It’s spring election time.  I was carefully watching to see who the new batch of recipients would be for the next round of concerned citizen (complaint) letters.  Just one problem:  there are three open slots for the local city council and only one name on the ballot.  

Turns out driving around town with the YourGOV app had the secondary effect of making me not only a more observant citizen, but a more engaged one. 

I've been following the issues dealt with by the city council that, in turn, affect my potholes and property taxes. So what's a soccer mom with a Political Science degree to do?  Put up or shut up, that's what. 

That’s right, Iceman, Rebecca Smart:  Write-In Candidate for City Council.    

Don’t get me wrong:  this is not my first bid for elected office.  In fact, I have been politically active since the fourth grade.  I’ve just hardly ever won.  Painful memories of a zipper malfunction during my fourth grade classroom stump speech are overshadowed only by the cupcake vote-buying fiasco my fifth grade opponent pulled off.  Nixon had nothing on Nancy Jones. 

We all know politics is a dirty business.  Can it be effective?  Will citizen engagement at an elected level make a difference or just make me jaded?  More importantly, to whom will I complain if I am my own elected official?

So far, the biggest challenges have been blisters and cold hands.  Out on the slushy campaign trail, I’ve met a lot of people with big dogs and solid input on what they want out of their local government.  I’ve also learned that 90% of my neighbors wear jammie pants on Sunday afternoons. 

Citizen Y goes to Washington?  Stayed tuned. 

Smart is good. Few can argue with that. The “smart city,” a plan for what the future could be, came onto the scene with the best of intentions. I’m just not entirely sure what those intentions are.

It’s probably because the smart city was never really explained to me. It was referenced, hinted at, and made a footnote all over the place. The outlines were never drawn. My understanding devolved into a cryptic game of Mad Libs.

It left my mind to wander. I saw the smart city as soothsaying 1950’s science fiction. Kids eating spaceburgers and dogs wearing astronaut helmets. A lady ordering a cocktail dress through an in-home pneumatic tube.  A place where technology caught up to our whimsical ideas of the future.

Articles were published about the possibilities, and before long I was a believer. In what? Well, I’m not so sure. Automated homes.  Smart grids. Eco-towers. Stuff that I can talk to people about and sound like a smarmy know-it-all.

Then came the marketing spin. IBM’s ‘Building a Better Planet’ is a standout. Did you know on sunny days, people eat more paninis? “By changing their menu for the day, profitability was up by 40%!” their Youtube video exclaims. IBM supplanted flying cars to make the smart city a beacon of bakery efficiency. In the future, no one will go without a hot sandwich after a long day in the data mines.

The smart city was also interpreted by small towns looking for a pat on the back. Cartegraph’s hometown of Dubuque seemed like one of them. After being chosen to be part of IBM’s Smart City initiative, Dubuque wore it like a kid with an AYSO medal. Everyone was excited of the arrival of IBM and what that may mean. I prepared myself for Neo Dubuque, a city of meat and potatoes transformed into a city of fancier, more future-y meat and potatoes. And maybe more Italian specialty sandwiches.

“They’re doing the same thing in Stockholm,” a friend of mine said. What, exactly? Well, he wasn’t so sure. He thought maybe something to do with water metering. Water metering. Water metering?

Water metering.

My Jetsons future was shattered. And it wasn’t because water metering isn’t important (or, let’s face it, downright sexy), it’s because the term smart city has been stretched and contorted to the whims of whoever sees fit to use it.

Who is exactly manning this rocket to future Earth? Maybe no one, I suppose. It’s part marketing gobbledygook, part ego booster, part genuine cause. How they all intermingle, I do not know. But it seems that the reality is a whole lot less exciting than the idea it aspires to be.

Smart is good. Any reasonable person would agree. Saving time, and resources, and the Earth, is good. But let’s not kid ourselves into believing the smart city is the city of tomorrow. It’s a loose term and an iterative step, not a giant leap, towards the future.

It’s probably a whole lot like the city of today, but with really good water metering. And spaceburgers. And who could say no to that?

“Loud, constant clanging, in combination with Chewbacca noises, is coming from the pipe in the second floor hallway corner. I haven’t slept for three days.”

The complainer was livid. She had dark circles under her eyes and an aura of irritability.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve said something,” she added snidely.

Ah, so that was the downfall of my new job: taking the heat for my university’s shortcomings. How could I know that accepting a seat behind my dorm’s reception desk would make me the face of behind-the-scenes campus management; the ear piece for student grumbles; and the steward of broken faucets and busted heating units?

