Carolyn McClair
President/CEO
By the
time I was in Pam Cummings first grade class at Root School in
Carrollton, MO, I already knew the power of the printed word, and even
more so, the power of hype. Not from the many books my parents, Paul
and Dora McClair, bought me nor from the frequent trips to the
Carrollton Public Library, but I knew about that power because of
Dorothy's Diary.
I am the youngest of six
children. I grew up in the 'baby girl' role that comedian Bernie Mac
holds high in his stand-up routines, his TV show and, no doubt, in his
heart. Born when my mother was in her mid-forties and not really
thinking about another child, I didn't have to do much to earn a
special seat in the McClair household. While I was a Daddy's Girl to
the max and I adored my mother, two brothers and other two sisters, it
was my sister Dorothy who captivated me.
Dorothy was the 'baby girl'
for three years before I came along and booted her out of that special
spot. All the same, she loved me, played with me and, of course,
teased me to no end. She teased me, maybe even tormented me, with
that diary. She treated it like an heirloom family Bible or the
secret formula for life itself. If you came close to her when she was
writing, she'd hunch her shoulders, cover the pages with her hand and
sometimes even run from the room. For years, she carried that thing
everywhere she went, and I carried a burning desire to know what was
in it.
As we matured, the diary
lost some of its mystique. I now had a whole world outside of
Carrollton to conquer. When I was about 14, I was hanging out with my
Dad in a nearby city when we came upon a political rally. While Daddy
was listening to the speech, I noticed a rather stately older man at
the rear of the platform. Still curious and interested in details, I
asked my Dad what the man was doing. In his special way of teaching us
to explore, question and think, he said, 'I don't know, go ask.' I did
my best to get past the barricade, but back then I wasn't as savvy at
getting past burly, bald security men with walkie-talkies. Finally,
my Dad intervened and we got the man's attention.
When I asked the stranger
who he was and what he was doing, he nodded toward the speaker and
said, 'It doesn't matter who I am, tell your father to vote for him.'
Not easily put off, I persisted. This time, he asked me why I
wanted to know. I told him that the politician may be on the
stage, but he himself must be the really smart one, because he was
standing in the back telling everyone else what to do and say.
My answer must have struck a
chord, because he turned his back on the adults and said, 'I'm a press
agent. See those men with cameras and all those people out there
listening? Well, I helped to get them here. I tell people who we
are, what we're doing, where, when and why we're doing it.'
I didn't know it then, but I
had just received my first lesson in the five W's of journalism. But,
I did know without a doubt that I wanted to be a press agent; and from
that day forward, I declared it.
Years later when we were
grown, I asked Dorothy about the diary and she showed me what was left
of the many volumes. I remembered it as a precious secret that would
unfold mysteries and open doors. What I saw were tattered sheets of
notebook paper tied together with faded, yet colorful, yarn. What I
read were notes like 'My little sister really, really, really wants to
read my diary, but I'm not, not, not going to let her.' 'We got new
dresses today. Mine is blue, what else is new?' 'Boring day, nothing
to do, nothing to write, but she still can't read, read, read this!'
Maybe Dorothy should have
been the publicist and opened a PR agency instead of becoming a nurse,
albeit a great one. Even if she were unaware of her persuasiveness,
she sure knew the power of the printed word and the power of hype. It
made me curious and downright desirous to read whatever was written,
and today I still carry those traits.
While Dorothy and all of my
family remain in and around Carrollton, MO, I have made homes in
several cities in Ohio, Pittsburgh, Alcoa, TN, back to Pittsburgh and
finally in New York. Never once did my desire and declaration to
become a press agent ever falter. I learned about it, I claimed it, I
dreamed it, I prayed for it, and thank God, I am it and more.
I urge everyone, no matter
how old, to dream, claim and pray for what you want in life. Know
that you can't do everything by yourself. Along with the Higher
Power, find a mentor. Also, be a mentor. I've had many guiding forces
before and after that press agent - my first grade teacher who is
still in my life four decades later; the late Marjorie Haggard, my
high school and National Honor Society advisor; Opal Eckert,
the head of my college Journalism Department; the late and very great
Hazel Garland, the editor of the Pittsburgh Courier, who gave me my
first journalism job so I could take writing samples to get my first
PR job; and, of course, my ever-loving and much-loved family.
The mystery, the curiosity
and the knowledge within build us today and shape us for tomorrow.
Everyone is intrigued by something. Everyone has a Dorothy's Diary.
You just have to recognize it, realize it and reach for it. And,
maybe one day, you'll read it.
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