Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Lessons to Live By

As I got behind the wheel, I was terrified.

I had never driven a car before. And now, I was about to.

I was in as acceptable a setting I one could be for this process — the inside of a Driving School vehicle, with an instructor in the passenger seat. But still, I could only think of what would go wrong.

You see, the only driving experience I’d had before was in those racing games at the arcades. The ones with the loose steering wheel that would send you careening into a wall if you weren’t careful.

Once, I’d gone off the course in one of those games and plowed down an entire Redwood forest. Now, I was horrified about what damage I might inflict in real life.

After spending an eternity adjusting the car mirrors, I set out on the suburban roads. It didn’t go well.

I didn’t crash into any cars or run any stop signs. But there were enough close calls that a fellow student spent the next day telling anyone and everyone about how I’d almost killed her.

Humiliated, I pledged to do better. I ran through the instructions I’d been taught — check your mirrors and your blind spot, use your signal, go light on the gas and start braking early. I thought of how to best apply them when I was in the driver’s seat. And I followed those directives the next time I got into that driving school car.

This approach paid off. A few months after my ill-fated first drive, I passed my driver’s test. And I’ve spent years behind the wheel since then, mostly without incident.

I soaked up those driving lessons. I internalized them. I embodied them.

To me, they were not a set of suggestions. They were lessons to live by.

From our earliest days, we’re in a state of learning.

As infants, we must figure out how to walk, talk, and take care of ourselves. Once we get to school, we are educated on math, science, literature, and social studies. In our spare time, we might learn to fish, ice skate, or hit a curveball.

There are so many lessons headed our way that it’s hard to keep all the information internalized. So, some lessons will fade away over time, while others remain timeless.

I know this as well as anyone. For I am the son of teachers.

To be clear, my parents were far from overbearing. But they weren’t exactly hands-off either.

In my parents’ view, each day was an opportunity to learn something new. And so, they did their best to stimulate that continual improvement in me.

I learned plenty from my parents during my formative years. But three lessons from my father, in particular, have stuck with me.

Don’t make the same mistake twice.
Don’t pee in swimming pools.
Don’t say you don’t like something until you try it.

These three edicts don’t seem to fit together. But they remain snug in my mind.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve remained open to new experiences. I’ve done my best to learn from my mistakes. And I haven’t even considered taking a leak in the pool.

I learned plenty in school as well — from the core tenets of algebra to the principles of democracy. And yet, of all those lessons, three directives from my third grade teacher loom largest.

Stand up straight.
Look people in the eye when you talk to them.
Give a firm handshake.

I’ve forgotten the name of the penultimate Roman Emperor. And I can’t remember the symbol for Iron on the Periodic Table without looking it up. But the principles of good posture, eye contact and a firm handshake? Those have endured.

Lessons to live by always do.

What makes a lesson timeless? What gets it to click just right in our mind?

This is something I’ve long struggled to comprehend.

After all, the lessons we internalize become our charter. They help define the way others see us.

If we cling tightly to edicts of caution, we might avoid taking chances. If we set our memory receptors on math formulas instead, we could become savants in data science without any semblance of social skills.

Of course, it’s rarely that simple.

The lessons we live by are often a cocktail of advice. Some of the tips we take to heart might be practical. Others might give us an edge. Some might just be whimsical.

Each cocktail has its own distinct flavor. And that variation helps explain our divergent personalities.

In my case, the lessons I’ve internalized have kept me conscientious and polite. They’ve also inspired me to keep searching for improvement.

These qualities aren’t inherently good or bad. They’re just part of who I am. They’re key for how I see myself, and how others see me.

I wonder sometimes what my parents and teachers think about all this. Are they satisfied with the lessons I took to heart? Or do they wish some others had stuck instead?

Still, asking such questions misses the point.

The learning process is a set of inputs and outputs.

The material that’s taught to us represents the outputs. That information is foisted on us by others.

The inputs, on the other hand, are firmly within our control. If we have the will to engage with the information, we will do so. And the lesson will become internalized.

It’s futile to mess with this equation. Whether my parents or teachers gave me a piece of advice twice or twenty times was irrelevant. All that mattered was if I turned those outputs into inputs. And that was totally on me.

Similarly, I have dispelled plenty of advice throughout the 300 articles I’ve shared on Words of the West over the years. This advice has landed differently depending on who was viewing it.

