Month: May 2024

Efficiency Mode

I was in line at the car wash when the issues started.

First, the Check Engine light turned on. Then the airbag deployment indicator illuminated.

The electronic display near my center console started flickering on and off. And my power windows stopped working.

It was as if my car was having a seizure.

I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. My alternator was failing, and my car’s electrical system was on its last legs.

My car still worked, but my options were severely limited. If the engine were to idle for a few minutes longer, I’d be done for.

I didn’t have the money for a tow truck. And I didn’t know who to call for assistance.

There was but one option. I had to get this hunk of sheet metal to the mechanic while I still could.

The first task was to peel out of the car wash line. Fortunately, I was far enough from the cashier that I could cut away without incident.

But that only started the adventure.

The mechanic was four miles across town, with a maze of city streets in between. I’d need to find a route that didn’t have too many turns. And I had to go just the right speed to glide through every green light without effort. For if I stopped – or braked and accelerated too much – the car might have died on me.

Fortunately, I knew this part of town like the back of my hand. So, the optimal route came to mind instantly.

There’d be one left turn at the next intersection, followed by a two-mile straightway, a right turn, a one-mile straightaway, two more right turns, and a half-mile jaunt down a highway access road.

So, four turns and two long straightaways. With five traffic lights mixed in for good measure.

It wouldn’t be the easiest sequence for a dying car to traverse. But it was a Sunday afternoon, and the roads were half empty. If I made it through that initial left turn, the rest would be attainable.

I turned out of the car wash entrance and made my way to that first intersection, gradually applying pressure to the gas pedal. The left turn arrow was illuminated ahead of me. But I was still hundreds of yards away.

Seconds felt like hours as the traffic light drew closer. Don’t change yet, I begged silently. Don’t change!

The light stayed green.

I barreled through the turn, pressing the gas pedal one more time as I hit the long straightaway.

The next three traffic lights were now my nemesis. I had to clear them in sequence without maneuvering my car too much.

It turned out I’d built enough speed to make that happen. Two miles rolled by without red lights, and I roared through a right turn onto the shorter straightaway.

I was about halfway through that straightaway when the electrical display went dark. As I cruised through the final green light at 40 miles an hour, I saw the speedometer needle go from 40 to 0 and back to 40, before cutting out entirely.

I was still going 40 miles an hour but in a mostly dead car. I had a mile to go and two turns to manage. And I could only steer and decelerate.

I could have given up then. But I’d come so far. I was determined to make it.

I guided the car to the end of the road, my foot hovering over the brake pedal. With the power steering now failing, I turned the wheel with force, making it through the successive right turns without incident. And I let the car glide down the access road until the mechanic shop came into view.

Then I turned into the parking lot and hit the brakes one last time.

I had made it.

Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.

This bit of wisdom comes from the pugilistic philosopher Mike Tyson.

The boxer infamous for biting his opponent’s ear and for getting a face tattoo might not seem like the best source of life wisdom. But Tyson is right.

We like to think we have a foolproof plan. We thrive under the illusion of control.

But inevitably, our best plans will get waylaid. And our reaction to that unexpected disruption will ultimately define us.

I wasn’t planning on my alternator going out while I waited for a car wash. The power failure hit me like a sucker punch to the jaw.

But I rallied.

I made a contingency plan on the spot. And I executed it nearly flawlessly.

As I reminisce about all this, one question above comes to mind above all others. How was I able to react so smoothly in a flash?

Some of it was experience. I’d just replaced my alternator months earlier, so I knew the warning signs of a power failure.

But much of it was innate. The quick, decisive actions I took were the product of something I like to call Efficiency Mode.

Efficiency Mode exists within all of us. It’s what steers us to the nearest restroom when our stomach starts acting up in public. It’s what shepherds us to safety when the skies darken and thunder booms around us.

Efficiency Mode brings out our best. It narrows our focus narrows and hones our decisiveness. It slows down time and enhances our ability to deliver optimal results.

But there’s a catch.

Efficiency Mode only exists in crisis. It only emerges when our plans have been waylaid. It only thrives when we’ve been punched in the mouth.

This leaves us with a conundrum. How do we handle the non-crisis times?

Do we carry on through life as usual, embracing the mantle of control while capturing only a fraction of our potential?

Or do we long for a rogue wave to knock us down, taking our efficiency into high gear?

The choice is ours.

The TV show Justified features plenty of colorful characters.

But few are as memorable as Bob Sweeney.

