I worked with clients at enDevelopment to write this press release about the launch of CommonCents 3.0, personal budgeting software based on the envelope system. It was released today.

They used PRWeb to distribute the release and it seemed to work well. The package they chose allowed them to add this overview video of the budgeting software.

(I know it’s hanging over the edge of my theme. Sorry.)

So take this as it’s intended: a friendly reminder for those who already know it, and a quick lesson for anyone who was absent that day in English class.

A person is a “who” and a thing is a “that,” thus:

Wrong: The girl that wrote my marketing copy is fabulous.
Correct: The girl who wrote my marketing copy is fabulous.
Also correct: The writer who wrote my marketing copy is fabulous.

Easy-peasey. As a bonus, I’m going to throw in “which” for free:

Wrong: The writer, which wrote my fabulous marketing copy, is not uppity about grammar.
Correct: The writer, who … (Okay, you get it. )

Update: Like so many other hard-and-fast rules of grammar, this one isn’t hard or fast. See this post by the Grammar Girl, who shows how the who/that sits in a gray area. (But she’s on my side.)

It’s an “awareness” month. Can you guess from the title which one?

No Buts About It

But before you run off to report me (tattle-tale), or to cram your copy with them because “Carolyn said it was okay,” let me clarify:

I love cliches with the kind of affection people bestow upon puppies and kittens. And while puppies and kittens can be very effective persuaders, they won’t work in every situation. (I’ll write more someday, I’m sure, about using what works for your business rather than just something everyone says “works,” in general. It’s important.) So I’m not saying you should necessarily use them.

My fondness for cliches is born of awe. Once, long ago, they weren’t cliches. They were original expressions that either by extreme brilliance or happy accident said something JUST RIGHT. So right, their meaning resonated with us. And we loved them so much, we adopted them.

Oh, I know. We get tired of hearing them, like the “new” jokes a first-grader brings home from school.

But that actually makes my point. Think, for a moment, about the chicken that crossed the road. It’s still delightful to any 7-year-old hearing it for the first time. So simple, and yet, so exquisitely unexpected. Perfect!

To get to the other side. To get to the other side!

So yes, in general, avoid cliches in your writing, but don’t be smug. When was the last time you wrote something so good it was absorbed by humankind? The originators of these colorful expressions did what any writer wants to do. We want to give voice and structure to thought. We want to communicate and to connect. In other words, we want to get to the other side.

I made the shortbread cookies again. This time, I didn’t have the distractions of the post-school/supper-making frenzy, and they turned out perfectly. (Although I still blame my oven for that last attempt.) I also did not slather them with chocolate, since they clearly are meant to be enjoyed in all their buttery simplicity:

Here’s my attempt at a little food-styling…

Okay. Back to work. I’m sure I was supposed to be doing something besides baking and taking photographs.

But I guess I’m pretty pleased with the result, because I’m showing it off.

Read it, if you like, at Women’s Focus Magazine. Then please tell me if you have a granny like the one I mention in the article! If you do, I want to meet her.

For the most part, the Obama Twitterers have been kind: “Thank you for being so supportive today,” one said in response to my Tweet about this being a great day in America. What I wanted to say by way of reply would never fit in 140 characters. So for anyone who’s interested, here it is.

I grew up in Alabama in the 70s.

For those of you who aren’t aware of the significance of that, let me give you the brief version: Alabama was a battleground for civil rights in the 60s and early 70s.

There was a legend at my high school (I think it was true) that in the 70s, students had to eat lunch in the classroom because the tension was so high, school administrators feared rioting and violence. Even when I attended in the 80s there was tension, to be honest. But the racial tension was among a small minority of students, some of whom had been schooled in bigotry since they were in diapers. Most of us got along swimmingly.

I have several memories, like those square, yellowed snapshots of my childhood, that are of particular significance to me today.

My parents used to tell us kids the story of their decision to buy the house we lived in. There were two houses, my dad said, that they had considered buying. One was in a really nice neighborhood, with great schools, and just down the street from our good friends. It was roomy. It was in great condition. It was in our price range.

But my parents chose a different house, a nice split-level that met our needs. They moved us into a neighborhood that was “desegregated.” (I asked, “What does that mean, Dad?” because kids don’t know about racism unless you teach it to them.) He told us he did not want his children growing up being exposed to or possibly indoctrinated in the bigotry that still existed openly in some all-white communities. And that other house was in an all-white community, with segregated schools.

I was really young, like 7 or so, when he had this talk with us. I remember thinking about my friend Chucky next door. He was black. I was incredulous that some people would ever think anything of it. But Dad explained that some people did, and that some people wouldn’t like that he was my friend. Un-freakin-believable, to me as a 7-year old. Anyway. I remember feeling very proud of my Dad, but I’m sure I didn’t realize the extent of societal prejudices he overcame to reach his own conclusions and teach them to us.

