Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Power by Proxy

Heavy lies the crown.

There’s a good chance you’ve heard that one before.

Having authority doesn’t come with strings attached. It comes with barbells.

We have a responsibility to use our leverage both effectively and ethically. But we must devote time and attention to make this happen. And such commitments can be a drag.

So, we try and delegate. We add proxies to do our bidding on our behalf.

It makes sense on the surface. And yet, we must wonder if such attempts are futile?

Have you ever taken a close look at a map of America?

It’s a strange sight.

States in the interior west look like blocks of a brick wall, dwarfing the size of their cousins back east. Maine protrudes into Maritime Canada. West Virginia resembles a misplaced shopping bag. And California looks like a banana.

There’s little uniformity to the boundaries of our 50 states. And yet, with some context, the divergent shapes make more sense.

Those tasked with defining these borders had to contend with topography — mountains, rivers, and lakes. The timing and circumstances of our nation’s expansion also played a part in how the map looks today

So yes, the story of our state map is a cogent narrative. You just need to think critically to find it.

By contrast, if you stare at a congressional district map, you might go cross-eyed.

Districts dot the map from coast to coast, without any sense of uniformity. Indeed, the map resembles a summer afternoon in Florida, with sunshine blanketing one side of the street and torrential downpours on the other.

What’s the rationale behind these strange boundaries?

It’s simple. They’re the expression of unchecked power.

To explain why that is, let’s brush up on some civics.

The United States Constitution states that an accurate count of everyone in the nation must be taken every 10 years. We know this decade-marking exercise as the Census.

Census data is used for many purposes, but the Constitution stipulates one in particular — apportioning Congressional delegates.

The numbers from the Census show how many seats each state can have in the House of Representatives. This ensures populous states — such as Florida or Texas — have more representation in the chamber than such less-populated states as Montana and Vermont.

This mechanism follows common sense. While the Senate allows two representatives per state, the House is meant to hold a more proportional voice. But the process of tying population to representation is only effective if the numbers are kept up to date.

And yet, the Constitution gives no guidance as to how these congressional seats are doled out. That process is left up to each state.

Our nation’s founders likely expected states to be prudent at executing this task. Yet, instead of coming up with something intuitive, many states make their maps resemble a game of Tetris.

You see, the map-drawing process — known as redistricting— normally falls to state legislatures. And that means the political party in control has influence over the results.

Politicians drawing the maps want to see members of their party inside the United States Capitol. So, they create districts that are more likely to drive that outcome.

Areas with lots of voters from their political party are split geographically into as many districts as possible. And wellsprings of support for the opposing party are clumped into a minority of districts.

Equity and common sense go out the window in a process like this. Preserving power is the only consideration.

Opponents of redistricting bias haven’t always gone quietly.

Back in 2003, dozens of Texas House members fled to Oklahoma to stall what they considered a flawed redistricting process. And more recently, the U.S. Congress has proposed legislation to address the issue.

Such tactics have largely been unsuccessful. But even if they had worked, victory would have been fleeting.

For restoring the ethics of redistricting only scratches the surface. The real issue lies at the root.

Yes, the idea of power by proxy itself is the issue here. The notion of representative democracy, while noble, is fatally flawed.

Such an arrangement emerged out of both necessity and convenience. Smarting from the injustices of monarchical rule, the founders of our fledgling nation decided to make our government by the people. But giving everyone a seat at the table was not practical. And so, the founders settled on proxy representation.

And therein lies the rub.

You see, proxies work best when they put the needs of their constituents first. For instance, parents and legal guardians tend to choose what’s in the best interest of their children.

But when the connection is less direct, proxies can go off the reservation. It’s human nature.

Politicians aren’t serving out of the kindness of their hearts. They have ambitions to satisfy.

And with such goals in mind, staying in power becomes their prime concern. The needs and wants of the electorate are barely more than an afterthought.

This is how we end up with ever more polarized political parties. This is what spawns partisan redistricting fights. And this is what ultimately leads to a democracy that’s representative in name alone.

What’s left for the rest of us?

This is a question I’ve long grappled with when it comes to representation.

At first, this seems like an odd inquiry. I am a White man. Our democracy has long been looking out for my needs, sometimes at the detriment of others.

But when it comes to ideology, I’m in the middle of the road. I’m neither far to the left, nor radically on the right. I believe in the importance of compromise and tradeoffs.

Across America, there are tens of millions of people like me. And yet, we have no one to stand for us in our representative democracy.

Moderate ideologies and commitments to compromise are not winning strategies on Capitol Hill — or in any statehouse. The ruthless ambition needed to maintain power tends to come from the fringes.

As such, politics tends to attract those with more radical viewpoints. Fundraising comes from hyper-partisan special interest groups. And the political parties themselves diverge more and more from common ground.

Sometimes an outsider shakes up the establishment. But that outsider is generally even more radical than either of the splintered factions it positions itself against.

Add it all up, and centrists like me are left out in the cold.

We have no seat at the table. Our “representative” democracy fails to represent us at all.

It’s a tragic consequence of power by proxy.

So, how do we get out of this conundrum?

How can we make power more representative?

Throwing out our existing system is not the answer. If we consolidate power, we open the door to authoritarian regimes. And if we disperse it, we only find ourselves with more voices to shout over.

Punishing proxies for their ambition is not the answer either. Without the incentive, fewer will serve in that role.

No, the best we can do is to demand more guardrails. The best we can do is to leverage peer pressure to keep proxies in line. The best we can do is speak up to ensure our voices are not silenced.

This process is not pretty, and it’s not particularly comfortable. But in an imperfect world with imperfect systems, it’s precisely what’s needed.

Power by proxy can be effective. But it’s on us to make it so.

Are you equal to the task?

On Accents

I don’t know about that accent, son. Just where did you come from?

Those thirteen words come from an Alan Jackson song. They describe a driver’s encounter with a State Trooper.

The lyrics seem simple enough. But they’re plenty evocative.

They remind us that no matter how we present ourselves, our voices can give us away.

The way we speak differs in the northern, southern, eastern, and western United States. The intonations vary even more if we hail from Canada, England, or Australia.

And it only takes a few words for us to get pigeonholed.

It’s as if a veil has been lifted. Once we open our mouths, others can tell where we’re from. And with that knowledge, they can seemingly deduce who we are.

