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The Sad Cost of Appeasement

In any relationship, you will have conflict. It is the nature of things and is, in and of itself, neither good nor bad. It is gravity. It exits and ignoring it doesn't negate its influence, it just generates surprise when the consequences of ill thought actions manifest.

I will detail an allegory about raising my children to illustrate my point, but, just so we are all on the same pages, I am talking about the Neopoet community.

When I first became a father, now over 30 years ago, I was ecstatic and frightened and excited and leery and nearly terrified I might do something wrong. And as my child got older, I was assailed by these feelings as I tried to raise a child that was respectful and confident and outgoing and engaged and happy.

And one lesson I quickly learned was a lesson from my own childhood. When I knew the rules, I had the freedom to act. When I did not know the rules, I found myself in dire straights. And when I knowingly violated the rules, I found myself in immediate and impersonal consequences.

And that's how I raised my children.

I stopped worrying if they liked me and focused on building a foundation where we all knew the rules, where punishment was not welcome but came as no surprise, where we would have discussions, not assumptions, about a wider latitude of behavior.

Oh, certainly, it was not perfect. Kids act out without thinking and try to manipulate the situation and throw guilt around as if they mined it from virgin ore and were the first to bring it into the world. And, of course, I had my moments as well, moments where my actions and reactions could have been tempered, where my responses would have been better for being delayed, and where the consequences overshadowed the offense.

We are humans, after all, and try as we might, no system is perfect.

But, as I raised my children, I also observed the relationships other parents had established with theirs. In some cases, the need to be liked outweighed everything else. Every infraction was either ignored or coddled as they waited, desperately, for the moral compass to descend from Heaven onto their child and that child begun functioning as a productive being rather than a selfish and tantrum prone brat. This, they insisted, was done to preserve the independent thought of the child. To foster their creativity. To show them that they were special.

It didn't work.

Spoiled toddlers became spoiled pre-teens and spoiled teens and low functioning adults as they continued to believe their self-centered and destructive behavior must be endured by a world that, and let's be honest, just does not care outside the artificial womb they inhabited. It was sad, watching these folks transition into their 20's and 30's as they were forced to reconcile their "special snowflake" status with a society that just did not give a damn.

When I joined Neopoet, it was a vibrant community filled with a variety of souls and no small range of talent. I loved it. I got involved, I had fun, I wrote a shit-ton of poetry and critique and blogs. And, slowly, I discovered that, while there were folks who were serious about their craft and willing to take the hard steps to improve their talent, they were a very small minority.

And that was okay, because the folks who were serious did not need to interact with the majority.

But, apparently, they needed to interact with us. They needed to make accusations and claim offense and trumpet that they were special snowflakes and the majority, the sycophants and hangers-on and "poetry comes from the heart!" crowd piled on, determined to "fix" Neopoet.

Now, truth be told, the minority was not blameless. Some of us ridiculed, some of us antagonized, and some of us instigated trouble and, rightfully so, there were consequences. And, in my memory, none of the minority who stepped over the line ever complained about dealing with the consequences of their actions.

But the majority was not happy. Only they had the right attitude and the only solution was to drive folks away, always with the claim that they, poor souls, had been grievously offended and did not feel safe.

And, through expulsions and disgust, they accomplished their goal.

The result?

There was a time where any new submission would garner a few comments within minutes. Most of these comments were worthless. They were on the order of "I LOVE IT!" or "SO TRUE!" or other blithering drivel. But, at least, the community was large enough that folk's work was being read and, if you had a hankering toward real critique, someone would be around to give it to you.

Now?

As of this writing, in the last 24 hours, one, count that, one, person has commented on poetry not their own.

And what of all the majority who were certain that, if they just banished the mean kids, if they just drove away all the people they did not like, if they could just have someone acknowledge that they were special snowflakes, everything would be good and bright and true? What of these individuals?

They left.

Because appeasement never works.

You need solid and known guidelines. You need consistent and known consequences. and you need to realise that, at times, people disagree and do not like each other and that is okay.

And when someone comes along claiming offense outside your guidelines, you need to tell them to shut up and go find a snowflake party because adults can't be bothered with pandering to idiots.

Comments

whatever it is that you have been drinking, [scotch aside], that the rest of the community, starts drinking it too! Sometimes it is hard to critique a work; be it an experimental style or just something that I am not familiar with and ignorance of how to critique it. I do agree that the community is growing stale. With exception of a few. How do we deal with this?
You speak of rules and parameters, but with the advent of these new forms of work that keep cropping up, I do not see how one can effectively critique them, unless we become proficient in them all. However, I feel that you are not speaking just of critiquing and commenting of these forms. Yes, the community at large, has wrapped itself in a blanket of complacency and we have become stagnant.
I'm all for true critique and comment, but it seems that no one cares, except those few I mentioned earlier. What to do? ~ Gee

There is value to commenting and critique, tell us how you feel about our work.
This must be the place, 'cause there ain't no place like this place anywhere near this place.

Grow and change.
I wasn't here when the first NeoPoet crashed. I barely know the history.
I was introduced to the site by a friend because she knew I wasn't getting the help I was searching for.
I was delighted. A workshop environment. A place where poets "study" poetry.

If this site gives up just because its momentarily "stale", I'll find where you live and...
I looked for a site like this for two years. I want to be a member of NeoPoet and I'm going to be a member of NeoPoet if I have to do it myself.
If you are counting committed poets... say "one".

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

This isn't a call to stop. It's a reminder that, when folks who are not serious about poetry, once again, claim persecution and demand we all coddle them, we say "hello no" and invite them to go pound sand.

Because there are people whose reaction to critique is to beat a drum and claim persecution. When it happens again, I will be less kind than last time.

---------------------------------------------------------

Jonathan Moore

author comment

over this one. I don't know the initial infraction, but that is not important as I understand your point.
And agree.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

why I read Walrus and New yorker..
and graffitti on the walls
they all take effort time and risk to
put the artwork and thought out there

snowflakes melt
avalanches tear it up and down

sometimes it doesnt snow the sun
just shines

im exhausted half the time
and then arrive and crank out comments
depending on or there abouts
if its an odd or even hour

and keep cranking poetry out
like a siren
for the bombers of misery will flatten
the orphanages in their number

i used to write on onionskin paper
when we ran out of blue airmail
Ho ho..who remembers that stuff!!
classic!!

we of the elder are a generation as lost
as the lost generation they spoke of when
we were finding our way....

my ride is a hard tail italian courier..cracked
frame...leather seat.....when I began on that
baby from riding the schwinn I was uncertian
the mentality was my herd
and the drive
was the word

been in the saddle awhile
ha...no comments is like sitting in the bar
without buying a drink for others
nothing would get spoken
no ideas shared
no fires stirred
wave a brand then
wear one
take it

my scars are not
all put on by me
what was it Morrison sang
:Ive been down so goddamn
long..that it looks like up too
me...: but then he did go *****'s
up.....the fragile childs thin eggshell
mind.....but he and sexton put themselves
out there wholely
rushed too it...

this is a damn good blog!
thank U

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