On: Stranger Angels

On:  Stranger Angels

Colleen Rogers
Original Post:  February 18, 2018

Many years ago, I had open heart surgery.  On the day of the big event, my husband walked me down a long, stark hall to the surgical “suite” as if it was some secret royal spa.  As we walked the “last mile”, there were several other patients alongside of me.  Each of us was in our own private hell, with broken parts that we did not know could be fixed.  Trying to keep up our collective spirits, I referenced the show “Fear Factor” in a lame attempt at humor.  My comedy was not well-received, and I smirked at my husband, who acknowledged everyone’s lack of joviality.  I guess having your arse exposed by a hospital gown covered with a thin blanket of modesty does not lend itself to any improvisational frivolity.

When I was finally placed on an unforgiving metallic table, I saw the two anesthesiologists for the first time.  The one I will never forget was named Kevin.  Because he was Irish, as am I, I felt that the Karma of Blarney Luck would be my blessing.  Kevin would at least get my humor, and if a red-headed Leprechaun was to be my last vision on this Earth, God did me a solid.  He was wearing a regulation surgical “hat”, and I told him that he looked like a school cafeteria lady on State Inspection Day.  He was roaring with laughter, and I knew I was good.  Right about that time, the nurse cut off both my wedding and engagement rings in case of post-surgical swelling.  A tear trickled down my face, and my wonderful, but fearfully stoic, husband kissed me goodbye and was ordered to leave.  Kevin then gave me the Irish wink and a nod, told me to do a count, gingerly touched my head, and I knew I’d be back.

I Zen-woke to the sound of clanking carts and muffled speaking.  Waking up from anesthesia is like alien-floating.  You are about to land exposed on a planet unknown, but you don’t even care if you are abducted.  You are already being held hostage.  The first thing I did was look for my husband, who was not yet able to be at my side.  Then, I looked for Kevin.  He was gone, but I had landed safely.  He did me a solid, and I never saw him again.  

The time in Intensive Care was a mindless blur of morphine drips and few coherent recollections.  Like Martha Stewart says, “It’s a good thing.”  It seemed like an eternity before I was moved to a regular hospital room.  Thinking that my new “studio apartment” was the ticket out, I was shocked to discover that this first venture on my own was only the inaugural leg toward recovery.  My cracked ribs made sleeping horizontally an impossibility.  I sat up each night trying to rest in a chair, listening to the moaning of other patients, more clanking of carts, and the continuous work-laughter of the staff on the floor.  I would thumb through the cache of magazines my sister bought for me, and basically make every night a teenage slumber party. 

My partner in crime was an affable Filipino nurse.  She and I would flip through the magazines together, and wonder why J-Lo had all the booty, and we were stuck with two flat pancake butts.  We would jealously admire J-Lo’s hair, her clothes, her makeup, etc.  Our giggling cattiness each night made me feel less like a broken one-hundred year old, and more like the girl I remembered being.  I hope this wonderful woman is still a Nurse.  I often wonder. 

As a part of the “recovery half-way house” rules, and so I could bust out of “hospital prison”, I had to prove that I was able to walk on my own.   So, as part of my “probation”, I walked countless times a day back and forth down the recovery wing hallway.  Every time I walked  passed the nurses’ station, I gave the nurses that “Mom, would this bother you" smirk that kids make.  I wanted to be sure 
that each staff member NOTICED ME. 

Every day I trained like an amateur Marathoner.  I struggled with the I. V. pole, scuffling along with grippy hospital socks.  With my punky, gross hair and my Zombie-like rhythm, I shoveled tenaciously along. 

At the end of the hallway was this lady patient.  No matter how many times she saw me pass she always royal-waved and nodded in encouragement.  I speculated that she was a woman in her early fifties, and I overheard the nurses say that she had some “female trouble”.  Her room was littered with floral arrangements, enough for a Queen’s Coronation.  Unlike the tattered hospital gown I sported, she was wearing a satiny robe that made her look like a Geisha.  She was petite and had rippling dark hair and blue eyes.  She was a tiny Elizabeth Taylor.  I felt extra sorry for her because she was the type of woman who genuinely should never endure any trouble other than running out of Russian tea cakes.  Without even going in to her room to speak, though, I could feel that she was rooting for me.

One day, while making my usual pass, one of the nurses nodded and gave me a single red rose.  It was the color of a Geisha robe.  I knew it was from the lady down the hall.  I went to thank her, but she  was whisked carefully home.  I truly do hope that her life returned to lovely.  

