Month: September 2019

The Evolution of Beats

Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you’re in my head? Cause I know that it’s delicate.

Isn’t it? Isn’t it? Isn’t it?

These are some lyrics from a Taylor Swift song called Delicate.

As you see them, you might experience any range of emotions — from delight to disgust and anything in between. Like any musician, Taylor Swift is a polarizing figure.

But when I see these lyrics, there’s only one thing in my head.

The pounding drumbeat that serves as a baseline for the entire song.

It’s hard to put a drumbeat into words, but my best approximation would be as follows.

BOOM. Ba da ba. BOOM. Ba da ba.

The drumbeat is persistent enough to be annoying, yet not overpowering enough to be a nuisance.

Over the course of the four-minute song, you could even get used to it. Like the hum of a clothes dryer or the whoosh of cars on a nearby highway, it might sink into the background after a while.

That might work for you. But not for me.

Each time I hear that song, that beat takes over. And much like an Eskimo in the middle of the Arizona desert, I get the feeling that it’s out of place.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved listening to music.

My first memory was sitting in the back of my parents’ station wagon, listening to You Can’t Always Get What You Want from the Rolling Stones.

I must have been a year old, or even less. I know I was young because I remember thinking the song was about hot air balloons. (Perhaps because of the heavenly choir solo at the start of it.)

As I grew older, my tastes evolved. Soon, I was listening to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Then the Gin Blossoms and the Goo Goo Dolls. Then Hip-Hop and rap.

And eventually, I turned my attention to Reggaetón.

I was in high school at this time. I had just gotten my driver’s license, and I was taking any opportunity I could to get behind the wheel. The radio was my soundtrack for these expeditions.

Unfortunately for me, the Emo trend was in full swing at this point. So, the alt-rock stations I’d grown up listening to were serving up a never-ending buffet of whiny music by bands with names like My Chemical Romance, New Found Glory and Plain White T’s.

That was the last thing I wanted to listen to. So, I flipped over to the Spanish language station — which was starting to feature Reggaetón.

I was immediately drawn to the underlying drumbeat.

BOOM. Ba da ba. BOOM. Ba da ba.

 The Reggaetón artists would rap over the beat in barely intelligible Spanish. I was taking Spanish classes in school, but that didn’t help me understand the lyrics one bit. There was too much slang, and too many of the words were slurred.

Still, it didn’t matter. The beat had me hooked. And that was all I needed.

I listened to Reggaetón incessantly for a year or two. Then, I stumbled upon some translations of the lyrics to some of the hit songs.

I recoiled in horror.

That slurred, slang-filled Spanish I was hearing in these songs? It was full of offensive and misogynistic references. I would even go so far as to say some of these lyrics graphically described sexual assault.

I’d had enough.

I deleted the Reggaetón from my music collection and said goodbye to that distinctive and addictive beat.

Or so I thought.

When I first heard Delicate, I was perplexed. What was Taylor Swift doing with the Reggaetón beats I’d listened to nearly more than a decade earlier?

It didn’t seem to fit.

Here was Taylor Swift — singer-songwriter turned country star turned pop icon — mixing some Caribbean beats into her latest hit. But not just any island drumline.

No, one of the most powerful women in music was appropriating the same beat artists once used to denigrate women.

It was absurd.

What was it that attracted Ms. Swift to this beat, anyway? When it was first making the rounds, she was just cutting her teeth in Nashville. She most likely wasn’t listening to the same music I was back then.

No, the return of the Reggaetón beat had to be part of a larger trend.

And indeed, it was.

By the time Delicate hit the airwaves, the fervor from two other songs was just starting to die down. One was a Katy Perry song called Chained to the Rhythm. Another was a Luis Fonsi song called Despacito.

Those two songs had little in common — one was a disco-pop hit in English and the other a Latin pop hit in Spanish. But both of them were wildly popular at the same time. And both of them had elements of that Reggaetón beat mixed in.

Taylor Swift simply took the beat and laid it under her entire song.

It was the next step in an evolution.

As times change, so do tastes.

There was once a time when people used the word Swell to express approval for something desirable. Eventually, that term was replaced by words like Rad, Far Out and Off The Chain. As I write this, terms like Lit and Woke are in vogue.

This is no accident.

As our society is based upon freedom and self-expression, culture is destined to be a moving target. Trends are perpetually shifting, as we seek to explore new avenues at every turn.