My dad was white – always had been, as far as we knew. And, as far as we knew, most, if not all, of our ancestors were white. Both my father and my mother had grown up in Northern small towns where there were very few, if any, minorities. And by minorities I mean of ANY color or ethnicity. They weren’t of the “educated elite.” Yet my parents knew the difference between right and wrong. And they taught us it was wrong to discriminate based on the color of a person’s skin.

They weren’t perfect though. They had been raised in a time when black people couldn’t use the same water fountains as white people. Or weren’t allowed to sit in the same restaurant. Or had to use a separate door. Or had to sit at the back of the bus. All of these things had been a normal part of everyday life for many people in that generation. The fact that my parents didn’t really experience any of it until they were adults didn’t mean it had no influence on them.

Inter-racial marriages were still taboo among most people in those days, my parents included. They never expressed a belief that it was wrong, but when I was a teenager, my mother sternly warned me that children of an inter-racial couple would have a difficult time growing up. Why did she tell me that? Because a black boy from school called me on the telephone.

I remember being infuriated. How could she think that way, when she and my dad were the ones who taught me that as human beings, we are all equal? (What’s more, all he did was call me. I was also miffed that she thought I was going to conceive children via any boy who had my phone number. But I digress…)

It wasn’t until many years later that I really understood what my mother faced in terms of unlearning. And I also later understood the root of her fear: She had been an illegitimate child back in the days when that was a very big deal. She didn’t discover it until she was in high school, and she felt the intense shame of being somehow less worthy. How unfair, when it wasn’t even her own doing. And I know now that was exactly what she thought about the day she yanked the phone from my room – that children shouldn’t have to suffer for a heritage they had no part in bringing about.

Our lives as a military family were spent exposed to lots and lots of diversity in race, ethnicity and culture. When we lived in Germany, we learned about customs that were foreign to us. While we were there – during the Iran hostage crisis – an Iranian girl went to the American school on base and rode on our bus. My mother made it a point to tell me that this girl might be going through a rough time, and that even though she had nothing to do with this very serious event, some people would blame her for it and mistreat her. She warned me to be kind, and I was happy to do it. I wanted to be someone who might make a positive difference in her life.

Back in the states, in Alabama, we watched the Roots mini-series yearly. And in school every year we watched a movie about Miss Jane Pittman. I cried EVERY TIME I saw her walk right up to that water fountain and take a drink. I felt so proud of the country we had become. I was so thankful for people like Miss Jane Pittman, and for people like my parents. I understood at an early age that I could have turned out to be a very different person, one who did not embrace the equality of mankind regardless of skin color or ethnicity. I was – and I think I understood this very early too – the next generational step in the process of transformation, of dissolving racial barriers.

I wasn’t responsible for being born a white person. But I was – and my parents were – responsible for what I believed and what I lived.

I’m saying all of this today because electing an African-American president is not only historically significant, it is significant in the context of my personal history. And it’s significant to families who have lived all their lives like my mother did – with the feeling that people saw them as somehow less than legitimate. Last night I watched a professional newsman get choked up as he thought about what opportunities would be available for his children. Everything in my heart went out to that man for the joy and the relief and other indescribable emotions he was trying, with difficulty, to restrain. My heart soared for him. It was a good feeling. Even though I voted for McCain.

I disagree strongly with President-Elect Obama on several issues: I don’t believe in the idea of a tax-cut for people who don’t even pay income taxes – unless you want to cut ALL of our taxes and just spend less on government. I don’t believe we should yank our guys out of Iraq until the job is done and we can ensure that terrorists won’t take over the country. I don’t believe in the government sponsoring healthcare, even though we pay dearly for our insurance. There are probably other things I don’t agree with. And maybe I’ll be vocal about them. I don’t know.

But I know this: The color of Barack Obama’s skin was never a factor in my decision. And I didn’t think it would be for the majority of Americans. Pundits questioned whether white voters would be able to “bring themselves” to vote for a black person. I like to think that we’re way beyond that question, and I think the votes answered it. Yes, there are pockets of racism in America. Yes, there are people who fear diversity. I’m sorry that they exist. But evil exists, too. Murderers exist. Perverts exist.

They don’t take away the accomplishment of the past 24 hours. They can’t take away what we – most of us – have believed in, what my Dad did and what little bit I may have done over the years. They don’t take away what you have done, and what our children will be able to do.

Today is a great day in America. I lived to see it; my father did not. But he saw it before it happened. That’s how things like this do happen.

The 4th verse of America the Beautiful says it quite well:

Oh beautiful, for Patriot dream
that sees beyond the years.
Thine alabaster cities gleam
undimmed by human tears.

That wasn’t the reality of the country when the song was written; it was the vision they had for the country. I am very proud today – as I am every day – to be a citizen of The United States of America. And I’m proud of my mother and my father. I’m proud of myself as a parent, and as a person. I was sorry that I couldn’t, because of “fundamental differences” (as they called them during the campaign), give my vote to Obama. But I’m happy that those were my reasons, and nothing else. And I’m happy that my parents made real estate decisions with a vision not for resale value, but real values.

I’m also happy that I get to vote again in four years. A fiscally conservative African-American woman would be ideal.