Month: June 2021

In Color

There are many great images of America. But one of the most poignant ones came courtesy of Robert Frank’s camera lens.

The cover image of the 1958 photo journal The Americans offers a glimpse at riders on a New Orleans streetcar. They stare out the open windows at Frank as he snaps the shutter.

There are many reasons why Frank’s image is iconic. The vintage look of the streetcar.

The various expressions of the riders. The bifurcation of white and Black commuters in the segregated Deep South.

But to me, what stands out most was that the image was taken in black and white.

Now, this is as much a matter of circumstance as anything else. Color photography was a novel concept in 1958. So most photos were taken black and white back then.

And yet, this basic fact adds depth to the picture. Without real-world colors to guide us, we are left to ponder the interplay between light and shadows.

Yes, there’s something timeless about black and white photography. Something this equal parts subtle and powerful.

But this sensation, like the black and white image itself, is falling out of favor.

There’s one constant in my early memories. Color.

I remember drawing with Crayola crayons and mixing hues of Play-Doh in Pre-K. I recall holding up an edge of a multi-colored parachute at recess. And I reminisce on the debates my classmates would have over which Power Ranger was the best. (I favored the Blue Ranger.)

This is no coincidence.

Color identification is one of the staples of early education in America. Through the classroom and the toy market, kids are geared to build a color palette before picking up such skills as reading comprehension and arithmetic.

I’m sure there are cognitive benefits to all this. Few industries put their own product on trial as much as educators do. The color-first orthodoxy has made it through that crucible time and again. So, there must be something there.

Still, I find myself questioning the practicality of it all.

After all, numbers and words are building blocks. As we grow up, they can help us manage our finances and share our thoughts with others. But we can also use them to forge innovations that can change the world.

Color doesn’t have the same untapped power. Yes, it can help us read a traffic light or differentiate water and dry land. But beyond that, it’s mostly fluff.

It would seem to me that we’d want to double down on the areas that will prove most impactful — both as children and adults. But that is far from the case.

Not long ago, I came across an eyebrow-raising New York Times article. It chronicled the newest frontier in the so-called Sneaker Wars — color psychology. This is the phenomenon that’s led to the spate of acid lime, aqua blue, and neon pink footwear out there.

In the article, reporter Mark O’Flaherty explains how shoe conglomerates court attention and promote individualism through unique color palettes. One of the industry executives O’Flaherty interviews even has the title of Head of Color at their brand.

I’m a marketer and a systems-minded thinker. So, this phenomenon should be right up my alley.

But I see the endeavor as nothing more than a gigantic waste of resources.

I’m readily aware of the power of branding. And I understand the emotional impacts different hues can bring. Red-colored items tend to slightly raise the heart rates of people who see them, for instance. Blue-colored items have the opposite effect.

Still, such knowledge is mostly trivial. As individuals, we tend to think of color palettes precisely one time a day — as we get dressed. And companies only switch up their visual branding once in a blue moon. Color doesn’t get much play beyond that.

Shoe companies know this, and they’ve long followed a similarly conservative pattern. When I was growing up, the color choices for athletic shoes tended to be black, white, and gray. Occasionally, I’d see a different color on the shoe’s brand mark, but it would appear nowhere else.

A few years ago, though, I noticed things were starting to change. I was looking for a new pair of all-black Nikes, and I found only two options in the entire store. The rest of the shoes looked to me like a Smurf had vomited on them.

It was clear shoe brands had gone off the deep end. Instead of focusing on fundamentals, they were creating Head of Color positions and devoting themselves to finding the next viral hue.

As someone who favors a reserved wardrobe, I don’t like any of this. Not one bit.

But my concerns go far beyond my own preferences.

Looking at the cover of The Americans from a 21st century angle, it’s hard to fight the temptation to fill in the gaps.

What colors were the riders’ shirts? What about the streetcar itself? Was it a sunny day when Frank took the picture or was it overcast?

We’ll never know the answers to those questions. But we really don’t need to.

The photo is not about the individual details. It’s about the collective body that is American society.

