Audience segment:
parents of younger children
Research goal: to understand visitor demographics and prior experience with museums or similar institutions such as zoos; to understand parents’ perceptions of the demonstration; to inquire about what they wish their children to learn.
Most of the family visitors declined to participate in the survey, but we were able to interview eighteen sets of parents of children younger than ten after they and their children had used the exhibits for an average of thirty-five minutes. (None of our interviewees had brought toddlers, unfortunately.) Couples were not willing to separate to talk with same-gender interviewers, and mothers spoke up far less often than fathers. A consensus emerged among them, however. We found that:
• Parents allowed their children to use the displays and sat with them for the facilitated activities, which were led by one of the interpreters. Several of the fathers wanted to direct their children’s experience, but when the children split up to use different displays, the fathers let them.
• Parents handled the displays themselves, although not as eagerly as their children in the case of mothers. Some parents expressed confusion about the purpose of the displays (e.g., “Why are my children playing with rocks?”—see Appendix B). They had no experience with interactive pedagogy, although they were interested in learning more about it.
• In contrast to teachers, parents want their children to learn practical content and skills. They appreciated the natural history subject matter of the exhibits and found them readily accessible.
Note: we suspect that many parents would not have engaged with the displays without the tacit encouragement of the museum. We recommend that the Ministry undertake a consumer education program well in advance of opening a children’s museum to prepare its community. Special emphasis should be placed on communicating to mothers.
The payload. If the committee agreed to reach out to parents, and if they took parents’ desires into consideration, D-Three could design a spectacular children’s museum, complete with extra opportunities for mothers. Maybe they’d get to create Becca’s phone club. What a happy thought! Jo couldn’t help smiling.
SPECIFIC RECOMMENDATIONS
[Phil—This is a long, detailed section. Should I put it here or combine it with your marketing recommendations? I will complete after hearing back from you.]
Okay. The draft was good enough. She had downplayed the differences between the boys and girls so as not to discourage the client. Yeah, they’d have to work around the girls’ evident fear of disobedience, but they’d figure it out. Jo hit “send” and the draft flew over the ether to Owen, copy to Becca, blind copy to Myriam. It was evening in London, night in Riyadh; she expected replies the next morning. She wanted Myriam’s feedback on the format. Owen would have his say, of course, but he’d be easier to accommodate than the Saudis. She closed her laptop and went to the kitchen to scrounge a lunch.
She had not included one word about the best part of the research because it had occurred outside the official agenda.
After the second weekend of family visits, Myriam had invited Jo to meet the members of her entrepreneurs’ club. Myriam believed the key to women’s independence was having an income, and she’d founded a club to introduce educated women to home-business opportunities and teach them the necessary skills. For the sake of the research, she had asked club members to bring their daughters to the demonstration, and several had come all the way from Riyadh to participate—and to meet the American female CEO they’d heard about. Myriam brought Jo to a restaurant for a mother–daughter tea.
A dozen women and preteen girls sat with Jo and, after Myriam’s introduction, began to ask questions. Myriam translated. At first, the mothers were shy and pushed their daughters forward. The smallest girls giggled and said they had enjoyed cranking the conveyor belt at the demonstration because it was something new. An older girl, who looked to be about ten, wrapped her abaya around herself and turned away from the conversation. Too old for the demo, Jo thought, but she had an opinion. Jo pointed discretely, and Myriam said her name was Faten.
“What did you notice?” she asked Faten through Myriam.
The girl cast her eyes down and said something so quietly Myriam had to bend closer to listen. Faten glanced at her mother, who nodded, and then she spoke up.
“I learned about roots in school, so it wasn’t new. Except for the picture on the round table.”
Jo had not observed children reading the table-top labels. “Yes?”
“I saw a girl in a laboratory wearing a white coat and holding instruments. I wanted to wear that coat.”
She looked down, blushing. Her mother clapped her hands together and unleashed a torrent of Arabic that made the others smile.
Myriam whispered to Jo, “There are no pictures of working women in their schoolbooks. They are old-fashioned.”
Faten’s mother addressed Jo through Myriam.
“Do you wear a white coat in your work?”
“No. I wear a business suit when I talk to clients and jeans when I’m crawling around on the floor plugging things in.”
They laughed and their faces opened.
“How did you come to be the CEO of your company?”
“My husband and I formed our company ten years ago. He’s good at making things, and I am good at organization and money matters, and so it was natural for me to become the boss.”
The mothers buzzed among themselves. Faten’s mother asked, “How does your husband react when you give him orders?”
Jo laughed. “I try not to give orders.”
Another mother said, “I cannot imagine what my husband would say if I wanted to control the family money. What is your secret?”
Jo thought for a beat and decided to tell these earnest women the truth, even if it defied their imagination. “Many women in America believe their husbands should be older, and smarter, and richer than they are. I believe one’s husband should be supportive, and little else matters.” She would not mention sex in front of children.
There was a silence.
Then one of the women asked Jo how she balanced the demands of career and family. Jo explained she and Ev had no kids, but their staff was like family.
