Month: October 2020

Five

It started with a tremble, and a rush.

It was October 2015, and I was about to put myself out there in a way I never had before.

I had set up a website. And now, I was ready to post my first article there, for all the world to see.

Well, not entirely ready.

I knew that once I hit Publish, there would be no turning back. Anyone could read my words. And my sense of anonymity would be gone.

That might not seem like a big deal to many. But for me, it would be a watershed moment. And I wasn’t about to rush into it.

So, I checked the site to make sure everything was perfect. I took a deep breath. And with a tremble of anticipation and a rush of adrenaline, I clicked that Publish button.

My first article on Words of the West was titled I Am Not Perfect. It was a raw ode to my own imperfection. More poetry than anything of substance.

Publishing it felt like a big first step. But that step only matters if there are more to follow.

So, I sat down that night and committed to a schedule. I’d write a new article each week moving forward, no matter what.

I’d like to say that decision changed everything. But it didn’t. At least not initially.

Indeed, there was more art than wisdom in the articles that followed. My writing remained short and punchy. Easily read and easily forgotten.

It wasn’t until my sixth article that I really wrote anything of note — Darkness In The Light, my firsthand account of the 9/11 attacks. The words flowed from my mind to my fingers and on to the keyboard. And as they did, the emotions spilled out of me.

Experiences like this were why I had taken the leap to create Words of the West. This article was something I had longed to share with the world for years. Now, I finally had the platform — and the courage — to give this story the light of day.

This was the type of writing I needed to replicate. This was my North Star.

But, there are only so many profound, emotional experiences in my life. Turning them into articles week in and week out would be an untenable challenge.

And so, less than two months into my venture, I found myself at a crossroads.

As I determined what to do next, I thought of the renowned marketing guru Seth Godin. Seth maintains a daily blog, and he has posted something fresh there each day for a number of years. Some are more profound than others. But they are there, every day.

Seth is a teacher at heart, and he is open with his writing process. Much of his modus operandi comes down to three words: Ship your work.

In other words, stick to your schedule. The doing is more important than the perfecting.

This advice was all I needed to move forward. I leaned in, and let the articles flow.

At first, this seemed like a step back. The articles that directly followed Darkness In The Light were the same vanilla material that had existed before it.

But eventually, the writing got lengthier. It got stronger. It got more nuanced.

Over time, I found my voice.

This article is coming to you exactly five years after I Am Not Perfect first appeared on this website. It is the 262nd piece of writing I am sharing with you — all in consecutive weeks.

That’s quite the streak. One that I’ve kept going despite a number of disruptions in my life over those 262 weeks.

I persevered because the streak matters. Words of the West matters. You, my dear readers, matter.

On tough weeks, you keep me motivated. On good ones, you keep me inspired. And that motivation, that inspiration — it’s what keeps me going.

The engine is always churning. There are always more thoughts to be shared. There is always more that can be written.

The words I write might not always be finely polished. The thoughts I share might not always be agreeable.

They’re raw and they’re real. And collectively, they matter.

Yes, these five years of articles are more than the conglomeration of 262 narratives. They’re the first segment of a long and fulfilling journey.

It’s fitting that I speak of journeys as Words of the West turns five.

For not long after I turned five, my family went on our first journey.

One summer day, my parents buckled my sister and I into the back seat of a sedan. They loaded the car with supplies. And they steered the car toward Maine.

Over the next few weeks, we would explore lighthouses along jagged coastlines. We would hike in the serene wilderness Acadia National Park. We would eat copious amounts of lobster. And we would camp under the stars.

Decades later, I still remember this trip in vivid detail. But the journey that came before it — the early years of my life — the memories of that are a lot blurrier.

This is understandable.

Our brains are still developing in our infancy and toddlerhood. We spend that time soaking up experience like a sponge.

It’s only after we build that database that our memory becomes sticky. Only then do we have a frame of reference to build off of.

Perhaps the same principle applies to Words of the West. After all, the world has seen a dizzying array of change over the past half-decade — from social unrest to environmental disasters to a pandemic-fueled recession. These shifts have permanently transformed us, altering our frame of reference.

Recounting all this might seem distressing. Yet, I find a strange comfort in this theory.

For it shows that everything is a work in progress — both the author’s work and the reader’s perspective. It shows that we all have room to grow. And it shows that there is still a mission to follow.

It’s my great privilege to continue that mission. And it’s my great honor to have you along for the ride.