Our societal endeavor is far from perfect, as the image plainly demonstrates. But the shared nature of our experience is critical. The fact that people from different backgrounds and perspectives can both share a streetcar and unite in a glance out of that streetcar — that matters.

We are taught to look beyond the black and white, to search for the shades of gray. Such nuance provides us a better understanding of the world and our unique place in it.

But when we take individualism to the other extreme — when gray become lime green and cotton candy pink — we launch ourselves out of orbit. And, in doing so, we neglect our obligation to build a better society together.

It’s time we come back to Earth. It’s time to eschew the flash and revisit time-honored principles. And it’s time we build upon those principles to make a more equitable, innovative society.

The shine and sparkle of color will always be there to tempt us. But there are more important places for us to focus on.

Let’s find them.

Calm Before the Storm

I was standing on the back deck of my uncle’s house, chatting with him while he grilled burgers and hot dogs. It was a blazing summer afternoon, with blue skies overhead.

My uncle scanned the sky. Then he turned to me and calmly stated, Once this food is done cooking, we’ll want to bring it inside. It’s going to rain soon.

I was incredulous. Sure, there were some clouds off near the horizon, but they weren’t the ominous variety that screamed Rain. There were no rumbles of thunder in the distance or flashes of lightning.

Nevertheless, I heeded his warning. And 20 minutes later, we were in the kitchen, watching the rain come down in sheets where we had previously been standing.

I was in awe of my uncle. How could he so easily tell that it was going to storm when I saw so few signs of it?

My uncle is not a meteorologist. A renowned surgeon and cancer researcher, his professional endeavors take place far from a weather center. Those skills require precision, ingenuity, and many long hours in operating rooms and labs.

And yet, in his limited spare time, my uncle seemed to have developed an uncanny ability to sense the impending danger in the skies ahead.

I was only a teenager at the time of this story, and I had no true vision for my future. Yet, this revelation hit me light a lightning bolt. If my uncle could make time to understand the weather, perhaps this was a skill I could pick up too.

So, I started studying radar maps and watching The Weather Channel. I took an introductory college meteorology course for fun, and I ended up with the top grade in the class. And when I worked as a news producer as a young adult, I would constantly pick the brains of the staff meteorologists to fill the gaps in my knowledge.

I was captivated by the idea of knowing what comes next. I was relieved to know I wouldn’t get caught off-guard by shifting weather patterns. I was confident in dressing properly for the elements.

But most of all, I was entranced by the details — particularly, the moments of change. I was mesmerized by the rush of fresh air from a cold front. I was ensconced by the smell of dew at dawn. And, of course, I was awestruck by the calm before a storm.

It became an obsession. And that obsession has persisted.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the calm before a particular storm.

This storm didn’t bring thunder, lightning, rain, or snow. In fact, it wasn’t a weather event at all. But it wreaked plenty of havoc, nonetheless.

This storm was a global pandemic.

We should have seen it coming. News of a mysterious virus plaguing China had made it around the world long before the virus itself did. But the vast distance gave many of us — particularly here in America — a false sense of security. It led us to believe that It won’t happen here.

It did, of course. And now, even with the worst of the pandemic behind us in this nation, our lives have been inexorably changed.

I am moving forward, as so many of us are. Rather than dwell on what happened, I’m picking up the pieces from a lost year.

But despite all this progress, I find myself going back to a specific time. I keep circling the weeks and months right before the pandemic brought life to an abrupt halt.

Some may think that such a focus is foolish. They might exclaim that the moment is gone now and is not worth fixating on any longer.

And yet, I see things differently.

It helps me to ask what our world looked like while we were standing on our back deck, unaware that a storm was about to blow in. It helps me to think of what we might be able to recapture from those moments.

In some ways, we were at our most idealistic then. I know I was.

In the months before the pandemic, I was battling several cross currents. I was at a career crossroads. I was ramping up programming for the local alumni chapter I headed. And I was laser-focused on getting into better shape, physically and financially.

I was living life week-to-week, but with a distant goal in mind. I’d assumed that the world would stay roughly the same over time and that I’d gradually get to where I needed to be.

