Month: November 2020

Gratitude Through Adversity

Counting our blessings.

It’s something we’re quite good at.

Perhaps it’s because we’re naturally introspective. Or perhaps it’s because we’re obsessed with keeping score.

Either way, we don’t pass up an opportunity to enumerate all that we’ve been given. Instead, we stockpile our gratitude, as if it’s a pile of gold coins in our dragon lair.

This pattern gains gravitas as the leaves fall from the trees and the winter chill sets in. It becomes unavoidable as a holiday designated for this purpose beckons.

So, we dive deep into gratefulness. We obsess over what we’ve been blessed with over the past year. And we go into overdrive to show our appreciation.

In most times, this is a harmless exercise. A healthy one, even.

But in extraordinary times, that foundation can shift.

It’s OK to not be OK.

This refrain has gained popularity in recent years, as our society has taken a fresh look at mental health.

Generally, this message is intended for those who’ve suffered psychological trauma. It’s for anyone who might be reckoning with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder — or PTSD.

Perhaps these PTSD victims witnessed a horrifying event, such as a car crash or the 9/11 attacks. Or perhaps they had been deployed to a combat zone and ended up bringing those horrors home. Either way, their realities were likely filled with dark thoughts.

The idea behind It’s OK to not be OK is that fitting in needn’t be a primary objective. Mainstream society might have its norms and expectations. But most people who make up that society don’t have the harrowing perspective that PTSD victims do. By forcing those victims to bury their emotions and conform with society, we are placing an undue burden upon them.

I’ve long recognized the importance of this idea. And yet, I can’t fully square with it.

For I haven’t experienced enough trauma firsthand for it to apply to me. And while I’ve faced many challenges throughout my life, I’ve been reluctant to apply such a mantra to them.

These bumps in the road have been setbacks, not traumas. And I’ve long maintained that the best way to respond to a setback is to plow ahead with conviction.

So, I’ve buried my discontent at the challenges I’ve faced. I’ve shaken off my disappointments. I’ve moved on.

Many others in this position have done the same. After all, America is the land of hard knocks. It is the heartland of perseverance through challenges.

This spirit goes back to the nation’s earliest years — when settlers faced lethal dangers on their journey west. It gained steam as immigrants flowed into Ellis Island, arriving destitute and devoid of protection. And it continues today, as the entrepreneurial movement reaches a fever pitch.

Picking ourselves up and dusting ourselves off has been the American way for eons.

And yet, it might be time to rethink all of that.

As I write these words, America is enduring a moment without comparison.

In less than 10 months, the nation has confronted a pandemic, a recession, a racial justice reckoning, a contentious Presidential election, and a swath of natural disasters. All of these events have hit this nation in years past. But they’ve never struck simultaneously.

In the wake of all this turmoil, a new narrative has taken hold. One that splits our society between the fortunate and the snakebit.

The idea comes from the fact that many have lost something in all of this. Loved ones, jobs, homes, dignity, sense of identity — all of these have been ripped away in an instant.

And yet, these horrors haven’t been evenly distributed. For some, the biggest departure from “normal life” has been the requirement that they wear face masks when outside their homes.

This group has kept their incomes, their health, and their joie de vivre. If not for a few visuals — such as those masks — it might seem as if nothing had changed from the days before the virus reached our shores.

Under normal Rules of Engagement for Americana, the next steps should be clear. Those ravaged by the moment should dust themselves off and get back on the horse. Those unaffected by it should proceed with business as usual.

But these are not normal times. The prospect of a socially distanced holiday season should make that painfully clear.

It’s time we recognize the cloud hanging over us all. And it’s time we throw out the old playbook.

In the eye of the storm, gratitude can seem irrelevant.

As we batten down the hatches, we’ve got little time to savor the ride. Survival is paramount.

But we’ve been riding the storm for months now. And as the season of reflection and renewal fast approaches, it’s time to face the truths we’ve long been avoiding.