Another silence.
Questions came in a steady stream then, about Ev and the staff and the house-cum-office in Oakland. Then the mothers and girls talked among themselves for ten minutes as the tea grew cold.
They stood to leave. One of the women, evidently the spokeswoman, cleared her throat.
“We must leave because the drive is long. We want to say that although the exhibits are nice and the idea of the museum is good, we are most grateful to you for telling our girls about your experiences. Thank you for being an inspiration, and for helping us picture a different future.”
Jo had been touched. She’d embraced each of them as they left the restaurant. Myriam had beamed all the while. In the taxi back to the hotel, Jo had thought that even if the job imploded, she’d achieved something worthwhile. She’d reached into the hearts of a few women, and their daughters, despite the barriers of culture. She’d responded in kind to their generosity of spirit. She’d felt satisfied in a way she would not soon forget.
But she hadn’t told Ev. It hadn’t seem fair to tell him she’d admired the mothers when she’d precluded him from being the father he wanted to be. A flicker of guilt had silenced her.
Diane stepped into the kitchen, mug in hand. She poured herself a cup of now stale coffee and placed it in the microwave. As the coffee heated, she leaned against the counter and pointed to her sister.
“It’s a relief to have you back.”
“You didn’t need to worry about terrorists in Al Khobar.” Diane laughed. “I wasn’t thinking about terrorists. It was just really quiet around here. I got a head start on this year’s taxes.”
“Are the newsletters up to date?”
“Yes. I sent them. Andy was in school, Car
los was replanting his backyard, and Becca was working at that gallery on a catalog for Ev’s sculptures.”
Jo sighed. “Do we have a contract with the gallery?”
“No. Becca’s doing it pro bono. She’ll be in this afternoon.” The microwave dinged. Diane removed her mug and headed for her desk. “Almost done with the bank reconciliation. You’re going to like the results.”
Jo reached into the cabinet for a foil packet of tuna. As she ripped the top off, she wondered if Ev had asked Becca to write a catalog or if it was her idea, a kind of welcome home present. Perhaps she’d been pining for him. Jo hadn’t seen much of him since they got back except in the bedroom. She’d been immersed in data and he’d been preoccupied fixing the demo displays even though the demo wouldn’t be used again. He seemed hung up on perfecting his craftsmanship. A dog with a bone. She took the tuna, a fork, and a napkin to her desk.
At the top of her email, a reply from Phil Owen.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJ: aren’t you speedy
Not sure the demonstration was worth it, given what you learned. Go ahead and list your recommendations. Marc is still working on ours. I’ll finalize the format after I see the lot.
Hot dog, she thought, he’ll buy our conclusions. She pushed the laptop closed with her elbow and sat down to eat the tuna straight out of the packet. She couldn’t be bothered to make a sandwich; too much sailed through her head. In a matter of weeks, this phase of the project would end. Would the Saudis offer D-Three a contract for the next phase or make them bid again? Would they tie them to Owen or somebody else? Or nobody else? The prize, the chance to design, was verging into sight.
Her phone rang. Myriam.
Jo said, “I’m surprised to hear from you. It’s late there, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is late. I just read your email and I must tell you how much I like it. Normally when there are male and female parts to a report, they are separate. It is because the men and women write their parts separately. But you have joined them. It is a benefit.”
“I’m glad you like the format.”
“I am going to talk to the director tomorrow. I will call you.”
“Do you want to see our recommendations?”
“Later. After you and Dr. Phil complete the report. Now I will say goodnight.”
Jo ended the call. Holy cow, they even separate men’s and women’s comments. How could Saudi men ever learn to treat women as equals without being able to fraternize with them? You fear people whose faces you never see up close and whose formative experiences you do not share. The committee asked for “separate but equal” facilities for boys and girls. She worried that even in a children’s museum, in Riyadh “separate but equal” was a lie.
Years before, she had seen the lie enacted. Sophomore year in college, a friend who roomed down the hall had urged her to take a new women’s studies course that a controversial poli-sci prof was organizing. Curious about the politics, she had joined her friend Penny in the class. The teacher assigned Simone de Beauvoir at the start. Jo found the teacher irritating—because she pounded on the podium—but the discussion fascinated her. She’d never heard the social order critiqued like that before. None of her high school teachers had thought to deconstruct the system that paid them. Sitting in the classroom among the other questioners, Jo felt like a pioneer in a wagon train crossing into new territory.
As the weeks passed, some students stopped coming to class. By mid-terms, only half showed up. Believing herself to be more strong-minded than most, Jo determined to stick it out. Then Penny stopped coming. Jo confronted her friend.
“I had to drop,” Penny said. “They’re mocking me.”
“Isn’t that the problem we’re addressing?”
“My dad says no employer will believe a major in women’s studies is equal to one in engineering.”
“So? You’re not interested in engineering.”
“Yeah, but he’s right. No one will think us equal.”
“What happened to ‘be the change you wish to see’?”
Penny grimaced. “I wish I could.”