The revelation occurred on one of my early days in the position, seemingly at the height of student complaint season. The process went like this: hear complaint. Record complaint. Reassure complainer that said issue would be resolved shortly. (Unofficial: have follow-up conversation with complainer when said issue isn’t resolved. Repeat process, with heightened aggravation.)

The wrath of the rogue Chewbacca pipe wasn’t the only resident gripe. Our dorm wasn’t in a state of disrepair, but lots of basic maintenance jobs had fallen through the cracks. And I mean deep down in the cracks.

On my campus, maintenance workers were like mythical creatures. You wanted to believe they existed, but you never saw them. Work requests were invented as pleas to summon one of these saviors. But what was the use? These requests were flimsy pieces of paper that floated from desk to desk and eventually, as far as I was concerned, ended up floating into oblivion. Finding a problem that made it from start to a resolution was like a rare treat.

Bathroom lights had burned out ages ago and showering in the dark wasn’t fun. The kitchen’s faucet threw daily tantrums, howling wildly and spraying hot water everywhere. All the televisions had been cable-less for weeks now. And I had a handful of my own grouses. Namely, the knob on my radiator was missing—stuck on full-blast heat, at that—and sleeping in a sauna was a little wearying.

Dorm life isn’t supposed to be glamorous, I know.
But shouldn’t it be bearable?

A Twitter account emerged among students to sarcastically poke fun of these neglected campus problems. Although it was a big ha-ha on campus, it could have meant big, bad marketing for the university. Lesson: if the squeaky wheel doesn’t get the grease, it will find another outlet for its pains.

Post-Twitter fiasco, my school started paying more attention to student complaints. They tapped into social media, creating Facebook pages where students could submit requests. Campus did improve in some ways, with positive feedback for their efforts.

But social media isn’t the best solution for handling complaints. Posting a legitimate issue or request to a Facebook page doesn’t exactly seem...legitimate.

So the focus, now, lies in finding a better method to track these requests — and subsequently track improvements, or lack thereof. Without a more efficient system, requests will continue to get lost in the stratosphere of janitorial and maintenance problems.

Now is the time for the implementation of a system that most efficiently tracks requests. Most students have internet access or app-capable phones, and ALL students have observed campus issues that should be fixed. Put two and two together, and you have an app that connects students with campus management.

There’s already a bunch of great apps that allow citizens to report community issues and submit service requests using smartphones and web. Why not put that technology to work on campuses?  Colleges might be surprised at how much a simple app can engage students in keeping a campus functional and tidy.   

A change is past due, and you can bet I’ll be adding a footnote to future pipe-gripe work requests: give us an app already.

Okay, so the City of Boston, Mass has been getting a lot of great press for its new mobile municipal office, City Hall to Go. It’s a repurposed food truck that visits Boston neighborhoods, dishing out common city services such as pet licensing, voter registration, parking stickers, birth certificate requests, and more.  Here's a look at the menu:

Boston — as every major metropolitan area should — already allows citizens to conduct plenty of city business online. And Bostonians are still welcome to sacrifice their lunch hours for a trip down to City Hall. So as progressive as the idea sounds, it seems to me that City Hall to Go is really just a hipster-themed bonus option for late adopters.

Look, I’m not saying City Hall to Go is a bad idea. It’s friendly, stylish, and fun in a way that few local governments are. But it just seems so...1993.

We’re living in a world where people’s expectations grow more technologically advanced every day. The modern citizen wants simplicity, convenience, sustainability, and accuracy, not a gas guzzling PR effort and a new opportunity to stand in line.  

City Hall to Go has already hit the streets to collect feedback in neighborhoods all over Boston. I’m very curious to hear whether the idea becomes fixture or forgotten. An investigation of Boston’s website has me believing the money would be better spent creating a more interactive and functional way for people to do city business online. But it’s not my dime. Plus I'm just some hack behind a keyboard in Iowa. I'm pretty sure the folks at the City of Boston know their business far better than I. 

What do you think?  Should local government be implementing more ways for citizens to do city business in person?  Or is budget money better spent on expanding online services?

Click here to find out more about Boston's City Hall to Go. 