At the opposite end of my hallway trek was an elderly black man.  He was an older version of Morgan Freeman.  He had a shock of snow white hair, though, and was more softly reserved.  Like the Geisha lady, he supported me by giving me “two thumbs up” at each of my passes.  When I went in his room to talk with him, he said that he had some issues with his lungs.  I noticed that no one ever visited him.  He said his wife was ill, and wasn’t able to come to the hospital.  I asked him if he had children, which I immediately regretted.  He said that he did, hung his head, and said no more.  When he was released, he had no one to pick him up.  They wheeled him down to the front of the hospital with a bus schedule in his hand.  He was a good, loving man, and I wished that he had been a part of my own family.  When he left that day, he assured me that I was gonna make it.  I hugged him goodbye in his wheelchair, and went back to my room.  I did not walk that day.  I just cried like a child for it all.  

We do not know when we will come upon an Angel...what their form will be or why we will need them--but they give you a gift in your trauma--an unexpected union, a shared victory, and a glimpse of humanity.

Image courtesy of:

https://www.123rf.com/stock-photo/angel.html?sti=nlqj2ewy4108svfnbh|

        

On: Profiling and Preventing School Shooters

On:  Profiling and Preventing School Shooters

Colleen Rogers

In light of the events this past week in Broward County, Florida, addressing concerns over the heightened number of school shootings has been broached in the media once again.  Gun control mandates, advanced security measures on school campuses, and better funding to secure treatment for mental health issues have all been “forefronted” by whichever political party needs to promote their platform d' jour.

With everyone’s “good intentions” in place, the need to look at what truly is the “framework” for the mindset of a school shooter needs to be our starting point.  Before planning any course of intervention in schools, communities, or in Congress, we need to look at the most significant profile of a young person triggered to rampage. 

The statistical data below, presented on a Homeland Security Reference Guide provided by the state of Iowa, indicates that over 50% of school shooters have exhibited the following tendencies:

School shooters...

-- attack during the school day

-- have a known history of weapons usage

--have weapons that come from their own home or that of a relative

-- have exhibited behavior that has caused concern by others prior to their attack

-- plan their attack in advance

--and are generally current students of the school.

Additionally, about a fourth of the school shooters also show an interest in violent movies, and a little over one-third of the attackers seem to demonstrate violence in self-created written works like poetry, essays, or journals. 

School shooter’s motivations for their acts of violence are (in order of greatest significance)…

--the perception of being persecuted, bullied, or threatened by others

--the desire for revenge

--their own multiple motives.

Approximately one third of  shooters believe that their act is an attempt to “solve a problem”,  while about a quarter of the shooters are motivated by suicide or desperation. 

Contrary to what we might think, only about a quarter of the school shooters are actually motivated by the pursuit of recognition or attention.

Prior to implementing any beefed-up, structured plans in an attempt to prevent these horrific incidents of school violence, there are some observable warning signs that could indicate the possibility of a young person heading down this deadly path. 

Here’s what to watch for:

--Probe whether or not the young person has appeared to have researched, planned or prepared to commit an act of violence.  If you note that there has been an effort to secure a weapon, know that this has escalated the risk factor for violence.

Please also note that…

--In over two-thirds of the school shootings, at least one other person  had information about what the shooter’s thoughts or plans were BEFORE the attack.  In about 66% of the attacks, more than one person had information about the attack BEFORE it occurred.

 In almost all of these cases, the person who knew about the attack was a peer—a friend, a sibling, or someone from school.

As an aftermath, we need to recognize that…

--Interventions by law enforcement generally are not how attacks are ultimately stopped.

--School personnel need to realize, too, that the “Werther Effect” may be in effect for days or weeks after a heavily-publicized attack.  Students in their own buildings may make some attempts toward “copycatting” after such a sensationalized event has happened elsewhere.

For the purpose of discussion, perhaps we could consider the following immediate “interventions”…

--Law enforcement training for parents on securing and monitoring weapons in the home

--Heavier enforcement of fines and fees for the unlawful possession or usage of guns by a minor

--Student training on “what warning sign to look for” as potential signs of violence from peers

--An "anonymous” peer to adult plan of reporting “warning signs of violence” as they are exhibited by friends or classmates.  (This should include relating online posts, class notes, etc.)

--Increased counselor follow-up of classroom discipline issues that involve fights, bullying complaints, etc.