Sweeney is the fictional constable of Harlan, Kentucky. An awkward yet pleasant fellow, he’s played by the comedian Patton Oswalt.

Although his job is paperwork-heavy, Sweeney craves the thrill of big-time law enforcement actions. So, he always brings his “go bag” so that he’s “ready to jump” if the action gets heavy.

Many of us who have experienced that rush feel like Bob. We yearn for that next opportunity to use our “Go Bag,” because we know we’ll be bringing our best.

But the times between those times matter just as much.

If we can’t maintain excellence through the monotonous moments — when we can only top out at 80 percent of our potential — our crisis maneuvers will prove irrelevant. We’ll lose more in the balance than we gain in a pinch.

Yes, we need the plan and the ability to deviate from it. We need to throw confident haymakers and to rise from the mat when we take one on the chin.

When we master both, we will truly be in position to make an impact. But it takes a duality of commitment.

I’ve bought in. Will you?

Sticking With It

I looked stared into the mirror, horrified at what I saw.

My reflection was there, alright. But there wasn’t much to it.

I could see my entire ribcage, bones shrouded by skin. My arms appeared meek and wiry.

I looked severely malnourished. And although I knew I wasn’t – I devoured pizza and Pepsi just as much as the next teenager – I also realized I needed to make a change.

It was a struggle helping my parents lug groceries into the house. And it would be a struggle driving baseballs into the outfield for the Junior Varsity team if I didn’t bulk up.

So, I hit the gym.

That first time in my high school weight room was an adventure. My Physical Education teacher gave me a brief tour and a primer on etiquette. Then he let me be.

I bounced from machine to machine, and free weight after free weight. I knocked out reps like I was running out of time.

It all seemed too mundane, too easy. And the sight of my ribcage in the locker room mirror afterward confirmed this feeling.

I needed to turn things up, I told myself. Maybe I’d hit the weights twice as hard the next day.

This plan seemed futile the next morning, when I woke up sore all over. All those rapid-fire reps had taken their toll.

Still, I returned to the gym to lift. That day, and the next. And the one after that.

And by the time spring arrived, that ghastly appearance in the mirror was no more.

I had notable biceps, pecs, and even abs. And that muscle mass has remained with me ever since.

The vibes are off.

I never heard this phrase growing up. But I hear it plenty now.

It seems to be a code word for young adults. A cryptic excuse for opting out of a gathering or obligation.

People will bail on parties, dinner dates, and hobbies when the vibes are off. They’ll skip out on a workday just because they aren’t feeling up to it.

This is not a new phenomenon by any means. But it’s more prevalent than ever these days.

There are valid explanations for all this. A mental health reckoning has changed the ways we address concerns of the mind. And advances in technology have reduced the essentiality of in-person interactions.

We no longer fear losing our job if we get to work 10 minutes late. We no longer feel we’ll be shamed for missing out on a social activity.

The vibes are off excuse provides legitimate protection. And it’s changed the way we operate.

Now, this shift has not always been smooth for everyone. Many businesses have had to reckon with strange demand patterns, as consumers determine whether the vibes are good or not. Many employers have been left to guess as to who will be reporting to work for them on any given day.

And all of this has led to plenty of anger and resentment. Practitioners of the vibes are off approach have been labeled as lazy, selfish, or untrustworthy.

I get it. As a proud purveyor of The Lunch Pail Mentality, I am no fan of half-measures.

But I’m not here to hurl another tomato at those exhibiting behavior.

My concern is far more existential.

Let’s return to that morning in high school when I woke up sore.

I’d encountered aching muscles and joints before. I’d spent a season on the school’s cross-country team, and I’d been floored by the flu when I younger.

But this was different. I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.

Getting to the bathroom was an adventure. Getting dressed was another one. Everything hurt like it had never hurt before.

There was no way I could lift weights in this state. I was sure of it.

So, when I got to school, I told my Physical Education teacher as much. He laughed heartily.

Oh, you can still hit the weights, he said. Fight through that soreness. It’s the only way you build muscle.

The teacher explained that no one walked out of the gym looking like Johnny Bravo. Not after a single session, anyway.

It would take repeat trips to the weight room to see results. It would take day after day of breaking down muscle and rebuilding it in bulk.

I would need to embrace the pain and endure the monotony to achieve my goals. And it started right here.

I could have walked away at that moment. I could have determined the prize wasn’t worth the process.

But I kept sticking with it. And I ended up attaining my goals.

