Month: August 2024

Embedded Insecurities

It’s a three-story building.

Tan brick facades. Double-hung windows. A distinctly 1920s look.

On each of the edifice’s four sides, a set of doors provide entry. Above them, four Roman columns support a structure holding a modest clock.

The building is quaint. Not majestic.

And yet, it’s of great historical importance.

This building, you see, is the Old Collin County Courthouse. It sits in the center of a leafy square in downtown McKinney, Texas. A bevy of shops and restaurants surround the square in all directions.

Long before Dallas’ suburban sprawl overtook McKinney, this was the heart of Collin County. It’s where residents would gather to conduct business and gather supplies. It was a gathering place.

That spirit is still alive in the shops and restaurants surrounding the square – a refreshing oasis from the strip malls so prevalent in greater Dallas.

It’s still alive 32 miles west in Denton, where another set of shops and restaurants surround the Old Denton County Courthouse. And it’s still alive 28 miles west of there in Decatur, where some modest establishments buttress the Wise County Courthouse.

In fact, a similar scene can be found in many of Texas’ 254 county seats. Nearly every town has its county courthouse – or former courthouse – on a square, with shops and eateries around it.

The same can be said for municipalities outside the Lone Star State. When I visited the town in rural Missouri where my father was born, it had the same setup as McKinney. So too have towns I’ve frequented in North Carolina, Nevada and Vermont over the years.

This is no coincidence.

The courthouse square setup is an American staple. And while its utility might have faded in the era of 15-gallon gas tanks and Walmart supercenters, its importance most certainly has not.

Did you hear?

Those three words represented the start of seemingly every conversation when I was in high school.

Gossip was the name of the game, and we all fancied ourselves to be Michael Jordan.

It would be harsh to fault us for these delusions. Adolescence is a near-impossible assignment. A quest to find the answers within while complying with the abstract ideals of coolness.

It’s confounding mission. One that could demoralize and distress even the strongest willed of teenagers.

And we were no match for it.

So, we shifted our gaze. We galvanized around the stumbles our peers made on the journey. The land mines that we could avoid, now that others had triggered the trip wires.

We gossiped.

Most of this gossip made the halls of my high school the old-fashioned way. Someone witnessed something – or claimed to – and shared it with the group.

But a nascent technology called social media had also found our cohort. And suddenly, some of the fodder for gossip was originating online.

Things, of course, are far different these days. Online rumors re now the norm, not the exception. And social media-based discourse has gotten so toxic that it’s spawned a new name – cyber harassment.

This has led to severe effects for modern-day adolescents. And those effects have led some states to consider bans on social media for minors.

I understand where this movement is coming from. Several young people have taken their own lives because of cyber harassment. It’s tragic, and I feel for their families and friends.

But I do wonder if the proposed bans will have the desired effect. For the root cause of the toxicity afflicting adolescent culture is not social media – or even the Internet itself.

It’s gossip.

And gossip is firmly rooted in our society.

Back to that county courthouse in McKinney, Texas for a moment.

The building sits mostly vacant now. Courtrooms and county offices reside in an expansive building five miles away.

The modern courthouse is surrounded by parking lots and a highway. A supermarket and several other stores sit a couple exits down the highway, along with a movie theater and an assortment of restaurants.

The highway is now the central corridor for McKinney residents. Anyone looking to pick up supplies, take in mass entertainment, or conduct official business sets their vehicle’s GPS for U.S. 75. The shops and restaurants around the old courthouse – while still frequented – are off the beaten path.

This modern arrangement has its advantages. Residents can gather supplies from store shelves, pay for them at a self-checkout kiosk, and load them into their car in the parking lot – all without making eye contact with another human being. Efficiency reigns supreme.

But at what cost?

You see, back when the highway didn’t exist and the courthouse was based downtown, the luxury of secluded shopping simply did not exist.

Anyone heading for supplies was going to have to head to the courthouse square. They were going to have to engage with the store clerk, even if just to hand over payment. They were going to see other locals milling about. And those other locals were going to see them.

Any misstep in this adventure would be harshly scrutinized.