First, this ordeal is affecting all of us, whether we want to admit it or not. Yes, the harm is not evenly distributed — and for some, the shadow of this moment will linger eternally. But no one is free and clear from the blast. We all have the right to remove the cloak of invincibility and be human.

Second, we have much to appreciate. The world might look drastically different, but the hallmarks of community and grace remain. Even in the darkest and most uncertain of times, we find the strength and ingenuity to pull each other through. That should not be taken for granted.

And third, gratefulness is not a competitive sport. We shouldn’t feel pressure to wear on our sleeves the blessings we feel in our hearts. Life is messy and emotions are complicated. It’s best if we leave some runway for each of us to deal with such complexity in the manner that best suits us. Judgment gets us nowhere.

If we can come to terms with these truths, we might encounter some levity. We might rekindle the spirit that generally dominates the tail-end of the calendar. We just might find ourselves again.

Times may be tough, and joy might be in short supply. But all is not lost.

Let us never forget that.

Shovel In The Road

I was driving down a Texas highway when a shovel suddenly appeared in the roadway in front of me.

This shovel was no pithy digging tool. It was a monster of forged metal. And it was a problem.

I had no idea why it was there. All I knew was it was in my way, and I was running out of time to avoid disaster.

My first instinct was to swerve. But I quickly remembered that veering out of my lane too quickly could cause the car to flip over. So, I made a more gradual shift to the highway shoulder on my right.

The maneuver went well — at first. In an instant, the solid white line marking the right edge of the highway was in front of me. Then, the concrete shoulder appeared, with no shovel in sight.

But a split-second later, I saw something else through the windshield. Green grass.

I had overshot the shoulder, and my car was now careening down an embankment.

I tried frantically to turn back to the road and to avoid getting stuck in the ditch. I tugged the wheel to the left. I pressed harder and harder on the brakes. But gravity and momentum were not cooperating.

When the car finally did come to a stop, it was at the bottom of the embankment. It was facing the wrong way, mere feet from the retaining wall.

I unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door, and did a walkaround, looking for any sign of damage. It looked like I had done one of those NASCAR burnouts, with semicircular tire track patterns in the embankment and green blades of grass sticking to the sides of my car. But somehow, the vehicle was intact.

I wandered up toward the highway to get a better view of what I had just endured. The shovel was quite a distance up the road from where I had ended up. That meant I was out of the line of fire, even if the hunk of metal was to go flying.

I started thinking about how that shovel ended up in the road.

There were a couple of possibilities.

I had been driving behind a pickup stocked with landscaping tools. Maybe those tools hadn’t been properly secured, and the shovel had slid off the back.

Or maybe the workers in the left lane, protected by orange construction cones, had been careless. Maybe a lapse in judgment had sent the shovel from their workstation into traffic.

Either answer seems far-fetched in hindsight. But at the moment of truth, each seemed likely. And I was in no mood to let them go unaddressed.

The landscaping truck was two miles down the road by now. It was too late to track it down.

But the construction crew? All that separated me from them was the highway blacktop.

I glared in their direction.

Hey! I yelled at the workers. Y’all left a shovel in the lane over there! Y’all could have gotten me killed!

The crewmembers stared at me in bewilderment for a moment. Then they got back to work. My attempt to give them a piece of my mind had come up empty.

Dejected, I got back in my car and drove up the embankment. But as I got back onto the highway, I felt a strange sensation.

Irony.

I am a completionist.

I believe that nothing is worth celebrating unless it’s finished. And that a work in progress is nothing more than a jumbled mess.

Some may confuse these sentiments with perfectionism. But there are some key differences.

Perfectionists worry about whether a job is done flawlessly. Completionists worry if the job is done, period.

There are issues with both philosophies. Perfect can be the enemy of done. And done can be the enemy of satisfactory — if the urge to clear our to-do lists supersedes common sense.