I wonder sometimes how others might handle that same situation these days. I fear they’d walk away.

You see, there’s a 100% chance that the vibes will be off during a workout journey. Rebuilding our body after we intentionally broke it is an inherently uncomfortable process. And discomfort is something we’re now well versed in avoiding.

But the opportunity cost of this opt out is massive. Not only do we miss out on some needed muscle, but we turn down the sensation of delayed gratification.

When we pull the plug, we learn little about enduring the struggle to reap the rewards. And we don’t get to discover how much sweeter those rewards taste after the strife.

We cut ourselves off from an entire class of attainment. We limit our world of accomplishments to the low-hanging fruit.

That is the crux of my concern with this opt-out movement. It’s less about what we deny others, and more about what we deny ourselves.

Namely, the chance to grow. The opportunity to expand our horizons and diversify our knowledge.

We don’t get there by turning our back on the gauntlet. Or by burying our head in the sand.

We get there by sticking with it. By committing to the journey as part of the destination.

We get there by embracing the grind, no matter what the vibes say.

This quest starts as an individualistic one. But if enough of us follow the path, it can change the fortunes of our society.

We’ll open ourselves to greater opportunities. We’ll attain more of our potential. And we’ll all be better for it.

So, let’s commit to sticking with it. In the weight room and in countless situations outside of it. And let’s follow through on that resolution.

Our future lies in the balance.

Reality and Delusion

It was quiet, peaceful, even picturesque.

Warm sunlight radiated through blue skies and puffy clouds above me. Green grass stretched across the rolling landscape in all directions. A breeze lightly rustled the branches of nearby trees.

I spent a moment taking it all in. Then I walked over to a small outbuilding.

This structure looked like a modest in-ground shed. One that might be used for curing meats, chiseling tools, or milling flour.

But a large plaque near the entrance explained that it was once used for a far different purpose.

Decades before I’d ambled up to it, this building had been a kiln. Not for pottery. But for people.

The Nazis had used this outbuilding as an extermination chamber during the Holocaust. They’d forced scores of victims inside, barred the door, and turned up the heat to uninhabitable levels. Long after the screaming and banging sounds within the chamber ceased, officers would move the bodies to a mass grave.

Then they’d round up another group and do it all over again.

The plaque explained all this with a horrifying matter-of-factness. And it was far from unique. Plaques outside nearby outbuildings explained how Nazis once poisoned victims with gas or strangled them from coat hooks there.

The splendor of the day vanished. The serenity of my surroundings started to haunt me.

I might have been born generations after the Buchenwald Concentration Camp was liberated. But as I stood within its gates, I felt that I hadn’t. The horrors of this place were tangible to me, in a way no history book could ever emulate.

There was no room for denial. There were no opportunities for delusion.

The reality was stark.

Never forget.

Those two words reverberated through our society in the weeks and months after September 11th, 2001.

Those words served as a poignant reminder, but they hardly seemed necessary.

Who could forget the horrors of what had just happened? Life as we’d known it had changed instantly. And the signs of that shift – from beefed up airport security to the cloud of debris hovering over New York City – were still everywhere.

There was no chance we’d forget. I was sure of it.

Instead, we’d carry that experience forward with us. We’d recall what had been lost on that sunny September morning. We’d remain clear-eyed about what had been gained in the days after, when we rallied as one. And we’d ensure we wouldn’t face the same crucible again in the future.

This viewpoint remained steadfast for years. But it’s not unquestioned anymore.

As I write this, we’re at a point of inflection. Many of the young adults making their mark on society were born after the 9/11 attacks. Others were too young back then to remember anything about that era.

This ascendant generation doesn’t know a world without metal detectors and body scanners. It can’t comprehend a world without the Department of Homeland Security. Heck, it has no idea what a world without the Internet in their pockets looks like.

This would seem to be a blessing. An opportunity to thrive in the post 9/11 world without being marred by its trauma.

But instead, it’s turned into a curse.

Some adults, you see, have refused to take accounts of that fateful day at face value. Instead of seeing the ordeal as a grave tragedy our national defenses failed to thwart, they’ve become apologists for the attackers.

They’ve claimed that our government was to blame – not for failing to prevent the attack, but for failing to hear out the terrorists who planned it. They’ve even claimed that some geopolitical decisions – such as placating the terrorists’ manifesto demands about a Middle East peace plan – would have prevented the attacks entirely.

This narrative has spread like wildfire recently, thanks in great part to the diesel fuel of social media algorithms. It’s spurred discussion and spawned further questions.

