Month: December 2019

The Spirit of Giving

Every year, as the calendar winds down, something magical happens.

Colorful lights cut through the darkness. Familiar songs hit the airwaves. And good spirit abounds.

Yes, it’s the holiday season. The time of reindeer antlers and gingerbread cookies. The time of ugly sweaters and endless parties. And the time of shopping and wrapping.

We have prepared all year for this moment — some more zealously than others.

For we know that when the days are short and the winter chill is strong, we can count on the dopamine high from these festivities to sustain us.

That dopamine high might come from a gift, wrapped in pretty paper. It might come from the serenity of loved ones gathered with us. It might even come from a cheerful Hello from a stranger.

In all of these cases, we are on the receiving end of bliss.

Bliss is addicting. Bliss is intoxicating. Bliss is the fuel that powers this magical time of year.

But there’s one small problem.

We’re experiencing it all backwards.

Tis better to give than to receive.

Many have parroted this proverb. But perhaps none as deftly as Charles Dickens.

With his 1843 masterpiece A Christmas Carol, Dickens managed to do the unthinkable. He crafted a cautionary tale that still resonates during our traditional month of revelry.

A Christmas Carol follows Ebenezer Scrooge, as he transitions from bitter and exacting accountant to kind and gentle. This might seem like an overdone narrative, but there’s a catch. The entire plot takes place in a 48 hour period between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Scrooge’s overnight transformation from miserly to joyous is inspiring. But what we really connect with are the apparitions that visit Scrooge in his sleep — the Ghost of Christmas Past, The Ghost of Christmas Present and the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. These are the visions that show Scrooge the errors of his ways, and inspire him to chart a new path.

These spirits lay bare the consequences of neglect. They warn us of the dangers of self-absorption. And they project the impact these behaviors have on one’s legacy.

This is all pretty heavy stuff for the season of elves and one-horse open sleighs.

Yet, that was precisely Dickens’ point.

At the time Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, the holiday season was one of extremes. The well-off would spend evenings in a drunken stupor, indulging themselves to no end. But across town, the less fortunate starved and froze, afflicted with a dearth of hope.

A Christmas Carol aimed to close that gap. To get the selfish to think of those around them. To convince the fortunate to give to the needy.

Dickens felt passionate about this cause. As a teenager, had to work long hours in deplorable conditions in a factory after his father was sent to a debtor’s prison. He never forgot what it felt like to be marginalized. And he made sure his readers understood that sensation too.

Encapsulating this message in a holiday tale was only fitting. After all, Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus — who is renowned for his selfless deeds. The reformed Scrooge at the end of A Christmas Carol channels the very essence of that spirit.

Even so, I would argue that A Christmas Carol only partially succeeded at its mission.

As it turns out, the spirit of giving did increase after the novella’s publication. For a while anyway.

But the onset of the Industrial Revolution and the advent of advertising were too much for Dickens’ ideals to overcome.

Suddenly, factories were cranking out more products than ever before. And there were plenty of ways to introduce the masses to these items.

The elements were in place for consumerism to take hold of society. And as it did, the holidays went from a season of giving to one of receiving.

The noble cause trumpeted by Charles Dickens found itself overturned in a bar ditch. And it has yet to get itself back upright.

Growing up, the holidays felt a bit different for me than it did for my friends.

I didn’t grow up in a Christian household. So, there was no Christmas tree in our living room. There were no garlands wrapping around the stair bannisters. And there were no lights strung to the edge of the roof.

Even so, I found myself sucked into the vortex of the holiday season, and the obsession with receiving that came with it.

For on Christmas Day each year, we’d head to my godmother’s house — where there was a Christmas tree in the living room. And as I took in the scene, I would find that Santa had left me a gift — generally that year’s edition of the Hess Toy Truck.

It wasn’t long before I developed a Pavolvian response to the holidays. As I thought of Santa bringing me the latest Hess Truck, my heart started racing.

This continued for several years. But then, something strange happened.

The entire gift receiving parade started to feel hollow. While I was still appreciative for what I received, I no longer craved it.

In short, I found I was over the season of receiving.

This revelation shook me to my core. The entire identity I had associated the holidays with was gone. And I wasn’t sure what would fill the void.

As I contemplated all this, I wandered into the kitchen of my childhood home. The Christmas Day edition of The New York Times was still on the table. At the top, above the iconic masthead, lay six words in green text: Today is Christmas. Remember the neediest.