Here’s to all that lies ahead.

The Confidence Conundrum

No chance.

How many times have you heard this retort, when you brought up something you thought would happen? And how many times have those doubts led you to question your own beliefs?

Probably more than once.

Skepticism has a powerful pull over us. It helps us stay in line with reality, and aligns our expectations with those of society.

As communal creatures, we are hard-wired to heed these warnings. They keep us from straying too far from the pack. They shield us from danger.

And yet, we lose quite a bit in this exchange. The principles of creativity, exploration and self-conviction all go by the wayside. Our toolkit for handling adversity is emaciated.

How do we take back our individualism without finding ourselves lost in the wilderness? And how can we summon the courage to explore new frontiers without paying a heavy price for doing so?

Such crossroads make up the Confidence Conundrum.

I am a man of faith.

Not in the way you might expect. I do believe in God, but you’re not likely to find me in a house of worship as the week winds down.

No, I am a man of great faith in myself. I believe that I will achieve and persevere.

Such self-belief has been critical throughout my life. It’s helped me navigate both adolescence and adulthood. And it’s helped me rebound from the setbacks I encountered along the way.

But such faith is not completely unbridled. There have been plenty of moments that have given me trepidation.

Some of these moments — such as the start of a new job — make many of us queasy. Others — such as moving to a new apartment or assembling furniture — are less prevalent concerns.

The situations that give me pause might seem disparate. Random even.

But they have one thing in common. They represent moments of rapid change.

I don’t do well with quick transitions. I rely heavily on precedent and routine to guide my actions. And when normalcy gets uprooted, it’s as if the rug was pulled out from under me.

So, I slow the pace when the winds of change hit. Instead of blasting blindly into the unknown, I let the dust settle before making my move.

It’s a pattern that’s worked well for me. But it’s not exactly a commonly espoused one.

There are a few places we know to expect the unexpected. Where the improbable becomes plausible.

This happens with Disney movies. It happens with the Texas weather. And it happens with the world of sports.

Sports encompasses a world of matchups. Of head to head competition. Of the victors and the vanquished.

The binary nature of sports can tempt us to handicap. To assess the match ahead of time and make our predictions.

Anyone who has donned fancy clothes to attend a horse race, tuned in to a two-hour football pregame show or placed a wager at a sportsbook knows how prevalent this practice is.

We prognosticate so that we can get a handle on what’s coming. We predict so that our emotions are primed for what we are to experience.

And we use a bevy of information for this process. Advanced statistics. Detailed strategic analyses. Even physical attributes, such as the size of the athletes.

The predictions we garner from all this information do come to pass — some of the time. But not always.

There are plenty of upset victories in sports. There are countless instances where the team or competitor deemed too small, too inexperienced or too talent-deficient comes out on top.

Why does this keep happening? How have we not learned from our errors by now?

The answer is intangible. It comes down to the one measure we can’t measure: Confidence.

Athletes believe in themselves. They draw on their experience and ability to give themselves a competitive edge. They’re not focused on the might of their opponents or anything else outside their own orbit. They’re honed in on what they can do when given an opportunity.

Sometimes that confidence can prove to be misguided. I once attended a high school football game in West Texas where the kids on the hometown team were half the size of their opponents. I could see that the home team believed in themselves despite the size disadvantage. And they did indeed hang tough for a bit. But the final score was still lopsided in favor of the other team.

Still, there are plenty of times when that confidence gives an athlete or team all the edge they need. When that self-belie  is the slingshot David needs to slay Goliath.

It’s what we love about sports. Unless, of course, our team is the one bested by the plucky upstart.

Talent only takes you so far. Belief is everything.

Simple choices.

As the world gets more nuanced, we seem to want these more than ever.

So, we delude ourselves. We look for examples of binary decisions and foist them upon our complex world.

Sports is Exhibit A of this.

Think about how many sports terms are now part of our everyday vernacular.

Swinging for the fences. Playing hardball. Three strikes and you’re out.

And that’s just baseball.

We love to use these terms. They’re catchy and they flow well.

But they really don’t work the same outside the lines.

This is particularly the case when it comes to confidence. It’s tempting to tell ourselves that if athletes can keep the faith in all circumstances, we can too.

But this is a critical error.

In sports, victory is all that’s on the line. Athletes are simply looking for the chance to be better than someone else at a particular feat.