This can be disconcerting. But it can also be fascinating.

I have long been obsessed with accents. It’s been a passion for most of my life.

While other kids were paying attention to music or dance moves, I was focusing on the way those around me talked. I was entranced hearing the same word expressed so differently off two people’s tongues.

I’m not quite sure where this obsession came from.

Perhaps it spurred from all the times my father — who grew up in Pennsylvania — put on a fake New York accent when emulating his in-laws. There’s a chance it came from the hours I spent within earshot of my mother’s Australian colleague. Or maybe it emerged from a reckoning with my own childhood speech deficiencies.

Whatever the case, I picked up an ear for accents early on. And as I got older, I added nuance.

Soon, I was able to tell a Boston accent from a New York one. I could differentiate a Georgia drawl from a Texas twang. I even mastered the difference between the British and Australian dialects.

Such abilities weren’t limited to English either. As I grew proficient at Spanish, I also picked up the various dialects of that language — Iberian vs. Caribbean, Mexican vs. Argentine, and so on. I would overhear someone speaking in Spanish and understand not only what they were saying but also where they were from.

This was a passion of mine. But I didn’t find it to be anything out of the ordinary.

That is, until Inglorious Basterds hit movie theaters.

Quentin Tarantino’s 2009 film about a vigilante group of Nazi hunters might as well have been about dialects. The first scene features dialogue that covers three languages — French, English and German. A major plot point stems from a peculiar German accent. Another plot point involves a creative interpretation of Italian.

Tarantino’s love for accents was so blatant in this movie that it struck me as odd. Then I remembered that some of his other films also had prolonged discussions about language.

In Pulp Fiction, a boxer and a Colombian cab driver commiserate on the meaning of American names. In Kill Bill, a retired Japanese sword maker complements the protagonist’s pronunciation of the word Arigato.

No one else seemed to put this much focus on accents and dialects. Sure, some people would mock a Southern accent, or joke about Pahking the cahh in Boston. But that was where the nuance stopped.

Tarantino and I were on another level.

What does an accent say about us?

Not much really.

Sure, we have those well-worn tropes about the dumb redneck or the pretentious Englishman. But genius and elitism aren’t limited by geography.

There are smart people in Alabama, and there are pretentious folks there too. And anyone who’s watched a Premier League match knows that there are plenty of Brits who are neither prim nor proper.

With that in mind, this accent encyclopedia I’ve been building seems like a waste of effort.

What good is it to understand the difference between a drawl and a twang? And who cares if I can describe a Michigan accent?

There is seemingly no point in reading into someone’s region of origin. And yet, I find it irresistible.

You see, I consider accents to provide critical building blocks in communication. Detecting them is the first step in building a connection with someone else — whether they’ve from your region or one far away.

As an introvert, such details are a lifeline. While I generally struggle to talk to people outside of my circle, accents can provide a nifty conversation starter.

Those I speak with might not have the same exuberance I do — particularly if they’re trying to shed the stigma of their origins. But their accent gives us both an opportunity to delve deeper, rather than blathering on about the weather.

So yes, tracking accents might seem like an obscure activity. But it has its virtues.

Several of my friends have small children.

These infants and toddlers haven’t yet found their voice. They’re too young to have that figured out.

And yet, I can’t help but wonder what they’ll sound like as they get older. Will they sport a twang or a drawl? Will they drop their r’s or sport a Midwestern hokeyness?

I would suppose not.

Kids tend to emulate their parents, and my friends have made great strides to remove any semblance of a regional dialect.

But even beyond that, the odds are against the next generation developing strong accents.

Regional dialects blossomed in a different era. An era when people were confined to the echo chambers of their cities and towns.

There was no defined American accent. There were only thousands of interpretations of it.

But as technology has improved and travel has evolved, such schisms have evaporated. And the dialects have faded away as well.

Today, we live with entertainment at our fingertips. Anyone can watch anything, anywhere. And as we watch, we emulate.

The more we emulate, the more we converge on a single standard. A standard that sheds any semblance of the dialects of our ancestors.

And so, most of the newest generation is set up to sound alike. It won’t be easy to tell if they’re from Ohio, Oregon, or Oklahoma. There will be no audible difference between young adults in St. Louis and San Diego.

This is likely a positive development. But it still distresses me.

I will miss hearing the distinct dialects of America, and of the world beyond. I will miss the regional hallmarks, the markers of individuality. I will pine for the ability to travel the globe through a simple conversation.

So, in the meanwhile, I will soak it all in. I will cherish each accent I encounter, and the doors unlocked by the experience. I will take nothing for granted.

The way we speak might seem quaint. But trivial? It’s anything but.

Rules and Customs

The vehicle ahead of me was nothing special. An SUV with Texas plates adorned with Bernie for President and Beto for Senate stickers.

OK, maybe that was a bit unusual. It’s rare to see support for Democratic political candidates in Texas, although that’s been changing a bit recently.

I had plenty of time to think about all this because the SUV was moving slower than molasses.

As I crawled along behind it, my blood boiling, I started to consider the motivations of the driver. For someone seeking to break the political mold in my state, they seemed eager to stick to the rules of the road — particularly when it came to the speed limit.

This prudence might have seemed noble to some. But not me.

I had things to do and places to be. And staying below the posted speed wasn’t helping matters at all.

Did this driver not have the same obligations? Was there no urgency built into their day?

It was hard to tell.

After a few frustrating moments, the road widened. I veered my SUV into the open lane and hit the gas, leaving the liberal-loving driver in the dust.

Adios, I thought. May our paths not cross again.

I should have let this moment go. And yet, I dwelled on it for days.

What was it that so agitated me?

It wasn’t the driver’s politics. As a centrist, I tend not to let that sway me.

It wasn’t even the driver’s behavior. They weren’t swerving or brake-checking me.

No, it was the implication of what the driver was doing that got my goose. It was the notion of the rules reigning supreme that seemed so off-putting.

For while this driver was out there earning their imaginary gold star, I was at risk of getting to my destination late.

And that outcome seemed costlier than a speeding ticket would have been.

Follow the rules.

From our earliest days, we absorb this mantra.

We hear stories about the bad guys who broke the law and ended up in jail. We adhere to warnings not to cheat on board games. We discover that disobeying our parents can send us straight to timeout.

