Month: May 2021

The Heart of Morality

I just want to do the right thing.

Many of us have uttered these words after doing something unorthodox.

Staying on the straight and narrow sometimes involves deviating from routine procedures or making personal sacrifices. And this can envelop us with a sense of cognitive dissonance.

Whenever we veer off-script, a conflict emerges between the norm we’re breaking with and the result we’re seeking. Reminding ourselves that we’re doing the right thing helps reconcile that conflict.

The right thing can seem like a nebulous term. But the code it’s based upon is not.

We call that code morality.

Morality means everything to us. It’s the standard we judge others on. And it’s what we critique ourselves on as well.

But how do we derive morality? How do we distinguish between what’s appropriate and what’s unjust?

Many of us believe the answer is basic logic. We claim that tapping into widely accepted values helps us determine what to do next. And we argue that morality is simply the process of following those markers.

It’s a tidy argument. But the truth of the matter is far more complicated.

The final months of 2001 were nothing short of surreal.

America had endured the September 11th attacks. Our military had sent troops to Afghanistan to root out those responsible for the violence. Our economy was in a recession and a sense of tension was in the air.

I was in my early teens at the time, which made these events particularly jarring. In an instant, my youthful innocence was ripped away. A sobering reality took its place.

I went through all the emotions that come with trauma in those months. I oscillated between anger, fear, and sadness. But mostly, I was filled with confusion.

The terrorists who organized the September 11th attacks had committed unspeakable acts — killing 3,000 innocent Americans, toppling skyscrapers, and blasting a hole in the Pentagon. And yet, they claimed they were in the right. They blamed America for a culture of sin. And they touted the morality of their actions.

All of this made no sense to me.

How would sending operatives 5,000 miles to indiscriminately kill civilians be viewed as moral? It violated one of the Ten Commandments from the Bible. (Thou shalt not kill.) And it ran afoul of the guidance of the Quran. (You shall not take life, except by way of justice and law.)

To me, it was as if these terrorists had stacked a crime on a crime. They had done more than just violate the code of morality. They had ripped the code to shreds. This made them evil, in my mind, and thereby worthy of purging.

So, as I slogged through adolescence and early adulthood, I was filled with thoughts of vengeance. I openly cheered the killing of Osama Bin Laden. And I turned a blind eye to the torture of detainees accused of terrorism.

It all seemed so clear to me. Anyone who so blatantly disavowed the code of morality had to be eliminated. I stuck by this logic, even as it took me to darker and darker places.

But then, some new examples of misaligned morals enveloped our society. And this time, the situation was far murkier.

The killing of unarmed Black teens by law enforcement — a longstanding problem — gained widespread attention following the death of Michael Brown in 2014. Protestors took to the streets in Ferguson, Missouri in pursuit of racial justice.

Those protests grew violent, with looting and mayhem. This led to a militarized law enforcement response. Police sprayed tear gas, threw smoke bombs, and fired rubber bullets at the protesters.

In the wake of this confrontation, both sides claimed they were in the right. Supporters of law enforcement said it was their moral duty to prevent looting and assault. The protestors believed considered racial justice to be their moral quest. A calling that superseded the code of laws they might break along the way.

Neither claim to morality was fully upheld. But neither was refuted either. And in the years since then, the debate over morality has only grown fiercer. It’s become a defining marker of our societal divisions.

It’s uncomfortable living in conflict like this. So, we keep seeking to close the gap.

We search for that one bit of logic that will neutralize the other side, settling this debate once and for all. And, in the process, we keep finding nothing but futility.

Perhaps it’s time we try a new approach.

On October 6, 1965, the Los Angeles Dodgers dropped the first game of the World Series to the Minnesota Twins. Many players had a hand in the result. But one man who never saw the field seemed to grab the most attention.

Sandy Koufax — the Dodgers’ best pitcher — was supposed to take the mound in Minnesota that day. But October 6th also happened to be the date of Yom Kippur — the holiest day of the Jewish calendar — that year. Koufax, who is Jewish, refused to pitch on that day.

Many criticized Koufax for abandoning his job at such an important juncture. It seemed immoral to some.

But Koufax’s choice might actually have been the purest example of morality at work.