She was deeply disappointed in Penny. She completed the semester—the prof gave her an A for perseverance—and, disillusioned, withdrew from the course.
Now, Myriam, who called herself a feminist, appeared to believe that, in the Kingdom’s segregated social order, “separate but equal” meant something good. She said a children’s museum could help girls see themselves as boys’ equals. Myriam implied that giving girls freedom to explore and the opportunity to do precisely as boys do would help them dream big. Jo wondered if the rest of Saudi society would let the girls realize their dreams, as some of their mothers wished. She hoped Myriam would eventually be proven right.
Becca sailed in the office door, interrupting Jo’s woolgathering. She deposited her sweater and laptop on her desk and trotted over to Diane. They chatted. Jo took one last bite of tuna and went to join them. They grew quiet as she approached.
“Tell me about the catalog you’re writing.” Jo leaned against Diane’s desk and tried to sound casual.
Becca flushed. “I set up the dummy while you and Ev were away. The gallery can fill in the content after they curate the show. It didn’t take long.”
“Did Ev ask you to help?”
Becca looked down. “Not with the catalog. That was my friend’s idea.” She paused. “He asked me to help with the tree, which is where I was this morning.”
“What do you mean?”
Becca looked into Jo’s eyes, as if challenging her. “The vertical section he made for the Saudi demo. He’s been rebuilding it to put in the show. I’ve been sourcing things for him.”
And he didn’t think to mention it, Jo thought. “Where are you two doing this?”
“At the gallery. They have a warehouse behind the showroom.” She glanced out the window.
Why is she being so unusually close-mouthed? “So you’re done?”
Becca lowered the pitch of her voice. “I’m ready for whatever you assign me.”
“Okay. Start formatting the demo report, with plenty of illustrations. You have a thousand photos to pick through. I emailed you the draft.”
Becca nodded and went to her desk.
Jo turned to her sister. “Did you know about the tree?”
“No. Sounds like our Ev is full of surprises.” Diane remained seated and sipped her coffee.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Only that he often changes things. Like the demo.”
So he does, Jo thought, but he should tell her about it before assigning staff. Especially Becca. “Thanks.”
Jo went back to the kitchen to dispose of the empty tuna packet. She’d told Ev to be careful with Becca, and he hadn’t listened. Or he’d forgotten the conversation because it didn’t make an impression. If something didn’t resonate with Ev’s peculiar logic, it flew out of his mind in a nanosecond. She washed her hands at the kitchen sink and went back to her computer. Ev would get a talking-to whenever he showed up.
21
It had been ten days since Owen submitted the report and an invoice for payment, but who knew when the committee would reply to him, and he to her? Restless, Jo checked her calendar: nothing imminent. She opened her tickler file and clicked on a newsletter Becca had prepped for a car dealer. They’d promised him a steerable toy car to use at a sales event this weekend, and Ev was finishing it up. She scanned the newsletter: nothing to edit. She felt tension load her arms and legs. She got up and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders to go out to the studio. It was chilly for May.
Ev stood bent over the workbench; the toy car sat on top of the table saw across the room.
“What are you working on?”
“Remember that sound machine I made for the Canadians? I’ve got an idea how to rework it.”
“Why do you want to? Have they asked?”
“I�
�m going to take it to the gallery. They’re calling my show ‘Give It a Whirl,’ after the whirligig. The sound piece will fit in.” He showed her his notebook, beaming like a kid with a treasure.
Something about his glee made her uncomfortable. Naïve. Ripe for exploitation. “I don’t understand how the show is supposed to work.”
“I’m going over on Saturday. Come with me.” He straightened and looked at her, eager.
She had the time and she saw the need. “Saturday’s okay.”
He nodded and again bent over the sound machine. She touched the middle of his back and turned to leave. She’d go check the Saudi files one more time. Never before had she felt so uncomfortable waiting to hear about the fate of a report.
The cars on either side of Ev’s truck seemed close enough for the occupants to shake their hands, not that anyone merging onto the Bay Bridge would want to. They’d been creeping for nearly an hour in a funnel formation, eight lanes merging into two, those two leading into another eight that merged into two. Why, Jo wondered, did so many people need to go to San Francisco on a Saturday? If she and Ev could have taken the train, they would have, but the sound machine was too big and awkward, and the gallery, in the densest part of town, had a loading dock where they could park.
The owner had flown in from wherever he’d been skiing to discuss Ev’s show. He was a short, florid man who spoke loudly, wore cowboy boots, and said “Call me Jack.” Hardly the aesthete Jo had been expecting, and she liked him the better for it. He helped Ev unload the sound machine and led them through the gallery to an office at the rear. The present show comprised realistic paintings of redwoods and the Bay. Jo wondered if the sort of people who bought scenery would appreciate Ev’s oddities. She didn’t think of his pieces as sculpture, really, because they had more vital functions in the hands of children.
Jack motioned for them to sit on the spindly chairs across from the gallery manager’s antique desk and offered a drink. They declined. He picked up a manila folder from the desktop and took out some papers.
The Contract Page 18