Rule adherence is a central tenet of our society. It stabilizes us. It protects us. It galvanizes us.

The rules have meaning. But they’re not all-encompassing.

Indeed, much of what we adhere to can’t be found in a rule book. Much of what we believe in isn’t within a formal code of law.

Punctuality, respect, and integrity are paramount in our culture. We might not get put in handcuffs for breaking with them. But they still matter.

These concepts are deemed customs. They’re behavioral constructs that we agree to abide by.

Customs and rules generally live in their own bubbles. But occasionally those bubbles overlap.

What happens then? And how do we choose what to follow?

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a great man.

And yet, he was also a criminal. Or at least, that’s what the record says.

In 1960, Dr. King was convicted of driving without a license in Georgia. A judge then gave him a four-year prison sentence, to be served maximum-security prison.

Dr. King only served a few days of that sentence. And yet, he would find himself behind bars 28 more times in his abbreviated life.

Dr. King clearly wasn’t proficient at following the rules. And yet, he’s still celebrated for that fact.

You see, the rules Dr. King broke were impractical. They were laws designed to insulate the few, rather than protect the many.

Following those rules might have given Dr. King a clean rap sheet. It might have kept the FBI from ever tailing him. It might have even kept him from getting assassinated.

But adhering to the rules would have denied Black people of their dignity. It would have deprived them of opportunity. It would have barred them from their fair share.

These rights are the markers of common decency and the cornerstones of our democracy. They’ve long been customary among those with a paler skin complexion. And yet, they were systematically kept from Black people for centuries.

So, when it came time for Dr. King to choose between rules and customs, he didn’t flinch. He disobeyed with purpose, in hopes of giving his community the future it deserved.

Fellow Civil Rights activist — and eventual U.S. Congressman — John Lewis called this willful disobedience Good trouble. And Dr. King was a master at it.

Lewis’ description hits on a key point. When rules come into conflict with customs, the customs often win.

This isn’t always the case. We don’t adhere to the Mayan rituals of human sacrifice, for instance.

But when the code of law and the code of society enter the ring, it’s our customs that generally land the knockout blow.

First-world problems.

That’s the derisive term for minor issues we raise a big fuss about.

Dr. King wasn’t dealing with first-world problems when he engaged in the civil rights movement. He was combatting something far more substantial.

But my frustrating journey behind the SUV with the Bernie and Beto stickers? That was first-world problems to the max.

There is no real comparison between Dr. King’s tribulations and my moment of inconvenience. Dr. King was changing the world. I was just trying to get to a destination on time.

But in both cases, customs superseded rules. Following the letter of the law was less important than adhering to broader principles.

In my case, that meant upholding the promise of punctuality. Going a few miles over the speed limit would be a calculated gamble — one that might burn me. But showing up late was a less forgivable outcome.

So, once the road widened and my vehicle accelerated, I became an outlaw of sorts. I defied one edict to uphold another.

My experience is not unique. Many of us have made similar tradeoffs from time to time.

We tend not to speak of these exploits. For it shatters our preferred narrative — the one where we always do the right thing.

But perhaps it’s time to lift the veil. Perhaps it’s time we make peace with our momentary naughtiness.

For ultimately, rules and customs are hollow shells. They hold the shape of ideals. But they lack the ballast.

It’s on us to fill them with weight. It’s on us to determine what matters and when.

It’s our obligation to decide all this. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

The Reciprocity Contract

You get what you give.

How many times have we heard this?

The reciprocity contract is as old as the hills. Wherever there has been connection, there has been this adage.

We are social beings, but we are also self-minded beings. We want to make sure that our needs are taken care of, but also that others don’t get the best of us.

Such a mentality is so widespread that it threatens to destroy trust. And so, we settle for an even exchange to keep the peace.

The fundamentals are simple. If we want anything from someone else, we must part with something deemed equivalent. This could be a physical item, a commitment of time, or an emotional investment.

We put a lot of value in these items. But the principle behind them rules the day.

Or perhaps not.

When I was a young boy, my father had a fancy job.

Every morning, he’d put on a suit and tie and catch the train to the city. He’d walk a few blocks from the train terminal to an office building, take the elevator to the 32^nd floor, and spend the next 8 hours attending to the needs of clients.

This might sound glamorous and idyllic. It was anything but.

My father had no aspirations of climbing the corporate ladder. He didn’t dream of power lunches or access to exclusive country clubs.

No, my father wished for something else.

He yearned to do something creative. He aspired to impact his local community. He desired to be there for his two young children, who he barely saw during the week.

But this job paid well. It helped with the mortgage. It covered living expenses. It allowed our family to live the way we were accustomed to.

Those were outcomes that couldn’t be easily replaced. And so, my father kept putting on that suit and getting on that train.

My mother saw the toll this took on my father, and she couldn’t bear it. So, she gave him an ultimatum. Change your life or change your wife.

My father made the smart choice. He gave up that fancy job and decided to become a schoolteacher. With no formal training in the field, he decided to enroll in graduate school — at the same time my mother was pursuing a master’s degree.

Our family was on the path to fulfillment and prosperity. But we were also dead broke.

And so, we hunkered down. We stopped eating out. We didn’t take vacations. And we avoided other large ticket spending items.

It was an intense, stressful experience. And it left an indelible mark on me.

I learned then that nothing is handed to you. What you earn is consummate to the choices you make and the sacrifices you accept.

Many years after this experience, I entered the workforce.

Fresh out of college, I had no idea how personal finance worked. I struggled to keep an accurate budget, build up savings, and anticipate expenses for car repairs.

But despite my struggles maintaining my meager salary, I knew what it took to earn it.

I understood that I would need to show up at my job every day. I recognized that no matter what was going on, I would have to perform to the best of my ability. The reciprocity contract demanded that of me.

As I’ve progressed through my career, I’ve held onto this principle. Day after day, I’ve devoted myself to my vocation. And in return, I’ve received a paycheck.

I believe there’s a great deal of honor in this mentality. America was built upon this philosophy. And in following it, I’m carrying on a storied legacy.

Yet, with each passing day, I feel more and more isolated with this approach.

The trouble started with a news article. One of those that pop into your feed on your smartphone or social media timeline.

The article stated that some newly-minted college graduates were demanding $50,000 a year for entry-level salaries. These young adults considered anything under that number to not be a living wage.