Even so, I err on the side of completionism. The chaos of a project in process leaves a sour taste in my mouth — even though I recognize that the mess of change is often drawn-out by necessity.

I want to avoid this outcome at all costs. So, I use my discomfort as fuel to get the job done.

This ethos is what’s stoked my intense work ethic. It’s why I log extra hours to make sure assignments don’t bleed into the next day. It’s why I tune out the noise and focus religiously on the task at hand.

Others have asked why I drive myself into the ground like this, day after day. And I’ve generally responded to these inquiries with a proverb.

Don’t leave a shovel in the road.

For years, this had been nothing more than a figure of speech. But not anymore.

Now, I had gotten up close and personal with an actual shovel in the road.

I had seen the dangers. I had felt the risk.

And I didn’t like it one bit.

Half-measures are having a moment like never before.

As the world reckons with everything from pandemics to natural disasters, less and less feels guaranteed.

And with tomorrow more uncertain than ever before, we are putting less effort into sorting out today.

The urge to finish what we started seems to be waning. For what good is the feeling of a job well done when our lives are upside down? Better to do only what’s needed to get through the day, the week, the month. And then to clean up the mess once the dust settles.

At least that’s the way that many see our present predicament.

I understand this sentiment. I too have sometimes struggled to maintain motivation at a time when normal is becoming a faded memory.

But we need to fight through our malaise.

For danger lies beneath the fog of the moment. The danger that leaving a mess can bring.

And we’d really rather not come face-to-face with it.

We don’t want to relive my nightmare from that Texas highway. We don’t want to end up careening down the embankment, veering from one near-disaster to another.

So, we have an obligation not to leave the shovel in the road. We have a responsibility to tidy up.

In both good times and bad, we must be good stewards for ourselves and our neighbors. We must do our part to make the world a safer and more vibrant place.

Let’s keep our eyes on the prize. Let’s finish what we started.

Let’s get that shovel out of the road.

On Sacrifice

He was 17 years old.

He had never been on an airplane — or even a long train ride — before. All he knew of the world beyond the horizon came from newspaper columns, radio bulletins, and the names on the visiting team’s baseball jerseys.

But despite all that, my grandfather felt compelled. Compelled to sacrifice the only existence he had ever known, in order to protect his country.

It was 1945. The world had been at war for 6 years. The United States was avenging the Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbor, all while rebuking the atrocities of fascism in Europe.

My grandfather was a boy when the conflict started. But as he neared adulthood, the casualties were still mounting and the outcome of the war was still uncertain. So, he thrust himself into the fray and volunteered for the United States Navy.

His service obligations would take him westward, to Illinois and California. And while a freak injury kept him from combat in the Pacific theater, my grandfather still had to adapt to a new reality.

In the service, my grandfather’s clothes consisted of his Naval uniform. His bed was a simple bunk. Rules of decorum were paramount — salute senior officers, follow orders, and defend the base at all times.

Later in life, my grandfather would speak fondly of those days. Life in the Navy wasn’t always as vibrant and free as civilian life. But he never doubted his decision to join its ranks.

In his mind, the sacrifice was justified.

My grandfather’s tale of sacrifice is hardly unique. Similar tales have been told throughout our nation’s history.

In the earliest days, farmers abandoned their fields to take up arms against the Redcoats — even as capture meant certain death. Decades later, as a Civil War enveloped the country, entire communities rushed to the battlefields and the carnage that awaited them there.

Even in modern times, scores of young Americans have voluntarily uprooted themselves — trading the familiar lifestyle of their hometown for a tour of duty in a faraway conflict. It’s a calling as sacred today as it was centuries ago.

As a nation, we give lip service to these sacrifices. We honor active duty service members with standing ovations at sports events, and with discounts on cars and homes. We have a holiday each November for our veterans, along with myriad parades in their honor.

But many of us don’t understand the totality of the sacrifices these brave men and women make.

How could we? We have no reference point for the experience.

