Month: December 2016

The Year of Disconnect

Another journey around the sun is nearly complete.

While I have made my feelings known regarding our collective reaction to the innocuous changing of a calendar, the fact remains that many of us are quite reflective at this time of year.

With that in mind, I’ve taken a look back at what’s happened in the past 12 months, and what we can gather from it. While life is generally a mix of routine and random events that makes such an activity trivial, I quickly came to realize that this year has had a common, yet disturbing theme.

2016 has been the Year of Disconnect.

The sad irony of this statement cuts deep. We now live in a world where African tribal elders can access the Internet from the palm of their hand. It’s a world built for sharing and instantaneous collaboration. But at a time when technology has allowed us to connect more effectively than ever before, all we seem to want to do is disengage.

Whether we’re talking about the divisive U.S. election, the Brexit vote, deteriorating race relations in America or the seemingly endless parade of celebrity deaths, so much of 2016 seems to have been about the fracture of something once communal. It seems to have been about the loss of trust, decency and respect. About doubt and uncomfortable questions.

This is not the world I want. I’ve devoted my life to building communication, trust and connection because I believe those principles can make the world a better place. Humans are capable of both amazing and horrifying feats. The difference between the two so often lies in how well we can build connections with each other based on trust.

The steps we’ve taken away from connection in recent months have been discouraging, but all is not lost. If we can take heed of the direction we’re heading and make the right adjustments, we can steer ourselves back on course.

For me, this means removing hate from my heart, and from my vocabulary. It means preaching unity, even with those I vehemently disagree with. It means building connections upon empathy, and urging others to do the same.

For others, the tactics to rebuild what’s broken might be different. After all, we are all unique, and each of us has our own tools to build with. But if we can all work toward reinvigorating a culture of connection, we will get there.

Great things are ahead of us. But we must eschew the patterns we’ve championed in the Year of Disconnect in order to achieve them. Let us begin.

Building Blocks

It’s far too easy to choose looking forward over looking back.

But why not choose both?

For years, I’ve focused nearly all of my energy on the road ahead, and what I would need to put into it to make it successful. For someone who has started over as many times as I have, looking back was considered giving up.

While few have walked as winding as path as I have — or at least few have by their own volition — many have also put blinders on to what’s behind them in favor of what lies ahead.

This behavior is intentional; our society seems to demand it. After all, the desire to improve, evolve, iterate, grow — it’s instilled in us at a very early age. Settling is akin to laziness; even if we’re in a good place, there is always more than can be learned, tried and achieved.

With this perspective in mind, it shouldn’t be surprising that we’d rather think of what comes next than what came before. The past is a scar that should remain under wraps — a reminder of a time when we were younger and more immature.

But there is a danger in this path. By never taking the courage to look back, we lose sight not only about how we got here, but also what makes us unique.

This is a big reason I’ve been spending more time recently pondering my past — from my time growing up in the northeast, to my college days in Florida to my previous career in West Texas. I’ve looked back not only at the golden sun-drenched memories, but also the embarrassing mistakes I made along the way —the times I thought I knew it all but had no clue.

I’ve owned up to it — all of it — not only when reminiscing with acquaintances from those times, but also when conversing with those I’ve met more recently.

This has been difficult for me to do. I don’t consider myself vain, but I am an introvert. Sharing my story with those I don’t inherently trust is uncomfortable — scary even.

But despite my nature, I’ve come to realize the importance of being more transparent, and the benefits it can provide both myself and the world around me. It’s a major reason why I started Words of the West, and also a prime reason why I’m more apt to bring up my past in conversations these days than I once was.

For life is like a set of Legos; you can build it up into something beautiful, but only gradually. The past serves as building blocks — not only in terms of foundational structure, but also in terms of art and innovation. The past is not only what helps you build that dinosaur or French chateau, it’s what helps make it that dinosaur or chateau.

Our path ahead is marked with desires and communal expectations. But the journey we actually take is innately our own. By building off the lessons and memories of our unique past, we can build our own roadmap for the continuation of our 1 in 8 billion expedition. We don’t just live our journey, we own it.

So, we must not shun those building blocks. Instead, we must utilize them — and continue to create.

Chasing Time

Age ain’t nothin’ but a number.

I’ve said this dozens of times before, because I know it to be true.

Sure, there are some physiological changes that go on at certain points in our life, and there are certain items we can only buy if we’re of a certain age. But all too often, the number of years we’ve been on the planet has less to do with our place in this world than we think.

Of course, we collectively bungle this truth all too often. That’s why we splurge on the bright orange sports car in response to our “mid-life crisis.” And it’s why we throw ourselves lavish parties for a milestone birthday.

There’s an expectation that the number we’re associated with should impact the way we live our lives. It’s the expectation that leads us to think “Now that I’m 55, I need to become a different person,” and then either accept or rebel against that statement.