Suddenly, it all clicked.

In that moment, I saw the true potential of the holidays. I saw it as a time to give, not to take.

I had yet to experience A Christmas Carol at this point. But Dickens’ grand moral of that tale found its way to me anyway.

Ever since that day, I’ve made a conscious effort to be more generous during this time of year. Not only with my money, but also with my time and disposition.

This has become more challenging over the years, as increasing demands of work, school and travel have taken their toll. But I do my best not to divert from my holiday season North Star.

Over time, I have seen this mission expand. In fact, I now consider generosity one of my core tenets. And these days, the spirit of giving is with me year-round.

My kitchen table revelation changed the trajectory of my life, in some sense. But I don’t consider my tale to be extraordinary.

For the truth is, we all have the power to embrace the spirit of giving. To unleash hidden generosity. To put others ahead of ourselves.

All that’s in doubt is whether we have the inclination to do so.

With that in mind, let’s flip the script that consumerism has thrown at us.

Let’s make the holidays about giving, not receiving.

That little change can make a world of difference.

How Will You Be Remembered?

Legacy.

It’s just one word, and three syllables.

But that word is anything but simple.

Legacy describes the lasting image of us after we’ve left the frame. It describes how we’ll be remembered.

And that can be a tricky subject to broach.

Much like an onion, there are layers to the concept of legacy.

There’s the layer of mortality. Of knowing there will be a time when we’ll no longer be able to add chapters to our story. This truth is as inconceivable as it is inevitable, and many of us struggle to come to terms with it.

There’s the layer of ego. Of obsessing over what others think of us and our accomplishments. Many of us are afflicted with this obsession to some degree, even as society frowns on such selfish fixations.

And then there’s the layer of control. Of when and where we have agency over our narrative.

This layer is the most complicated of the three.

It’s impossible for us to maintain complete control over our legacy, since it lives on long after our heart stops beating. After our light fades, how we’ll ultimately be remembered is anyone’s guess.

We might have a hunch, sure. But as the decades pass and societal norms evolve, what once seemed crystal clear becomes much murkier.

There are many examples of this phenomenon throughout the years. In fact, there’s now a well-known term for it — revisionist history.

And while it’s not a given that our legacy will be rewritten in this manner, it’s certainly a distinct possibility.

Even so, we do have some ability to influence our legacy. The way we live, the values we espouse, and our consistency of purpose can all feed the story others will tell of us.

Shaping that narrative is important work. It’s our only opportunity to have our say, which is why we take on the task so vigorously — even if there’s a chance it will end up fruitless.

It’s this delicate balance, this act of weaving a tale we have no final judgment over, that makes the subject of legacy so intriguing.

And it’s what makes How will you be remembered the most maddening question we face.

The matter of shaping our legacy often comes down to four words.

Do the right thing.

It seems like straightforward advice. Or even common sense.

But the right thing is open to interpretation.

In religious circles, it might mean attending a house of worship, following a certain diet and remaining abstinent until marriage.

In the world of organized crime, it might mean not telling the authorities about your co-conspirators, or not getting behind on your debts.

In the world of politics, it might mean prioritizing your base, or sticking it to the other side of the aisle.

In each instance, those following the code are doing the right thing. They’re staying on the right side of their community’s code of conduct. And they’re ensuring that community will look upon them fondly.

Many of us channel this spirit within our own day-to-day lives. We might not be religious zealots, or mafiosos, or members of the C-suite. But we still fixate on doing what our moral compass deems to be proper.

Through discipline and devotion, we take steps to build our narrative. And we use the community around us as a mirror to gauge our success.

Often times, we’ll use this confirmation bias as a sign of self-righteousness. We’ll assert that our version of the right thing is the one the world will approve of. We’ll believe that we’ll be remembered fondly for years to come, so long as we stick to the path we’ve been following.

But this is delusional.

Our version of the right thing might not be viewed by others as criminal, intolerant or unethical — the way the worlds of organized crime, religion or politics often are. But that version is still heavily biased by our specific worldview. And by the contours of the times we live in.

For instance, smoking was once considered fashionable. Buoyed by public popularity and reinforced by opportunistic advertising, packs of cigarettes were as commonplace as smartphones are today. Restaurants and bars billowed with cigarette smoke, and lighters were everywhere.