Whispers would softly spread around town. And judgmental stares would brand the afflicted like a hot iron.

Yes, the gossip mill was as much a part of life as maintaining a vocation and putting food on the table. Commerce on the courthouse square took two forms of tender – dollar bills and embedded insecurities.

People measured their success not only by what they had, but how it measured up to others. The fear of inadequacy loomed large.

Treks to the courthouse square offered opportunities to disprove that notion. To put on airs, to act proper, to get a pulse of where one really was. And hopefully not to be confirmed as a pariah in the process.

These days, that style of commerce has faded. But if we think the associated demands have not, we’re kidding ourselves.

People are still dealing in embedded insecurities. They’re still keeping up with the Joneses and yearning to gain acceptance.

But now, they’re doing all this online. They’re depending on an unsavory place where judgement converges from all angles at warp speed.

Yes, everything from neighborhood forums to social media mom groups to websites like People of Walmart lives in cyberspace 24/7. And all of it turbocharges the courthouse square effect.

McKinney, we have a problem.

How do we solve the puzzle? How do we reconcile our desire for validation with the risks of critique-based abuse?

These questions have dogged us for a couple decades, if not longer.

Some have proposed attacking the riddle’s central premise. By ridding ourselves of embedded insecurities, by affirming that we are adequate and no one else’s perceptions are worth a damn, we can sidestep the strife entirely and live happily ever after. Or so they say.

It’s an appealing concept. But not a realistic one.

You see, embedded insecurities are not a bug of our society. They’re a feature of our existence. They’re hard-wired into our brains for a reason.

Like just about any other species, we rely on a group for security. Without the power of the pack, we are so much more vulnerable to so many threats.

We stand little chance of warding off these threat time after time on our own. Fight or flight only gets us so far.

So, we find sanctuary in numbers. We conform to shared rules and make ourselves presentable to masses. All while harboring anxiety about triggers for rejection.

Drowning out this impulse won’t cure us of its effects. It will only accentuate them.

No, the key is to channel those embedded insecurities. To balance those inevitable questions of adequacy with constructive answers. To openly engage and to grow from the interactions.

And to do all this away from cyberspace. Far afield from the trolls, keyboard warriors, and endless scrolls that do us no favors.

It’s time to engage with each other in public again. Human to human, with our five senses as a guide.

It’s time to pick up on cues – both verbal and nonverbal – and to adapt our behavior accordingly. To be honest without being cruel. To find a common denominator of acceptance, even with those we disagree with.

The courthouse square might no longer be the physical center of society. But its spirit still can be.

Let’s make it so.

Gardens to Tend

Swish!

It was the telltale sign of a good shot in basketball. The audible marker of an orange ball grazing the nylon strings of a net.

Growing up, I’d watch a fair number of basketball games on television with my friends. Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant would launch that orange ball into the stratosphere. And as gravity brought it closer to the basket, I would wait for that sound.

Swish meant success. And success is what kept me watching.

My friends would often focus on other aspects of the game – the crossover dribbles, the thunderous slam dunks, the gaggle of celebrities sitting courtside. But I was fixated on that swish.

It sounded cathartic. It provided more context than the often-blurred TV picture could.

And it was something of a novelty.

You see, I didn’t just watch basketball with my friends. I sometimes played it them as well.

These informal games or shootarounds often took place on outdoor courts in local parks. We brought the ball. The park had the rest.

Well, some of the rest.

You see, the park courts wouldn’t be confused for the glamorous ones Jordan and Bryant dominated on television. Instead of hardwood, there was blacktop. And instead of nets, there was…nothing.

There’d be no swish sound to indicate a made basket. There might be the clank of the rim or the thud of the backboard if a ball didn’t make its way through the hoop cleanly. But on the purest of shots, you’d hear nary a thing.

This bothered me. So, one day, I asked my father why the nets were missing.

I think those hoops used to have them, he replied. But then someone stole them. And that will keep happening if the city put new ones up. So, they’re leaving them be.

I was floored.

I’d never considered that public basketball courts could be anything but a net benefit. I’d never contemplated how others could use that public access for bad intent.