All this idealism sounds ridiculous in hindsight. Catastrophes have a knack for distorting our vision in this way.

And yet, those shattered illusions might be our best guide for the road ahead.

For all its benefits in a state of emergency, living from moment to moment is not a sustainable activity. If the trauma of a pandemic — or some other crisis — causes us to give up on long-term planning, our future will be as turbulent as our present.

And yet, reverting to our old ways is no simple task. It’s a challenge to head back into the fire after we’ve been burned.

This is the crossroads we find ourselves at now, as the worst of the storm has passed. Do we take our cues from the ravaged landscape around us, or do we harness the spirit that resonated in the air before the skies turned dark?

I have chosen my path.

I’m harkening back to that moment before the chaos and reclaiming the life I’d built in those days. Some of my priorities were out of scope, for sure. That much is clear now. But even with that disclaimer, I was coming into my own back then.

I want that feeling back. I want to believe that the trauma of a pandemic year hasn’t wiped it away for good. And I will do everything in my power to make it so.

I’m sure others feel this way as well. But that feeling might be blown away by the winds of opinion. It might be crushed by the prevalent demands to build something better out of the wreckage.

I’d encourage anyone in this predicament to be still for a moment. To picture the moments before the world turned sideways. And to consider whether that setting — that life — is something worth pursuing once again.

The calm before the storm is a snapshot of doom. But it can also be a moment of opportunity.

Let’s not let it slip by.

Wide Open

The horse was slender. Scrawny even.

A sandstone-colored coat of hair wrapped tightly around the equine’s ribs, causing me to nickname it Arizona.

Secretariat this was not. But I wasn’t in Kentucky either.

My encounter with Arizona took place down in Chile some years back. I was studying abroad there, and my cohort was on a horseback riding excursion.

I had saddled up a few times in my youth. But never for a whole day. So, I was already nervous before I was assigned the runt of the litter.

The journey began as expected. I spurred Arizona on, and the horse barely budged. The others in my cohort — high atop their stately steeds — laughed at our impunity as they rode ahead down the trail.

But all this movement seemed to inspire Arizona. Suddenly, we were speeding across dusty plains and up sand dunes. I could hear the wind rushing by my face as we galivanted along. Each stride sent me out of the saddle, the momentum threatening to launch me into orbit. I gripped onto the reins for dear life to keep that from happening.

As this all played out, I experienced a range of emotions. I felt exhilarated. I felt terrified. But most of all, I felt free.

As we wound our way through the Chilean countryside, across beaches and up abandoned railroad tracks, I started to dread the ride’s impending end. I wasn’t worried about dismounting from Arizona — I’d already done that when we’d stopped for lunch — but I was filled with dread about returning to the hustle and bustle of civilization.

I wanted to keep living my life wide open.

It’s been more than a decade now since that experience. And I haven’t gone horseback riding since then.

Even so, my life has been transformed. Ever since that day, I indeed have been chasing the wide open.

I cover lots of ground in my day-to-day. Whether I’m exercising, taking care of errands, or just relaxing, I tend not to confine myself.

For many, this might seem normal. But such a pattern goes against my raising.

I grew up in the Northeast, where a tradition of strength in numbers is notable. Space is famously at a premium in that part of America, and this feeds prominently into the regional culture.

While I grew up in a nice suburban home with a backyard, many of my friends lived in apartments. And my grandparents resided in a rowhouse so narrow that you could bounce a ball of each of the walls they shared with neighbors on a single throw.

Such arrangements were not unusual. In Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, many don’t commute downtown for work or entertainment. Instead, they live in close proximity to those options — trading space for prestige.

This pattern mirrors that of Europe. In London, Paris, and Rome, prominent residents have centrally located apartments, with the less affluent living further afield. And much like those cities across the pond, citizens of those Northeastern metro areas rely on city parks for their outdoor space.

Still, such a setup flies in the face of the broader American experience. Our nation was built upon principles of land ownership and mobility, and much of the country follows in that tradition.

Many Americans are used to seeing the nearest fence line at a distance. They’re accustomed to the sounds and smells of nature. They’re enamored with the feel of the open road.

