My Jonathan Demme Story

(This piece first appeared on Medium)

The death of a celebrity brings out celebrity stories. The death of a magnanimous human being often brings out untold ones. I suspect there’ll be a lot of both in tribute to Jonathan Demme, a man who personified the word mensch. Here’s mine.

On November 1, 1997, I co-chaired the grand opening of the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum with Bob Kendrick, now its Executive Director. We’d worked hard to entice entertainment and sports celebrities to come to Kansas City, shamelessly contacting them through distant relations, tenuous connections, and the magnificence of Buck O’Neil. Every “yes” felt like a surprise and every “no” a refused proposal, but at some point way too close to the event, we began to gather momentum. Danny Glover, in the midst of shooting Beloved, was one of our celebrity guests and a few weeks out, he let us know that Jonathan Demme and his young son Brooklyn “would also like to attend.”

We didn’t have to pay for travel or lodging, provide a driver or tell him the best barbecue place in Kansas City. Jonathan Demme (at the height of his career) didn’t need to be part of the program and he didn’t care about being introduced, but he was fine if we used him as the celebrity guest for a sponsor table since he knew it would help the cause. Mostly he just wanted to bring his child to bear witness to the men and women of the Negro Leagues and the fact that their story had finally found a home.

Since there were only three children in attendance, the Demmes were easy to spot. I can still see them coming out of the gift shop during the VIP cocktail party, souvenirs in hand, laughing together and delighting in one another’s presence. After introducing myself, I thanked Brooklyn in advance for being patient throughout night, and Jonathan for so graciously attending. We chatted briefly and then I waved to Ken Burns, whose film had put the museum on the map and was as good a friend to us as it was possible to be during our year of planning. Holding the hand of his young daughter Lilly, he approached and I got to make one of my favorite introductions ever, “Ken Burns, this is Jonathan Demme,” bearing witness to 20 seconds of mutual admiration before dashing off to check on the third child in attendance — my own son.

Our flight back to the east coast the next morning was much too early. Bleary-eyed, Daniel and I boarded the plane and felt surprise all around when our eyes met the cheerful passengers in the first row of first class — Jonathan and Brooklyn. With a half full plane our Coach seats would be plenty luxurious so we greeted them and happily moved on, reminded of the joy of the previous night. Fifteen minutes after takeoff the seat belt sign went off. A minute after that, the Demmes made their way back to Coach, sitting across from us for a couple of hours until a flight attendant sent them back to their assigned seats.

And though people who actually knew him will no doubt testify to his expansive nature, let me be the stranger who confirms that he was just as generous with a mother and son he’d never see again. Daniel and Brooklyn spent the flight quoting That Thing You Do to each other, an easy feat since we’d watched it no fewer than 100 times. Jonathan and I listened and laughed about his cameo in the film, though he neglected to mention that he was also a producer. We talked about ordinary things — kids, spouses, school. I confessed that I didn’t watch scary movies and had never seen The Silence of the Lambs, and his response is as clear as if it was yesterday, “Oh you definitely shouldn’t see it then.”

We said goodbye at the Newark Airport. I went back to making dinners and keeping track of five children and he went back to being an award winning movie director, but that encounter has stayed a living thing, not because I met a famous person, but because I met one who lived so easily in his skin and made room for others to do the same.

When my son Daniel, now an actor, texted this morning to tell me the news, tears came to my eyes. I had no idea Jonathan Demme had been ill and sensed immediately the magnitude of the loss to his wife, his children, his friends. But there is a larger loss when such a soul departs — a tear in the fabric of humanity and this is what I feel today as I hold them all in the light.

Formation Doesn't Include Me - And That's Fine

(This piece first appeared in The Cauldron)

Today, in a moment she perfectly choreographed, Beyoncé will perform at the Super Bowl, while her Formation video loops continually on screens around the country. I was working on a commercial shoot in Santa Clara yesterday when news of its release rolled through social media. The Panthers’ team buses had already created a buzz, but it was nothing compared to the party being held on Twitter. As someone who can name more important things Beyoncé has done than songs she’s released, I don’t usually rush to hear her new music, but this time the conversation felt different so I pulled out my small and mildly cracked phone to watch.

The sun was glaring and there was small talk chatter around me, but I knew I was witnessing something historic; weeping when I heard a powerful voice from New Orleans, saw a child dancing before a line of policemen, and a woman in the full glory of who she is, invite her sisters to the party.

By the time I got home, Dr. Zandria Robinson had already composed an astonishing commentary on the video, a must-read to understand why this is more than a song. But I’m here to say something else — if you check the “caucasian” box on a job application, your place is in the bleachers for this dance.

