Month: November 2021

Turkey and Tradition

It’s like clockwork.

Every year, as mid-November approaches, the temperatures drop, the leaves fall, and we focus our gaze on a particular type of bird.

I’m talking, of course, about the turkey.

Turkeys exist all over this land — on farms and in the wild. And most of the year, we hardly notice their presence. But as Thanksgiving approaches, we can’t stop thinking about them.

Just about every ad we see this time of year features some sort of turkey pun. The supermarkets are overloaded with packaged birds, ready to cook. And social media is rife with advice for brining, frying, or otherwise roasting a turkey for the holiday.

Few other animals get this treatment — a day where they’re on the menu nationwide and garner all our attention. Turkeys are unique in that way.

But should they be?

As a kid, I was always enamored by Thanksgiving. It was a holiday my family would spend with relatives who we didn’t see often. And it was bereft of most of the burden of customs or religious connotations that Halloween and Christmas had, respectively.

That said, there were some notable staples of the holiday. Most notably, the menu.

There was little freelancing when it came to Thanksgiving fare. Households were expected to serve mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, gravy, dressing, and turkey.

I have no idea where this menu came from. Few, if any, of those dishes were in existence at the time of the first Thanksgiving feast in the 1600s.

Yet, these delicacies had reached critical mass. They seemed to be the only items people would talk about. And they were the only dishes Americans were expected to serve.

I was a picky eater growing up, so most of the vegetables, sides, and sauces didn’t appeal to me. That left turkey as my go-to option.

I would wake up on Thanksgiving morning thinking about the turkey feast to come. By the time the evening arrived, I was practically salivating at the sight of the carved bird on the table.

Still, as I sank my teeth into that first bite, I would inevitably find myself disappointed.

The bird itself wasn’t the problem. It was always prepared to perfection.

No, the problem was that I just did not much like turkey. It was too gamey for my liking, and the tryptophan within it would make me sleepy.

At first, I struggled with this disconnect. How could I reject the crown jewel of Thanksgiving dinner? I tried to bury my feelings, only for them to re-emerge a year later.

Eventually, I relented. I accepted that I didn’t like turkey and possibly never would. As such, I stopped loading my plate with it at Thanksgiving dinner.

I started preparing a brisket for Thanksgiving around this time. I did this simply so that there would be a dish on the table that I’d be excited to eat.

But as it turned out, my brisket was almost as big a hit as the turkey itself. My relatives lined up to try it. There were no leftovers to bring home, only requests that I bring more brisket next year.

So, the following year, I did. And the year after that. And the year after that.

I might have broken with the Thanksgiving gospel, but in doing so, I’d forged a new, more resonant tradition.

Who are the arbiters of the customs we follow?

Often, religious organizations come to mind. Or maybe government entities. Or even social entities, such as neighborhood groups.

Each of these structures has the power of trust, a broad following, and mass communication abilities. Yet, they each also have the downsides of preachiness and rigidity.

When you factor in the retail industrial complex, customs get fossilized. We live in a capitalist society, and businesses depend on norms to stay profitable and keep the economy afloat.

Ultimately, this all leads to a one-two punch. A form of authority establishes expectations, and retailers tell us what to buy to stay in compliance.

This is what creates our strict system of traditions, including the Thanksgiving turkey feast. It’s not an organic, grassroots process. It’s heavily manufactured.

The end effect matches a scene from the movie Mean Girls. The protagonist, Cady Heron, is invited to sit with the pretentious clique The Plastics in the school lunchroom for the rest of the week. As part of the impromptu invite, she’s given some instructions, including how to dress.

On Wednesdays, we wear pink, says Karen Smith, one of the Plastics.

Sometimes, I think traditions can be like this. Maybe they started out innocuous enough, but they evolve into On Thanksgiving, we eat turkey.

This latent expectation might not seem like a big deal, but its burden can carry a long shadow. In the case of Thanksgiving, turkeys are bulky, costly, and challenging to prepare. Turkeys — along with the rest of the holiday’s staples — fail to cater to the needs of those with dietary restrictions. And the entire idea of a feast can be cumbersome to those without large living spaces or families.