But now the blindfold was off. And there was no going back.

Several years ago, Malcolm Gladwell took aim at country clubs.

The acclaimed author and podcast host had traveled to Los Angeles for business. But when he ventured out for a morning run, he found himself relegated to a narrow dirt path wedged between a busy boulevard and the high fences of a golf club.

Those fences infuriated Gladwell. So, he made a podcast episode about them, and lambasted what they represented.

In the episode, Gladwell questioned why a group of golfers got exclusive access to the outdoors in a car-dominant city. He pointed out that in Canada and Scotland, golf course grounds were open to the public on certain days, or in certain parts of the year.

Surely, America could follow this pattern too, Gladwell argued.

This reasoning appealed to me. For I’ve long detested country club culture.

The exclusivity. The snobby attitudes. The idea of paying dues to get outdoor access.

None of it jibed with my own experience.

When I was growing up, I swam in the ocean at public beaches. I hiked through public nature preserves. And I played those aforementioned basketball games in the park with my friends. All without paying a dime.

These adventures were formative in my life. And I felt others deserved similar opportunities.

But I realize now that things were never quite so simple.

I might have moseyed about in my youth, enjoying myself for free. But there were others who looked after the spaces I frequented. A full roster of folks who kept those locales tidy and kept me safe.

There were workers at the park who mowed the grass and cleared the trash. There were lifeguards at the beach who saved swimmers from drowning. There were forest rangers who ensured the trails at the nature preserve were safe for hiking.

These officials took their jobs seriously, and they acquitted themselves well. But one must wonder if they felt as if they were rolling a boulder up a hill.

You see, the open nature of these parks, preserves, and beaches made their work obsolete quickly. Even after their garden was tended, a new crowd would converge on the space to lay waste to it once again.

It was as if they were fastening a fresh basketball net to the rim each day, with full knowledge that it would be gone by evening. No amount of salary or plaudits makes this work rewarding. And in a vacuum, the arrangement itself hardly seems to make much sense.

So, no, the answer to the country club problem isn’t as simple as Gladwell made it. But a better solution is out there.

We just need to shift our perspective to find it.

A few years ago, I captained a neighborhood kickball team.

The team didn’t play all that well. But where we played was anything but.

All the games in our league took place at a nearby sports complex. The fields were well-designed and meticulously maintained. They were far better than some of the fields I played high school baseball on.

And the scene outside the lines was no less impressive. Knowledgeable referees oversaw the kickball contests. And representatives from the recreation department kept an eye on the proceedings, resolving any situations that might arise.

This all floored me at first.

For we were technically playing ball in a city park. A public space, open to all.

And yet, none of the associated chaos had found its way here. It was all so…organized.

Perhaps this had something to do with where we were. Namely, a small suburb outside of Dallas. There was plenty of space to be found all over town, and thus little impetus to run this complex into ruin.

But I think the orderliness could also be attributed to the fine print of the kickball league. All teams had to pay a fee to register. (The community manager for the neighborhood I live in covered those costs for our squad.)

On top of that, all property owners in this suburb paid taxes and fees – with that money supporting both the recreation department and the sports complex.

These costs, while not exorbitant, sent a powerful message.

Yes, you can play ball here. No tall fences will keep you out. But if you think you can desecrate these fields on our dime, you’ve got another thing coming.

This suburb was not letting anyone shield their eyes from those who tend the garden. That process was instead shared, allowing order to rise from chaos.

Perhaps this is the model Malcolm Gladwell is looking for. Perhaps this is the scenario my younger self would have thrived in.

There’s only one way to know for sure.

So, let’s stop treating public spaces like entitlements. And let’s start treating them as gardens to tend instead. Let’s mind the space as if it were our own. And let’s respect those tasked with maintaining it.

A little shift can go a long way. Let’s forge that path.

The Custer Bias

In June of 1876, a regiment from the 7th Cavalry of the United States was in a conundrum.

Scouts had found a large encampment of Native Americans along the Little Bighorn River in the Montana Territory. This tribal encampment violated laws confining Native Americans to reservations. And the 7th Cavalry’s mission was to force them to comply.