At the time I read this, I’d been out of school for several years. I’d held three jobs in two industries, giving my all to each one. Even with all these accomplishments, I’d never cracked the $50,000 salary mark.

I was outraged.

What gave these graduates the right to make these demands out the gate? And how dare they denigrate my efforts to make ends meet by refusing to even try to do the same?

Had these young adults ever seen real sacrifice? Did they even spend a year of their childhood with no family income? Had they ever considered what it might be like if they were unemployed?

Apparently not.

But it was more than spite fanning the flames. I was horrified at the way these fledgling adults even approached the subject.

Instead of abiding by the reciprocity contract, they made blanket demands of would-be employers. And they committed to virtually nothing in return.

It was a flat rejection of everything I understood society to espouse. It was a formidable rejoinder against the way I was raised. It was a forceful repudiation of the way I lived my life.

It was inconsiderate. It was selfish. It was sickening.

And as the years went by, things only got worse.

All around me, workers demanded more of their employers, while offering nothing in return. Some called for universal job perks. Others sought to do less and get paid more. Still others insisted on only showing up to work when they felt like it.

One young woman even advocated against working at all. Living off government unemployment benefits in the wake of the pandemic, she proudly stated in an interview that she would not return to work.

Now, to be clear, the issues raised here are valid. Wage stagnation has been a longstanding issue in America. Job perks have been uneven. Work distribution has been uneven within industries. And our mental health concerns have long been ignored.

But we shouldn’t just demand that others fix these issues for us. We need to make commitments of our own.

We should reciprocate for the gifts our employers provide us. We should resolve to be more productive, more dedicated, and more loyal. We should seek to innovate and to collaborate. We should choose selflessness over greed.

Such commitments do more than repay the goodwill that comes from our vocations. They prevent others from subsidizing our lives.

If we’re earning our keep, we’re not relying on someone else to foot the bill. We’re providing an even exchange for our livelihood. We’re following the reciprocity contract.

This is how it had long been. And this is how it should be.

Let’s make it happen once again.

The Linearity Trap

You’ve got to stand for something, or you’ll fall for anything.

So goes the chorus of an old Aaron Tippin song.

Whenever I hear it on the radio, I get fired up.

Heck yes, we should stand for something, I think. There’s no use in being wishy-washy.

I’ve taken such perspective as gospel for years. But now, I’m starting to question this mantra.

Back in 2004, John Kerry was campaigning to be the United States President.

The Massachusetts senator had an uphill battle against him. The nation was only three years removed from the 9/11 terror attacks. American combat operations in Afghanistan and Iraq were nascent. And the incumbent president — George W. Bush — continued to earn strong marks for his handling of the job.

However, Kerry — the Democratic nominee — saw a window of opportunity. As the military got entangled in conflicts in the Middle East, reporters scrutinized President Bush’s prior service in the Air National Guard.

There were rumors that President Bush had sought to avoid combat in the Vietnam War, which was escalating during his time in the Air National Guard. And there were open questions about whether the president had fulfilled his military service.

Kerry pounced on this opening. He had served as a Swift Boat captain in the United States Navy, earning a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and three Purple Hearts for his service in Vietnam. Kerry made it a point to feature such accolades in his campaign, contrasting it to President Bush’s dubious service record.

In a country that loves stories of military valor, this strategy seemed like a slam dunk. But Kerry’s efforts quickly hit substantial headwinds.

A political organization — Swift Vets and POWs for Truth — challenged Kerry’s narrative, claiming he had misrepresented his service in Vietnam. The group also claimed that Kerry’s later criticism of the Vietnam War represented a betrayal of military trust.

Kerry tried to defend himself against these accusations, but they stuck. He became known as a flip-flopper — someone who would shift between opposing stances on a topic. He went on to lose the presidential election by a wide margin.

Swift Vets and POWs for Truth later disbanded, and the group’s claims were eventually discredited. But the damage had been done.

For many, John Kerry had defied the Aaron Tippin Edict. He had failed to fall for something. And as president, he was liable to fall for anything.

Four years after the Swift Boat scandal, I was eligible to vote in a presidential election for the first time. Kerry was not running for office in 2008, but I still scrutinized the candidates closely for inconsistencies.

Were they true to their word? I asked myself. Did anyone flip-flop?

I repeated this exercise for another decade. Linearity was the best policy, I told myself.

I should have known better.

It is not the strongest of the species that survives, not the most intelligent. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.

Those words come from Charles Darwin.

Darwin is notorious for his work with modern evolutionary theory. But the foundations of his principles continue to elude us.

Darwin saw evolution more as an arc than a straight line. As the environment changed, the process of natural selection would pick new targets. Only the most adaptable species could stay in the running each time the landscape shifted.

Evolutionary theory underpins much of our society these days. Modern capitalism, pop culture, and even the trajectory of industry all reward those who are most adaptable to the demands of a changing world.

Yet, we fail to get the memo when it comes to assessing our own viewpoints. Those Aaron Tippin lyrics fill our minds, and we feel determined to take a stand.

We refuse to admit that life is not linear. We refuse to change, even as the circumstances at hand shift drastically.

Such shortcomings have been made all too apparent during the recent pandemic. As an unknown disease spread around the globe, guidance on how to ward it off shifted.

An early focus on physical distancing and handwashing morphed into a new approach — wearing face coverings and getting inoculated. Activities that were shamed in the early days of the disease — such as small outdoor gatherings — were later deemed safe and preferable.

The shifting advice was as frustrating as it was confusing. Some defied it all together — rallying against masking, business restrictions, or vaccine adoption. Others refused to change their ways as the guidance evolved further.

These actions have led to strained social relationships, and they’ve accelerated the toll levied by the pandemic. Many have blamed the rebellious for these outcomes — pointing to their selfishness and lack of empathy.

These people do have some impact on the outcome, for sure. But our expectations are equally to blame.

For the more we follow the playbook laid out by Swift Vets and POW’s for Truth — demanding linearity above all else — the more we stand to lose.

Polarization will only go up. Discourse will only go down. And our ability to make choices that meet the moment will disintegrate.

Knowing all this, it’s hard not to turn a critical eye toward those Aaron Tippin lyrics.

Having a backbone does matter. But it might not be the panacea we think it is.