Such sensations terrified me in my youth. In my experience, the vastness was a threat.

I imagined predators attacking me, with no one to come to my aid. I shivered at the thought of facing harsh weather conditions head-on. I developed a prolific fear of the dark.

By the time I saddled up for that horseback ride half a world away, I had moved beyond many of these concerns. I’d grown from a child to a self-assured adolescent. I’d left the cramped Northeast to attend college in Florida. And I’d gotten a better sense of the American way.

Still, I was in irons. I had little sense of where my future would take me.

It ended up taking me to Texas, a place that was seemingly the polar opposite of where I’d grown up.

Indeed, the Lone Star State was seemingly the epicenter of the wide open lifestyle. And I was ready to grab the reins, in pursuit of that same sensation I’d had down in Chile.

This pursuit has been uneven at best. But through all the ups and downs, one thing is certain. I love where I live.

To be clear, I have no ill will for my area of origin or the lifestyle that goes with it. I still have family and friends living in tight quarters there, and they get by just fine.

Still, such environs are not for me. I need space to operate.

By definition, an existential threat touches a central nerve. The nerve of survival.

And the recent pandemic certainly fit the bill.

There was, of course, the existential threat of illness and death. And there was the existential threat of economic strife as the world shut down.

But for me, there was another existential threat associated with all of this. The threat of confinement.

As the pandemic blossomed and the stay-at-home orders proliferated, I thought I was ready. Fear and uncertainty were in the air, and I wanted no part of the virus.

But I grew restless quickly.

The four walls of my home, nice as they were, couldn’t contain me. I knew I was meant to live wide open. And that was true now as much as ever.

So, I acted on my impulses. I opened my front door and went for a run or a long walk every day. That time outdoors provided me more than fresh air. It also gave me peace of mind.

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that I started thinking of that day back in Chile during these exercise sessions. I pictured the sunshine. I heard the rush of the wind. And I smelled the dust.

Most of all, I tried to get myself back to a place where my soul was carefree. I hoped that would be enough to get me through.

These days, I’m still trying to get back to that feeling. The pandemic’s grip has lightened. But the summer air is thick and my responsibilities are heavy. That wide-open feeling seems to dangle on the horizon, beyond my reach.

Perhaps one day, I’ll saddle up again. Or maybe I’ll find that nirvana in some other fashion.

But until then, I know what I’m chasing.

I’m on the trail of the great wide open. And I won’t rest until I find that feeling again.

On Communication

At first glance, the situation seemed normal.

I was on the floor of an apartment bedroom, with another kid on the other side of the room. Between us lay some toys — miniature dinosaurs, trains, and cars.

It was the kind of scene that was commonplace when children spent time together. But this was no normal encounter.

For one thing, this apartment was in China. The place was comfortable enough, but still rather rudimentary.

And that kid I was hanging out with? He was the nephew of a family friend. Just like me, he was 10 years old. But he spoke no English. And I spoke no Chinese.

We stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Both of us were perplexed by the situation we were in.

Then, the boy took one of the dinosaurs from the floor and guided it across the bed. As he did, I made dinosaur noises.

Of course, I didn’t really know what a dinosaur sounded like. The real ones predated me by millions of years.

But it didn’t matter. My sound effects made the boy smile, and then chuckle. Soon enough, we were having a blast, without sharing a single word.

Much has been made about the keys to success.

Some have pointed to talent and opportunity. Others champion focus and grit.

These are important attributes. But I think they all play second fiddle.

Communication is the most skill there is. And yet, it seems to be the most overlooked one.

We have all kinds of acronyms to describe our performance — IQ (Intelligence Quotient) for smarts, EQ (Emotional Quotient) for social acuity, AQ (Adversity Quotient) for resilience. But all too often, we fail to assess our CQ — or communication quotient.

Perhaps we struggle to quantify the benefits. After all, the smartest people can solve the most pressing problems. The most socially affable people can draw a crowd. And the most resilient people turn setbacks into triumphs.

What awaits the best communicators? It’s hard to come up with concrete examples.

And yet, we know the devastating impacts of poor communication all too well. Failed communication can torpedo even the most promising venture. It can damage relationships, corrode trust and vaporize goodwill.