In other words, the floor is high. Professional athletes will get paid, win or lose. The worst outcome they might face (outside of injury) is that their season will end before someone else can hoist a trophy.

Even amateur competitors likely won’t see the bottom drop out. Their worst outcome is the dashing of their professional athletic dreams. And even if that happens, they walk away with an advanced degree in leadership, teamwork and preparation.

So, there’s really no reason for athletes not to be confident. In the grand scheme of things, what’s on the line isn’t all that dire.

The same can’t be said for all of us in the world outside of sports. If we walk into a situation we’re ill-equipped to handle, armed only with a dose of self-belief, we risk it all. We could end up delegitimized, destitute and devoid of hope.

Then again, self-doubt is also insidious. If we don’t believe in ourselves at all, we punt on our potential and cede control of our destiny.

This is a puzzle of the highest order. A quandary we can’t afford to sidestep.

It’s imperative that we recognize this conundrum for what it is. And that we strategize accordingly.

That strategy can take many forms. Some may do as I do, and pick certain spots in which to be cautious. Others may keep their sense confidence close to the vest, believing in themselves without letting the world know it.

But regardless, we must identify The Confidence Conundrum. And we must come to terms with it.

The stakes are simply too high to do otherwise.

All For Naught

We toiled away in the hot sun.

Our task was to build a sandcastle. And as the salty air clung to our skin and the sea breeze lingered, my sister and I were hard at work.

We would fill buckets with coarse sand. Then, we’d return to the build site and invert the buckets, molding that packed sand into a series of turrets and exterior walls.

It was an amateur operation, to be sure. But for a couple of kids under the age of 8, it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.

My father watched us intently. He was the one who had given us our marching orders, and he was also overseeing the construction.

My father was fully qualified for the job. He didn’t have an engineering degree. But he did have a habit of fixing sink drains and rehanging picture frames whenever we visited friends and family.

The hosts wouldn’t ask my father to fix these issues. Instead, he’d insist on doing so. For it ate at him to see something askew.

Given his background, my father wasn’t going to let his kids build some flimsy sandcastle. So, when he instructed us to build a moat around the castle, we went all in. It wasn’t long before the modest castle was surrounded by a ditch so wide, it might as well have been a Bayou.

When it was complete, I stood and admired our masterpiece.

This creation will endure, I thought. It will still be standing tomorrow.

But as I envisioned all this, I felt seawater crash into my legs.

A rouge wave had invaded our moat. And just like that, our castle was gone.

My experience on that day was not unique.

Beachgoing kids the world over have similar stories to tell. Heck, the Ocean Swallows Sandcastle tale is practically a rite of passage for anyone who’s spent their summers under a sea breeze.

I was stunned at first, but I quickly got over the ordeal. There were plenty of other beach activities to take part in.

And yet, I’ve never quite forgotten the experience. Or what it stood for.

As I saw my sand creation wash away, I learned firsthand that there is no way to guard against chance. We can follow all the right procedures and still have our creations swiped from us. Our hard work can be all for naught.

That’s a difficult pill to swallow for anyone. But as we get older, the gut punch feels especially poignant.

After all, the longer the road back, the harder it is to reboot.

Fall seven times. Stand up eight.

This is an old Japanese proverb. One that Converse turned into a shoe commercial featuring basketball superstar Dwyane Wade.

This proverb resonates because it’s relatable. Many of us have been knocked down in our lives. But we’ve still found a way to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and keep going.

Yes, resilience is a hallmark of American culture. We root for the underdogs, embrace adversity and openly share the challenges we overcome.

I’m not sure whether this zeal comes from our rugged past or our love of narrative. Either way, most American success stories seem to come in the face of resistance.

Still, these stories gloss over a critical detail. The fall we endure is relatively minor, while the climb from the depths is more sustained.

This narrative pattern fits with literary tradition. As >Kurt Vonnegut once said, people want to see the hero go from average to well above average.

We can stomach the idea of our hero falling into a hole. That stumble is just a character-building detour on our way to glory.

But the concept of a hero plummeting off a cliff? The prospect of building something up just to lose it all? That makes us queasy.

And yet, that’s the scenario we all too often face.

Like many writers, I am an introvert.

I once took an assessment for my job. On it, I scored 96 out of 100 for introversion. It was a mark that would make a hermit blush.

I embrace solitude. I am not afraid of silence.