It’s time for us to stop singing along — to Formation, to Kendrick Lamar’sAlright, to any song that has the N-word or celebrates blackness in a way we will never understand. Our ancestors signed away that right when they signed their names to contracts that said they owned human beings or signed tabs in restaurants that didn’t allow “colored people.” If your ancestors were abolitionists or civil rights protestors, maybe you knew these things a long time ago, but for the rest of us, our people were either active racists or passive enablers, a pitiful legacy if ever there was one.

How many centuries were our black brothers and sisters relegated to the position of audience — the thrills of competitive sports, television and movie screens, even the petty dramas of middle class servitude demanding their attention. We gave them the role of witness to our stories without so much as a thought that they might have their own. Today those stories are rising to be told and though we may be the villain or not so much as a paragraph, if we listen, it will be our great joy to learn all that we have missed.

So let’s be where we need to be today and every time Formation plays — on the sidelines cheering.

Twitter Isn't Dying*

*but it’s not living its best life either

In the movie, “Mr. Mom” Michael Keaton’s first task as a stay at home dad is to take his children to school, something so simple that he scoffs when given instructions. Ignoring honking horns and backseat admonition that he’s “doing it wrong,” he proceeds with absolute confidence in the “Jack Butler Method,” despite its unproven tactics and uninformed practitioner. Yet it’s not until his station wagon is positioned opposite every car in the drop-off circle that Jack finally rolls down his window and listens, as Annette, the traffic parent who has been on the ground in wind, snow, sleet, and hail sets him straight.

“Hi Jack,” she says. “You’re doing it wrong.”

By any measurable standards, I’m a nobody. But since February of 2009 I’ve sent thousands of tweets and fallen in love with Twitter in a way that’s as close to an addiction as I’ve ever had. In response to the community I found there, I created the #IRLProject, a long form diary about traveling “in real life” to meet 24 people I follow on Twitter.

And though your task is daunting, now that you’re official I gotta say, “@Jack you’re doing it wrong.”

During my first IRL meeting I learned that there are physics theorists who posit that the Internet is a parallel universe and social media the bridge between our two worlds. Twitter isn’t the only one, of course. Facebook would be the Golden Gate, famous and instantly recognizable; Instagram the romantic and photogenic Brooklyn; and Snapchat the trafficked (and misunderstood by outsiders) GWB. But Twitter is the Bay Bridge — present in a disaster and daily shepherding travelers from East bay reality to a sparkling city and back again.

Your appearance last August at the protests in Ferguson was a global demonstration of Twitter at its loftiest and most impactful, collapsing distance and socio-economic strata in the parking lot of a burned out Quik Trip. You were a supporter, an ally, boots on the ground, and a face in the crowd — at once, a founder of Twitter and a guy compelled by what he’d read there — the perfect illustration of your medium’s power to connect people with information and how to act on it.

I too went to Ferguson because of what I read on Twitter, driving from Kansas City with my photographer daughter, in spite of the fact that our budget demanded a marginally scary hotel and a one-day turnaround. But in addition to giving me an entirely new perspective on government sanctioned oppression, that trip gave me what I needed to go through with the IRLProject.

We spent the day asking people to share their stories, trading handles, talking one on one and listening at press conferences to compare what we read in the news to what was happening on the ground. We saw the passion and commitment of young leaders who were both feeding protesters anddemanding answers from politicians, and we left convinced of the power of connection to foster change.

The IRLProject launched on October 26, 2014. I researched pertinent Twitter employees in an effort to gain an audience, and tweeted at them, occasionally tagging the company, as did supporters and participants who thought you might be interested. Given the fact that none of us ever got a response, I’m guessing you weren’t.

An unplanned hiatus took me to the Bay area to be near family and as I looked for work, I occasionally checked the Twitter careers page, finally applying for a position and describing my adventure. I may not get an interview but at least they’ll learn about the project, I thought happily, and imagining an email that said, “We’re so glad to know about #IRL!” was just as exciting as imagining a job. But again there was no response. Which prompts my first suggestion —

· Start with the people who support you.

Sprint was my cell phone provider when I lived in Kansas City (in spite of the fact that I always seemed to have terrible service) because I wanted to support my friends who worked at world headquarters. The crowning blow was a basketball game at the Sprint Center where the only person in my family who had service was the one with AT&T. I don’t know much about corporate marketing but making sure your customers have good service in an arena that bears your name seems like a great place to begin building loyalty. The top Twitterati believe in you. They also know best how you need to change.

· Stop tweeting random surveys.

They’re the functional equivalent of telemarketers and even my septuagenarian parents don’t take those phone calls. Instead, face your employees outward rather than in. Incentivize them to find your most creative users and bring those people in to tell you how they’re using your product and why they love it. Read and respond to the tweets that users send to @Twitter. Require your employees to use their accounts to interact with the people in your community.