Or at least we haven’t thus far.

As I write these words, a pandemic is afflicting the world.

The pandemic is not a war. At least not in a traditional sense.

The objective of this struggle is not to kill each other or claim territory. Instead, we are trying to repel a common enemy. A microscopic virus that has claimed more than a million lives worldwide in less than a year.

In different corners of the globe, the fight has taken different shapes. Some nations have imposed harsh lockdowns. Others have restricted activities that help spread the virus. And still others have abdicated responsibility entirely.

The United States has been hardest hit by the pandemic, with nearly 10 percent of global cases and one-fifth of all deaths. Early initiatives to fend off the threat have given way to partisanship, impatience and anger. And while we’ve bickered, the virus has continued spread devastation.

We are in crisis. And in the midst of the crisis, we find ourselves making profound sacrifices.

We have no choice in the matter. Even if we want to live our lives as normal — pretending the pandemic isn’t raging all around us — we cannot. The businesses we rely on look different, with reduced capacities and mask mandates in place. Many schools are closed, and many jobs are furloughed.

There are many drivers behind these shifts — health safety, economic reality, and buffers against litigation. Regardless of the reason, they’ve required us to change our ways.

This has not been easy to deal with. Many of us cherished the life we had before the virus ripped it from us. Even if we didn’t, the pandemic hasn’t exactly provided us a rosier alternative.

For we are social beings, stimulated by interaction and anchored in tradition. The virus has threatened these pillars of our existence, and pivoting away from them is difficult.

The longer this drags on, the more we come to understand the sacrifices of our military. We might not face the acute risks of combat. But we are now well-versed with the sensation of being far from home.

Thank you.

These are two simple words. But they can speak volumes.

Whenever I speak with a military member — whether active duty or veteran — I show my appreciation. I know that they are making profound sacrifices to protect our nation, and everything it stands for. And I am grateful for it.

I am not alone in this sentiment. But it hasn’t always been this way.

In the time between my grandfather’s Naval service and my own existence, many Americans turned on the military. Veterans of the Vietnam War found themselves spat upon and branded as baby killers upon their return home. And that sentiment was never fully extinguished.

I’ve never quite understood this vitriol. I’ve never quite reconciled the desire to demonize those who protect us.

Perhaps this is true because I grew up in the shadow of the Cold War. Or perhaps it’s the case because I vividly remember the 9/11 attacks. But either way, I could never imagine turning on those who serve. It’s a bridge too far.

So now, I wonder if this pandemic experience will change us for the better. I wonder if this prolonged period of sacrifice has opened our eyes to what others have for so long given up. And I wonder if we can look upon those choices with dignity, rather than disdain. With empathy rather than anger.

I certainly hope that is the case.

Those who sacrifice on our behalf deserve the formal recognition, the holidays, the pomp and circumstance. But most of all, they deserve our respect and gratitude. They deserve to be told that what they do matters.

So, let’s honor their sacrifices. Today and forever.

Enfranchised

I stood in line, outside of a palm-lined church.

It was early in the morning, on a Tuesday in Florida. And I was preparing to take part in an election.

As I waited for the opportunity to cast my ballot, a strange feeling came over me.

I was a first-time voter. I hadn’t been old enough to vote in prior federal elections, so I had never experienced any of this firsthand.

Now, I was about to make a consequential decision. One of the most consequential of my life to date.

I was about to have my say over who would be the next President of the United States.

The line started to move. Moments later, I was handing a poll worker my voter registration card. And then I was in a booth, my ballot in front of me, and the moment of truth at hand.

What would my next move be?

I am a planner.

Like an expert chess player, I am always thinking two or three steps ahead. I am always seeking to avoid surprises.

So, as I embarked on my first voting journey, I had already done my homework.

I had followed the news coverage of the race. I had checked out the candidates’ websites. And I’d attended rallies for each of them — one of the benefits of attending college in a major city in a swing state.