I’m sure some articles had a profound effect on my audience, while others were met with a shrug. Perhaps some topics that were a yawner for some were pure gold for others.

The choice is yours, dear reader. You decide what sticks and what fades into oblivion. I’m just here to spur that decision, by giving you something to think about.

Perhaps then, that is the greatest lesson to live by. We can’t mandate what others will internalize. But we can guide them by providing material for consideration.

And in the end, that could prove to be enough.

Opportunities and Outcomes

We all sat in a school classroom on a rainy Saturday. In front of each of us was a booklet, a Scantron sheet, and some pencils.

As we waited for the go-ahead to start the SAT, I couldn’t help feeling that those of us in this classroom were at a point of divergence.

We all were about to embark on a great quest with this de-facto college entrance exam. But some of us were going to get every question right, and others were going to do much worse.

The opportunity was equal, but the outcome would not be.

When the scores came in, I wasn’t particularly close to the top. Any aspirations of going to a prestigious school were out the window.

In many places, such a development would spell disaster. But America has a wealth of options for someone in the situation I was in.

I ended up at a fantastic university — one with a palm-lined campus lined and a diverse student body. It was an experience that helped shape me. And it was an experience that defined the success I would see in adulthood.

The outcome was not guaranteed. But the opportunity was all I needed.

There are many things I’m not a fan of.

Fish tacos, cold showers, and the Houston Astros represent just a few.

But Communism is another.

You see, I was born at the tail-end of the Cold War. I’m too young to remember the Berlin Wall falling. But I know what that moment signified.

No longer would the model of equitable outcomes envelop the world. The model of equitable opportunities had won the day.

Communist models still persist in China, Cuba, and other nations. But the global ideological chess game has softened considerably.

Still, if you look around America — the pinnacle of democracy and capitalism — you’d hardly know that the Cold War is behind us.

A full generation after the fall of the U.S.S.R., many Americans are still unclear what was won. They fail to understand the difference between equality of opportunity and equality of outcome.

The recent battles over history curriculums in schools illustrates this precisely.

In the wake of protests in the name of social justice, schools are taking a fresh look at our past. History is typically written by the victors, and that is as true in America as anywhere else. We’ve maintained a rosy view of the past without considering its discriminatory undercurrents. The collective project to teach our history more candidly is meant to change all that.

I don’t have an issue with this approach. Education is a better way to address the sins of our past than wiping its remnants away. And such an approach has worked before. Notably, it helped postwar Germany reckon with the horrors of the Nazi era.

Still, many others do not share my view. They’ve labeled such reforms Critical Race Theory. And they’ve claimed that educators are imposing socialism on our society. This has led to heated debates at school board meetings across America. And it has caused many states to restrict changes to historical curriculums.

These developments both amuse and sadden me.

The ideal behind the curriculum changes is equity of opportunity. Educators want to promote a fair playing field, which was sorely lacking during the eras of slavery and segregation. Only by reckoning with that contradiction can we escape its doom cycle in the generations to come.

And yet, Critical Race Theory opponents view the curriculum updates as promoting equity of outcome. They feel such changes are tantamount to providing handouts to some, rather than a fair chance at success to all. They see it as a betrayal of the democracy that they’ve benefitted from.

It’s tempting to point a finger at the misguided. It’s satisfying to call out their privilege and their bigotry. It’s easy to demonstrate that Critical Race Theory is, in fact, something entirely different than what these proposed changes advocate.

But such pettiness misses the point.

If we can’t tell between opportunities and outcomes — if we can’t distinguish between the starting gates and the finish line — then we’ve all lost.

I grew up with the blessing of good fortune.

I wasn’t born into wealth or prominence. But I found myself with an abundance of opportunity.

I had the freedom to pursue my dreams without anyone putting up roadblocks in my way. It was a luxury that sadly was not commonplace.

As I progressed through elementary school, my dreams gravitated around the game of baseball. I hadn’t participated in Little League, but I was determined to make up for lost time.

I spent plenty of hours playing catch or working on my batting stance. And all this preparation paid off. I became a full-fledged member of my middle school baseball team.

But by the time I got to high school, it was clear the dream was fading. I had a long swing at the plate, and I was slow to read fly balls in the field. Plus, I threw from a funky arm angle, causing the ball to tail off at the last minute.