Relations between native tribes and United States Army installments in the region were not good. Several skirmishes had broken out between the two already, and the 7th Cavalry had every reason to believe this encampment would be hostile to their demands.

And so, the regiment’s leader – Lieutenant Colonel George Custer – charted an attack. The Cavalry would be split into three brigades, encircling the encampment. The troops would trap the natives into compliance.

It was a bold strategy, but also a risky one. Custer had no idea how many warriors might be among the tribe, and how those ranks compared with his own. He also knew far less about the terrain his regiment was on than the natives.

By pressing ahead, Custer was taking a chance. And anyone who’s taken an American History class knows the rest.

The first brigade got bogged down by Lakota Sioux and Chayanne warriors just as Custer’s brigade was trying to flank the encampment. Native warriors spotted Custer’s men and attacked them with superior numbers.

The brigade had nowhere to retreat to, and not enough firepower to press on. It was systematically cut down. Every member of its five companies – including Custer – were killed.

The Battle of Little Bighorn was effectively over. But the legend of Custer’s folly was just beginning.

For generations, Americans would hear of Custer’s Last Stand. It was the ultimate cautionary tale of risk gone wrong.

Why would Lieutenant Colonel George Custer attempt such a bold maneuver? Why would he so unabashedly put the lives of his men in danger?

Military historians have been trying to answer this question for decades. For Custer wasn’t exactly a novice when he reported to the Montana Territory. He was an accomplished military leader who had led Union Army brigades in the American Civil War.

The volunteers under Custer had repelled Confederate forces at just about every turn, including the Battle of Gettysburg in July 1863. He knew what he was doing.

Or did he?

You see, at Gettysburg, Custer’s volunteers faced off with a Confederate cavalry force twice their size. Custer’s brigade was somewhat detached from the heart of the Union Army, and the Confederate cavalry caught him by surprise.

Undeterred, Custer led counterattack after counterattack with his own cavalry. The vicious fighting stalled the Confederate brigades, effectively preventing them from rendezvousing with other columns of fighters.

Once the cannon fire of the main battle could be heard in the distance, the Confederate cavalry retreated. Custer had won.

Custer had taken a massive risk exposing his cavalry so extensively. The chances of them getting overrun were as good as them prevailing.

It was effectively a coin flip. But the coin came up in Custer’s favor. The risk paid off

This certainly gave Custer confidence. Confidence to assume even more risk.

That attribute was what allowed him to rise to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, and to get posted to the Montana Territory. And it’s likely what made his daring plan at Little Bighorn seem anything but.

Live by the sword. Die by the sword.

Call it The Custer Bias.

Lieutenant Colonel George Custer met his demise nearly 150 years ago. So, why discuss his travails in such detail.

Well, I believe they’re just as prescient in this era as any other.

We are a far different country now. A global superpower, fueled by big business.

But today’s industrial leaders are just as happy taking risks as Custer was. If not more so.

This sustained boldness perhaps most notable in big tech, where companies can shift from hypergrowth to cost cutting on a dime. But it’s also present in manufacturing, thanks to the rise of just-in-time inventory processes. It’s present in retail, where large brands venture into new product lines or sales channels time and again. And it’s present in dozens of other industries.

There are many reasons why this behavior is so present among corporate leadership. Many have pointed out that investors don’t stand still. And neither do competitors.

That’s all accurate. But the biggest reason leaders lean into risk-taking? It’s The Custer Bias.

Think about it. Just about any corporate leader has already taken a risk to get where they’re at. Maybe they were an entrepreneur, who defied the odds to found the business they now helm. Or perhaps they rose through the corporate ranks, trying something bold to fuel their breakthrough.

With those bold moves in their rearview, these corporate leaders are keen on rolling the dice once more. For all the market forces out there – consumers, competitors, investors – are yearning for them to push the envelope.

Of course, it could all go sour. And if it does, they could lose everything they’ve attained.

Such an outcome would sting. But not as much as the status quo does for others.