Yet, we are still rooted in our sense of community. Even in the most divisive of times, our cultural experience is meant to be shared.

Family matters. Friends matter. Traditions matter.

The pace of change cannot outstrip these constants.

So, our shifting trends and cultural norms take a cyclical pattern. High fashion from the 1990s sees a revival three decades later. Young adults flee the inner city en masse, only to return in force a generation later. And a drumbeat used in some trashy Reggaetón songs one decade becomes the backbone of a pop hit in the next decade.

Looking from this vantage point, the drumbeat from Delicate seems less jarring. Its presence is simply a reminder that culture evolves, and our perceptions can shift over time as well.

It’s important to keep an open mind. To be aware of the constants of change, and to embrace them wholeheartedly — no matter how vulnerable that makes us feel.

For someday, it might not be a hit song that surprises us with its evolution. It might be something even more impactful.

It’s in our best interest to be prepared.

Shell Games

The roadside sign caught my eye as I drove past.

New homes starting in the $300s.

Could it be? Brand new houses that cost less than an airline ticket?

No, of course not.

The 300 on the sign stood for $300,000. A princely sum, but hardly outrageous for real estate.

Still, as the sign got smaller in my rearview mirror, only one thought came to mind.

Wow, that’s a lot of money.

You see, I’m a numbers guy. But I’m also a pragmatist.

When I mowed the lawn growing up, my parents would give me $10. I knew that money could get me two McDonalds quarter pounders.

It was tangible. An hour sweating in the sun with the push mower equaled two tasty burgers.

Years later, with much larger paydays in my present and McDonalds in my past, I can still visualize where my income is going.

Bills and rent are less savory than burgers, but visualization is no less effective.

But $300,000? That’s not tangible. That’s Monopoly money.

 

I wondered if others reading that roadside sign felt the way I did. I wondered if the sheer volume of money in play blew their mind.

If they did, the sentiment surely didn’t last long.

There are new homes popping up everywhere these days. I see them on my morning run, on my drive to work and on my way to the grocery store.

These homes all hit the market with six figure price tags. Price tags that start with a 300 or a 400. But that doesn’t stop people from scooping them up in a flash.

In many respects, these homeowners are like me.

They work for a living. They have credit cards. They drive Fords and Chevys.

Yet, they have done what I have not. They’ve suspended their disbelief and taken the plunge. They’ve signed on the dotted line for a bank loan that they’ll spend 30 years paying off. All for access to a shiny new property on their own plot of land.

Monopoly money indeed.

The housing market is the most tangible example of a phenomenon that’s taken over our society.

A phenomenon I like to call shell games.

For anyone not familiar with the term, it comes from carnival lore. A midway proprietor would put a ball under one of three hats (the “shells”), and then rotate them around in a dizzying array.

When the motion stopped, carnival goers would try and guess which hat was hiding the ball. Invariably, their guess would be wrong.

Slight of hand is key to an effective shell game. All the movement and misdirection disconnects players from what’s tangible.

That’s why so many participants guess wrong, allowing the proprietor to line their pockets with ease.

The same goes for the housing market and similar types of investments. The illusion is so great, we often lose track of what’s real.

For years, Americans of modest means have been able to sign paperwork granting them keys to a property worth more than their current assets.

It’s like they’re playing poker and telling the world they’re bluffing.

Yet, unlike the carnival game, they still win in the end.

The banking system facilitates this victory, of course. Mortgages give banks some skin in the game, locking homeowners into decades of monthly payments.

By the time that last payment is made, the game is over. The full price has been paid, and the claim to homeownership is completely tangible.

But how often does that scenario actually play out?

It’s hard to find many people under the who’ve lived in a home for 30 years these days. My parents got close — reaching the 26 year mark — before selling theirs.

No, homes are treated like trading chips these days. In the age of Fixer Upper, people are buying houses in hopes of flipping them for profit. Even at the point of purchase, they’re thinking of the impending sale.

That sale could come in five years or ten. Either way, there’s little chance that the homeowner will have actually paid in full by the time they turn the keys over to someone new.

Instead, that homeowner is using the sale as an exit strategy. They’re divesting of their remaining financial obligations, and using the proceeds of the sale to invest in a new property.

It’s a shell game nested inside another shell game, much like a Russian doll.

What’s tangible is insignificant. Numbers on a scoreboard are all that matter.

I don’t own my home. Even as many of my friends become homeowners, I’m happy to maintain the lease on my apartment.