The Junior Varsity baseball coach added me to the team after tryouts, but as a player-manager. I only got three pinch-hit at bats, although I singled in two of them.

The next spring, the door closed on my baseball exploits. The coach cut me from the team after tryouts.

I could see the pain in the coach’s eyes as he gave me the news. I had worked on fielding with him over the summer. I had joined the cross-country team — which he also coached — in the fall to stay in shape. I had been a model teammate and done everything he’d asked of me.

But I wasn’t any good. And my presence on the team would deny someone else the opportunity to suit up and play.

I should have been devastated by all this. I should have been distraught at the dashing of my dreams.

But instead, I was grateful.

I was grateful for the opportunities that I was given. I was grateful to be held accountable for what I did with those opportunities. And I was grateful that this outcome would give someone else an opportunity to do better on the diamond.

I was an immature teenager, still finding myself and my way in the world. And yet, I knew the difference between opportunity and outcome. And I understood the dual importance of maintaining a fair playing field and judging results on merit.

This isn’t rocket science. I’m sure millions of other Americans could figure this out too.

But this requires us to look inward. To think for ourselves, rather than parrot the words of others. To provide for others what was granted for us, rather than guard it under lock and key.

I don’t know what it will take for us to get to this point. The forces tearing us apart are the same ones keeping us from such introspection.

But I truly hope that we will be there someday. That we will understand that the principles of merit-based achievement on a level playing field is the most American concept of all. And that we will do all we can to make that happen.

Our future depends on it.

Breaking Contain

On my television screen, I watched the opposing team break their huddle. They then lined up opposite the defensive players of my favorite team.

The opposing quarterback barked out some instructions, and the lineman snapped him the football. The quarterback looked around and saw nowhere to throw the ball. So he darted to the left edge of the field as defenders converged upon him.

Great, I thought. We’ve got him!

But as the quarterback neared the white paint of the sideline, he turned the corner with a burst of speed. Now, he was racing past my team’s defenders for a touchdown.

As I sat there, stunned, I overheard the TV commentator breaking down the play.

As a defense, you’ve got to set the edge, he said. You can’t break contain.

That phrase — Break contain — sounded strange to me. It was nothing more than two verbs smashed together. And yet, it perfectly described what had befallen my favorite team in the moment.

As the season went on, I found more commentators using that phrase to describe a capitulation in defensive technique. Apparently, Break Contain is common lingo in football circles.

That said, it might have some legs in other areas as well.

Not long ago, the United States government released a declassified report on Unidentified Aerial Phenomena — what we commonly call UFOs.

The government documented strange instances in the skies that it couldn’t identify. Then, it listed five possible explanations for them: airborne clutter, natural atmospheric phenomena, U.S. government/industry programs, foreign adversarial systems, and “other.”

Many people reading the report fixated on that “other” category since theories about extraterrestrial life would fall under it. But I was fascinated by the U.S. government programs category.

Here was the United States government — an entity with an endless trove of information — saying it didn’t know the scope of its own operations. Effectively, some military or research exercises could have been classified as UFO sightings, and our guess was as good as the government’s as to what was actually happening.

This was stunning to me. Had the government broken contain?

I had never really considered the implications of that before. Sure, the government had many secretive programs —the Manhattan Project, CIA Black Ops, sealed FBI indictments. But there was always some entity overseeing the task. Someone was in the know, even if that person swore that they knew nothing.

But the thought of these programs running rogue? That was truly terrifying.

U.S. government operations being confused for UFOs would just be the tip of the iceberg. All kinds of other calamities might potentially result. After all, this is the equivalent of an airport without air traffic controllers or a freeway without entrance ramps.

But then again, things might be just fine. For there are many entities that break contain regularly, without the ensuing mass calamity.

For instance, Google uses machine learning for its search engine algorithms. Even the engineers overseeing that product have no precise understanding of how it works in the wild anymore. Artificial intelligence has taken over the show.

And weather patterns often vary a bit from the forecasts meteorologists put together. Pop-up thunderstorms and wind gusts are phenomena that can’t always be precisely predicted. Only Mother Nature determines what actually comes next.

Examples like these bring variety to our lives. By removing absolute predictability, they keep us agile. This, in turn, makes us sharper and better.