An immovable conviction may protect us from manipulation. But it can also close the door to coalition.

And to fix what ails us, a coalition is exactly what we need.

It’s my hope that we can move beyond our differences. That we can restart discourse, both in politics and broader society. That we can face the needs of an evolving world, rather than anchoring ourselves in principle.

But this work can only start if we free ourselves from the linearity trap. It can only take flight if we accept that our views might change with the times.

Yes, we do need to stand for something. But that something should be openness.

Openness to connection. Openness to information. Openness to change.

I’m ready to meet the moment. Are you?

Scope of the Problem

On April 15, 1912, the Titanic sank.

In the dead of the North Atlantic night, the luxury liner hit an iceberg. Less than three hours later, she went under, taking about 1,500 people with her.

The sinking of the Titanic — on her maiden voyage, no less — is one of the most iconic disasters in maritime history. It’s led us to re-evaluate transportation safety protocols. It’s forced us to consider our own mortality. And it’s captivated modern generations, thanks to a blockbuster Hollywood portrayal.

Yet, none of those outcomes are what drew my interest.

My fascination with the Titanic saga comes from what it represents. Namely, the disaster that ensues when we don’t understand the scope of the problem.

Long before the Titanic took sail, icebergs were a source of maritime terror.
Hulking masses of ice could suddenly appear in the seas ahead without warning. Ships — built of wood and powered by the wind — would collide with these ice masses and capsize.

The Titanic did not have this issue. Its crew had the tools to spot water hazards by day and by night, and the ship had the engine power to steer clear of them.

Indeed, the Titanic’s first officer reportedly gave orders to evade the iceberg while the ship was some distance away.

But it was too late. The ship was doomed.

The frozen mass sticking out of the water was only one portion of the iceberg. Much more of the ice lay below the surface water and was undetectable to the naked eye.

That submerged edge of the iceberg was much closer to the ship than anyone realized. Within moments, the ship’s hull smacked into it, causing catastrophic damage.

This unfortunate incident was compounded by further missteps. The crew started an evacuation, but there were not enough lifeboats for all the passengers. Furthermore, the crew had not been briefed on proper evacuation procedures, leading them to launch several half-full lifeboats. And other ships did not respond to the Titanic’s distress signals until after it had already sunk.

At every turn, the crew of the Titanic had failed to grasp the scope of the problem. And these failures cost lives.

It’s been more than a century since the Titanic went down. And yet, we seem to run into more icebergs than ever before.

A modern world, powered by technology, has provided us access to troves of information. Yet, we fail to account for the complexity layered in.

We believe that everything is simple and that the answers to any issue are as clear as day. Our confidence is through the roof, and our brashness is on full display.

Still, much lies beyond our view, just like the submerged portion of an iceberg. And if we don’t know to look for these protruding angles, we risk our own catastrophe.

Understanding the scope of the problem is as critical as ever.

In the fall of 2001, the United States Military set its sights on a faraway land called Afghanistan.

It was a nation I’d first heard of only weeks prior, in the aftermath of the September 11^th attacks. A terrorist network had plotted the attack from that land. And now, it seemed like the root of all evil.

The purpose of the military operation seemed clear. Kill or capture the terrorists who attacked our land. And wipe out the Taliban government that supported them.

It didn’t take long to achieve most of this objective. The mastermind of the attacks — Osama bin Laden — escaped to neighboring Pakistan, where he’d evade U.S. intelligence for nearly 10 years. But the Taliban were removed from power, the terrorist cells were scattered, and the days of Afghanistan threatening the United States seemed over.

Into this vacuum came a new mission. The American military would now be tasked with building a western-style society in the far reaches of the Middle East. Troops helped support a democratic government, building roads and infrastructure while standing up a massive Afghan security force.

This work lasted for two decades, with a price tag rising into the billions. Thousands of United States soldiers lost their lives over the course of the operation. Many others were seriously injured.

Eventually, the United States military pulled out of Afghanistan. But before the withdrawal was even complete, the nation had fallen to resurgent Taliban forces, spawning a humanitarian crisis.

The disastrous withdrawal was reminiscent of many of the United States’ exit from the Vietnam War. Suddenly, millions of Americans were sharing their hot takes on the fiasco.

Some said the U.S. had wasted the sacrifices of so many by ceding its post in the region. Others said two decades of conflict were proof enough that those sacrifices had been made in vain.

Both sides made a compelling case. But neither took the full picture into account.

The issue was not solely how long the U.S. stayed in Afghanistan. It was the assumption that Afghans would welcome a shift to Western society.

The U.S. hadn’t accounted for the cultural nuance of the region, much as it hadn’t understood the cultural nuance of Vietnam decades earlier. Our nation had failed to understand the scope of the problem. And because of that, the efforts to solve it came undone.

Wise men say only fools rush in.

Elvis Presley once crooned these words, before abandoning this advice with the song’s next line.

I am not Elvis Presley. I’m not famous. I’m not musically talented.

But I am staying the course.

I’ve made solving problems a core tenet of my life. And yet, I refuse to rush into this endeavor.

Indeed, each time I come across an issue, I try and determine the scope of the problem first. What angles am I missing? Which perspectives can I learn from?

Such determinations take rigor. They run counter to expectations of instant solutions.

But this sacrifice is essential.

We can only hope to find real answers if we can see the whole picture. Anything less and we’re just guessing.

I’m committed to removing this guesswork from my process. I’m determined to reduce my chances of accidentally sparking a catastrophe.

Are you?

The Half Glass of Adversity

I couldn’t sleep.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Excitement wasn’t blocking The Sandman’s advance. Neither was anxiety.

No, what was keeping me awake was a buildup of acid on my throat. It surged up my esophagus into the back of my mouth, leaving a burning sensation in its path. Every time I tried to doze off, nausea would jolt me awake.

Antacids didn’t help. Neither did raising my pillow. There was no relief to be found.

So, after a sleepless night, I threw in the towel.

I booked a doctor’s appointment, walking out of the office with a prescription that would help keep the acid at bay. But even with relief in my clutches, the adventure was far from over.

Over the next two months, I’d undergo a litany of tests — an ultrasound, an MRI, two endoscopies. I’d spend hours away from my job and incur tens of thousands of dollars in insurance claims. And at the end of this gauntlet, I’d find myself frustratingly devoid of answers.