It’s no wonder that the joyful anticipation of holidays like Thanksgiving is all too often supplanted by feelings of dread. Our pursuit of a shared experience comes with strings attached.

But it doesn’t need to.

As we head into another holiday season, something has changed.

That something is us.

Living through the horrors of a global pandemic, the gut-punch of an economic recession, and the social unrest of a society in transition has not been a pleasant experience. But it has been an enlightening one.

Throughout all the turmoil, we’ve been forced to reassess what we’ve taken as gospel. Some traditions, customs, and norms that were once non-negotiable are now anything but.

Thanksgiving dinner can be one of those traditions.

Yes, we should still gather to celebrate. But maybe we can do so in our own way, and on our own terms.

That could mean Thanksgiving without a predefined menu of sides. That could mean Thanksgiving without a massive guest list. And that could even mean Thanksgiving without turkey.

Indeed, as I write this, I’m preparing for a Thanksgiving feast with all these adaptations. It will be a smaller, more intimate gathering, devoid of an excess of side dishes. And instead of a large turkey —or my brisket — there will be a beef roast.

The burden of old traditions has been lifted. And I couldn’t be more thankful for that.

Sum of Its Parts

As I was driving through a residential neighborhood, a new song came on the radio.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to accelerate. I had the strong desire to hit the gas pedal and let it fly.

Remembering where I was, I regained my wits and stayed at an appropriate pace. But I was perplexed about my need for speed.

You see, the song that threatened to turn my foot to lead wasn’t a high-energy tune. It was a classic rock song. And there wasn’t anything obvious within it inspiring me to unleash my inner NASCAR driver.

But as I broke down the song in my mind, some hints started to bubble to the surface. The tempo of the beat. The volume of the bass. The relentlessness of the vocals.

In a vacuum, each of these elements wouldn’t amount to much. Their impact wouldn’t be noticeable.

But when you add them all up, they had me itching to do a bad thing.

Not long before my would-be speeding violation, I was at a friend’s wedding.

This wedding happened to be held at a Catholic church. I’d heard rumors of Catholic weddings taking a bit of time. So, I arrived early and thumbed through the program, looking for clues on how long I’d be in the pews.

On page 3, I found some sheet music. It didn’t look like much — a bunch of lines, symbols, and flourishes. But I could tell by the way the notes were spaced that these hymns were going to be slow-paced. And given how many of them were on subsequent pages, I knew I was going to be in this church for at least an hour.

So, I prepared for the long haul. I focused on my demeanor and tried to act as if I belonged.

This was going to be a challenge. For I’d only been in a Catholic church a handful of times in my life. I was a fish out of water, and I was faking it until I made it.

The details of the sheet music I’d glimpsed at drifted away as I tried desperately to fit in. But as the hymns it documented came to life, I found myself fighting back tears.

The choir was angelic. The congregation was enthralled. And through it all, time started to fade away.

The sheet music, the wedding program, the sanctuary — on their own, they didn’t seem to amount to much. But the whole seemed better than the sum of its parts.

These are but two examples of a phenomenon. A phenomenon of a finished product outshining its individual elements.

We’ve long been accustomed to this. We’ve seen it take shape when we visit Disney World or Universal Studios. We’ve felt it at Cirque du Soleil shows. We’ve even experienced it at local parades and firework shows.

It’s a magical feeling when everything comes together just right. When place and time sync in a manner that speaks to our soul.

We can be intoxicated by this feeling. We tend to chase it relentlessly, investing time, money, and emotional effort into rekindling its flame.

And yet, all too often, we ignore the underlying elements of the magic. We fail to consider what makes these experiences hit just right.

We have no interest in seeing how the sausage gets made. That is, unless it keeps us from speeding recklessly through a neighborhood or ruing the length of a church service.

We’re just fine paying the piper to deliver these experiences on a silver platter. But maybe we shouldn’t be.

Dressed in a button-down shirt and tie, I stood behind a fold-up table. In front of me was a Paper Mache volcano, a jar of baking soda, some dish soap, and a bottle of vinegar.