--Additional peer mentors for incorporation into comprehensive anti-bullying campaigns

--Community Health Programs and Suicide Crisis Centers that have staff visiting schools regularly to provide students with information on depression, post-traumatic stress disorders, bereavement, and other mental health issues

--Re-structured building crisis drills to prepare students and staff for potential incidences of school violence

--Classroom structures developed to serve “double duty” in the event of shootings (i.e., whiteboards that “flip” and serve as bullet proof barricades or shields, etc.)

Although it is of hollow comfort at this time for our country, only one in one million students die at their school as a result of a violent act.   

This though, is of no consequence to the friends and families who have just suffered the greatest of losses.

Statistics herein are credited as originating from:

homelandsecurity.iowa.gov

Art courtesy of:   

https://drawception.com/game/WgYehmTbz3/caillou-becomes-a-school-shooter/

On: The Toast

The Toast

Colleen Rogers

Last month my husband and I were in a Doctor’s office.  We knew the staff and their families fairly well, so we always made small talk with them to inquire about their children and grandchildren.  One of the ladies there always boasted about her son, who had recently received the credentials he needed to become a professional chef.  On New Year’s Eve, not long after he earned his diploma, he decided to repay his parents for their support by gracing them with some of his culinary expertise.

To prepare for this event, he carefully shopped to procure the most lavish ingredients and wines, using the perks of his newfound trade to get insider deals on his purchases.  He prepared some of the side dishes at home, gently hauling them to his parents’ house for careful reheating.  The main course was, of course, prepared on site to insure its greatest freshness and peak of flavor. 

When the day’s meal was finally ready, he laid out each dish with flair and meticulous placement on the dining table, which was set with a combination of his mother’s best dishes and his own spectacular accoutrements.  When his family and friends were seated and ready to be served, he pulled out his final surprise—a rare and coveted vintage wine.  He judiciously explained the value of his selection, and how it was the perfect pairing for the dishes being served.  With great enthusiasm, the guests joyfully anticipated the popping of the cork, and the gentle pouring of luxury, privy only to this select party.  Many of the guests were imagining the breezy waves of this vintage pairing poured into the perfectly chosen, exactly matched table goblets.

When the moment for the ceremonial cork popping was finally on deck, the chef was gleeful.  He had never had a chance to share something so exquisite with those he loved.  With an expert, swift movement of the wine screw pull and a strained tug, the cork rocket jettisoned at maximum velocity thru the dining room ceiling, leaving a hole and spraying vintage blood red vino on the whitest of ceilings.  With residual force, the cork shot through its’ final landing strip, chunking out his mother’s precious granite countertop. 

The chef’s mother began screaming, shouting about the damage done to her home, and about how her son was clearly not ready for the standard of professionalism she had expected from him.  The remainder of the meal was eaten in virtual silence, with only small, quiet requests to pass uncomplemented entrees.  With the uncomfortable atmosphere, the guests politely excused themselves and called it an early night.  The noveau chef profusely offered to pay for the damages, but his mother chose to indicate that she and his father would have to take care of what was done themselves.

As the chef’s mother relayed the story to us, my husband and I listened in dismay to hear the outcome of the chef’s inaugural experience.  We wondered how encouraged he would be to continue as a professional chef after this incident with family.  We were curious as to why his mother was more agitated about her own property than she was proud of her son’s overriding accomplishments.

And, in our morbid fascination, we wondered if on the mother’s deathbed, the chef would toast her, being sure not that the cork did not pierce the ceiling.

Drawing courtesy of:   http://www.humblegrape.co.uk/blog/20131017cork-vs-screw-cap/

On: The Gift of Reeses

The Gift of Reeses

Colleen Rogers

As we approach the romance of Valentines’ Day, I am reminded of the last present I received from my husband as part of a seasonal gift-giving event. 

In a holiday offering gifted to me this past Christmas Day, my beloved life partner presented me with…

…One ginormous two-pound package of…

…Reeses Peanut Butter Cups…

That. Was. It.   

The totality of my Christmas stash was purchased at our local Walgreens. 

Like any of the Real Housewives of Wherever would demonstrate, I was not happy with the lack of dazzling bling.  This “gift” caused an effective two day work stoppage in our otherwise solid marriage.  I was hurt, angry, and confused. 