There was no silver bullet for what ailed me. The risk of another flare-up would always be around the corner.

I had to get used to that.

I know, dear reader, that tales of runaway stomach acid are not the most pleasant. They might even seem taboo to share in a forum like this one.

But these ordeals are my reality. And the tactics I use to avert them are my reality too.

Living with digestive issues saddles me with rules. Rules about when to eat. Rules about what to eat. And rules about how to react if I break protocol.

It all can be overwhelming at times. And it all can be socially isolating at others.

Insisting that companions commit to an earlier dinnertime is never pleasant. Triple-checking with restaurant staff about the ingredients in a dish makes me feel like a pariah.

I wish I didn’t have to go through this dance. I wish that I could live unencumbered and carefree.

But I don’t have that option. So, I do what I need to get by.

And yet, merely calling all this survival is missing the point.

Nearly two decades ago, my life was inexorably changed.

Terrorists toppled skyscrapers mere miles from my middle school classroom. A crystal-clear September morning devolved into a day I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

For years, I was filled with anger, grief, and confusion on account of this atrocity. To a large degree, I still feel this way today.

And yet, I made it past the 9/11 attacks. I didn’t let them break me.

Many years later, I moved across Texas without a job lined up. Over the course of three months, I burned through my savings as I sought steady employment.

All of this was also traumatic. I was filled with shame and doubt for not landing on my feet quickly.

And yet, I made it past that experience as well. In the subsequent years, I’ve built a career and generally thrived.

This resurgence took a hit when a global pandemic brought the world to a halt. So much of the life I’d built succumbed to the virus’ long shadow. So many initiatives that I’d set suddenly had to be scrapped.

The darkest months of the pandemic — filled with social isolation and the tension of uncertainty — felt like misery in slow-motion. They were nothing short of excruciating.

And yet, I’ve made it past those difficult days. In a relatively short timeframe, I’ve gotten myself back on track.

Yes, resilience has been a hallmark of my life. Time after time, I’ve faced significant roadblocks. And in each instance, I’ve risen to the challenge.

I’ve chronicled many of these crises here on Words of the West. But in general, I’m loath to dwell on them.

For the memories remain bitter. The scars persist.

I don’t want adversity to define me. And yet, its imprint is unmistakable.

The trouble started with a milkshake.

I drank the beverage at a diner back when I was a teenager. I immediately regretted it.

It turned out I was lactose intolerant. Many of the dishes I’d enjoyed to that point did not appreciate me in kind.

This revelation changed things.

Eating would no longer be a thoughtless activity. It would now be a minefield to traverse.

So, I did what had to be done. I established a diet. I cooked at home more often. And I stocked my medicine cabinet with digestive aids.

Such measures were largely successful. But not universally so.

Indeed, the night I lay awake with acid churning in my throat came years after that fateful milkshake. I had done so much right, and yet it had all turned out so wrong.

In the wake of such an ordeal, it would be so easy to fall back on old habits. It would be all too tempting to call that experience — and the litany of medical tests that followed — something to survive. It would be all too natural to bury the painful memories and move on.

But I refused to do any of that.

This time, I thought of all the changes I’d made to meet my digestive challenges. And I considered the benefits those adaptations brought.

Continual meal planning, for instance, honed my anticipation skills. Instead of just penciling in the next meal on the docket, I started thinking of what plans and obligations lay ahead in my day. I started considering how I could prepare for them.

Similarly, a necessary aversion to late-night snacking made me consider my sleep patterns. If digesting a burger at 1 AM was a bad idea, then maybe staying up until 1 AM was also a poor decision.

Considerations like these might seem trivial. But they provide a significant silver lining.

These details help us see adversity as a glass half-full. They give us something to build off.

These silver linings don’t validate the strife we went through. But they show how the byproduct of that struggle can be a lasting force for good.

That’s how it’s worked out in my life, at least. But I have a feeling I’m not alone when it comes to this sentiment.

So, let’s take a fresh look at adversity. Let’s reconsider how we define it and how we quantify it.

Something vibrant can emerge from our most challenging moments. We just need to know where to look.

The Competitive Edge

As the game ended, my team got into a single-file line. We approached our opponents, who were also in a single-file line.

Good game, we exclaimed to each opposing player as we gave them a fist bump. Good game, each opposing player replied.

The handshake line has always seemed like another order of business to many athletes. It was just another part of the game experience to get through.

But to me, the handshake line seemed like an opportunity. It was a chance to honor the achievements of others — even if those achievements might have come at my expense.

We go at each other tooth and nail on the field. But at the end of the day, we can show each other mutual respect.

I’m writing this in the wake of another Olympic games. And while the memories of these Olympics will likely stay with us for some time, there’s one moment that will remain front and center for me.

This moment came after the final round of the high-jump competition. An official approached two of the competitors — a Qatari and an Italian — and let them know they were tied for the top spot on the podium. The two men would need to jump once more to decide who would get the gold medal.

Upon hearing this, the Qatari turned to the official and asked Can we have two golds? When the official replied it was possible, the erstwhile competitors embraced, setting off an emotional celebration.

It turned out the two men knew each other well. They’d trained together before and were close off the track. One had even attended the other’s wedding.

Still, that doesn’t make the decision to share the gold medal any less remarkable.

In the heat of the moment, two men from opposite parts of the world seeking acclaim decided to share that glory. And we all won for witnessing it.

The story of the high jumpers stands out to me, in great part because it’s so different from my understanding of competition.

I grew up watching Michael Jordan, an uber-talented basketball player who told himself his opponents were slighting him at every turn — even when they weren’t. Jordan played these tricks on himself so that he could maintain a Dominate and destroy mindset.

That’s what competition was supposed to be, I was told. It was about getting the upper hand. And that meant vanquishing any obstacle in our path.

Such an approach had its benefits. Edgy competition raised the quality of the games Jordan played in, providing premium entertainment value.

But there were some costs as well. Jordan’s Chicago Bulls found themselves in nasty rivalries with the Detroit Pistons and New York Knicks over the years. And two of Jordan’s most iconic moments included him celebrating over defeated opponents.

This was not the best look, and it did not provide the best example for the next generation.

No, what that generation — my generation — needed was precisely what those Olympic high jumpers displayed.

I have a strong competitive spirit.