I was 8 years old, and I’d never been so nervous.

My instructions were straightforward. Pour the baking soda, dish soap, and vinegar into the hole in the summit of the volcano, watch the concoction erupt, and explain to passers-by what was happening.

This all was standard operating procedure for any elementary school science fair. But as I waited for visitors to come by the table, fear and doubt started creeping into my mind.

What if I messed up the concoction? What if it didn’t erupt as planned? What if I failed to describe the experiment properly to passers-by?

The tension was palpable. I started to sweat.

But then, someone did come by the table. It was Go Time.

With shaking hands, I poured the ingredients into the volcano and watched it bubble back up like a witch’s caldron. My fears were thwarted; everything was going to plan.

Yet, instead of relief or elation, I felt profound wonder. I couldn’t believe how these simple ingredients had created something so magical.

Sure, I’d been told this would happen, and I’d been given the recipe to make it so. But experiencing the entire process firsthand blew me away.

Ever since that moment, I’ve thought critically about nearly every process I’ve encountered. What are the elements that go into it? And how can I tweak those to optimize the results?

This thought exercise has helped me make smarter decisions with my finances, my nutrition, and my career. It’s helped me be less wasteful and more deliberate.

Perhaps then, I shouldn’t have been so surprised when a job assessment told me I thought like an engineer. I might not be a tinkerer, but I certainly have the mentality of one.

I firmly believe that more of us should have this trait. That we should feel a sense of wonder not just in the finished product, but also in the myriad parts that comprise it.

That obsession with the underlying elements gives us more than a peek behind the curtain. It gives us agency.

We can exhibit understanding, empathy, and appreciation for the process. And we can remain better suited to switch things up if that process goes haywire.

In short, we can make the finished product more than the sum of its parts. But only if we sweat the small stuff and consider how everything comes together.

So, let’s spark that sense of wonder. Let’s remove assumptions and remain inquisitive. Let’s dive into the journey, not just the destination.

If we can do this, we all stand to benefit.

Attention to Detail

It’s the little things.

We’ve all heard this phrase a time or twenty.

It might sound cliché. But it rings true.

We celebrate big dreams and grand visions. And yet, it’s the minutia that so often determines whether those dreams are realized.

This reality is not sexy or glamorous. But it’s important and worth discussing.

Quality assurance.

It’s a clunky term. One that seems like it belongs in a legal textbook.

Still, it’s one of the core principles of commerce today. Most modern businesses have a quality assurance process. Some even have an entire department committed to QA.

The goal of quality assurance is straightforward — catch and correct defects before they reach consumers. And the key to success in this venture is an unwavering attention to detail.

We tend to take quality assurance for granted — except when it fails. Stories of tainted aspirin, listeria-laden ice cream, and faulty aeronautical equipment have become infamous over the years.

These developments have given the quality assurance discipline a black eye. But it deserves better.

You see, there was a time when quality assurance was nonexistent. Items were crafted piecemeal, unbeholden to stringent production standards. If something went wrong in the manufacturing process, it was an unlucky consumer who suffered the consequences.

Then along came Henry Ford. The purveyor of the Model T automobile brought the concept of the assembly line to the mainstream. Instead of small groups of engineers building one vehicle at a time, a litany of workers mass-produced them in sequence.

Each employee was responsible for their own portion of construction. And those responsibilities included stringent attention to detail.

After all, workers on Ford’s assembly line had but one job to do. And they needed to do it with expert precision.

Thanks to the assembly line, the promise of the Model T was twofold. Not only would the vehicle be readily available for consumers, but it would also be reliable. This allowed Ford to price it affordably, spurring the world into the automotive era.

Soon, the assembly line proliferated across the industrial world. And with it came a broader adoption of quality assurance.

Through this process, attention to detail went from a nice-to-have to a silent expectation. But then, we forgot about it.

For shame.

I was in my baseball uniform, practicing catching fly balls when I heard the booming voice of my head coach.

Bring it in, he said.

I jogged toward the infield, where some of my teammates had already gathered. We knew a speech was coming.