You may condemn me for my vacuous lack of appreciation, for the soulless shallow of my womanhood, or for the dismantling of my husband’s attempts at generosity, but there’s a prequel and a sequel…

Two years ago, as I was approaching retirement after 35 years as a high school teacher, I had envisioned a series of events that would set our couple’s course joyfully into the next breezy chapter of our lives. 

I had hoped for a small, but semi-posh, vow renewal ceremony, followed by a sort of second honeymoon.  As a team, the two of us had nearly made it across the finish line.  We had survived job changes, moves, the losses of family, friends and pets, and had literally warrior-punched anything that the fates had tossed our way. We did it all in lock-step, with Ninja-like precision.   

Of course, without warning, life’s other shoe dropped.  On a sunny, nondescript Monday, only a few weeks shy of my retirement, I was found slumped over the steering wheel of my car.  I only woke after two hospital transits by ambulance, seeing my brother sobbing at my bedside, and peeping the horrific image of a cardiologist’s crappy poker face.  My unwanted pacemaker was installed that Thursday, and like a taped up broken bird, I was folded in my couch at home on Friday.

I did not know, until much later, that my husband (by virtue of phone tracking technology) “saw” me ride toward the hospital.  He witnessed them “giving me the paddles” in the emergency room, and he handled our collective trauma silently and protectively.

I squeaked through the final days of my retirement festivities, but I struggled for over two years.  I suffered from seizure medication side effects, fearful sleepless nights, failed attempts to return to work, and inept efforts to “normalize” my life.   

It was only this week, a few days shy of Valentine’s Day, that I remembered our trip to Walgreens.  It was there, in the cozy fall, that my husband had innocuously and coyly asked me what I wanted for Christmas.

I laughingly responded, “All I want this year is a giant Reeses”. 

At the time, my joking request had symbolized the simple, immediate joy of having the girl cure-all—a worry-free bar of chocolate.  In actuality, my “Santa note” had really represented a flashback to the time in our lives when we would spend our last $2.00 on ice cream, and we never worried about being well or paying our bills.

Flash forward, it hit me at all at once--the sudden Zen-like realization that we never needed any more “bling” than each other’s humor and company  finally sunk in.  It was only this week, in one illuminating moment, that I realized  that my husband’s charming, silly gift was his own loving promise to me that he would always honor and celebrate my simplest requests in the most ginormous way.

Happy Valentine’s Day, and don’t forget the chocolate…

;)

Photo copy of Pinterest:
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/28429041367450126/

On: The Old Lady and Colin K.

The Old Lady and Colin K.

Colleen Rogers

Tomorrow is the Superbowl Sunday, and I am still angry.  For two years running, politics have still “colorized” this national event. Here’s my offering on this piece of American Pie, as it’s lovingly served by someone who could be your Granny.  You’re are free to opt out of dessert if you are not boycotting tomorrow's game, or if you are in unequivocal support of Colin K.’s stance and are not interested in having another slice on this issue.  If you decide to keep reading, I sincerely appreciate your time at my table. 

I am a 62 year old White lady.  My father was a Navy man, and my brother-in-law is a cop, so you can probably see where I am going with this preface.  I taught in a Black (if that is still p.c.) High school in the southern suburbs of Chicago for 21 years before my retirement in 2015.  I was not blessed with children of my own, so my students have been literally everything to me.  My feelings for and support of them have never wavered.  I have joyfully followed them post-graduation on Facebook.  I have watched the gender reveal of their children, seen them as they go off for a tour of duty in the military, and jumped for joy to see screenshots of their college acceptance letters.  That all changed when Colin K.’s protests began.  I have been blocked.  Beloved students who sat in my classroom five days a week for nine months have disavowed me for being “racist”.  To say that this was a shock, deeply hurtful, and a lesson for me would be an understatement.  Evidently, you see, I am considered a “casual” racist by some of the students I loved.  

I am not sure exactly when it happened, but it is definitely a direct result of me expressing my opinions online about Colin K. and his protests.  When Colin K. began sitting on the bench, wearing the Pig socks, and kneeling on the field, I truly took his protests to be “attention seeking antics” similar to those of any class clown.  To me, he was the student who keeps pushing the perimeters of acceptable conduct until he ultimately is expelled from school.  Metaphorically, this is exactly what happened to Colin K.  

My beliefs about Colin K., whose future with the NFL at that point was somewhat dicey, was that he was attempting to generate a “cult of personality”.   He hoped to assure that his dismissal would be proactively questioned had he become a fan favorite.  Any empathy I might have had for his cause was negligible at this juncture because, for me, the methodology he used to grandstand for the purpose of raising awareness overshadowed his message.