I loathe the participation trophy trend that’s pervaded our society. I believe accolades should be earned, not mass distributed. And I do my best to prove my worth each day.

And yet sometimes, my best is not enough. Sometimes, there’s someone out there who’s faster, stronger, or better.

Am I supposed to resent their success? Should I treat their achievements as a personal slight?

I shouldn’t. And I don’t.

I know to tip my cap when I know I’m outclassed. I understand the importance of giving others their due.

Of course, it’s easier to do this when the stakes are low. Losing a recreational sports event is not the end of the world. Getting beat out for a job that would cover my rent? That’s a tougher pill to swallow.

Nevertheless, I make a point of not villainizing my competition for wanting what I want. I don’t blame them for executing their game plan more masterfully than I.

If there’s something I could have done better, I focus on how I can improve going forward. But if I gave my best and it wasn’t enough, I show my respect and move on.

This approach has worked well for me over the years. But I wonder if those at the top of the pyramid would find similar success with it.

After all, competitors like Michael Jordan are in another stratosphere. They’ve reached the pinnacle by harnessing the edge that others couldn’t. They’ve refused to accept that their best wasn’t good enough.

I can’t find that gear. I know that as well as I know anything.

And yet, I’ve long questioned whether such an admission is a knock on my ambition.

Now, finally, I believe I have the answer.

Most mornings start the same way for me.

I get up, put on workout clothes, and lace up my Nikes. Then, I go for a run.

Running gives me great peace. In the still of the early morning, I can be alone with my thoughts. I’m carefree as my feet hit the pavement in rhythmic harmony.

Still, this solitude can get monotonous at times. So, I joined a running club to change things up.

My first workout with the club was a bit of a culture shock. I simply wasn’t used to running in a pack.

Every other time I’d encountered a group of runners on the sidewalk, I’d tried to breeze past them. This wasn’t so much for bragging rights as to satisfy my self-competitive spirit.

If an entire group was running at that speed, surely, I had it in me to surpass it. At least that’s what I told myself.

But now, I was supposed to stick with the group. I was meant to follow the pack, not lead it.

I struggled with this notion for a couple of miles. But then a revelation hit me like a thunderbolt.

Running with the group wasn’t weakening my running prowess. It was making me stronger.

Sure, everyone was going a bit slower than I liked. But their steadiness helped me build stamina, and their camaraderie helped me build confidence.

This activity wasn’t going to close the gap between me and the top finishers at 5K races. But it was making me a more well-rounded runner — one who could look on a fifth-place finish with acceptance rather than self-loathing.

This is the spirit that the Olympic high jumpers were tapping into. In a world that often divides us into winners and losers, they proved that giving our all can represent an even sweeter sense of victory.

So, let’s put away the yardsticks. Let’s turn off the scoreboards. Let’s ease off the comparisons.

We don’t need to stay one step ahead of everyone else to maintain our competitive edge. Our best is enough.

Principles and Results

I got set in the starting blocks, my heart pounding. To my left and right, 7 other runners did the same.

I was 11 years old, and this was my first track meet. There were people in the stands, coaches all around, and a slate of competitors who surely looked less green than I did.

All of this was intimidating. But at this moment, with the race impending, I was most terrified of one thing.

The starting gun.

I had issues with loud noises at this age. The flushing of industrial-strength toilets would terrify me. So would the honking of car horns and the firing of guns.

When I heard these sounds, my heart would skip a beat. I’d freeze, startled like a deer in the headlights.

Such a response would be devastating in this 100-meter race. I needed to get off the blocks quickly when called upon.

So, I tried to block out my fears. I reminded myself to be ready to run.

And when the gun went off, something unexpected happened. I reacted impeccably, rising into a sprinter’s position and taking off.

Now, I was flying down the track, outpacing the other kids by a few steps. Fear had evaporated into opportunity. I had a real chance to win this race.

Yet, as I thundered ahead, I worried that I was out of balance. My legs felt like they were leading the way, dragging my upper body along.

I knew that I needed to be in sync, so I leaned forward to compensate. But I leaned too far, and I took a tumble.

Now, the pack of competitors was far ahead of me, charging for the finish line. My legs were bloodied from the asphalt track. My hopes were dashed.

Even so, I wasn’t going to give up. I got back on my feet and charged forward with all that I had. And I crossed the finish line.

Just like that, my race was over. I was left to think about what might have been had my sprint not gone awry. That would be the narrative of this experience.

Or so I thought.

In school the next day, my teacher called me to the front of the class. She asked me to pull up my pant legs, so the class could see my scraped knees.

My teacher then explained that while I hadn’t won a medal in the 100-meter contest, I’d done something just as noteworthy. By getting back up and finishing the race, I’d shown courage, determination, and heart. And that was worthy of recognition.

Upon hearing this, my classmates applauded.

In hindsight, this seems like a special moment. A moment worth cherishing.

And indeed, I do hold this memory dear these days. But back then, I remember feeling supremely confused.

After all, I had fallen. I had failed.

There were no medals to show for my effort. No sterling race splits. There was just a row at the bottom of the results table with my name and unspectacular race time on it.

Why was I now being feted?

I didn’t know quite how to react.

There is no substitute for hard work.

So proclaimed one of America’s greatest innovators — Thomas Edison.

Edison’s inventions are widely known, but the winding journey toward such success are not. There were hundreds of challenges, setbacks, and outright failings along the way.

Many would-be innovators would have thrown in the towel in the face of such adversity. But Edison didn’t. He kept trying. And eventually, he turned those struggles into success.

Today, we laud those who have followed Edison’s lead. We single out those who try hard, and who stick with it through adversity.

Still, such positive attention ignores a key fact. Our effort doesn’t always correlate to our performance.

As I’ve explained before, effort and execution are two entirely different things.

In my 100-meter race, I had failed miserably at one of those tasks. And yet, everyone was acting as if I hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

It didn’t seem right.

There is a narrative out there claiming that America was built on hopes and dreams. But our society relies on results.

Results are how we evaluate performance in a free-market economy. It’s how businesses are valued. It’s how athletes are defined. It’s how musicians go Platinum and movies break the bank.

Even in a changing world, there is little appetite to change this model. We might squabble about providing a social safety net, but we still believe in singing for our supper.

Yes, if one was to brand an American mantra, it would likely be Deliver results.