It’s easy to idolize the maverick leaders. To deify a Steve Jobs or a Howard Shultz or a Reed Hastings.

But for each one of them, there’s someone who failed at their mission. Someone who took a risk to create a tech company, or revitalize a small coffee shop, or disrupt the entertainment industry. And someone whose risk didn’t pay off.

These failures lurk in the shadows. You can’t prove a negative, and we have little patience for tales of what could have been.

And so, we comb through the success stories. We search for patterns and commonalities – all while forgetting about the inherent randomness.

Yes, success can seem inevitable if you weed out the duds. And that delusion can make risk-seeking appear less dangerous. Safe, even.

This is undoubtedly a tragedy. Not perhaps not in the way you might think.

Those burned by a risk gone bad will surely suffer – regardless of whether it’s the first or fifteenth risk they’ve taken. But those who avoid risk will suffer even more.

For there is no safe passage for the risk averse these days. Those who play it safe will still find themselves under the direction of renegades.

They’ll find themselves reporting to dice rollers infested with The Custer Bias. In this modern era, how could they not?

Yes, it is all too possible to stay away from the fire and still get burned. But what if that such a fate wasn’t so inevitable?

It’s time to turn the tables on The Custer Bias. To be less cavalier with the risks we take. To pay more credence to the odds of chance. And to avert our eyes from the shine of favorable outcomes.

Such actions run counter to our nature. But they’re essential to our survival.

So, let’s stop following the path of Lieutenant Colonel George Custer. Our story deserves a better ending.

The Cost of Success

On the morning of August 7, 2021, 88 female distance runners gathered at in Sapporo, Japan. They were set to embark on a 26.2-mile journey for Olympic gold.

The field was littered with accomplished athletes – record holders and outright marathon winners who hailed from all corners of the globe. Among them was a 27-year-old Wisconsin native named Molly Seidel.

Seidel hadn’t racked up any marathon wins or set any records at that distance before. In fact, she’d only raced in two marathons before jetting off to Japan.

She’d done well enough in one of those races – the United States Olympic Trials Marathon – to earn her spot at the starting line. But few were expecting much from her as she took on the world’s best.

The weather in Sapporo was brutal that morning. Bright sun baked the streets, and high humidity made the air feel heavy.

The conditions evened the playing field somewhat. So, as the race reached its final few miles, there was no breakaway leader. The alpha pack remained largely intact.

The expected contenders were in that pack – runners from Kenya and Ethiopia. But so was Molly Seidel.

The TV commentators looked on with astonishment. Would Seidel hold on? Or would any number of factors – the pressure, the conditions, the fatigue – cause her to fade?

Less than twenty minutes later, the answer emerged.

A Kenyan runner crossed the finish line first. Another Kenyan was the second across the line.

But the third runner? That was Molly Seidel.

Seidel had secured a Bronze medal – only the United States’ third ever medal in the women’s Olympic marathon. And she’d done it in style – finishing a mere 26 seconds behind the gold medalist.

With one incredible race, Seidel had become an American hero. Her post-race interview – where she told her family back home to Have a beer for me – went viral. Her face was on TV screens from coast to coast. Her following on social media and the workout app Strava grew exponentially.

It was an incredible story. But one that would carry a heavy price.

What do we do after an accomplishment?

It seems like a silly question to even ask. For in American society, there is but one answer: Accomplish more.

Successful entrepreneurs look to capitalize on the next big idea. Oscar winning actors yearn to tackle the next big role. Musicians seek to launch the next big album.

And athletes seek the next big competition.

I know this as much as anyone.

As regular readers know, I’ve taken up competitive distance running in recent years.

I’ve done this for many reasons, including fun and fitness. But I’ve also yearned to push my limits.

I had this objective in mind when I signed up for my first half marathon. I’d never raced anywhere close to that distance before, and I was more than a bit apprehensive. But I trained diligently and set what an aggressive goal for my finish time.

As I made my way into the starting corral, I was still unsure if I’d hit my goal time. But 13.1 miles later, I looked up at the clock and found I’d beaten it by 10 minutes.