Baseball was Koufax’s profession. He was a steady, dominant force in a sport that meant a great deal to him. But his faith also mattered. It was as much a part of his values as baseball was.

So, when Koufax found the two halves of his identity in conflict, he listened to his heart and made his decision.

Yes, Koufax let emotion — not logic — define his morality. That gave him the clarity and conviction he needed to see his decision through.

The example Sandy Koufax set might seem extreme. But it’s far from extraordinary.

When we drop everything to be there for family or friends in need, we’re following our moral compass. And we’re often doing this at the expense of our logical one.

In a vacuum, such choices make little sense. They’re inconvenient and they pull us away from proven patterns of success.

Still, we can’t imagine not making these decisions. They clearly seem like the right thing to do.

It’s our emotions that are guiding us to go the extra mile. It’s our feelings that are helping us be there in the moments that matter. It’s our hearts that are defining our sense of morality.

Our emotions help us distinguish right from wrong. And through this process, we realize what it truly means to be human.

As such, our mandate is clear.

We must stop relying on logic alone to delineate right and wrong. We must listen to our hearts as well.

It’s our obligation to look beyond our self-interest. It’s our duty to care about each other, be good to each other and be there for each other.

So, the next time we’re faced with a tough choice, let’s resist the temptation to break out the spreadsheets. Let’s give our hearts the chance to guide the way.

Eraser Marks

Have you heard of Julius Caesar? What about Alexander Hamilton?

There’s a good chance you have. And not because you had a salad for lunch or watched a Broadway musical at some point.

We know these names because we are students of history.

In America, we learn about the history of our own nation in school. We also learn of those societies that came before — such as the Roman Empire.

Reminders exist far beyond the classroom walls as well. Idioms, memes, and other colloquial wisdom weave the markers of history into the fabric of our culture.

These lessons allow us to capitalize on what those before us did well. They also allow us to avoid repeating what our predecessors did poorly.

It’s been this way for generations. But now, this arrangement is endangered.

The sea change effectively started in 2017.

America was emerging from the shadow of some contentious events. A brash outsider had won the United States presidency months earlier. And there was a growing clamor that foreign nations might have interfered in the presidential election.

Tensions were high. Then, two events sent the kindling ablaze.

In August, white supremacists marched on a Virginia college town. Then, in October, the New York Times published a sexual harassment investigation of Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein.

At first, these events don’t seem directly correlated. The white supremacists were spewing racist hate on one side of the country. On the other, an entertainment mogul was coming undone after years of mistreating women.

But if you look at the response to each of these events, the connection is clear. In both cases, the repudiation of these actions went to a new level. Symbols tied to racism started disappearing from the south, while Weinstein-produced movies vanished from entertainment services.

This was a turning point in what came to be known as Cancel Culture.

The message was clear. No longer would those on the wrong side of history simply face scorn. They might find be erased from the record altogether.

In these initial cases, the cancellations turned out to be prudent.

After all, the Confederacy lost the Civil War, and racial discrimination is against the law. So, maintaining symbols of a vanquished cause did little good.

And as for Harvey Weinstein, he was ultimately convicted of rape and sentenced to prison.

But Cancel Culture would grow in the ensuing years. And as the revisionist history exploded, we started to lose our way.

I am a proud alumna of the University of Miami.

Like any institution, the university is not perfect. But it’s had a profound impact on my life. And it’s proven to be a valuable member of the surrounding community.

The university has made several transformational decisions in recent decades, including upgrading facilities and expanding its healthcare network across South Florida.

But a recent decision caused me to furrow my brow.

The university removed the names of several prominent figures from campus buildings, including that of founder George Merrick. The university claimed that an anti-racism stance fueled their decision.

On the surface, this decision seemed prudent. While Merrick donated 600 acres of land to build the university in 1925, he also spoke of keeping Black neighborhoods outside of greater Miami.

Viewed from a modern lens — or indeed, a humane lens — such ideals are repugnant. But in the 1920s, they were par for the course.

It was the heart of the Jim Crow era back then. And Miami was the newest outpost of the South — a coastal town built along a rail line extension.

Fidel Castro’s ascension in Cuba was still more than 30 years away. And it would be a decade before Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo ordered the infamous El Corte massacre against Haitians.

Such events helped spur a wave of migration to Miami, turning it into the multicultural mecca we know it as today. But back in 1925, Miami was a mostly white city in a segregationist state.