Act I 

Do you know the difference between a runner and a jogger?  Well, allow me to tell you.  A runner knows things that have nothing to do with distance, speed, or form.  Important stuff.  Like what happens when you take too many salt tabs before a long race on a hot day.  Or the side effects of caffeine energy chews on an empty stomach.  So runners also know secondary important stuff.  Like where it’s safe to pit stop in the woods.  What park bathroom you can enter without having to hold your breath, if, for instance, you’re going to be spending a few minutes in it. 

Running is all about the camaraderie (along with being able to have double desert).  Runners tend to look out for each other, so it was with this solidarity in mind that I found the YourGOV app to be needed in an unusual location:  the park bathroom. 

I’ll spare you the details.  Let’s just say, sometimes you get the feeling there is just not enough bleach in the world to make a place right again. 

I hated to do it knowing that somebody, somewhere was going to get the YourGOV report saying biological hazard had hit the park potty and some employee not due for a raise was going to be dispatched.  Whoever you are, my apologies.  But it had to be done.  It had to be done!  Oh, and it wasn’t me; let’s not take it out on the messenger. 

Act II

How’s that saying go?  “I have seen enough to know I have seen too much.”  And so it has proved in the local park scene. 

There’s a beautiful twin park nearby with a fascinating history.  The horse and buggy crowd from Chicago used to come up for some lake recreation in the late 1800s.  Well-heeled families with an eye toward preserving natural space for the future donated land that is part of the park system today.  Their vision is commendable. 

But their vision probably did not include the eyeful of what I saw while traipsing around the rolling, wooded hills along the lake.  Yowsa. 

Squirrels and such get to mate in the park woods.  Humans do not.  It is a known problem.  The Parks folks have asked for help in stopping nuisance public displays of affection. 

One park in particular has been host to many a merry go ‘round.  And I’m not talking about the playground.  The trees have been thinned and police are patrolling more frequently, but it’s a large park.

Though I didn’t stick around long enough to snap a photo, I found yet another use for the YourGOV app.  From the debris on the ground, I had apparently stumbled into a hot spot for trouble. 

Who knew there would be so many “Other Issue” opportunities?  

I really need to start staying home more. 

They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. While generally wise, this rule does not apply to college campuses.

A little over a year ago, I was a college prospect lost in a pile of admissions essays and application deadlines. I remember, on campus tour days, being ushered through preplanned routes. My tour guide rattled off building histories, class sizes and payment plans. This was the stuff I generally forgot. As prospects, we let our parents remember these tidbits to make a case for later. Even though they’re important, these facts aren’t our deal breakers.

What do we care about? “This building was erected in 1875…” makes a nice story, sure, but it goes in one ear and out the other. The real info we want is mostly what we’re seeing. We’re being a little selfish: we want to know what extras a school will throw in for us. We keep tabs on a well-kept commons area, a convenience store that is actually convenient, and the unique services offered. These amenities and aesthetics are what we mentally save for later.

We college prospects don’t mean to be shallow, but a campus’ efficiency and appearance really are huge elements in our decision. Don’t get me wrong: we want more to our education than the campus’ postcard appeal. But when it comes down to final enrollments and tit for tat, you can bet your bottom dollar we’re remembering any dilapidated buildings and untended greenery. We’ve long forgotten the set-in-stone founding principles of the school, but we’ve remembered what it can do for us: resources, conveniences and overall attractiveness.

The past few years have been a time of big, pretty renovations for my campus.  They’ve been cleaning up the area and focusing on other great things: accessibility to buildings, student resources and even details like nicer landscaping. They’re paying attention to disability services, student transportation and safety. This year, we also had record enrollment. Coincidence? Not even close.

My university has really tapped in to its “wow” factor, and it’s drawing in “wow” students. The establishment pays better attention to details, and it’s attracting more students who do the same.

As colleges herd prospective students through campuses before spring’s big application push, they need to keep in mind that applicants are conditioned to think critically. Don’t think they will be fooled with fast facts. They want high quality establishments and indications that colleges will make more improvements in their own student timelines. History doesn’t matter much if the present and future don’t satisfy.

So, the moral of the story is this: if you want us, appeal to us. Talk your college up, and we’ll get bored. But keep your campus in its prime, and it will speak wonders for itself. 

Constructive Complaining

Here’s a really important thing I’ve noticed: complaining with a Smartphone is inherently better than just complaining. 

Now, I’m no expert… wait, that’s not true:  I am an expert at complaining.  I wrote my first letter-to-the-editor in the eighth grade.  But I am not just some “glass-half-empty” complainer.  My complaining has meaning (I’ve completed an informal poll among my family and friends and, when asked if my complaining was meaningful, they mostly answered “whatever,” which is a subset answer of “yes”).