Around this time, the number of women in the workforce was increasing. But by and large, women found themselves confined to clerical roles. Hiring women based on their looks was considered acceptable behavior. And so were other practices we now consider discriminatory or abusive.

These days, we would not consider any of this the right thing.

Sure, there are plenty of smokers out there. And there is, sadly, plenty of misogynistic behavior as well. But these behaviors now come with a social stigma — a stigma that could impact our legacy.

Our world is better off because of this evolution. But that doesn’t give us license to act self-righteous.

For even if we’re don’t smoke or abuse women, we’re not doing everything right. There are parts of our day-to-day lives that future generations will look at just as unfavorably as we now look at smoking or gender discrimination.

Our legacy will be rewritten over time. And parts of it might end up tarnished.

There’s no way around it.

 

So, how should we approach the topic of legacy?

We can start by reframing the question.

We can stop concerning ourselves with how we’ll be remembered, and start thinking about how we’d like to be remembered.

This small tweak puts the power back in our hands. It gets everything back to two dimensions.

By looking at the question this way, we can imagine an ideal future. One unencumbered by the shifting of society and the razor’s edge of revisionist history.

Then, we can imagine how this ideal future would entertain our memory if we were no longer around. And we can work toward bringing that vision to fruition.

This is the way I approach the thorny question of legacy. It’s what grounds me. It’s what inspires me. And it’s what drives me to do my best each and every day.

We can all take a page from this book.

How will you be remembered is insignificant. How would you like to be remembered is everything.

The Planning Paradox

I love it when a plan comes together.

If you’ve ever seen The A Team, you’ll find this phrase familiar. Colonel Hannibal Smith uttered it dozens of times — in both the 1980s TV series and the 2010 film adaptation.

The phrase resonates with us because we find it serendipitous.

It’s a magical feeling when everything just works. But it feels ever more satisfying when we play a part in making that outcome happen.

We are better positioned to make the most of our good fortune. For the groundwork has already been laid.

This is why many of us obsess with planning. With envisioning the possibilities and putting in the work to make them a reality.

We fill our calendars, set budgets and forecast possibilities. We give ourselves marching orders and then follow them religiously.

It’s dutiful work. Routine work, even.

But it might be a waste of our time.

 

God laughs at your plans.

This phrase makes me wince.

Not because I’m one to question God’s work. Far from it.

No, this phrase makes me wince because of the utter futility it describes. Specifically, that of making plans and seeing them go to waste.

For I am a planner.

I relish the opportunity to prepare for what lies ahead. In fact, one could say I obsess about it.

I chart out my meals for the upcoming week even before I make my way through the supermarket aisles. I get tickets to sports events or concerts weeks ahead of time. I show up to the airport two hours early to ensure my checked luggage makes it on the plane.

I even regiment my days. I set an early alarm on weekdays so that I can work out, freshen up and take care of other household tasks before I even head out the door to work. And I make sure to wake up with the sun on weekends so that errands don’t eat up too much of my day.

My calendar is my compass throughout this process. I want to make sure I’m on time, on budget and on top of things.

Above all else, I want to maintain control. After all, such tendencies are in my nature.

Still, I know I’m fighting an uphill battle.

For all measure of obstacles lie in my wake — from real-time changes in the weather forecast to daily fluctuations in my health. There’s no sure way to see these coming, which means advance preparation for them is, at best, half-baked.

Even on the micro level, unpredictability abounds. Friends and family can put together last-minute events. A sudden traffic jam on the highway can make that trip to the airport take twice as long as it should. A supply-chain issue can leave many of the supermarket shelves barren at the moment I’m pushing my cart down the aisle.

And when it does — when God laughs — it can be utterly frustrating.

I’ll seethe as I think of all the energy I’ve wasted preparing for a future that turned into pure fiction. I’ll lament being blindsided by the current reality. And I’ll second guess every plan that led me into the current predicament.

This is not the best response to unpredictability. But when you obsess over planning, it’s often Live by the sword. Die by the sword.

And all too often, I find the bitter end of that proverb.

Is planning futile?

Not exactly.

Certainly, an overarching reliance on a plan can hurt. My own experience bears that out. So does the failure of the Centralized Economic Planning philosophy under the Soviet bloc.

But going without a concrete plan can be just as devastating. When Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812, for instance, there was no plan for how his army would handle the upcoming winter. The harsh conditions decimated the troops nearly as much as the Russian forces did, leading to a humiliating defeat.