These are major issues. But we like to pretend we’re immune to them.

We’re not.

Not long ago, I went back to school to earn an MBA (Master’s degree in Business Administration).

My business school coursework gave me several new talents — the ability to read financial statements, to understand economic theory, and to enact pricing strategy, for instance. But the most impactful course I took was on business presentations.

At first glance, this seems strange. I already had a college degree in communications, and I’d spent three years working in the news media. Plus, I’d put together several PowerPoints in my marketing career and I’d written plenty of articles here on Words of the West.

But even with all this communication experience, I knew I had room for improvement. There were plenty of times where I had been called to the carpet for a work email that didn’t land the way I intended. And I often struggled to make the desired impact when speaking up at staff meetings.

This course wasn’t designed to address any of that. It was simply a primer on how to present to business executives. And yet, I found it transformative.

For the course didn’t just address the all-too-common fear of public speaking. It delved into the intricacies of eye contact. It established guidelines for speaking cadence. And it provided instructions on how to create a slide deck that tells a story.

These tips were more focused on the audience than the presenter. They were meant to ensure that the message landed properly.

That, of course, is the most important aspect of communication. Messages are only effective if others can decode them in the way we intended. The audience reaction is everything.

I had learned that skill, by necessity, on that day in China. Even with a language barrier in my midst, I’d managed to forge a friendship with a boy my age.

And yet, I had seemed to forget what I’d learned over all the intervening years. But that changed once I took the business presentations class.

I left the course on a mission to be a more effective communicator. I wanted to ensure that my messages landed with precision moving forward, no matter the medium.

This mission is still ongoing. But I’m encouraged by the progress I’ve made thus far.

Still, I wish this wasn’t a solitary quest.

For millennia, humans have evolved their communication techniques.

We started by making standardized noises, which evolved into language. Oral storytelling, cave paintings, and hieroglyphics came next, followed by the written word.

The advent of the printing press and — much later — the microphone spawned mass communication. Radio and television spread these messages ever wider. And ultimately, the Internet made communication both global and simultaneous.

Communication has never been more convenient. Today, we literally have the tools for it at our fingertips. And yet, we fail to use those tools properly.

This is particularly noticeable at our current moment of strife.

A health crisis has cost the world millions of lives. And an economic crisis has cost America millions of jobs. But it’s an ongoing communication crisis that is perhaps most profound.

A world connected as never before has, paradoxically, never seemed further apart. And as the dialogue breaks down, polarization only deepens.

I understand the temptation to eschew open lines of communication. Engaging with others can be tough work, particularly when we have little in common. And the risk of a blunder seems to outweigh the rewards of avoiding communication altogether.

But this laissez-faire attitude has its costs. We’re seeing these broadly now, through the radicalization of society. But we’re seeing them individually as well.

No, not all of us will end up in a room with someone who doesn’t speak our language. But many of us will find ourselves outside our depth at some point. Perhaps we already have.

Basic communication skills can aid us in these unsettling circumstances. But if we’ve let those skills atrophy, there’s no guarantee they’ll come back to us in time. We could quickly find ourselves up a creek without a paddle.

Fortunately, the power still lies in our hands. But it’s our obligation to do something about it.

So, let’s give communication the priority it deserves. Let’s make a choice to engage, even when it seems inconvenient. And let’s ensure our messages stick the landing.

The challenges we face are substantial. But if we communicate with precision, we stand a better chance of rising to the occasion.

Let’s get to it.

Of Words and Weapons

Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never harm me.

So goes one of the quintessential schoolyard retorts.

Kids can be brats at times, calling other kids names in order to get under their skin. The sticks and stones phrase has long given the aggrieved an opportunity to blunt these attacks.

Sure, it’s a mouthful. But that’s precisely the point. Its complexity gives the tormentor pause. And this lowers the temperature.

This pattern has repeated itself for years. But things are different now.

Not all words are created equal.

Some bring joy. Some bring sadness. And some are so inflammatory that they’re considered taboo.