But make no mistake. It’s not even remotely true. It’s a delusion.

The ultimate credo of the attackers was not to reshape geopolitics. Their goal was to bring an end to America.

No amount of dialogue would have placated these terrorists. They had declared themselves enemies in a zero-sum game. Nothing would have led them to abandon their perverted mission.

But some in this newer generation didn’t seem to care about the facts on the ground. This delusional notion of a diplomatic offramp seemed tidy enough, and they presented it as reality.

So, decades after I made a pledge to never forget, I’ve now found my own experience – my own existence – gaslit by those immune to the horrors I lived through.

It’s infuriating. It’s frustrating. And it’s leaving me with serious concerns about those set to take my place.

Still, I’m not giving up hope that things will get back on the right track.

When I was growing up, a song called The Sign reached the top of the Billboard charts.

One of the lyrics from that Ace of Base tune is still quoted widely.

Life is demanding without understanding.

I think about that line often when it analyzing my differences with the next generation.

Yes, I consider members of this generation to be delusional at times. But could the real problem be one of demanding without understanding?

Perhaps these young adults mean no malice with their Monday Morning Quarterbacking of a profound national tragedy. Perhaps they’re solely guilty of looking at a long-ago incident from a modern perspective.

And perhaps I should do a better job of understanding what’s behind their perspective. So, let’s take a walk in their shoes.

This is a generation that came of age in the shadow of broken promises. Institutions weren’t living up to their billing, and activists were taking them to task for that failure.

These events led to real changes in power dynamics and spheres of influence. And it led to a belief that aggressive diplomacy could solve all of society’s challenges.

So, yes, it’s only natural that the next generation would view the 9/11 attacks far differently than mine.

And yet, I can’t quite let them off the hook.

You see, peddling in delusion is dangerous. It can cause the lessons of yesterday to go unheeded. And it can tarnish the sanctity of tomorrow.

I might not have been around during the Holocaust. And I might not have known anyone who survived the horrors of that time. But even in my earliest years, I always knew better than to give the Nazis any semblance of legitimacy.

Why? Because I read, I watched, and I internalized.

I read the historical accounts of the Holocaust in my history textbooks. I listened to the stern tones of my teachers and my parents when they discussed those atrocities. And I internalized that what the Nazis did was both inexcusable and wrong.

Visiting the site of Buchenwald only solidified this understanding. It only strengthened my resolve to respect the historical record, ugly as it was. And to avoid leveraging my generational distance to ask What if? For that was a question that led nowhere productive.

In a strange way, this approach has helped protect the legacy of the Holocaust. The most tragic of cautionary tales must remain that way so that its treachery is not repeated. Those furthest removed from the atrocities have the most influence in keeping the mission alive.

When it comes to 9/11, The Great Recession, and other crucibles of my era, the generation after mine has great power. They can accept the reality of what occurred, letting the humility of that knowledge guide them. Or they can fall prey to delusion and false narratives, forgetting the lessons of the past as they rewrite it.

There is still time to choose the right path. I hope they do.

The Right Track

We were in a pickle.

A debrief spouted out the dire news in slide after slide. Flagging sales. Frustrated customers. Poor product adoption.

A sense of exasperation filled the virtual meeting. I could sense steam rising from the foreheads of my colleagues, arrayed in small squares on my computer screen.

Everyone seemed perplexed as to why the status quo wasn’t working. But no one was willing to offer an alternative.

So, I did.

I recommended a new approach. One wholly focused on the most basic business concerns of our customers, and how our company – rather than its offerings – could help solve them.

There would be little mention of the details. We would hold product-specific specs in reserve until the customer requested them. We would deprioritize concerns about onboarding or data integrations when crafting our messaging.

Those were important issues, no doubt. But our company wouldn’t have the privilege of addressing them if the customers didn’t see the need for our services. And, in that regard, this broader messaging might cast a wider net.

Several people seemed uneasy with this suggestion. I could see them squirm a bit and glare at their webcams.

But no one outright told me no. So, I put my plan into action.

This didn’t quite work the way I hoped. And I found myself supporting a different business segment as a result.

It was a humbling experience. But I wasn’t disheartened.

For the essence of my original suggestions found new life with a new regime and a few refinements. And as I watched the relaunch from across the business, Version 2.0 started gaining momentum.

The business segment was no longer stuck in the mud. It was slowly, steadily making progress.

I might not have had the right answer. But I was on the right track.

I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.