So perhaps, breaking contain is not something to fret over. It might even be something worthy of applause.

If breaking contain can work so well, why did that moment on the football field go so poorly?

Much of it has to do with what happened after the opposing quarterback turned the corner.

At that point, Plan A was finished. The defenders had succeeded in preventing the quarterback from throwing the ball. But they hadn’t kept him from advancing up the field with a head of steam.

It was a decidedly mixed result. One that the coaches would surely revisit in practice later.

But Plan B was still on the table. There was still an opportunity to minimize the damage.

While the opposing quarterback was charging down the field, he had few teammates nearby to clear the way for him. So defenders had an excellent chance to bring down the quarterback if they all sprinted in his direction.

Yet, Plan B didn’t happen. It wasn’t even attempted.

At the moment of truth, the defenders were mesmerized. And they practically gifted their opponent a touchdown.

This was a failure of execution. But it was also a failure of preparation.

The team had clearly never considered what would happen if the opponent broke contain. There was no damage mitigation strategy.

Meanwhile, other entities that might find themselves in a similar situation — Google’s search division, the U.S. government, meteorologists — are prepared for when things take a left turn. Through a well-practiced game plan, they can manage what chaos might ensue. This allows them to cede absolute control, but not absolute responsibility.

Therein lies the conundrum of breaking contain — it’s only effective if there are guardrails to mitigate the damage. Bending without breaking is key.

My favorite football team had no such guardrails in place. So, when the opposing quarterback beat the defenders to the edge of the field, they were done for.

Why focus on breaking contain? Why allow for the chaos that comes from agility?

Because staying rigid is no less risky.

A system of centralized controls might seem airtight. But should the figurehead in charge fail, the system will fail with it. It’s boom or bust.

We understand this, and we try to plan for it. Succession plans for companies and data backup redundancies for computer networks are two examples of such planning.

But all too often, these solutions are labeled as Emergency Options. And that makes people reluctant to break the glass.

Such reluctance does us little good.

The question shouldn’t be whether our best-laid plans might someday go to waste. The question should be about what happens when they do.

So, let’s test our boundaries. Let’s break contain. And then, let’s focus on the fixes we can make once the best case scenarios are already out the window.

A stumble is survivable. A capitulation is not.

In Color

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is no coincidence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But my concerns go far beyond my own preferences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s find them.

Calm Before the Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It became an obsession. And that obsession has persisted.

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

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

This storm was a global pandemic.

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, I see things differently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have chosen my path.

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s not let it slip by.

Wide Open

The horse was slender. Scrawny even.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wanted to keep living my life wide open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the recent pandemic certainly fit the bill.

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

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

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

But I grew restless quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Communication

At first glance, the situation seemed normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much has been made about the keys to success.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’re not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For millennia, humans have evolved their communication techniques.

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

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

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

This is particularly noticeable at our current moment of strife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s get to it.

Of Words and Weapons

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

So goes one of the quintessential schoolyard retorts.

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

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

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

Not all words are created equal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trigger warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That should trigger its own warning.

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

So reads the first amendment of the United States Constitution.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a point that we seem to miss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Heart of Morality

I just want to do the right thing.

Many of us have uttered these words after doing something unorthodox.

Staying on the straight and narrow sometimes involves deviating from routine procedures or making personal sacrifices. And this can envelop us with a sense of cognitive dissonance.

Whenever we veer off-script, a conflict emerges between the norm we’re breaking with and the result we’re seeking. Reminding ourselves that we’re doing the right thing helps reconcile that conflict.

The right thing can seem like a nebulous term. But the code it’s based upon is not.

We call that code morality.

Morality means everything to us. It’s the standard we judge others on. And it’s what we critique ourselves on as well.

But how do we derive morality? How do we distinguish between what’s appropriate and what’s unjust?

Many of us believe the answer is basic logic. We claim that tapping into widely accepted values helps us determine what to do next. And we argue that morality is simply the process of following those markers.

It’s a tidy argument. But the truth of the matter is far more complicated.

The final months of 2001 were nothing short of surreal.

America had endured the September 11^th attacks. Our military had sent troops to Afghanistan to root out those responsible for the violence. Our economy was in a recession and a sense of tension was in the air.