Growing up, I knew what these off-limits words were. They were so scandalous that people referred to them by their first letter. The F-word. The S-word. The N-word.

I was not born with this knowledge, but I picked it up quickly.

For instance, when I was 7 years old, I asked my father about a word I’d read in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn. My father implored me not to use that word — which was negro. In the same breath, he warned me to never use its uglier, more inflammatory derivative.

Looking back now, it strikes me just how strange this all was. In order to teach me which word not to use, my father needed to use it.

But I learned my lessons well. I steered clear of bad words with a precision that would have made Mormons proud. By the time I got to high school, my best friend — who dropped the F-words and S-words into most sentences — even ribbed me for being so square.

Truth be told, it was easy to avoid these terms. There was a rich ecosystem of synonyms I could draw from to avoid swearing. And that’s precisely what I did.

But these days, it’s trickier to steer clear of the landmines.

Trigger warning.

It’s one of the terms that’s emerged in this newfangled era.

Trigger warnings guard against information that might upset us. They prepare us for the shock, horror or emotional distress ahead.

The premise of this phenomenon is sensible. We shouldn’t be blindsided when facing disturbing topics, particularly since many of us have experienced trauma in our lives already.

Words can in fact harm us, particularly if they reopen wounds that haven’t fully healed. Trigger warnings are our last line of defense against such catastrophe.

Yet, as our society gets more polarized, the number of terms deemed worthy of a trigger warning only seems to grow. Racial slurs and descriptors of physical assaults aren’t the only sources of consternation anymore. Now, phrases that upset our worldviews make the list as well.

Some of these terms do have ties to partisan politics. Global warming became climate change thanks to a focus group put together by conservatives, for instance.

Still, many phrases with a trigger warning label lack obvious political ties. It’s the associations we draw from these terms that so deeply aggrieve us.

This leaves us with a bevy of words that have turned radioactive. And this time, there are no simple substitutes for them.

We can take the long way and describe the words without using them — a real-life version of the game Taboo. But in an era of dwindling attention spans, these efforts are likely to fall short.

And so, with no clear path forward, we avoid these terms — and their associated topics — altogether. And by doing this, we invoke a sense of shadow censorship.

That should trigger its own warning.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

So reads the first amendment of the United States Constitution.

Scholars, justices, and activists have broken down those 45 words countless times. They’ve attempted to determine what rights people have to express themselves.

But these dry interpretations miss a key angle. Namely, the intent of those who put those 45 words on paper.

The First Amendment was part of the Bill of Rights — a set of personal freedoms afforded to all Americans. These rights were foundational, rebutting the censorship that was commonplace in the colonial era.

The founding fathers wanted us to use our voices without fear of silencing. In their view, words were not weapons. And opening one’s mouth shouldn’t be treated as an act of war.

While the courts have imposed limitations in a few situations, freedom of expression largely remains intact today. Yet, we now find ourselves restricting our own speech.

By making more and more terms taboo, we are limiting discourse. We are narrowing our perspective. And we are failing to address crucial societal concerns.

Sure, shadow censorship might make us feel more secure and less aggravated. But ignoring the uncomfortable topics around us won’t make them go away. The elephant in the room remains.

It’s time to end the shadow censorship. It’s time to stop treating words as weapons.

Yes, some select words are truly vulgar. And we absolutely should avoid those words whenever possible.

But, by and large, words are not the concern. It’s the actions associated with those words that pose the gravest danger.

This is a point that we seem to miss.

Let’s consider what is really spurring the trigger warnings. Do these difficult phrases trigger emotional distress? Or do they trigger us to acts of aggression?

Both effects are troubling. But words shouldn’t shoulder all the blame for these adverse outcomes. We need to take some responsibility as well.

We have the agency to face our trauma head-on and to help the scars heal. We have the ability to keep dialogue from erupting into violence.

Taking phrases out of circulation doesn’t absolve us of these duties. It only deludes us further.

So, let’s stop with the smoke and mirrors. Let’s rid ourselves of the shadow censorship. And let’s commit ourselves to have important discussions, even if they might be a bit uncomfortable.

This is our best path forward. Let’s not squander it.