Yet, my independent streak has its limits. I’ve lived more than a thousand miles away from my family for my entire adult life. And throughout that time, I’ve come to recognize how important it is to rely on others.

So, I’ve embraced the world beyond my door. I’ve expanded my circle of influence, making friends and gaining connections along the way. And I’ve taken some volunteer leadership positions — including the local chapter presidency for my alma mater.

I fortified my castle, stepping well out of my comfort zone to build a life the younger me would have found unfathomable. I was reaching my pinnacle. I had it all.

And then, it was taken away.

Much like that rouge wave at the beach, a deadly virus came out of nowhere to disrupt reality. It forced all of us to cut off social interactions, cancel events and avoid travel.

The initial shock proved tolerable. But as weeks turned into months, I started to see all the progress I’d made over a decade washed away.

Suddenly, I was fighting to hang on to friendships. I was parting with time-honored traditions. And I was losing my touch as a leader.

The virus hadn’t taken my life or my livelihood. But it had taken nearly everything else.

All the progress I had made over years was now all for naught.

It can be hard to reckon with the truth. To see all you’ve built dropped and scattered like the aftermath of a Jenga game.

And yet, this is the situation I found myself in, under the shadow of the virus.

I wasn’t alone.

Many of us have had something ripped from us in this ordeal. Some have lost a way of life or a sense of community. Others have lost loved ones or careers.

Coming to terms with such a loss is challenging enough. But we must also face the prospect of moving forward. Of starting that long climb back, without time and energy on our side.

We must consider all that progress that was stripped from us. Was all that effort worthwhile? Is heartbreak inevitable?

These are tough questions to face. But face them we must.

I don’t have all the answers. Heck, I am struggling with this as much as anyone.

And yet, I am hopeful.

I am hopeful that my will to plow forward will carry me. I am hopeful my desire to build from the ruins will endure. And I am hopeful that chance will be on my side this time.

Maybe hope is enough to sustain us. Maybe not. But I’m counting on it, as much as anyone.

For without hope, all is truly for naught. And that’s a state of mind we can all do without.

Holding On

The phone rang, and I reached for the bedside table to grab it.

It was 4 in the morning, and I was still half-asleep. But I recognized the phone number immediately. It was my work line.

Normally, such an occurrence would lead one to seek professional help. It would be unusual to field a call from work at such an early hour — let alone one from your own desk.

But I was working as a TV news producer in West Texas at the time, and the word normal didn’t really apply to anything. So, I picked up the phone.

On the other end of the line was the morning producer at my station. She cut straight to the chase.

So, there was a murder at your apartment complex. Can you scope out the scene and send us some photos to use on the air?

I felt a lump in my throat, and the hairs on my arms stood on edge. But I immediately agreed.

I put on some jeans, shoes and a jacket. And I headed outside.

It was a December night. The air was frigid, with temperatures hovering in the mid-20s. And all around me, it was quiet and still.

I had never covered a murder before. But I knew a what to look for.

I grew up not far from a rough neighborhood, and occasionally trouble would arrive at our street. I wouldn’t run and hide when this happened. Instead, I would watch intently, entranced by the flashing police lights.

So, as I made my way around my apartment complex, I looked for those flashing lights. Lights would lead to action, and action would allow me to take the pictures our morning producer needed.

And yet, I found no lights. No pools of blood. No silhouettes of police investigators.

Everything was deathly silent and still.

I was perplexed. Where did this crime happen? Did I miss something?

I was close to giving up when I heard a subdued hum cutting through the silence. Walking toward the sound, I found several squad cars and a forensics van, all with their lights off and their engines on.

Inside a nearby apartment was the crime scene — a mere 300 feet from where I had been sleeping moments earlier. I took pictures on my smartphone until my hands froze. Then, I headed back to the safety of my apartment.

 

There are few true essentials in life. But food, clothing and shelter certainly make the shortlist.

And when choosing a place for that shelter — a place to call home — there are certain criteria that must be met. Space, amenities and safety are chief among them.

I thought my apartment had met the requisite marks when I decided to sign my lease. But now, someone lay murdered a football field away from my bed, and I was questioning my choices.

Worse, I was worrying about what others would think. There were only 10 murders a year in town, and each would make the news. Now, my pictures of the police cars and forensic van would be airing on my station’s morning show, adding to that sad legacy.

Would people look at me differently, now that this had happened so close to my home? Was I safe? Would I need to get a gun?

I had no idea.

When I made it in to work that afternoon, my colleagues were talking about the murder.