Sometimes, my friends tacitly protest my choice. They tell me that I’m burning equity by delaying homeownership. They remind me that I’m paying a premium for a space I can’t truly call my own.

They have a point. Homeownership has its perks — including the ability to enjoy some peace and quiet. (I know, I’m a grumpy old man at heart.)

But the leasing life has its benefits too — a dedicated maintenance staff and an on-site gym and swimming pool.

Still, all these factors are secondary in my decision.

The biggest reason I remain a renter is that I still haven’t gotten over my aversion to the shell game phenomenon.

Like many, I lived through the Great Recession. And the scars run deep.

I was in college in 2008 Lehman Brothers went under and the government bailed out Wall Street. My friends and I were renting a house off-campus back then. But suddenly, we started seeing foreclosure notices in the mail, addressed to our landlord. We got uneasy.

The landlord told us not to worry, but we weren’t taking any chances. We broke the lease and moved to a new rental home a couple of miles away.

At first, I thought the foreclosure notices we saw that fall were just an exercise in corporate greed. That the banks were treating some college kids’ lives as collateral damage in their never-ending quest to extract more money from homeowners.

Yet, it wasn’t long before I became aware of the growing calamity. The housing bubble had burst and the financial markets had crashed. Foreclosure notices and widespread layoffs were simply a sign of the times.

While we’ve all moved on from those days, the lessons remain vivid as ever. My biggest takeaway from the recession is that dealing in shell games is playing with fire.

So, I don’t.

My investment profile is conservative. I don’t trade stocks. And I still hesitate to take the plunge into homeownership.

Someday, that will change. But only when I have more to offer than my good name or a promissory note.

Is this the best tact to take? Perhaps not.

After all, shell games have solidified their place in our society. And they’ve helped form the modern economy.

Sooner or later, they are inevitable.

Even so, I believe it’s important to grasp on to what’s tangible. To avoid getting too big for our britches, if we can help it.

For practicality helps us keep our promises. It promotes a culture of fairness. It engenders trust and goodwill.

These attributes are far more important than a bigger house, a fancier car or a more robust portfolio. They pay far greater dividends, no matter the state of the market.

So, deal in shell games if you must. But proceed wisely.

What We Can’t Forget

As the car pulled away, I looked out the passenger side window.

There they were, my grandmother and grandfather waving from inside the screen door of their house in Queens, New York.

The memory feels like yesterday, but it was so much longer ago than that.

It has to be.

I’ve been in Texas for nearly a decade, and my grandfather was crippled by a stroke less than two years after I moved west. He spent most of his time sitting on the sofa when I went to visit him in the years following the stroke.

After he passed, my grandmother sold the house and moved into an apartment in Manhattan with my parents. Less than two years later, she too was gone.

Memories are all that remain. But the details are ever more in doubt.

As I get older, I have no way of knowing for sure if my memories are accurate.

Did everything really happen the way I remember it? Was what I recall seeing, hearing and sensing real, or was it just a mirage?

When I think of that image of my grandparents waving goodbye from their front foyer, I’m not sure if I’m digging up a memory from 10 years ago or if my mind is playing tricks on me.

After all, my grandmother waved goodbye at us from that same spot each time we left the home, up until she sold it. My memories could be conflated.

There’s no way for me to know for sure.

Never Forget.

Those two words are imprinted in my mind forever.

I’m sharing this article 18 years after the darkest day of my life: September 11, 2001.

I’ve shared my memories of that day and its aftermath on Words of the West before. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.

Sharing my memories of that day has helped me heal. It’s brought me a sense of peace I had thought I’d never find again.

Yet, even as I move forward, the memories of that day continue to haunt me. As is the case with any traumatic stress event, I’m sure I will remain affected for the rest of my life.

Those haunting memories spike on September 11th each year. Not only do I know what the calendar reads, but all the old images and video clips resurface across the Internet, social media and mainstream media.

It’s like a refresher course, recalibrating my memories of the worst day of my life.

You could say I was one of the lucky ones. I was six miles uptown from the carnage at the World Trade Center. There are no Associated Press photos of me walking across the Brooklyn Bridge with the sky behind me looking like a war zone. There are no videos of me watching in horror as the twin towers crumbled.

Yet, I have my own memories to deal with. Of eerily quiet Manhattan streets. Of heavily armed National Guardsmen at a toll bridge, telling us Go, go, get out of here! Of thinking that at any moment, my life might be taken from me.