Merrick’s views on city planning are not to be celebrated, for sure. But canceling him from the university is not necessarily the answer either.

Such actions are effectively castigating one man for the sins of his time. It’s a move that even civic leaders think is unfair.

This is not the case of Alabama governor George Wallace openly defying the Civil Rights Act and bellowing Segregation forever. If George Merrick had lived in a more equitable era, there’s a chance he might have had a more progressive stance on racial relations.

But he didn’t. He lived in the South in the 1920s. And now, he’s being punished for that fate of circumstance.

There are few names more infamous than that of Adolf Hitler.

The Nazi leader led the genocide of 6 million people, spurred the rise of fascism in Europe and sparked the Second World War. In most circles, he’s considered the embodiment of evil incarnate.

More than 75 years have passed since the fall of the Nazis. Most Germans these days have no firsthand knowledge of that despicable era. But they do know who Hitler was.

This is intentional. In the shadow of World War II, Allied powers removed Nazi symbols from German buildings. But they didn’t scrub their atrocities from the history books.

The more German schoolchildren learned about the sins of prior generations, the less they’d be inclined to repeat them. At least that was the prevailing idea.

For the most part, this strategy has worked. Some pockets of right-wing extremism have bubbled up in Germany recently. But such scourges took many decades to re-emerge.

As I look at our society, I wonder why we are so set on deviating from this path. The actions of Confederate leaders — let alone the Nazi regime — are far worse than the thoughts of a George Merrick.

Cancelling Merrick for racist views — or any number of figures for the warts of their era — is a flawed approach.

Taking an eraser to the history books doesn’t wipe the slate clean. It simply leaves us with eraser marks.

Such actions deprive us of the database of missteps. They rob us of tangible signs of society’s progression. And they leave us every opportunity to make mistakes that could otherwise have been avoided.

History is made of people. And people are flawed.

Julius Caesar got power-hungry and ended up assassinated. Alexander Hamilton’s hotheaded style led him to a fatal duel with Aaron Burr.

Those flaws ended their lives, but not their relevance. In fact, those flaws have become a crucial portion of their relevance.

This is the power of history when it’s left annotated but unvarnished. It offers us the chance to make tomorrow better than yesterday was.

So, let’s not give Cancel Culture a free pass. Let’s stop pretending that eraser marks can rectify the sins of the past. Let’s investigate those sins at face value. And then let’s resolve to do better

The Advantage

The house always wins.

If you’ve ever been to Las Vegas – or anywhere else with a casino — you’ve probably heard this mantra.

It’s a word of warning. A shot across the bow to anyone who thinks they can tip the scales in their favor when they gamble.

Sure, some lucky people here or there might hit the jackpot on the slot machines or win at the table games. And those big winners might score loads of money.

But ultimately, whoever owns the place comes out on top.

For the laws of probability prove that for every jackpot winner, there are plenty of others who put their money down and get nothing in return. And anyone who tries to take a shortcut to success — by counting cards in Blackjack, for example — is booted from the venue.

Yes, the moment we walk into a casino, the house has the drop on us. It has to so that the owners can cover those giant payouts — and make profits. If we fail to recognize this, we’re the suckers.

This is why I don’t gamble. It’s why you won’t see me feasting on $40 steaks, ambling up to the card tables, or hitting the slots.

I know which way the deck is tilted. And I ain’t playing.

There are plenty of jargony phrases in the business world.

Terms like EBITDA and revenue can delineate failure and success. Acronyms like IRR and EPS demonstrate how much money can be made on investments.

These words mean everything inside corporate boardrooms. But outside of the office, they’re little more than gibberish.

This is the way it should be. There are far more important things in life than discounted cash flows. Things like our health, our families, and our sense of belonging.

Even so, there is another concept that has use far beyond the business world. That concept is Arbitrage.

Arbitrage represents the advantage businesses try to seek. It’s the difference between what they pay for an item and the value they get out of it.

In order to make money and sustain success, businesses need to seize arbitrage wherever they can.

This is why casinos stack the deck against us. This is why companies devote entire departments to innovation. And this is why the titans of industry keep acquiring fledgling companies.

For years, I couldn’t stand this concept. I thought that working in the business world meant screwing over someone else. And I didn’t want to live that life.