The overarching lesson is that planning is important. But only to a point.

We have to be ready for what should come to pass. But also to expect the unexpected.

I call this The Planning Paradox.

The Planning Paradox is an uncomfortable concept.

For it demands that we do our due diligence, yet still be ready to turn on a dime.

Few of us are naturally that agile. On the contrary, we tend to fall into one of two camps: The Planners and the Reacters.

Planners do what they can to control their environment ahead of time. Reacters analyze the environment in the moment and respond to it ad hoc.

In order to find success in life — in work, in relationships and elsewhere — we need to use each trait. But only one of them is inherently dominant in each of us.

Personality tests help surface that dominant trait by forcing us choose between them on each question. They embolden us to circle the wagons around our position of strength.

But The Planning Paradox challenges us to broaden our approach.

The Planning Paradox first encourages us to embrace the dark side. To learn how to manage the approach we naturally repel.

For Planners, this means accepting the chaos and going with the flow. For Reacters, it means taking the time to prepare for future outcomes.

Then, The Planning Paradox requires us to combine the two approaches into a single protocol. One that sets the rules of engagement, and then determines the conditions for breaking those rules.

This is not an easy ask. And the ambiguity of it can weigh on us. But the strain is for our benefit.

For such an exercise encourages us to think on our feet. To get comfortable with the uncomfortable. To add slack to our rigid approach.

These are the muscles we need to flex. These are the skills we need to master in order to thrive in a world that’s equal parts routine and unpredictable.

So, let’s stop fighting the Planning Paradox. Let’s stop ruing the energy we waste on plans that go bust. Let’s stop wishing that the world did away with schedules altogether.

Let’s get out of our corners. Let’s get used to thinking outside the box.

That is our only way forward in this perfectly imperfect world.

Home Away

The faded light of dawn appeared out of the airplane window, barely illuminating a dark gray wall of mountains.

There were no houses, no lights. Just the mountains, surrounded in early morning solitude.

I had no idea where I was, only where I was headed. And I had no idea what to expect when I got there.

Some time later, the plane touched down in Santiago, Chile. I groggily made my way through passport control and customs, still weary from the overnight flight. I quickly knocked the rust off my Spanish as I attempted to locate the point person for my study abroad program.

I had never met this man. I just had a name and a phone number. Fortunately, I found him a short time later.

After a few more students made their way through customs, we all got into a van and embarked on a 90-minute journey to the Pacific Coast.

All of this was new to me. I had never been to South America before. And I’d never traveled abroad alone.

Still, as we made our way through arid landscapes and coastal mountain passes, something seemed strikingly familiar about where I was heading.

This odd déjà vu continued after I arrived in Viña Del Mar — the seaside city that would my home for the next six weeks. Even after taking a nap and walking around the city, I still felt strangely comfortable.

I had never before felt like this after leaving the United States. When I traveled to Spain, France, and Italy with my family as a teenager, the unfamiliarity overwhelmed me at first.

You might think this was due to the language barrier. But I felt the same way when I traveled to England, or even Canada.

Something just felt off compared to what I was used to. And I had to adjust — quickly.

But Chile was different. It reminded me of California.

Yes, the architecture was different and everyone spoke Spanish. But the landscape and the cuisine had a distinct California vibe.

It rained every day of my first week in Chile. The skies were foreboding and the sidewalks were flooded. This all seemed so un-Californian, and it should have broken my spell. But I ignored the reminders from the heavens.

I still felt calm and reassured. The locals were quiet and reserved, a perfect match for my introverted nature. The food included steak sandwiches, French fries and hot dogs with avocado and mayonnaise — all close enough to what I could get back home. And the streets were broad and easy to navigate, much like a city in the United States.

My mood only changed when I found out about student protests engulfing the area. Students had taken over the campus of a university in nearby Valparaiso, where one of my classes was to be held. Other students were out protesting in the center of the city.

My class in Valparaiso was moved to a different building, and it went on as scheduled. But we were warned not to check out the protests going on nearby.

The Caribineros de Chile  — Chile’s national police force — routinely use tear gas and water cannons to break up protests, we were told. And the study abroad program leaders didn’t want us to risk getting injured.

My roommate ignored this advice at first. As a journalism major, he felt it was his duty to cover what was going on. So, he headed into the fray of a protest.