Those all come bubbling up, each time the calendar turns to September 11th.

I don’t want to forget.

Good or bad — it doesn’t matter. I want to remember.

I pride myself on what I can recall. On how I use that past experience to make prudent decisions.

Memory is important to me because it impacts all three of the foundational pillars of my life.

Be Present. Be Informed. Be Better.

So, I fight doggedly against the fog of amnesia. I don’t drink alcohol. I get a good night’s sleep. I keep my brain active as often as I can.

And I hang on to my memories. Even the memory that has left me forever broken.

It’s difficult. Gut-wrenchingly difficult. But I fight through the pain.

I pay attention to the remembrances on September 11th. And each year, when I visit New York, I go to the 9/11 Memorial and pray for the victims.

Yet, the more time passes, and the more I subject myself to this kind of masochism, the more doubt creeps into my mind.

The year 2001 was more than half my life ago. I was a young teenager — a kid — on the day my life changed forever. And now, there are now legal adults who have only known a post 9/11 world.

These facts serve as a stark reminder that 18 years is a long time, and even the most traumatic memories can get distorted over that period.

I don’t know if my memories of that day are still accurate, or if they’ve faded a bit.

I want them to be accurate. I don’t want to be accused of embellishing anything from a day we are told — rightfully — to Never Forget.

But there’s no way I can know for sure how much of what I remember is accurate.

When the towers fell, I was in school — a school I left 8 months later. When I got home, my family watched Aaron Brown’s reports on the tragedy on CNN. But my parents and sister were too shell-shocked to keep watching the marathon coverage. So, I spent much of the event in front of the TV alone.

The only part of the day that was easily verifiable was the treacherous trip home. My father was with me that whole time. He recalls what I do.

The rest of the day — what I said, what I did, what I thought — I experienced alone. Those words, actions and emotions have been an important part of my life for nearly two decades. But now, more and more, I can’t tell which of them are real.

Perhaps it’s meant to be this way.

Perhaps our memories are meant to degrade when exposed to the cruel hands of time.

After all, our bodies betray us as we age. It’s only logical that our minds would follow the same path to irrelevance.

Even so, a fuzzy memory is not a welcome sight in our society.

In a world where cameras are always rolling, there is no room for error. The proof is there, in pictures and video. And we’re getting fact-checked all the time.

We don’t forget the events of 9/11 because we can’t forget. There are dozens of documentaries showing footage of the planes flying into the Twin Towers. Of the cloud of debris cascading down the cavernous streets of Lower Manhattan.

The evidence is overwhelming. But is that what really matters?

When I come across these iconic images, I’m almost numb to them. Sure, my pulse quickens and my face turns flushed, but that’s to be expected.

It’s my recollections of that fateful day that get me emotional.

The paralyzing sensation of fear. The realization that I might not survive. And the understanding that if I did, my life would be forever changed.

That is what brings tears to my eyes. That is what brings me to my knees.

And regardless how much my recollections of the details might fade, that is what I will never, ever forget.

Therein lies the truth of the matter.

Memories are not about logic. They’re not about timestamping the images in our mind and cross-checking them for rogue filters.

No, memories are about emotion instead.

That image of my grandparents waving goodbye is poignant because they are now gone. Regardless of the details, that memory is a bridge connecting me with two of the most beloved figures in my life.

And those recollections I have of the darkest day of my life are poignant as well. They might induce nightmares, but they also remind me not to take life for granted.

We all have memories that are intertwined with our emotions. Even if we didn’t live through the horrors of New York City on September 11, 2001.

Let us cherish these memories, rather than interrogate them.

For that connection to our heart and our soul — that is something we can’t afford to lose.

May we never forget.

The Systems Thinking Advantage

How do you look at the world?

It depends on your perspective.

Some might focus on the unpredictability therein. On the surprise occurrences — good and bad — that can either make our day or ruin it.

The temptation here is all too often to find a pattern in the random noise. To turn to a higher power — be it faith or superstition — to explain it. Or else, to turn to pessimism and declare that managing life’s volatility is a fool’s errand.

Others might focus on the constants. On the rising and setting of the sun. Or the feeling of fresh air in our lungs.

This view is fixed at the macro level. It’s far too tempting to ignore the ups and downs altogether — even if some of them can be quite significant. And it’s far too easy to check out from everyday life.

In reality, both of these ways of looking at the world — divergent as they may seem — share a common issue.