Like many football fans, I could not understand why Colin would pick his job site to protest a personal social cause in front of what were essentially his bosses’ clients.  Ostentatiously, Colin’s conduct cut the recognition of his protests’ goals  off “at the knee” and effectively curtailed his objectives.  On Facebook, I expressed my true distaste for Colin’s behavior.  Expecting to hear an empathetic, well-considered debate over issues concerning coordinating your medium with your message, I instead was met with a barrage of Black Power rage.  Assuredly, I must be racist for not understanding precisely why Colin, at a football game, would be protesting the violence shown by law enforcement toward essentially 200 Black youth.  I had minimal knowledge even of the protest’s issues, but I could clearly see the boulder rolling downhill.  The glaring sun of racial miscommunication suddenly burned my retinas.  At that moment,  I realized that the flagrant disparity between expected conduct and blatant racism may likely be the cause for what has now become a frightening precipice for racial chaos.  

My take was that, when I go to events for leisure, I do not expect to see any disruptions.  As an older White woman, I anticipate an orchestrated protocol.  I expect a certain order, tradition, and sequence of “mandates”.  It provides a sense of comfort, even at a boisterous sporting event.  As working class moments of leisure are limited, diversionary “tactics” to draw any immediate, unwilling attention to social justice issues are sure to be met with resistance.  Even if there is measurable sympathy for the cause of another race, this is a high level intrusion.

While in-your-face disobedience has always been a necessary trail toward the recognition of injustices for the Black community, it is not fully acknowledged in a gathered time and place of leisure “procured” by another race.  "Jumping the broom" into precious moments of free time, in a space primarily occupied by “someone different”, is a sure-fire catalyst for discord.  I suspect that diametrically opposed views on life, not racism, may be partially the cause for our current tour of discord.  For instance, some of us sit quietly in church in worshipful prayer, while others lead shouting Gospel fests.  Some of us see the flag as an honorable remembrance of our fathers who’ve served, while others see the flag as a symbol of a repressive history.

         What I have learned from Colin K. is this…our racial divide may be something that will more likely require “polite containment”, remaining a dismissal failure long after earnest Civil Rights marches.  We steadily hold firm little realization of the issues for racial division in our own country. We hold even less willingness to have civilized discourse on these issues without hurling racial epithets.  We are continuing to display middle school re-activism in broaching any race-related issue.  So, I suppose, at this point, I remain labeled an unhappy and accidentally “casual racist”.  The rapport I had hoped to continue to share with my former students has to start all over, with long marches of deeply trenched hope.

On: Being Childless on Mother’s Day

On: Being Childless on Mother’s Day

Colleen Rogers

This Sunday is Mother’s Day. As a “women of age”, I once again find the difficulty of this particular holiday a dull annual ache.  Having lost my Mother fifteen years ago, I can no longer focus this deserving celebration on her magical, wonderful presence in my life.  Instead, I now feel my attention fully diverted to my own personal loss and grief.  Very early on in my marriage, I did not carry two children to term.  I thought both times, upon the loss of each child and the ensuing pain, that this would not be the finale of my options to bear children. My husband and I even purchased a long wooden dining table for large family holidays, and I envisioned my son requesting that Mom fix him his favorite dinner on his birthday—a dish that his own wife could never quite approximate.

Unfortunately, at some point, the blessing of childbirth no longer became a life option for me.  Although I have been blessed with the "maternal" fulfillment of teaching school, and being the “fun Auntie”, the miss of motherhood is always present in my heart.  On many days, there is this stabbing sense of a “destiny unfulfilled”.  I am aware that I can never truly understand the magnitude of seeing your own child take first steps, learn to talk, or graduate from school. 

When someone wished me the sing-song “Happy Mother’s Day” at work, there is always the heart sinking realization that the greeting does not truly apply to me, and I suddenly feel somewhat fraudulent as a woman.  I acknowledge their kind exchange with a thank you, knowing that no harm was intended, but I also realize that the undercurrent of any woman’s life is an expectation of motherhood.  I have thought so many times about why I feel the loss of motherhood so deeply, and I believe in part that I am missing the insurmountable victory that every woman discovers as a Mom.  Most Moms, in spite of their unyielding fears, win over…

…the torturous pains of childbirth

…the comforting of the first boo-boo

…the encouragement after falls from the first bike ride

…the counseling on dealing with the school bully

…the struggle over school work

…the tears over break ups

…the relief after fender benders

…the realization that they’re “off on their own"

…the biting-the-tongue over life choices and decisions

…the giving back of grandchildren after visits

No non-Moms can truly celebrate those deepest of accomplishments, or conquer the trail of tears toward these victories.  These badge of honors, for us non- Moms, can never be claimed experiences, and we know it.  We will never have the chance to watch the person we created "emerge", or view our children begin a next generation, realizing that we have truly carried something into forever.  Non-Moms stand aside with the greatest respect, acknowledging our personal loss.  

