Home Place

Mom grew up Hungarian during the 1920s and 1930s in rural Merrill, Michigan.

Hungarian church. Hungarian cuisine. Hungarian school through sixth grade. And Hungarian spoken at home until she went off to college.

First generation American.

The Great Depression struck her family. Like so many others then (and now), the Toths lost their family farm to foreclosure. They called it “home place.” It was their homestead: all of the children were born in that kitchen.

Mom’s family also lost all of their “collateral” in the foreclosure. Animals. Tractors. Plows. Car. Furniture. Mom still dreams of the bank official chasing their cattle down the road to auction. Their rights to being part of the American dream seemingly vanished.

But like so many immigrants who still come to America, Mom’s family never gave up on their dream. They rented one farm. Then another, and a third. Saving scarce dollars, they eventually bought a second farm. They showed mettle.

They also received help from other families – sharing plows and tractors, and tending crops together. They became a community of immigrants – Americans determined to participate in society and make a difference.

“Home place” – it was the first time I had ever heard my mother use the term. It isn’t so much like homeland in homeland security, but “native land” as in “firm may she ever stand.”

“Home place” for a family and any individual is a sense that you belong. You feel that you have rights and opportunity. You sense the need to exercise those rights in order to pursue your dream and achieve self-actualization.

When I went to Hungary for the second time in April 1990, it was my first attempt at trying to help a controlled press break free of government censorship and controls. The Party and government controlled editorial personnel and content, printing, distribution, and finances. There were no such things as marketing or the marketplace of ideas.

Hungarians working in the controlled press felt hapless. The government held the power, rather than members of the press watching over government. Government said “no” to free and independent thinking. It squashed the exploring of new ideas. It said “no” to self-actualization for journalists and media managers alike. It controlled their destiny.

I began day one of the workshop dressed in my double-breasted Valentino suit and Zegna tie, polished black dress shoes, and slicked back hair. Some 25 participants from 15 “samizdat” (underground) journals and a weekly magazine published by the government’s chamber of commerce showed up.

This Westerner and the participants started out separated by two opposing political systems. During four sessions each day for the first five days, I slogged through my pre-planned lessons. They didn’t work. The conversation was one way. I was lecturing sullen faces that said “no” to everything.

“No” to developing an image and marketing position.

“No” to readership research.

“No” to alternative distribution.

“No” to subscription promotions, incentives and rebates.

“No” to strategic thinking – whether for marketing or self.

The participants did not feel empowered by the transitioning political system. Each individual seemed unsure about the right to communicate using freedom of speech. As a group that had assembled voluntarily, they did not assume their rights to openly explore solutions for dismantling controls over the press. It was as if there was a government official sitting in the room wagging a threatening finger. Fortunately, the participants were not giving up. By the end of week one, they began airing frustrations.

The following Monday the suit had found its proper place in my garment bag. Now, it was rolled up sleeves and blue jeans. I probed the participants’ indignation about being controlled, and tried to build awareness for speaking freely. Instead of lecturing participants about marketing in a free market system, I worked through each  “no” and tested every idea. Interchange emerged, and participants began talking energetically at the same time.

The closed mind and the theoretical were slowly being replaced by a can-do spirit and hands-on problem solving. Participants took up the challenge to individually express ideas and to collectively seek doable, strategic applications.

On the final day, we reviewed the two weeks. Straight faces of doubt showed some relief. Faint smiles and hope peaked out of tight faces. And we had a new participant.

The next morning an editorial appeared in Magyar Nemzet, one of the four government-run, national daily newspapers. The new participant had been a reporter.

The headline read, “The Disposition of a Smile.”

The editorial began, “It was a dramatic contrast.”

It described the potential for transformation of Hungary from a closed political system to an open society. The writer offered a challenge to journalists, media managers, and the general public alike to move from a closed “no” mindset to one marked by a daily quest for self-determination. It would be necessary to build momentum step by step for developing a free and independent press, and a democracy.

The editorial ended with the question, Es mi? “And Us?” (When will we join him?) The reporter was demanding Hungarians to openly challenge the old system.

He was in a way equating my mother’s “home place” with every citizen’s franchise in a democratic society. Don’t foreclose or deprive yourself of the right to your personal sovereignty. A key tool in claiming one’s franchise is the collateral that you can use to ensure self-actualization. An individual’s right to practice freedom of expression is that collateral.

This “collateral” had been implied during the workshop. It meant feeling free enough as participants to try new ideas upon leaving the confines of the workshop – whether the government liked them or not. If one doesn’t speak up, he’s not heard. If people don’t assemble and work toward the common good, progress on issues of public interest will be limited. Finding that “home place” could be accomplished, but it required mettle.

Today in Hungary the new prime minister and his party’s majority in Parliament have been rolling back the country’s democracy. The media face new censorship and intimidation.

I want to go back and ask, “Es Mi?”

This second post of R.A.P.P.S. is dedicated to my mother, Clara J. Mitchell.

Step Out

When my father passed away in mid January heading toward 89 years, a most lasting impression was his subtle determination to participate in community, take stands on public issues, and practice the freedoms of expression embodied in our country’s First Amendment and Bill of Rights.

Religion. Assembly. Petition. Press. Speech.

My father was a biology teacher and family man. Happy go lucky. His persona was a blend of Charlie Brown and Jimmy Stewart in the film, “It’s A Wonderful Life.”

His style of communication was full of dry wit, and subtle. It caught you off guard. He humbled you with his graceful way. Dad was a quiet leader.

As an early advocate for a greener planet and the environment, Dad lead the charge in the Flint, Michigan area in helping pass the Michigan Beverage Containers Initiated Law of 1976. It was part of his commitment to the environment and our country’s bicentennial celebration.

To promote the passing of the law, he encouraged neighbors to drop off beverage cans and bottles that transformed our front yard into one giant pile over 10 feet high. When a local opponent drove his car through the pile and scattered it late one evening, the Mitchell children stacked up the pile again. Determined to make his stand, Dad staked out a 8’ x 4’ sign the next day that proclaimed, “Last of the Litter!”

We won that campaign.

Earlier in adolescence, at the very school where Dad and Mom were teaching, I tried to work some of Dad’s quiet magic. As a student council member, I heard daily complaints about the flies and cockroaches in the cafeteria. With the cafeteria doubling as a study hall, it seemed that all we did was 'shoe' and swat flies, and flick crawling roaches off of our tables.

Determined to find a solution, I asked a fellow council member to join me in searching out alternatives. The only viable option meant calling the county health inspector’s office. So we did. We petitioned for a sanitation inspection.

In the inspectors came. Out went the lights - for a week. In came a special crew to disinfect and clean up - the cafeteria and kitchen ceilings, walls, floors, tables, cooking utensils and table ware.

The student body was fired up, at first. But eating sack lunches while sitting on a drafty gym floor grew old. Come the following Monday, everyone was ready for study hall and lunch in the cafeteria.

First in line for lunch, my younger brother waited for the serving line door to open. When it did, he blurted out to the cook, “What are we having, fried cockroaches?”

Down came a big hand on his collar, as the principal said, “Son, you’re going to take a few days off from school.”

The clear and present danger test had been breached, at least for junior high students. More importantly, however, we petitioned for change, and we succeeded.

We won. We discovered our voice, and we tapped our rights of freedom of expression to make our school a healthier place to learn.

Now, it’s 2012, and an election year.

"Be sure to vote," Dad told me at Christmas.

I would like to do more.


This is the first post for the blog, R.A.P.P.S. by Johnston M. Mitchell.
It is dedicated to his father, the late Lloyd A. Mitchell.