Both seek to place responsibility on a single entity for the adventures we encounter.

Whether we’re screaming at the driver who ran the red light and almost T-boned our car, or we’re thanking God for the beautiful weather, we’re placing all blame or praise in one place.

It’s just us and them. Nothing in between.

We act as if we have a ledger, and we’re making sure everyone knows the score.

But there’s no way that everyone knows the score. Because each person has their own scorebook.

The experiences we face are unique. Each of us faces our own reality each and every day.

And when our realities collide with those of others — literally or metaphorically — standing around and pointing fingers does no one any good. On the contrary, this only serves to sow divisiveness and mistrust — the dual viruses that happen to be plaguing our society more than ever these days.

So, when we find ourselves in this position, what should we do?

We should take a step back. And we should look at the underlying architecture.

 

Awhile back, I took a professional assessment. A questionnaire that looks at how someone thinks, and how that thought process jibes with their personality archetype.

Many of the results of the assessment didn’t surprise me all that much. But one floored me.

There, on the summary page were four words: Thinks like an engineer.

I looked at those words and laughed.

I fancied myself the furthest thing from an engineer. I despised math growing up, and I gave up on science before I could even get to physics.

I seemed to be missing all the ingredients needed to be a halfway-competent engineer, let alone a savant.

Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I realized this proclamation wasn’t about the craft of engineering at all.

It was about adherence to systems.

Engineers adopt systems thinking. They distill a volatile environment into a more manageable series of systems. Then, they design solutions that meet the specifications and constraints of each system.

This is the secret to engineering success. And engineering success has transformed our world.

While there have been some notable engineering gaffes over the years, they’re dwarfed by the number of successful projects and designs. One need only drive on an interstate highway, cross a bridge over the Mississippi or ascend a Chicago high-rise to see the brilliance of engineering.

Systems thinking has worked its magic, time and again.

Yet, systems thinking is not only an engineering phenomenon. It can also be used to deal with political drama and understand the makeup of entire industries.

The more we consider the landscape of the environment we’re probing, and the more methodically we can chart our moves, the more successful we’ll be. That’s how the systems thinking theory goes.

I believe in this theory, and have practiced it for years. I just didn’t realize it until I took that assessment.

What does systems thinking look like in day-to-day life?

It can vary, depending on the situation.

But in general, it requires taking a look at the underlying structure of whatever we’re facing, and seeing how this structure could have caused the scenarios you encountered.

As an example, let’s take a look at the workplace. If you’re like millions of other gainfully employed citizens, you might spend a few of your hard-earned wages at Happy Hour with your colleagues or friends.

And what do you do at Happy Hour? You complain about work!

You make a big fuss about how you’re overworked, underappreciated and underpaid. About how much your 9 to 5 life stinks, and how much those in charge are leading to your misery.

I know this pattern, because I once lived it.

When we feel underappreciated at work, it’s easy to blame our boss — either tacitly or at impromptu Happy Hours. It’s basically an American pastime at this point.

Yet, our boss likely has a boss. As such, they might be dealing with similar issues and frustration from up in the ranks.

In fact, even if your boss is the owner or the CEO, they still have people or standards to answer to. These might be customers, investors or the company legacy itself.

Yes, a business is a massive system. A system with many moving parts that must remain synchronized to see sustained success.

Understanding the dynamics of this system can help you assess the situation you face and rationalize actions or decisions.

Perhaps your boss is not actively working to snub you. Perhaps they’re dealing with a full plate themselves. Or perhaps they trust you enough not to micromanage you.

And perhaps, with everything functioning the way it should, the issue you face is not as significant as you’re making it. If you’re contributing to the mission, being compensated fairly for your efforts and not at risk of being shown the door, you’re in a good spot. Visceral approval from your boss is more icing on the cake than a fundamental need.

Better not to make a mountain of a molehill.

Did you notice what happened there? By applying systems thinking, we diffused the situation. Instead of our grievance being a budding confrontation between ourselves and our supervisors — an Us vs. Them scenario — it became a systems problem. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t much of a problem at all.

This type of collectivist thinking can help in many other situations too. When we understand the system, it’s much easier to recognize that we’re all in this together. We’re less likely to have an urge to spar — unless we’re confronted by someone who’s truly acting selfish or malicious.

So, let’s change our perspective. Let’s stop looking to pin blame or praise in one place. Let’s take the time to look at the underlying architecture instead.

Systems thinking works. Let’s see how it can work for us.