And yet, that is not the recognition we espouse. We focus instead on principles.

Principles are how I ended up with that round of applause just for finishing a race. Principles are what drive us to recognize others for their work ethic, passion, or chivalry.

We celebrate these attributes because they’re culturally significant. We want to live in a world full of determined people who still have the presence of mind to care about their neighbors.

But if we focus too much on that side of the coin, we’re setting ourselves up for trouble.

In 1970, economist Milton Friedman wrote a New York Times Magazine article that changed the business world.

The Friedman Doctrine mandated that a public company’s only objective was to provide value to its shareholders. It tossed aside any grand sense of principle and zeroed in on the bottom line.

The Friedman Doctrine helped spur the rise of cutthroat capitalism. In the years that followed, businesses went to great lengths to drive results and increase their valuations.

Innovation soared and shareholder value exploded. But it wasn’t all rosy.

In the years following the Friedman Doctrine, corporate America abandoned its sense of humanity. Workers became more expendable than ever before, and the compensation gap soared. A focus on results for some did not provide benefits for all.

These days, there is a backlash to this pattern. Scholars and activists have demanded more from companies than an increase in stock prices. Employee empowerment and corporate social responsibility are among the items on their wish lists.

But progress in these areas has been staggered.

For while we feel strongly about principles, they don’t usurp results.

Companies must demonstrate success to stay in business. A runner must cross the finish line first to get the gold medal.

We put a lot of attention on how we can get there. But in the end, what matters is that we do get there.

So, let’s take a fresh perspective.

Let’s treat principles as table stakes, rather than exalted virtues. And let’s redirect our focus on the results they can bring.

The way we carry ourselves matters. But our achievements matter even more.

On Infrastructure

Several years back, a friend of mine was taking his now-wife to meet his parents for the first time.

The journey to his parents’ house was not normally a lengthy one. But on this day, a bridge along the route was closed for repairs. So, my friend had to take an extended detour. This only added to the suspense.

I’ve heard this story quite a few times over the years. But each time, I keep focusing on a singular detail — the closed bridge.

You see, I’ve gone to my friend’s parents’ house on several occasions. Just about every time, I’ve driven across that bridge to get there.

It’s not a majestic causeway over a lake or a grand suspension bridge over a wide river. It’s a simple concrete slab — buffeted by short walls — that traverses a tiny creek.

On most days, this bridge is easy to miss. But on that day when it was out of commission, it was impossible to ignore.

This story shines a light on something that’s generally left in the shadows.

Infrastructure.

Our default condition is not to think about the infrastructure around us. After all, the structures that shelter us, the roads that carry us, the bridges that support us — all of these are supposed to just work.

Their continued functionality is not meant to be celebrated. It’s not even meant to be noted.

This means that we’re only paying attention when things go wrong. We only notice when a structure buckles, when a road fails, when a bridge is closed.

We grumble about how unreliable everything is at that moment. And we fail to account for the rest of the time, where everything was up to par.

This mindset is problematic. Because infrastructure is not like patio furniture. You can’t just set it out and leave it alone.

Continued investment is needed to keep things from breaking down. But getting the buy-in to maintain something we barely notice is challenging.

And so, we end up with the patchwork system we now have. Ambitious government legislation gets gutted to meet a lower price tag. Construction projects end up delayed. And a range of issues — from trivial inconveniences to outright disasters — ensue.

It’s tempting to point the finger in the wake of these organizational failures. It’s tantalizing to look for a scapegoat in these moments of calamity. But it’s important to turn the microscope on ourselves, as well.

What exactly do we want from the systems we use? And are we willing to commit to?

I love to drive.

To me, nothing compares to getting behind the wheel and watching the landscape fly by. Whether I’m driving a sports car, a sedan, or an SUV, that magical feeling never goes away.

Yet, several years back, I got another sensation when I buckled up and put the key in the ignition.

Dread.

You see, there was plenty of road construction in the Dallas area back then. In fact, all the highways near my home were under construction — at the same time.

Getting anywhere was a nightmare. I never knew when there would be lane closures. Giant construction vehicles continually clogged up the roads. And wayward nails in the roadway threatened my tires time and again.

It would have been one thing if this was all routine maintenance. But many of these projects were adding something new to these highways.

Toll lanes.

No, it wasn’t enough for these construction crews to maintain the existing roadway. They were also tasked to add something that would cost future drivers money. And in the process, that something that was costing all drivers plenty of precious time.

I was irate.

I wanted to scream at anyone who had approved such an agreement for leaving me in endless traffic jams. I wanted to give them the bills for all the tire repairs I endured.

But I soon realized the decision-makers who approved this project did not deserve my wrath.

They were tethered to the whims of the taxpayers. And those taxpayers needed to see something tangible for their money.

That’s what the toll lanes were for. They weren’t just a revenue source. They were a statement to the taxpayers. One that said Here, we built this.

I needed to come to terms with that fact.

In the late 1960s, a mysterious construction project grew from the Florida wilderness.

Thousands of acres near Orlando were transformed into a magical kingdom. A land that would soon bring happiness to millions upon millions.

Walt Disney World might have seemed like it appeared out of nowhere. But its staying power has been even more impressive.

Year after year, the Disney World theme parks are meticulously maintained. Everything looks as fresh today as it did in 1971 when the resort opened.

The secret to all this is not pixie dust. It’s infrastructure.

Disney World spends plenty of money to keep its parks shiny and new. And visitors help subsidize that cost by buying entry tickets, food, and souvenirs.

It’s easy to get this buy-in when there’s the power of Disney magic behind you. But how can we repeat the feat when there’s not?

What can inspire us to support maintenance on a bridge, rather than Cinderella’s castle?

It requires a shift in focus. It demands that we stop equating the visible with the vital and that we start paying attention to the details.

This is not a scintillating proposition. But it is an essential one.

For the alternatives are not feasible.

We cannot wait until our infrastructure fails us and calamity ensues. Such inaction will never be deemed acceptable.

And we should not rely on bells and whistles to get the required fixes underway either. We needn’t require toll lanes in the median just to ensure the highway pavement is replaced.

So, let’s lean in. Let’s take a fresh look at the status quo. And instead of shredding it, let’s think about how we can best maintain it.

A brighter future depends on what we do with our present. Let’s not waste it.

Author: Dylan Brooks