With all the celebrations of “women in the workplace”, and the equality stances for woman as professionals, the ultimate universal triumph for woman at their core will eternally be that life-altering first cuddle.  It is what no man can ever experience, and what all woman, at some primal level, hope to sensation.  This is the reason that on this day we pause to recognize Moms with so many heartfelt tokens of appreciation…

…the handmade gifts and cards

…the breakfasts in bed

…the Sunday brunches

…the flowers and candy

These recognitions are so significant and so profoundly well-deserved, that they can never be offered to childless women or any women "just working in an office".  So today and every day I wish Moms...

blessings and prayers for exacting the impossible with grace and wisdom.

Happy Mothers’ Day, with awe and admiration, from 

a Non-Mom



Artwork courtesy of:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/family/10-things-never-say-childless-woman-50-believe/

 

On: Facebooking

On: Facebooking

Colleen Rogers

Having been a recent activator of a Facebook account (barely two years in), I have noted the following novice social media experiences--

The Over-shared:

I have had to acknowledge an embarrassingly personal realization—I have an obnoxious tendency to “put all of my business out there” in online posts.  Unfortunately, most of my "life shares" are of little or no interest or consequence to those I have “friended”.  No one, not even “friends”, actually wishes to see my perfectly flipped cake, the Valentine’s Day dinner I prepared for my husband, or my latest professional braggadocio certificate.  I look back, and all I can do is extend my heartfelt apologies, which I probably would also post online so that everyone could upgrade my sincerity quota. (Eye roll)

The Over-friended:

I really wanted everyone on Facebook to be my “friend” from the onset.  Who wouldn’t want as many friends as an online party bus could hold?   Unfortunately, I now wade through posts of minutia similar to my own to decipher what I really hold as valuable notices from my actual true friends.  I spend a daunting amount of time reviewing peoples’ motivational mantras, VonVon games, and second cousin twice removed photos of grand babies.  How did I get so sucked in to all these peoples’ inner circle?

The Over-invited:

I do not know how many invites I have had to play Candy Crush.  I cannot play this game, nor do I do any other forms of online diversions.  I suspect that these invites to game are merely a ruse to accrue a gaggle of points at the expense of a novice player.  Momma didn’t raise no fool—I happily avoid taking the bait so as not to look like the amateur I clearly would be.  ‘Nuff said. 

An additional issue in being over invited is that I have become a “plus one” in a series of “electronic chain letters” requiring me to “copy and paste” or “forward” expressions of love and support to “ten others”, etc.  When I was a teen, I carefully boarded the Karma train and diligently advanced such letters, not wishing to break the spell of goodwill for myself or others.  In my advanced age, though, it all seems like such a ridiculous effort.  I am certain that other shiftier misfortunes will befall me besides failing to add something to someone’s wall or timeline.  Mea culpa, everyone, but if YOU really can’t sleep without the forward, you do you.

The Over-opinionated:

An integral part of Facebooking is the recorded spar.  In the safety of your own home, it is so much easier to call Jenny McCarthy an idiot, or argue over the physical stance of Colin K., hence triggering an online Roman Coliseum challenge. Fast-fingered flame wars are both entertaining and exhausting on Facebook, but these leave an electronic trail, which is off-times forgotten as traceable.  Such editorial gymnastics may impact what was previously a more positive view of your “friend”.

The Overview:

The significant benefit of participating in Facebooking has been the chance to review the cherished lives of those you do not see regularly.  Exchanging photos of events, learning about life experiences that would have fallen by the wayside in the frenzy of your own, and seeing the vantage point of others’ perspectives has changed the world in ways we cannot even begin to conceive.  The chance to follow those you would have “lost” has expanded the ripples of your life, and has given each of our personal histories a richer dimension.

Graphic courtesy of:  
http://www.adweek.com/digital/a-teen-speaks-the-pros-and-cons-of-facebook/