I never saw the movie Wall Street as a kid. But I definitely would have taken issue with the character Gordon Gekko, who infamously proclaimed that Greed Is Good.

In fact, when I was asked to draw my fears at age 11, I didn’t sketch a Great White Shark or the Loch Ness Monster. I drew a man in a suit on a train platform, holding a briefcase and looking forlorn.

I had no idea how so many could willingly sacrifice their conscience for a taste of success. How could they sleep at night knowing that their gains were built on the misfortunes of others?

To me, arbitrage was nothing more than a mark of shame. But gradually, my thoughts on the matter have shifted.

Western Europe has many things going for it. Picturesque cities, renowned cuisine and timeless works of art — just to name a few.

But freedom of vocation is not on that list.

In many European countries, students must decide on their preferred profession as teenagers. Then they must pass entrance exams, which will let them pursue secondary education in that field. Beyond that, their professional future awaits.

There is little room for second-guessing or changing one’s mind. One adolescent decision carries the burden of destiny.

I’m thankful I wasn’t raised in such a system. Because truth be told, I had no idea what profession I would want to work in when I was 18 years old.

I entered college with aspirations of becoming a Hollywood screenwriter, only to find that I lacked passion for it. I shifted my focus to broadcast journalism, and I managed to work in the news media for three years. But then I pivoted again, ending up in the business world I’d once abhorred.

Such a winding path is quintessentially American. This is a nation where college dropouts can create trillion-dollar tech companies. It’s a culture where the words serial entrepreneur are celebrated, not reviled.

There is always an opportunity to try something new. To pick ourselves up by our bootstraps and try a new path.

But lost in such possibilities is any semblance of meritocracy. We can’t rely on the system to buoy us. We must seize whatever advantage we can.

We must embrace arbitrage.

Leveraging our advantage might mean doing something small, like focusing on our uniqueness during a job interview. Or it might mean something big, like dropping everything to seize an unprecedented opportunity.

These actions can help us. But by proxy, they can deny others.

And yet, we must accept this subtle cruelty. Because our selfishness ensures our survival.

There has to be another way.

Elon Musk is a polarizing figure.

The multibillionaire is brash, bold, and highly controversial. Plenty of people are repelled by his ego, his antics, and his wild commentary.

Yet, Musk has his admirers as well. For the companies he’s created — Tesla and SpaceX, among others — seek to solve problems that could benefit all of us. Efficient vehicles and ubiquitous space travel can broaden our horizons and redefine our future.

Musk is a torchbearer for a new type of arbitrage. One where an entire society benefits from the advantage.

And while few of us could be Elon Musk — and many wouldn’t even want to — we can follow his lead.

We can use our talents to improve more than our own situation. We can seek out the advantages that benefit our community. And we can leverage arbitrage to bring a positive change to the world.

The pursuit of this type of advantage can steady us. It can provide us the sustenance we need to thrive, without compromising our conscience.

It’s still a zero-sum game. But it’s got far more room in the winner’s circle.

So, let’s be smart about the advantages we seek. And let’s do our best to spread those benefits far and wide.

The Habit Trap

As I prepared to back out of my parking spot, I was on edge.

Our nation was two months into a blossoming pandemic. Due to virus concerns and stay-at-home orders, I hadn’t been out of my neighborhood much. But on this afternoon, I’d headed to FedEx to ship off some damaged headphones for repairs.

As I returned to my vehicle from that errand, I wasn’t in the best state of mind. But I still needed to get home, so I focused on the task at hand.

I put my SUV in reverse and took my foot on the brake. Then I peered over my left shoulder as the vehicle slowly moved backward. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any cross traffic.

The coast was clear to my left. But before I could look to my right, I felt a dull thud.

I knew immediately what that meant. I’d collided with another vehicle.

I inched my SUV forward and put it in Park. Then I stepped outside to survey the damage.

It turned out that another driver was backing her SUV out of a nearby spot at the same time as I was. Neither one of us could see the other vehicle until it was too late.

The collision happened at a low speed, but there was still damage. My fender was dented in one spot, and it would need to be replaced. Her fender also had a few marks on it.

I checked to see if the other driver was alright. She did the same.

But then, the realities of pandemic life overtook us. We quickly exchanged insurance information and went our separate ways.