Isn’t that where you live? they asked. I could only nod.

We ran the story on the news, using fresh video footage of the complex our cameraman had shot that afternoon. It was uncomfortable and strange.

Then, it was over.

In the days that followed, the news turned to other matters. A snowstorm was headed our way. Christmas was right around the corner. Both of those topics seemed more relevant than following the cold trail of an apartment murder.

And so, the news world moved on. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Those same questions were nagging at me. The answers were as elusive as ever.

And so, I took a stand.

Using my TV news skills, I tracked down the incident reports. To my surprise, those reports didn’t come from the police or the county sheriff’s office. They came from the United States Marshals.

It turns out that the murder was part of a botched drug robbery. A few young men had tried to take the stash of one of my neighbors. When the neighbor confronted them, the men shot him dead in his own doorway.

It was a terrible story, and one that unfolded as the victim’s children were sleeping in an adjoining bedroom. And the Marshals were only involved because the suspects had ties to drug rings in multiple states.

Nevertheless, I thought the information was compelling. So, I pitched it to the newsroom in our afternoon meeting.

My boss — the station’s news director — replied with a pointed question. Are you only pitching this update because the murder happened at your apartment complex?

I replied that I wasn’t, instead emphasizing the presence of the U.S. Marshals on the case. How often was it that the feds picked up a local apartment murder, I asked?

Well, alright, my boss replied. We can feature a short update. But let’s not forget about the other stories we’re covering today.

Our news operation was looking to move on once again.

Years have passed since all this happened. And with the benefit of hindsight, I understand my boss’ decision.

News moves a mile a minute. It’s the ultimate What have you done for me lately industry.

With so much action to chase, it made no sense to dwell on old stories. Unless, of course, there was a compelling case for doing so.

And yet, dwelling on the details is exactly what we need.

For the news we’re served is sensational. It alarms us and disturbs us.

Journalists hunt for these types of stories, time and time again. Despite our complaints about them, they’re all we respond to.

Many news operations have tried the good news only approach. It hasn’t worked. Sensationalism still rules the day in the end.

And yet, journalists fail to provide us any sort of closure for their sensationalist reports. They punt on providing any healing for the wounds they’ve opened.

Such closure would violate journalistic ethics. And there are too many other novel stories for journalists to chase down anyway.

And so, it’s up to us to connect the dots. To research what ultimately happened with each story, and what we can take from it.

Such a process might make little difference in certain cases — such as a drug robbery murder. But in others it can mean everything.

Few events in living memory have jolted the world like the recent pandemic.

As the virus spread across the globe, concerned citizens had little recourse. There was nowhere to hide from the virus’ advance, and no bona fide treatment for it once infected.

It was a perilous moment, but journalists rose to meet it.

For months, news organizations covered the pandemic from three angles — the situation on the ground in the healthcare realm, the effect on the economy, and tips for avoiding infection.

These angles provided a healthy balance. One that was sorely needed in a world filled with unknowns.

But soon, journalists moved on to other matters. The movement for social justice was sweeping across America. Wildfires and hurricanes were threatening the coasts. And a presidential election loomed.

Attention turned away from the pandemic, even as it remained a devastating event.

In the shadow of news coverage, many did the best they could to hold on to the story. They tracked caseload dashboards. They looked for statements from public health officials. And they tried to make day-to-day decisions based on all of this information.

But others demurred. To them, the lack of coverage seemed to indicate that the nightmare was over. They let their guard down, even as the pandemic continued to rage.

The peril only deepened.

I wonder if this all could have been avoided.

I wonder what would have happened if news organizations had stopped chasing shiny objects. I wonder what the future would look like if journalists had clung like zebra mussels to this story, and helped the world across the finish line.

We’ll never know, of course. But that doesn’t make the question an empty one.

For the information we’re exposed to can have devastating effects. Learning that our neighbor was murdered can make it harder for us to sleep at night. Seeing so many people felled by disease and recession can fill our days with angst and dread.

We should not have to navigate these choppy seas alone. We deserve assistance.

And so, it’s time for the information providers to change their tune.

It’s time to end the practice of hitting us with headlines. It’s time to dig deeper. It’s time to follow the stories worthy of our attention, all the way to the finish line.

Then, and only then, can we be whole. Then, and only then, can the news lead to positive change in our lives.

So, yes. Holding on is trying. But it’s a challenge worth accepting.