Y’all are in middle school now, the coach began. You’re a long way from applying to college. But when you do, you’ll need to take something called the SAT. Does anyone know what that stands for?

We were silent.

Standard Aptitude Test, the coach continued. They’re measuring your aptitude — what you know.

By now, we were all confused. We were here to play baseball, not learn about a strange test that was years away. What on earth was this coach talking about?

We all need to improve our aptitude on the baseball diamond, said the coach. Sure, y’all can hit, catch, and throw. But how well do you understand the game and the different situations you’ll face? How closely do you pay attention to detail?

These words awakened something in me. Something I didn’t know was there.

I wasn’t the biggest, strongest, or most talented kid on the team. But now, I had a clear purpose — to pay attention to the details and use them to my advantage.

This process didn’t do much for my baseball exploits. I never even made it to the varsity level in high school.

Nonetheless, it had a profound impact on my life.

Sweating the small stuff gave me a semblance of control in a world that often lacked it. And as I grew older, this focus endeared me to others.

Now, attention to detail is a core component of my life. I break each day into processes, and I think about everything that belongs in each process. When something is missing or off-kilter, I take note of it. And if I have the power to fix it, I do so.

I have no doubt that my focus on the minutia has been critical to all the success I’ve seen. It’s changed the way others see me, and the way I’ve seen myself.

But while attention to detail has made a difference for me, it shouldn’t be a differentiator.

Some years back, I attended an insurance seminar. At the podium was the chief executive officer of one of Dallas’ largest brokerages.

At some point, someone asked the CEO about his thoughts on a startup company that had been making waves in the insurance industry.

Their loss ratio is 126, he flatly replied. They’re paying out $126 for every $100 they bring in. It’s bad business and it won’t last.

I reacted to this response with delight. I worked in the insurance industry, and this buzzy startup presented a significant threat to my employer. I returned to the office gleefully predicting the startup’s demise.

It never came.

The startup continued to operate like a leaky rowboat, taking on water and showing no signs of profitability. But Venture Capitalists in Silicon Valley kept pouring funding into their coffers.

I was astounded. But I shouldn’t have been.

The technology industry has long been filled with renegades. Apple captured the world’s attention with its 1984 commercial. Facebook rallied around the mantra Move fast and break things.

The message was clear. Details and protocol were irrelevant. It was all about the vision.

This ethos carried the day for quite a while. But now, it’s facing a reckoning.

Apple has seen more success after founder Steve Jobs’ passing than before it. Facebook is embroiled in perpetual scandal. Startup darlings WeWork and Uber nearly went under due to substantial gaps between their visions and their realities.

While that flashy insurance startup hasn’t met the same fate as the others, it must remain wary. That company will need more than just a visionary idea to survive long-term.

Attention to detail matters. It always has, and it always will.

It matters in technology. It matters in business. It matters in life.

We can ignore the details all we want. We can continue to focus on the flash, the buzz, the sizzle.

But we do so at our own peril.

Yes, the little things really do make a big difference.

And so, I will continue to sweat the small stuff. I will maintain my laser focus on the minutia, day in and day out.

I hope you’ll join me.

Manufactured Ecosystems

It was a rainy Friday morning. The kind that leaves you in a trance, stuck interminably between slumber and alertness.

But my spell was broken once I stepped into the terminal at Chicago O’Hare Airport.

The pitter-patter of raindrops landing in the darkness was washed away by the rush of a thousand people heading in diverging directions.

This scene was a bit much for me. All around me, people were getting on with their day. Yet, I hadn’t even had my morning coffee yet.

I set out to rectify this situation immediately. But as I made my way to one of the many coffee shops on the concourse, I couldn’t help but think how inorganic this whole situation was.

The scene in this airport concourse didn’t have to exist. The organized chaos was only a thing because a mass of people desired to crisscross the country at warp speed — and because the airlines routed so many of those journeys through Chicago.