Let’s just agree that the occasional notation on how to improve the world is both helpful and acceptable.  Constructive criticism, if you will.

Since putting a YourGOV-equipped Smartphone in my hand, I have found some ways to be extra helpful.  The following are imprecise summaries of YourGOV submittals to my favorite recipient, Public Works: 

Dear Public Works:  I’ve noticed that my fellow citizen down the road has an affinity for blowing all of his grass, leaves, and twigs into the street despite the crystal-clear ordinance banning such practices.  While I appreciate his decorative greening of my nearest storm drain, a pair of nesting geese began calling the clogged gutter drain home. This might indicate it’s time to give him a friendly reminder to knock it off.  Here’s a picture of my neighbor at work with his leaf-blower.  See the house numbers?  They are right above that finger he’s waving at me.  Howdy, neighbor! 

Dear Public Works:  I’ve made a new friend!  She moved in about half a mile away and, like me, she is a bit of a night owl.  I ran into her when I was out jogging with my dog at about 10 p.m. one night. I literally ran into her, wearing her black clothing and stocking cap.  She was looking pretty stealthy emerging from the forest that the school owns for its environmental education.  At first I thought she was Santa Claus because of the large bag she was carrying. She’s a giver, alright: in fact, she was giving away all of her grass clippings!  Isn’t that nice of her?  They are located right next to that sign that says “No Dumping.”  I’ve included her contact information in case you want to send her a “thank you” note. 

Dear Public Works: We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?  There was the time you picked up my branches even though I put them to the curb late and chased the chipper truck in my robe.  And I’ll never forget how you helped me haul away that dead deer carcass rotting away upwind from the swing set. I mow a little of your grass, you mow a little of mine. I wonder if we might partner on another project: let’s fix some curb!  I know, exciting stuff.  I’ll be waiting! 

 Helpful — it feels good.  

Oh, #$%&! 

“Bleep!” 

“What did you say, sweetie?”

“Bleep!” 

“Right.  That’s what I thought you said.  Where did you learn that word, my little angel?  Oh, your big brother.  Ok, you play nicely while mommy goes to have a little talk with your brother.”  

I’ve cancelled cable, I’ve put the parent controls on every electronic device under the roof, I ripped out the good pages of the old National Geographics at grandpa’s house, and I send him on the bus with industrial-grade noise-blocking ear protectors.  What did I miss?  Where did he learn that word? 

The tunnel.  Of course!  There’s a tunnel in the park that goes under the railroad tracks to the recreational trail.  It’s old and creepy and awesome:  a perfect place for kids to hang out.  It gets hit with graffiti pretty regularly.  Railroad cars are often stored on the dead-end tracks above it; they too are full of some interesting art and literature. 

Apparently big brother has been studying it like he’s learning Shakespeare.  But guess what, kiddo?  Mom is a step ahead of you.  The library is now closed. 

Tap, click, submit.  YourGOV has a handy little graffiti reporting tool.  Hope public works doesn’t think I’m sending them dirty messages when they see the photo I’ve submitted with it.  Although, you catch more flies with honey… if it gets someone with some graffiti-be-gone spray paint here faster, it’s all good. I’m not afraid of being asked what I’m doing hanging out in a damp tunnel. 

Uh-oh.  Grandma’s coming for a visit.  Somebody find that pacifier. 

It’s a good day for a walk with the kiddos, complete with a lovely breeze to muffle out the whining.  Remind me to make a paper chain counting down the days until school resumes.  We cut across the park, then through the tunnel under the train tracks toward the DNR trail.  It’s a short tunnel—maybe ten feet long—with approximately 324 spiders per square foot.  I’m busy having an anxiety attack clearing our way through the cobwebs when a little squirt’s voice echoes behind me.

“Mommy, what does #%!& mean?”

“Oh, sweetie, you know what that word means. Mommy says it when she stubs her toe.”

“Oh, yeah.  What about ‘Bleep, bleep, blippity, bleep?’”
“Oh my… um… look!  Is that a Blue Bunting?!”

Come on, people, we are out in nature!  I don’t let the little squids watch PG-13 movies.  The internet controls are so tight that my older child couldn’t find a picture of an elbow online.  Do I really need to have parental controls at the ready for a walk in the woods?