This is perhaps the most famous quote from America’s most lauded inventor – Thomas Edison.

We can thank Edison for many modern staples, including video cameras, audio recording equipment, and – of course – the light bulb. But there were plenty of potential innovations that went bust in his lab as well.

Those duds might seem like footnotes. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

If Edison hasn’t experienced those failings, he likely wouldn’t have found such wild success. He would have gotten gun-shy, or proven unwilling to tinker and iterate.

Yes, even if he didn’t have the right answer, Edison was willing to explore the right track to find it. He didn’t let the twists and turns of that track distract him from the mission.

This spirit is sorely lacking today.

All too often, we aim to have the right answer before we open our mouths or lift our hands. We hesitate to make our move unless we have absolute certainty of success.

In a sense, this is understandable. No one wants to look foolish. And we strive not to be the person before the person behind the breakthrough, as I was.

But the right answer rarely grows on trees. Sometimes, it’s a Google search away. But most times it must be cultivated.

Committing to the right track gets us there, even if it doesn’t promise an immediate payoff. And the more we absolve ourselves of that dirty work, the fewer right answers we uncover.

Our knowledge base gets smaller. All while problems get bigger.

It’s a recipe for disaster.

We often say that Thomas Edison’s inventions changed the world.

They did. But not quite in the way we might think.

Take the light bulb. The filament encased in glass was a vast improvement over candles and gas lamps. It posed less of a fire hazard than those traditional lighting methods. And it could be turned on and off at will.

But it couldn’t become ubiquitous outside Edison’s lab without another innovation. Namely, a system to generate electricity and ferry it to the bulbs.

Edison turned his attention to building this system. And within a few years, his Direct Current (DC) utility system had been installed in multiple cities.

It was a crowning achievement for Edison. A paradigm shifting solution.

Or so he thought.

You see, DC wiring helped illuminate Edison’s perfect replacement for candles and gas lamps. But the DC system itself was far from perfect.

Its equipment was bulky and inefficient. And the required voltages proved devastatingly dangerous for anyone caught in the electric current.

A new solution – Alternative Current (AC) utilities – had none of these concerns. It was more adaptable than the DC system, and it didn’t require as high a voltage throughout the distribution chain.

The pioneers of the AC power distribution system in the United States were George Westinghouse and Nikola Tesla. Westinghouse was a rival to Edison, while Tesla was a former Edison employee.

Predictably, Edison fought relentlessly against the AC standard. The ensuing showdown for utility standard adoption because known as The War of the Currents. And it was riveting for a time.

But ultimately, AC power won out. It was more modern, more cost-efficient, and safer than DC power. It checked all the boxes to become the de-facto standard.

Edison was undoubtedly stung by this setback. He had sought to tie his legacy to his power generation exploits. But instead, he found it confined to the light bulb.

But Edison’s failure was not one of innovation. Rather, it was one of framing.

Edison was on the right track with the DC power system. It established the infrastructure that AC power could iterate upon.

But by declaring the right track to be the right answer, Edison closed the book prematurely. He limited his horizons, he capped his knowledge, and he abandoned his pursuit of the problem.

It was a costly mistake.

Which Edison do we want to be?

We all face this dilemma, no matter our level of innovativeness.

Do we want to be the tinkerer, the iterator who finds a yes through 10,000 nos? Or the authority who stands in front of yes like a stone wall.

That first option doesn’t sound too appealing. It requires patience and persistence, and it brings you face-to-face with rejection.

But make no mistake. The costs of the second option are far starker.

Yes, clinging to the right answer at all costs is a fool’s errand. One that can send us down the wrong path or keep us from pursuing the right one.

So, let’s change course.

Let’s open our minds. Let’s tap into our reservoirs of courage. And let’s commit to getting on the right track.

We won’t regret it.

Notorious

Come on! Aim for the edges.

My grandfather gave the order from across the ping pong table. I paused for a moment, unsure of myself.

This was my paternal grandfather – my dad’s dad. I had spent less time with him in my youth than I had my other grandfather – my mother’s father, who I’ve written about extensively. As such, I couldn’t quite get a read on him.

My grandfather held a sizable lead in this ping pong match. So, what was behind his command?

Was he trying to coach me up? To let me back into the game? To mess with my head and finish me off?

The first explanation seemed the simplest – and the least sinister. So, I let the words Aim for the edges wash over me.

I took a deep breath. I readied my paddle. And I served the ball across the table with confidence.