On my ride home, I kept replaying the incident in my mind. What could I have done differently to avoid this small calamity?

One answer kept coming to mind. I could have checked my backup camera more closely.

I’d owned my SUV for five years at this point. And yet, I hadn’t quite mastered the art of using the backup camera when I was in reverse.

None of the previous vehicles I’d driven had such technology on board. And that meant I was woefully prepared to use it.

Way back when I was learning to drive, I had been instructed to check my rearview mirror when backing out of a parking spot. I was also taught to check over each shoulder to make sure no cross traffic was in my way.

I had mastered these lessons. And over the years, they became fossilized habits.

Now, there was a backup camera in my vehicle that promised to replace all these arcane practices. The future was here. But I still didn’t fully trust it.

So, I fell back on old habits. I would check the camera for a moment, but then glance over each shoulder to ensure the coast was clear.

I got away with this sequence for years. But now, it had finally caught up with me.

And now, with a damaged fender in tow, my objective was clear. It was time to break with my old driving habits, for once and for all.

Back in 1925, a baseball player named Wally Pipp woke up with a headache.

Instead of manning first base for the New York Yankees, Pipp sat out the game. A young ballplayer named Lou Gehrig manned his position instead.

Pipp never regained his old role. Gehrig went on to play the next 2,130 games at first base for the Yankees, earning the nickname The Iron Horse. The streak only ended when Gehrig retired 14 years later, crippled by a strange ailment that would later bear his name — and claim his life.

The demise of Wally Pipp will forever remain a cautionary tale. But an ill-timed headache wasn’t the only reason Pipp lost his spot for good.

Gehrig had immense talent. His Hall of Fame accolades make that clear.

But Gehrig also had great habits. He prepared himself to play each and every day. He perfected his craft as a hitter and a fielder. And he made no excuses when he faced adversity.

For many years, Gehrig was overshadowed in baseball lore by Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and Hank Aaron. But when I was young, his name came back into the spotlight.

A shortstop on the Baltimore Orioles was set to surpass The Iron Horse’s consecutive games streak. Cal Ripken, Jr. ultimately shattered the record, finishing with 2,632 consecutive games played. And in the process, he displayed the same stellar habits that Gehrig had six decades earlier.

I did not grow up as an Orioles fan, but I had plenty of respect for Ripken. I tried to follow in his and Gehrig’s footsteps, finding productive habits and latching on to them. Such commitments have kept me productive into adulthood.

But adhering to fundamentals is not a panacea. Preparation and discipline are timeless virtues, but the protocols for backing a car out of a parking spot are not.

Indeed, for all we complain about technology, it does drive progress.

The automobile goes faster than any tandem of horses ever could. Computers have transformed businesses in ways our legal pad-wielding predecessors could only dream of. The Internet has provided the world an unprecedented opportunity to connect in real-time.

Adopting these innovations has meant casting off old habits. And yet, as new protocols emerge, I still find myself struggling to adapt to them.

Grappling with novelty makes me feel vulnerable and powerless. So, I fall back on the familiar — even when such actions are fraught with danger.

I call this conundrum The Habit Trap. And all too often, it’s swallowed me whole.

There’s no experience quite like catching the sunrise.

A splash of light emerges from a dark sky. And with it comes a realm of new possibilities.

I’ve considered myself averse to novelty. And yet, I’ve found myself awestruck by the rising sun again and again.

It provides a sense of calm in the wake of uncertainty. It melds the familiarity of habit with the opportunity for improvement. It provides us balance and leaves us feeling whole.

Perhaps I can learn from the example of the sunrise.

For there are ways to wean ourselves off outdated routines. Instead of making a clean break, we can mix the uncomfortable with the familiar.

In my case, this has meant going through my peek-over-the-shoulder routine while my car is still in Park. I’m not going to catch much cross traffic this way — my view is blocked — but I won’t find myself colliding with other vehicles either.

For others stuck in The Habit Trap, the way out might look different. But the details are not what matters here. What’s important is that there is a way out.

We simply need to be strategic, intentional, and open-minded. We need to be willing to move toward a new normal, even if it takes us a little longer to leave the past behind.

If we do this, we can make The Habit Trap history. And we’ll be better for it.

So, let us begin.