Chapter 32 #2
After Tammy’s big Zoom speech (she promised we would get into hard numbers at next week’s meeting), we split off into breakout rooms of ten and twelve, where we would give one another open feedback on our accounts.
In my Zoom breakout room, ten of the twelve women were from Idaho, and everyone lived on a farm.
For an hour, our Assigned Mentor, a young woman named Cassidy who had twenty thousand followers and who was, I would learn many months later, Tammy Lane’s niece, ran us through a series of spiritual exercises to unlock the Lioness within.
The first thing we did was share, round-robin-style, some details about our social media presence. A woman named Robin went first. “Hiiii, I’m Robiiiin,” she said in chirpy singsong. “And I run a cattle ranch.”
A chorus of women replied in unison, like the Greek chorus for a play about pyramid schemes. “Hiiii, Robin!”
Cassidy pulled Robin’s Instagram up onto the shared screen, and we collectively went through her photos, telling her what we liked and didn’t like.
Like: the spontaneous photos of her children.
Authentic! Dislike: the captions where she talked (jokingly!) about hating the future wives of her twelve- and thirteen-year-old sons.
Cringe! Like: the picture of a thunderstorm sweeping over the flatlands, combined with a Bible passage about the Lord’s power.
Appropriate! Dislike: the picture of Robin smiling next to her local butcher with a big grin, both of them covered in blood. Nightmarish!
“You’re totally on the right path,” Cassidy said passionately. “You just need to narrow in on your specific message. Know what I mean?”
The distraught expression on Robin’s face indicated that no, she did not understand what Cassidy meant—but already we were moving along to Ashley Ann, a woman from—you guessed it—Idaho, who helped her husband run—you guessed it—a cattle farm. “I’m just really struggling to differentiate myself.”
Cassidy, our fearless teenage leader, nodded sagely. “It’s the hardest and most important part. You need to dig deep, deep down and ask yourself: What makes me so special? What can I offer that other people can’t?”
“Right,” Ashley Ann said, nodding fervently.
“I mean right now,” Cassidy said kindly. “Tell us right now what makes you special.”
The Zoom call was silent.
“Um,” Ashley Ann said.
It was very apparent that everyone on the call had realized simultaneously that they were interfacing with their direct competitors. Everyone had some kind of farm. Everyone was trying to sell their farm products directly to consumers online.
“I’m … funny?” Ashley Ann said. “And kind?”
“Perfect,” Cassidy gushed. “So now you just have to show those things on your account!”
“But—”
“I have a question, actually,” another woman said nervously. “Does anyone ever call y’all a … breeder?”
Cassidy looked confused. “Like, cattle breeder?”
“No, like, breeding humans?”
There was an undulation of discomfort. I thought of the one comment I had received in the last week, from an anonymous user without a picture: Ur giving off major cult vibes fyi
“Let’s talk about online trolls at the end of the call,” Cassidy said firmly. She gazed across all the little face boxes, clearly trying to restore a sense of authority. “Next! Let’s do … Natalie!”
“Hi, everyone!” I said to fifteen flickering faces. “I’m Natalie. My account is YesteryearRanch. I have just over a thousand followers right now, and I—”
Don’t know if they’re real people. Don’t know why they followed me. Don’t know if they like me. Don’t know what to do with them. Don’t know why I’m here.
“—would like to drive more engagement on my page.”
Everyone nodded enthusiastically, an audience of bobbing chicken heads.
Cassidy brought my account onto the screen.
“Let’s see what we have here.” The room was silent as she scrolled slowly through my feed.
There was me, smiling in front of the barn, and then there was Caleb, milking our latest dairy cow, and then there was Clementine, twirling through the fields in black and white.
“All right, gang,” Cassidy said. “What do we think?”
“Your brand identity is a little … stiff,” Ashley Ann said.
I chirped brightly, “How do you mean?”
“You look really tired,” one woman said.
“You don’t come across as very likable,” another woman piped up.
“Let’s use ‘relatable,’ ” Cassidy said quickly.
“She doesn’t come across as very relatable.
” Cassidy stopped scrolling and paused on a photo of me with the kids, Clementine leaning against my legs, toddler Samuel in one arm, baby Stetson in the other.
She read my caption aloud. “A man may work from sun to sun, but a woman’s work is never done. ”
“I like the caption,” Robin said. “I just can’t really put my finger on it, there’s something kind of … off?”
“It’s the smile,” Ashley Ann said.
“That’s it!” Robin exclaimed. “It’s the smile. You don’t actually look happy. You look like you’re grimacing.”
Fifteen heads nodded in unison.
“That’s just my smile, though. That’s just how I smile!”
“Here’s the thing, Natalie.” Cassidy gave me a cloying wince. “I think what Ashley Ann is saying, here, is that it looks like you’re pretending.”
I laughed again, though it sounded more like a cough. “Isn’t everyone?”
Ashley Ann rolled her eyes. “Well, yeah, sort of, but it’s not supposed to be so obvious.” She looked to Cassidy for approval. “Right?”
Cassidy nodded gravely. “Emotions need to come across as totally authentic. Why don’t you practice smiling in a mirror? It sounds silly, but it works. You have no clue how you look to others.”
“Mama?”
I turned around. Clementine was standing in the doorway. Six years old, gripping her blankie tightly in one fist. Dark watchful eyes. Mouth small and pink as a rosebud. “What are you doing?”
The Zoom call had ended. It was late at night. Caleb was down at his office in the barn, sitting in front of the computer, and I—well. “I’m practicing being likable.”
Clementine walked over to the mirror, peered at her own reflection. “What’s likable?”
I positioned her in front of me so that we were looking at each other in the mirror.
For the millionth time, I found myself startled at how similar we looked, down to the scowl.
A little minnow of irritation swam through me.
You have no clue how you look to others.
“You’re a big girl now, Clementine. You need to learn how to smile. ”
“Why?”
I resisted the very strong urge to press my fingers into the clay of her cheeks and drag the ends of her lips upward. “Because it makes other people feel safe and warm and loved. Don’t you want to make other people feel safe and warm and loved?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Then try it. Try to smile.”
She tried. It looked terrible.
“That’s close, but it needs to reach your eyes. Like this.”
Then I showed her what I’d learned.