Typically, my neighborhood doesn’t have a significant graffiti problem. But the few times graffiti occurs, especially in this spot, the odds are low that anyone will see it besides spray-painting teens, spiders, and me with the ducklings in tow.  There isn’t a lot of traffic under the troll bridge.  The spiders and the teens aren’t talking, so it’s up to me to communicate this little piece of art to the folks who can make it go bye-bye faster than that Blue Bunting.

Luckily, there is one piece of technology that walks with us.  Among the juice boxes and bug spray in my super cool 1986 fanny pack rests a smartphone.  There’s an app for that bleep.  YourGOV locates us under the troll bridge and I tap the “graffiti” issue option.  A picture?  Oh yeah.  Let’s give someone a thrill today.

The squeaky wheel got the grease.  Six months of grease to be exact.  The aforementioned road to Armageddon is under construction and the sole inlet to my neighborhood via the municipality is closed.  Yes, it is a huge pain, but at least they waited to hit it hard after school was out. It will be great when it’s done.  I am nothing but appreciative, except for one problem: people.

You know what I’m talking about. People are annoying. Road closed? No sir, that couldn’t apply to you!  You are clearly special and deserve to go through the construction site with no regard to the safety of the orange-vested workers, the fleet of vehicles blocking your way, or the large hole you probably can’t see while you’re texting your client to say that you’re running late.

The local police scored big when someone in a Hummer tore through the closed construction zone, taking a shortcut across the church property at speeds high enough to trench the lawn.  They didn’t catch the guy, but he was nice enough to come back later the same way where a patrol car sat waiting in the dark like your dad did when you were an hour past curfew.  This fine citizen was then introduced to that neat rule about traffic fines and point violations doubling in construction zones.  Man, I love people!

So, one morning, I’m running the kids to a get-them-out-of-the-house sports camp, when I realize that the intersection at the start of the neighborhood is almost completely blocked.  There are guys in boom trucks, a digger has dug a hole large enough to plop my vehicle in, and orange-vested folks are everywhere.  But they are not alone.  Someone has placed “Garage Sale” signs everywhere and the intersection is mass chaos with folks trying to navigate where they have no business being.  Someone has dropped the ball: the detour signs have not kept up with the street closings, so there was no warning from the bottom of the hill of what was coming.  I asked a woman in an orange vest why the surrounding streets weren’t signed and she said the municipality hadn’t gotten to it yet.

Dear Public Works:  you know I love you.  We’re buds.  And I know the boss man is on a well-deserved vacation.  But garage-salers and intersections with meteor-sized holes blocked by one orange pylon make for a dangerous combination.  Thankfully, YourGOV keeps the lines of communication open so your staff can be proactive in keeping dangerous streets closed.

Robert Frost’s stone fence has nothing on Cartegraph’s YourGOV app.

I reside in one of those places with neighborhood covenants that don’t allow fences unless you’ve got a pool.  Pool?  Please.  I can’t even keep my tub clean.

Having no fence didn’t seem like a big deal when we first moved in.  Then, the children grew wheels and wanted to run about.  That day, I realized why my mom loved the fence around the yard I grew up in:  it was the 1970’s version of daycare.  Not many kids lived in the neighborhood where I sprouted, so my summertime playmates were found within that fenced adventureland:  trees, swings, rocks (sorry about your window, Mrs. Jones), an assortment of balls, a beloved cocker spaniel, and—until he learned to scale the fence—one brother.  We were allowed use of shovels, slingshots, scrap wood, and any tool that could be used to scrape dog poop off the bottom of our tennies.

Determined to keep the animals occupied in the zoo, my dad brought home a giant wooden spool that had housed electrical wire going up on new power lines. We logrolled on it until it spawned the world’s largest sliver.  We ate crab apples and plums until we doubled over, and we ended the summer as brown as the dirt we dug through to reach China.

This all-American fun was made possible by a total disregard for sunblock, and a large perimeter fence.  I’m starting to come around to Mom’s 1970s way of thinking.

But, alas, it’s not going to happen, and the “good neighbor” issue is left in the air.  And right now, it’s leaning badly in one direction…

Plastic playhouses are like magnets for little kids. So when your neighbors leave a playhouse up in the corner abutting your property, then allow a noxious, rash-inducing weed to overcome it, it’s time to break out the YourGOV app.  The local municipality has a weed officer. Since the neighbors didn’t receive the hint when we pointed a skull-and-crossbones warning sign to the playhouse, maybe a friendly notice from the local government will do the trick?

Good apps make good neighbors.  And less itchy kids.