This is understandable. After all, our society emphasizes the importance of age on a foundational level. It’s one of the reasons we go to school with kids our age. It’s one of the reasons why we must wait until we’re old enough to be able to vote, drink or rent a car. It’s one of the reasons why amazed by the 24-year-old in upper management, yet look with scorn at the 22-year-old with two kids.

In short, we act as if our society is a meritocracy, with age as its currency. This is why we expend so much effort chasing time — celebrating the passing of the years while letting that occurrence impact our behavior.

If only we could open our eyes.

For the truth is, it’s not how long we live that matters. It’s how we live that does.

How responsible we are. How we treat others. How we carry ourselves. We have an obligation to keep these consistent — and consistently positive.

This obligation remains with us, whether we’re 8 or 80. And our adherence to it can help determine our legacy long after we pass on.

I’ve taken this mantra to heart for several years. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t care much about my birthday (aside from showing gratitude to well-wishers), and why I refuse to let my age dictate my destiny. It’s one of the reasons why I evaluate those around me by their thoughts and actions, rather than their age. And it’s one of the reasons why I always try and act righteously and responsibly.

This is a much more productive and open-minded way to make it through life than worrying about how long we’ve been on the planet. And a productive, open-minded approach is much needed in a time when our society seems more distrustful and divided than ever.

Let’s break down one of these worthless barriers omnipresent in our society. Let’s stop chasing time and start focusing on life.

Playing the Cards

The bus came to a stop two blocks south of New York’s LaGuardia Airport and opened its doors. The chilly fall air rushed in, accompanied by the dueling sounds of highway traffic and an airplane taking off.

As I treasured this peaceful moment, I gazed out the window at the house across the street. It was a decent sized home, complete with a garage and a balcony that was now bathed in afternoon sunlight. It seemed like a decent enough place to live — aside from the constant roar of jet engines and whoosh of highway traffic.

“Who would ever want to live here?” I asked myself. “Maybe this is where people in New York get houses on the cheap.”

My mind drifted east, to a home about two miles past the end of the airport’s other runway. That’s where my mother grew up, and where my grandparents lived for 60 years. That modest rowhouse was no stranger to the roar of jet engines either. In fact, as the story goes, the first time my father set foot in the house, he ducked each time he heard a plane overhead.

As I write this, my grandparents’ longtime home is in the process of being placed on the market. My grandfather has passed on, and my grandmother moved into an apartment in Manhattan with my parents a few months ago. The neighborhood has changed too — what was once a majority white is now predominantly Chinese — and this shift has sent housing prices skyrocketing. So, despite my musings, I know that proximity to the roar from Runway 13 doesn’t bring down housing prices.

Still, I posit that living under a flight path is a nuisance. Which leads to a key question: If we make our own destinies, why would we settle for a scenario with unwanted variables?

Much of our decision has to do with playing the cards we’re dealt.

Consider this. From the day we’re brought home from the hospital, the house we live in is just home. As children, we don’t know what all went into our parents’ decision on where to purchase their home, or the hoops they might jump through to maintain it financially.

But as we grow older and move out on our own, we think about things from a more practical perspective. What do we want our living space to look like? What do we want easy access to? Who must we be near to? And — perhaps most importantly — how much can we pay for all of this?

The answers to these questions help determine our actions, even if it means moving to a tiny, overpriced studio apartment with no counter space, or getting a roommate or three.

These situations might be perplexing to me, as I rent a decent sized apartment in North Texas. But if living in New York City — or San Francisco, or Austin or Uptown Dallas — is important to others, they’ll be willing to sacrifice space, privacy, amenities and even peace and quiet. Heck they might not even notice what they gave up in the process after a spell of time has passed.

It all comes down to perspective.

For example, when my grandparents moved into their home in 1957, it was almost considered a move to the suburbs. The home had everything a suburbanite might need — a garage, a nice enough kitchen and access to a highway built under the brand-new Interstate Highway System. The airport was there, but air travel wasn’t nearly as pervasive as it is now, and many of the loudest jumbo jets had yet to be created.

In 2017, it’s expensive to live anywhere in New York City. Yet the demand is there, particularly on the neighborhood level. Even with the small size of my grandparents’ longtime home, and the adjacent noise and traffic issues, someone will pay a premium for it, as it provides access to living in a coveted neighborhood.

Perhaps the people who live in that home two blocks from LaGuardia — the one I saw from the bus — perhaps they have a similar story to my grandparents, where they bought the home generations ago. Or perhaps they’re like the eventual owners of my grandparents’ home, where they found what might seem to the layperson as an untenable location to be anything but. Perhaps members of that family work at the airport, or for the airlines, and location trumps peace and quiet. Who knows.

What I do know is this: When it comes to where we live, and how, not all is how it appears on the surface. It’s a reflection of the hand we’re dealt, and the cards we play.