Czaro Strategic Communications

It happens to everyone at some point. You make a mistake and look foolish. A slip up that with a little thought beforehand you could have avoided.

That’s what happened the other day when the chair I was sitting in snapped in two. The wood splintered and I fell to the floor. The only positive is that I was alone.

I don’t know what mathematical formula calculates how the wood fractured, but here’s my interpretation:

weight in chair + leaning back to open window blinds = idiot me

Should I have leaned back in the chair? No. Did I think it was going to break? Not a chance. Would I do it again today? Probably.

I should know better. Especially since my fourth-grade science teacher, Mrs. Wolfe, repeatedly caught me leaning back in my chair. She lectured me about the dangers of hitting my head or (heaven forbid) breaking the chair. The chair wasn’t mine and, as a 10-year-old, hitting my head was a regular occurrence. My punishment was writing 250 lines like Bart Simpson (no relation).

“I will not lean back in my chair in Science class.”

I was confused. How was writing that sentence and getting a hand cramp going to stop me from experimenting with physics? A better deterrent might have been swats because then I couldn’t sit in the chair, but I wasn’t going to offer that alternative.

About 100 lines in, I had a thought that, in retrospect, might have been the first strategic communications question of my career. There I was, a brilliant, burgeoning PR prodigy. Brimming with pride, I must have had a big smile on my face because Mrs. Wolf asked me what was so funny. I answered:

“Can I lean back in my chair in all my other classes because this only says Science class.”

One minute I’m a genius, and the next the principal is calling my parents. Plus, I had to write 500 more lines with “any” substituted for “science.”

I learned a lesson, but not the one Mrs. Wolfe intended. It’s something that I tell clients before we begin the research component of any communications plan.

“Don’t ask the question if you don’t want to know the answer.”

That’s where the 10-year-old me went wrong. I already knew the answer to the question, but I asked it anyway (and I embarrassed Mrs. Wolfe). She had the option of punishing me or rewarding my ingenuity. Thirty years later, I’m sure I received both.

It took a liberal amount of wood glue and six screws to repair my chair. I could have thrown it out, but I’d like to keep it around and think of Mrs. Wolfe and my first challenge as a strategic communications professional.