My grandfather volleyed the ball back to me, and I angled my paddle toward the far edge of the table.

One well-placed swing sent the ball screaming toward the white stripe at the table’s edge. The ball hit that stripe flush, just beyond the net. Then it careened further and further away from the table.

It was a perfect shot. The best one I’d ever hit.

But my grandfather refused to let it go uncontested. He lunged to his right, trying to salvage the point.

This was ill-advised.

Not only did my grandfather fail to reach the ball, but he also failed to keep his balance. He fell like a Ponderosa Pine, landing with full force on his right shoulder.

That landing spot was triple padded. Carpet on top of rubber on top of foam. Such are the luxuries of setting up a ping pong table in a condominium’s aerobics room.

But it didn’t matter.

The sheer force of impact broke my grandfather’s shoulder in two places.

The game was over. And so was life as I knew it.

My grandfather recovered from his injury in a matter of months.

But for years, family gatherings got a bit testy.

So, you’re the one who broke your grandfather…over a game of ping pong, my relatives would exclaim to me. Why would you do that?

The critique seemed a bit tongue-in-cheek. But I quickly learned that these relatives were not joking.

I couldn’t find an explanation that would ease the tension. No one wanted to hear that the injury was an accident, that I won that point, or that my grandfather told me to hit the ball where I did.

Despite my best intentions, I felt like Persona Non Grata. I was notorious.

Eventually, my family moved on. I stopped getting grief and started to attend these gatherings uninhibited.

But this whole experience cast a long shadow.

I still don’t think I’ve played ping pong since my grandfather’s injury decades ago. And I’m wary about engaging in any athletic actitivies with my relatives.

What if I get hurt, or get someone else hurt? I’ll never hear the end of it.

An unfortunate sequence of events has literally shifted family dynamics.

And this experience is far from unique.

There’s a famous Internet image of a young girl staring, nonplussed, away from the camera.

The image has been dubbed Side Eyeing Chloe, after the then-toddler it profiles. And it’s been repurposed for countless memes and GIFs.

The backstory behind this image is relatively ordinary. Chloe’s parents surprise her by saying that the family is heading to Disneyland. But instead of letting out a gleeful shriek, Chloe stares off to the side, her mouth slightly agape.

No one quite knows what young Chloe was actually thinking at the time. Was she confused? Concerned? Secretly elated?

It doesn’t really matter. The Internet saw the side-eyed glance and filled in the blanks.

Now, toddler Chloe’s face is one Google search away. She’s notorious. And real-life Chloe – now a teenager – is trapped in that notoriety.

I’ve never met Chloe. But I feel for her.

It’s no fun to have your narrative co-opted. To be typecast for one image, one depiction, one outcome you set into motion.

It can lead you to abandon an activity you’re just starting to master. It can strain relationships with those you share a last name with. It can drag you through the dirt out of the blue.

Notorious is no way to be.

Not long ago, I traveled with my father and my paternal grandparents to a small town in Missouri.

My father was born in this town, while my grandfather was in medical school. But the family moved away shortly thereafter.

The medical school’s homecoming was going on while we were in town, and the school hosted a 5K race as part of the festivities. Despite not knowing the town or the terrain, I signed up.

The race was old school, with the director firing a starting gun and noting finishing times on a stopwatch. The course proved to be a challenge, with a vast section of it traversing thick woods on the edge of town.

I was up against it. But in the end, I was the first to break the tape. I received a large plaque for my efforts – a plaque that sits front and center on my mantle today.

Winning that race was certainly a thrill. But the first emotion I felt after crossing the finish line was relief.

I’d just won a race down the street from both my father’s first home and the medical school my grandfather had attended.

In a strange way, my grandfather had given me this opportunity to excel athletically. And I’d honored that opportunity by bringing the family name to the winner’s podium.

Maybe the ping pong debacle wouldn’t hang over me for eternity. Perhaps I’d be notorious in family circles for something positive.

I hope my experience is not an anomaly. I hope others made notorious get a chance at redemption.

Yet, that hope carries a burden to become reality. A burden with two sides.

It’s on the notorious to seize the opportunity at a fresh start. But it’s also on all of us to offer them an open mind and a second chance.

Chloe deserves to be more than Side Eyeing Chloe, just like I deserved to be more than The guy who broke his grandfather’s shoulder playing ping pong.

Let’s stop willfully tying a snippet from the past to the infinite future. Let’s give each other the grace we deserve instead.

Notorious no more. That’s something worth getting behind.