He returned with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose. He had stayed a couple of blocks away from the action, but tear gas doesn’t discriminate. After he washed his face, he told me he wouldn’t be heading out to check out the protests again.

The entire scenario was unsettling to me.

This was years before the Ferguson protests in Missouri, where police used tear gas and rubber bullets to assert control. Protests in the United States were mostly peaceful back then. Or at least that’s what I believed to be true.

Seeing police using such force against similar types of protests was jarring. While I had heard much about the atrocities of the Augusto Pinochet dictatorship, those days were long gone in Chile. And everything else I had seen on the ground to that point reminded me of American values.

It was my We’re not in Kansas anymore moment. I might have felt at home, but I was very much away.

So many memories come to mind when I think of my time in Chile.

There were the exotic ones: Riding horses over massive sand dunes. Skiing high in the Andes. Seeing the Southern Cross in the night sky of the Elqui Valley. And exploring Santiago — a mountainous city that seemed like a cross between Denver and New York.

And there were the familiar ones: Watching a movie at a Cinemark movie theater. Shopping at the mall. Watching the sun set over the ocean.

The similarities outstrip the differences, in my mind — even today. Even though I knew I was abroad — in a nation where police used brute force to quell unrest — the familiarity of my experience still makes me nostalgic.

Chile seemed to be proof that American-style economics and structural ideals could thrive abroad. Yes, the United States had taken some damaging steps to bring these ideals to the nation, including supporting a coup and the deadly Pinochet dictatorship that followed. But in the post-Cold War — and post-Pinochet — era, Chile appeared to be thriving and harmonious.

That synergy with my home nation is what kept me calm throughout my time south of the equator. It’s what made six weeks on another continent feel more like a day at the beach than a plunge into an icy lake. It’s what makes me yearn to return someday.

But now, I wonder if it all was a mirage.

Recently, there’s been lots of unrest in Chile.

Throughout Santiago, people have taken to the streets to protest the inequities of life there.

It all started with a 30 peso increase to the Santiago Metro fares.

This would be equivalent to a 4 cent fare increase to a public transit system in the United States. Seemingly innocuous.

However, thousands of Chileans saw it differently.

For the cost of living in Chile has gone up in recent years. But wages and employment opportunities have not kept up.

The financial situation has trapped many Chileans in poverty or on the lower end of the middle-class. The stagnation carries across generations — even older Chileans are finding that their pensions and retirement funds are far less valuable than they once expected.

It’s been a fraught situation. But the Metro fare increase was the spark that brought it to the fore.

It’s not about 30 pesos. It’s about 30 years, the protesters have been chanting. And as their anger has risen, the protests have turned ever more violent.

There are reports of protesters breaking store windows, spraying graffiti on buildings, setting fires and defacing much of the Metro system — previously one of the nicest in the world.

Police have responded with the usual display of force — tear gas and water cannons. But this time things feel different.

This time the unrest is widespread. This time the world is watching.

It makes me sad to see all of this. To see the Chile I got to know and love go up in flames.

For Chileans are not normally flamboyant or bombastic. Unlike their neighbors to the east in Argentina, Chileans are generally reserved and respectful.

To see so many of them turning to violence reminds me that they must really be hurting. They must feel as if they are without hope, and out of options for peaceful discourse.

This breaks my heart.

In my mind, Chile is a magical place. A nation with a unique mix of natural beauty, kind people and western ideals.

I’m not alone.

Many others have looked with wonder at Chile’s rise to a capitalist power over the last several decades. They refer to Chile as an economic miracle.

And instead of focusing on the nation’s checkered past, they point to its bright future.

Have we all been hoodwinked? Have we deluded ourselves into thinking that silence equated to success?

I certainly hope not.

For if capitalism has failed Chile, I shudder to think of the alternatives.

All across South America, from Argentina to Venezuela and Bolivia to Brazil, Chile’s neighbors have been roiled by political and economic crises in recent years. I wonder if a move to a different model would yield the same destructive results.

But mostly, I wonder if my memories of Chile were even reliable.

People seemed happy and content. But could they have been coerced into silence by the memories of the dictatorship? Or by the police’s heavy-handed responses to any sign of unrest?

It’s certainly possible.

Either way, I hope Chile can resolve its current issues peacefully. And I hope Chileans can find a future full of prosperity.

My home away from home deserves nothing less.