to look. He takes another forkful and lifts it to a mouth and jaw that can't open wide enough. There's a small and dignified struggle, and a new bite of the pumpkin muffin he has spent his good time waiting for threatens to follow earlier bits and tumble with the next gust.
But he's insisting that he most certainly will harvest this bite of pumpkin and I'm happy to watch as he does just that.
This is the second time our Starbucked paths have crossed today, so I take notice. He's taking his muffin outdoors, letting it carefully balance on a perch of ceramic plate decorated with paper lace. Creamy ivory clangs once as he sets his dish on a table, followed by the distinct rattle of a bouncing fork. His other hand wraps around a throw-away plastic cup that's much better suited for outdoors. Later I'll realize that in positioning the plate, he has precisely calculated the length of his arm's reach. I will understand why his feet are so stiffly planted in front of him to create a perfectly shaped lap.
He's making last minute seating adjustments with a small bit of ceremony, and he begins to try out his snack.
I'm engaged in conversation but remain aware of the images on the periphery. It's windy, and rather than lift the entire muffin to trap a bite in his mouth, he insists on delicately partitioning it with his fork. I take note of this because he's dropping bites that bounce from his lap whenever a strong gust pushes through and the accidental bounty is attracting what look like finches. He tries to catch but misses two forkfuls, then fills the stainless steel with a third and new portion.
Stubborn.
Because I move to a different table to escape some of the strongest breezes, my new seat allows a view of the still pink and deep damage that draws a wide scar around his jawbone. I take in the artificial aid tucked halfway behind his ear and then begin to actually see him even as I'm trying not to look. He takes another forkful and lifts it to a mouth and jaw that can't open wide enough. There's a small and dignified struggle, and a new bite of the pumpkin muffin he has spent his good time waiting for threatens to follow earlier bits and tumble with the next gust.
But he's insisting that he most certainly will harvest this bite of pumpkin and I'm happy to watch as he does just that.
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