Yet, none of it made the decision any less clear to me.

With the incumbent U.S. President facing term limits, each candidate would be new to the role. Plus, they would be taking the helm during the worst economic recession in a generation.

I found each intriguing in different ways. But I wondered how well their campaign slogans would hold up in the face of our nation’s bleak reality.

There were no easy answers. And so, as I stood in the voting booth that November morning, I agonized over my decision.

What if I made the wrong choice? What would that decision say about me?

I could feel the gravity of the moment crushing me. But as the pressure mounted, a voice in my head urged me to take a step back. To lift my gaze from the names on the paper and to think of the bigger picture.

For this moment was special.

Never again would I have the luxury of making a choice like this with no track record. Never again would I be free to decide without the crushing weight of precedent. Never again would I be a blank slate.

Remember this moment, I told myself. Cherish it.

After a few moments of hemming and hawing, I made my choice. I filled out the remainder of the ballot, submitted it, and left the polling place.

On the short walk home, I kept replaying the prior moments in my mind. How would I explain my choice to others who asked about it?

I didn’t have to wait long to find the answers.

Once I made it back to the house, I fixed up some breakfast. As I did, one of my housemates walked into the kitchen. He noticed my I voted sticker and asked me who I chose to be the next President.

I gave my answer, and he followed up with another question: Why?

I like the platform the other guy was running on, I replied. I do. But I just don’t trust him to get it done.

My housemate listened intently. He was not an American citizen, and thus would not be voting. This interaction would be the closest he got to the election.

He was the perfect person to spill the beans to regarding my choice. He had no skin in the game and no prejudice.

The conversation loosened me up. Whether my ideology was being fossilized or cognitive dissonance was setting in, I don’t know. But I felt more confident in my decision than ever. I knew I had made the right choice.

Later that evening, I stared at the television in disbelief. “The other guy” — the one who I thought was too ambitious to succeed — had won the White House.

My vote had come up short.

I stared at the image on the screen, the one that read President-Elect Barack Obama. It didn’t seem real.

But as I mused about what the months and years ahead would look like, I didn’t sulk or despair. I remained hopeful.

Change was coming. And while I might not have selected the particular brand of change, it was still an electrifying moment.

Then, there was the lineage aspect. Barack Obama would be the first Black president in United States history.

I thought immediately of my grandfather. He was likely sitting in his easy chair, about 1300 miles north of me, at that moment.

My grandfather had seen a lot in his eight decades of life. But while he had voted in 14 elections before, he had never experienced development like this. It was as new for him as it was for me.

My sense of shock was replaced by one of awe. A simple process — standing in line and casting a ballot — had consequences that were truly profound.

There are few more precious rights in America than that of the franchise.

Our nation operates under the charter of freedom. Of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

And central to that charter is the ability to choose. We can decide where to live. We can decide how to earn our keep. And we can decide who can represent us in government.

Of course, not all of us have had this ability over the years. Women and ethnic minorities have infamously only had the power of the vote for about a century or less. But these days, the biggest thing stopping us from voting is ourselves.

Politics have roiled us, divided us, and stigmatized us in recent years. We’ve come to view political parties as if they were rival football teams, instead of two components of a common goal. And those stakes have made Election Day more frightening to many than the Halloween holiday that precedes it.

But while our cultural fragmentations have made elections fraught, they are still critical. The mandate of our charter of freedom is still intact. And it’s up to us to fight through the angst and fulfill our obligations.

Doing what is uncomfortable is never easy. But perhaps, a change of perspective can help. By taking our mind off the consequences of the task at hand — and instead, taking a wider view — we might find all the motivation we need to get the job done.

So, let’s recapture the wonder of voting. Let’s harken back to that feeling we had the first time we stood at the polling place.

The awe. The power. The goosebumps. Let’s summon those once again.

The act of voting matters as much as the choices we make. Let’s make sure it matters to us.