· Deal with the trolls.

Bring in users who’ve had problems (read: women and people of color) and get detailed information about the experiences they’ve had which should give you clues for fixing them. Require a phone number or other identification in order to have an account and limit the number of accounts a user can create, which will stop the eggheads who make a new one every time they get blocked. Empower every member of your team to take action when abuse happens. The fact that today you blocked @caulkthewagon for no good reason tells me that your “system” isn’t working and requires better human interaction.

· Incentivize good behavior.

Figure out ways to reward those who are patiently doing the work of demonstrating your product on a daily basis. Hell, pay them to teach classes so you don’t lose folks in the first confusing week after creating a profile. I follow politicians and academics and high school kids, activists, preachers and journalists and I can’t tell you how much I’ve learned just by watching how the good ones do their work and build a community all at the same time.

But you still gotta make money.

And though I’m just Annette managing the driveway, I believe monetization is found in Twitter’s highest and best self. Which leads me to Round 2 —

· Listen to your evangelists and find out what they value.

You can eavesdrop on Twitter convos or bring people in to headquarters, but talk to them at every level, from followers of 300 to 3 million. I’ve read the timelines of big-time PR professionals with thousands of followers that felt like someone was selling me a car and those of CMOs who signed every tweet, so the “experts” don’t always know what they’re doing. Investors do not understand your product like your best users do.

· Pay to play.

I’m guessing you’ve considered it and encountered pushback, but why not? Charge corporate users more and let individuals pay a very small monthly amount. We pay for digital access to newspapers. We pay for apps. Almost everyone I know pays for Netflix and Hulu and doesn’t think much about it, even those like me who don’t have a lot of margin. Skin in the game might also keep the haters more accountable.

· Focus on education

Twitter has been the greatest classroom of my life. I’ve listened in on conversations about HigherEd technology and the sociological intersections of hip-hop culture. I’ve learned about computer coding, spiritual mystics, and the intricacies of transgendered identity. I’ve talked to a former tech executive who now lives in a Cambodian slum and a young black woman who was the first person to school me on police brutality and white privilege. My life has grown exponentially because of what I’ve learned on Twitter.

Build curriculum so students can learn current events and geography by talking and listening to peers who are in other locations around the country and the world. Partner students in underserved communities with professionals so they have a vision beyond their neighborhood. You can’t aspire to be a museum curator or a sound designer or a water engineer if you don’t know those things exist, so introduce young minds to these worlds and make space to mentor them. Find companies with a vested interest in outcomes to sponsor partnerships and then teach them how to tweet so they engage with their target audience in meaningful ways rather than just trying to move product.

· Create opportunities for users to build community in their cities.

My project allowed me to meet people I would never have encountered in my real life and I was a person willing to go out well of my way. I just didn’t know how to do it on my own without seeming like a creeper. This week I met up with two Twitter friends for the first time — one from Australia and the other from Canada — not for the project, but because we understood the joy of a real life encounter with someone who said in 140 characters from the other side of the world, “I see you. You matter.” Twitter meet-ups would provide space for face-to-face conversations about race, gender, sexuality, politics, ethics, and healthcare solutions — all of the hard topics — among people who are interested in moving beyond their circle. When someone ceases to become “other” we’re invested in their wellbeing as much as our own.

The truth is I could brainstorm all day and I guarantee you’ve got thousands of users who could as well. If you don’t have answers, it’s because Twitter has been a fortress with its drawbridge up, not because the answers don’t exist. I’m not a venture capitalist or a shareholder or even a tech expert with opinions. But I once got a meeting with a vice president at Belkin because I tweeted at Kieran Hannon, the CMO and he answered. I’ve seen Twitter users crowd source topics from housing and fashion to parenting and academia. I guarantee that if you ask in an authentic way, you’ll get what you need.

Last night when the third person of the day shared Umair Haque’s, “Why Twitter’s Dying,” I snapped (at a priest, to my chagrin), “No it isn’t.” A Google search produces links to multitudinous bluebird death sentences over the years, so maybe I should chill. But I can’t help thinking that if Facebook dies I’ll find a way to see the graduation and vacation pictures of my friends and family. If Twitter dies, or becomes just another bar where you can’t have a conversation for all the shouting, the thread that binds me to people all over the world will unravel. I’ll lose the alarm that sounds when people are persecuted, and classrooms will shutter that could change the lives of others as they have my own.

When Jack Butler finally became a success as Mr. Mom, it wasn’t because he’d worn down his family with the Jack Butler method or learned to do everything the way it had always been done by his wife. It was because he’d found a new compass — a third way that combined practicality and fun, while looking out for the good of them all. I’m wishing you the same.