This desire was the key to the whole operation. It kept the lights on, the coffee shops open, and the concourses full. It led a small army of gate agents, security officers, and shuttle bus drivers to percolate at an hour when so many in the nearby metropolis were still in bed. It made this random bit of turf in Illinois appear to be anything but.

Yes, at this moment, O’Hare Airport seemed all-important — a bustling transit hub and the crossroads of the skies. But it was just a prominent outpost of a manufactured ecosystem.

As I stood in line, waiting for my coffee, I thought back to a scene from roughly 60 hours earlier.

I had just gotten off an airplane at Milwaukee’s General Mitchell International Airport, a mere 73 miles north of O’Hare. But the contrasts couldn’t have been starker.

The sun hadn’t quite set on Southeastern Wisconsin on this late afternoon. But the airport was a ghost town. The gate areas were full of empty seats. The restaurants in the concourse were all shut down for the night.

I made the long walk to baggage claim, arriving at the same time as my suitcase. A few hundred steps away, the keys to my rental car were waiting for me.

No, there was no crush of people to navigate on this midweek evening. I made my way through the arrival process feeling like a VIP, mostly because I was about the only person in the airport.

In Chicago, on the other hand, I was a cog in a wheel.

My bag was just one of many for the airport staff to process and load onto a litany of planes. I checked a baggage tracking app on my phone with nervous anticipation, hoping my luggage would find its way to the cargo hold of the plane. With minutes to spare, it did.

And while the coffee shops in O’Hare might have been open, I wasn’t exactly feeling the warm aura of hospitality there. The staff was overwhelmed, determined to get people their food and beverage as quickly as possible. Curtness ruled the day. Anything more was a waste of time.

All of this made me wonder why I put myself through such torture. It left me to ponder why I would willingly dive into the teeth of this manufactured ecosystem.

It certainly wasn’t a necessity. The recent pandemic — which gutted air travel for months — made that abundantly clear.

No, it was something else. Namely, a willingness to put myself through the ringer in pursuit of something worthwhile.

Oftentimes, that meant leisure travel or a chance to visit family. This time, the impetus was a business trip.

In any case, the juice was worth the squeeze. It was worth it for me, and for so many others in that coffee shop line that morning.

As I write this, we find ourselves in a fascinating moment.

We are emerging from the depths of a remarkable event — a prolonged shutdown of our economy and social scene. Habits have been broken. Norms have been shattered. Life as we once knew it is over.

In the wake of this disruption, many of us have the urge to make a clean break. To do away with the manufactured ecosystems we now recognize we don’t need.

We also have a desire to avoid the uncomfortable. To “live our best lives” and avoid the unpleasant experience we once put ourselves through.

All of this is tantalizing. After all, if we can clear the decks, we’ll spend our energy more productively. We’ll waste less time maintaining nonsensical habits for tradition’s sake and spend more time exploring our true potential.

That’s the theory. But it’s rarely that simple in reality.

Indeed, we didn’t build such ecosystems on a whim. The structures we now ridicule once served an essential purpose. Many still do.

We can’t just toss these aside wholesale and call it progress. Or at least we shouldn’t.

Such is the conundrum facing the airline industry. The act of flying — of elbowing our way through crowded airport concourses to jockey for legroom in a sterile metal tube — that was no one’s idea of fun. And so, when the opportunity arose to return to it, we punted.

But we soon found there was no viable alternative. Exotic Zoom backgrounds couldn’t masquerade for the real thing. Long-distance road trips were just too impractical.

So, we reluctantly returned to the manufactured ecosystem of air travel. An ecosystem still smarting from our collective abandonment.

The results have been decidedly mixed so far. Staffing shortages and weather issues have led to a spate of cancellations. Food options and amenities within airports have remained scarce as the pandemic’s shadow lingers.

But there seems to be a sense of buy-in. We’ve rekindled our commitment to the skies, understanding that a morning navigating a busy airport is but a small price to pay.

There are surely other ecosystems like this. Structures that we’ve been tempted to leave for dead, but that might still suit us well.

It’s our responsibility to recognize this. And it’s our responsibility to build them back up.

For what we’ve created might not be pleasant. But it’s certainly worth keeping.