I was elated, but I didn’t celebrate for long. By the end of the day, my focus had turned to my next half marathon, where I aimed to post an even better time.

I did just that, lowering my personal best by nearly three minutes. So, once again, I set my sights on an even better performance in my next race.

I attained that as well. And I was on my way to tackling even loftier goals when injuries got in the way.

That broke the spell. With my running future suddenly murky, I was left to ponder what was already behind me. What I’d attained before and might never accomplish again.

This swing from highs to lows was brutal. It nearly destroyed me.

But it wasn’t all that unique. Many distance runners must contend with it. Including Olympic bronze medalists.

Molly Seidel followed up her podium performance in Sapporo with a fourth-place finish in the 2021 New York City Marathon. She set a personal best in that race.

Seidel was on her way to a similar performance in the 2022 Boston Marathon when she injured her hip. She had to bow out of the race 16 miles in.

Suddenly, the next goal wasn’t right in front of Seidel. There were no personal bests to chase, no marathons to win in her immediate future.

Instead, an arduous rehab awaited Seidel. Along with the real possibility that her best races might be behind her.

But Seidel didn’t have the luxury of coming to terms with this in private, as I had. She was a professional runner at this point, with sponsors to please and a livelihood to maintain. Plus, she had millions of runners across America following her every move.

Each workout she posted on Strava would be scrutinized. Anything she said on Instagram would be commented on.

And if she didn’t post anything to those places, her followers would notice that too.

The expectations were sky-high. There was no room to be human.

This all took its toll on Seidel. So, she started speaking out about the mental challenges she was facing. And she eventually took some time away from the sport to reset.

It wasn’t a universally popular decision. But it was the right one.

Molly Seidel found herself in an impossible situation. And she did what she needed to make it manageable.

As I write this, another Olympic Games is in full swing.

There have been plenty of memorable performances. And a few surprises on the level of Seidel’s bronze medal run in Sapporo.

But behind all the glamour and athletic glory, there’s been a steady conversation going on. An open discussion about what these venerable athletes must contend with.

You see, most athletes at the Olympic games are not set up to capitalize on their success. The International Olympic Committee does not generally pay medal bonuses, and most national delegations only pay a modest reward to their decorated athletes.

These are the remnants of a system formed by elitist 19th-century aristocrats obsessed with the spirit of amateurism. It was an impractical system then, and it’s no less impractical today.

(The fact that the rapper Flava Flav is financially supporting the United States Women’s Water Polo Team is both noble and absurd.)

And yet, the system remains.

What Olympic athletes don’t get in money, they get in attention. Over the course of two weeks, they have the eyes of the world upon them. Literally.

It’s a spotlight many would crave, an opportunity wholly worth seizing. But it only comes around every four years.

Add it all up, and you have accomplished athletes gaining massive followings overnight, but without a corresponding gain in dollars. They’re stuck in the purgatory of notoriety – carrying all the pressures of fame without enjoying the spoils of it.

It’s no wonder that these athletes are forced to chase the next Olympic cycle and the next world record. Their relevance relies on it. Their followers demand it. Their finances might depend on it too – if they’re lucky enough to amass corporate sponsors.

And it’s no wonder that so many of these champion athletes – Caeleb Dressel, Allyson Felix, Simone Biles, and others – have nearly broken under these pressures. Much like Molly Seidel, they’ve found themselves saddled with the impossible.

We seem to have reached an inflection point. We can no longer hide behind the myths of athletic heroics carrying the day. There’s no denying the humanity of the athletes who captivate and inspire us. Not anymore.

But it’s what we do with this moment that matters.

Will we commit to giving talented athletes more than our attention? Will we provide support in all facets – from financial to medical to emotional? Will we offer up some grace if their journeys take a left turn, or if they feel compelled to step back?

Will we be better than we have been?

There’s only one real answer. Only one response that will stand the test of time. Only one path that will stay on the right side of the moral boundary.

Let’s make sure it’s the one we choose.

Success needn’t be cost-prohibitive – whether it’s found on the athletic field or beyond its boundaries.

It’s time we make it right.