I was in my early teens at the time, which made these events particularly jarring. In an instant, my youthful innocence was ripped away. A sobering reality took its place.

I went through all the emotions that come with trauma in those months. I oscillated between anger, fear, and sadness. But mostly, I was filled with confusion.

The terrorists who organized the September 11th attacks had committed unspeakable acts — killing 3,000 innocent Americans, toppling skyscrapers, and blasting a hole in the Pentagon. And yet, they claimed they were in the right. They blamed America for a culture of sin. And they touted the morality of their actions.

All of this made no sense to me.

How would sending operatives 5,000 miles to indiscriminately kill civilians be viewed as moral? It violated one of the Ten Commandments from the Bible. (Thou shalt not kill.) And it ran afoul of the guidance of the Quran. (You shall not take life, except by way of justice and law.)

To me, it was as if these terrorists had stacked a crime on a crime. They had done more than just violate the code of morality. They had ripped the code to shreds. This made them evil, in my mind, and thereby worthy of purging.

So, as I slogged through adolescence and early adulthood, I was filled with thoughts of vengeance. I openly cheered the killing of Osama Bin Laden. And I turned a blind eye to the torture of detainees accused of terrorism.

It all seemed so clear to me. Anyone who so blatantly disavowed the code of morality had to be eliminated. I stuck by this logic, even as it took me to darker and darker places.

But then, some new examples of misaligned morals enveloped our society. And this time, the situation was far murkier.

The killing of unarmed Black teens by law enforcement — a longstanding problem — gained widespread attention following the death of Michael Brown in 2014. Protestors took to the streets in Ferguson, Missouri in pursuit of racial justice.

Those protests grew violent, with looting and mayhem. This led to a militarized law enforcement response. Police sprayed tear gas, threw smoke bombs, and fired rubber bullets at the protesters.

In the wake of this confrontation, both sides claimed they were in the right. Supporters of law enforcement said it was their moral duty to prevent looting and assault. The protestors believed considered racial justice to be their moral quest. A calling that superseded the code of laws they might break along the way.

Neither claim to morality was fully upheld. But neither was refuted either. And in the years since then, the debate over morality has only grown fiercer. It’s become a defining marker of our societal divisions.

It’s uncomfortable living in conflict like this. So, we keep seeking to close the gap.

We search for that one bit of logic that will neutralize the other side, settling this debate once and for all. And, in the process, we keep finding nothing but futility.

Perhaps it’s time we try a new approach.

On October 6, 1965, the Los Angeles Dodgers dropped the first game of the World Series to the Minnesota Twins. Many players had a hand in the result. But one man who never saw the field seemed to grab the most attention.

Sandy Koufax — the Dodgers’ best pitcher — was supposed to take the mound in Minnesota that day. But October 6^th also happened to be the date of Yom Kippur — the holiest day of the Jewish calendar — that year. Koufax, who is Jewish, refused to pitch on that day.

Many criticized Koufax for abandoning his job at such an important juncture. It seemed immoral to some.

But Koufax’s choice might actually have been the purest example of morality at work.

Baseball was Koufax’s profession. He was a steady, dominant force in a sport that meant a great deal to him. But his faith also mattered. It was as much a part of his values as baseball was.

So, when Koufax found the two halves of his identity in conflict, he listened to his heart and made his decision.

Yes, Koufax let emotion — not logic — define his morality. That gave him the clarity and conviction he needed to see his decision through.

The example Sandy Koufax set might seem extreme. But it’s far from extraordinary.

When we drop everything to be there for family or friends in need, we’re following our moral compass. And we’re often doing this at the expense of our logical one.

In a vacuum, such choices make little sense. They’re inconvenient and they pull us away from proven patterns of success.

Still, we can’t imagine not making these decisions. They clearly seem like the right thing to do.

It’s our emotions that are guiding us to go the extra mile. It’s our feelings that are helping us be there in the moments that matter. It’s our hearts that are defining our sense of morality.

Our emotions help us distinguish right from wrong. And through this process, we realize what it truly means to be human.

As such, our mandate is clear.

We must stop relying on logic alone to delineate right and wrong. We must listen to our hearts as well.

It’s our obligation to look beyond our self-interest. It’s our duty to care about each other, be good to each other and be there for each other.

So, the next time we’re faced with a tough choice, let’s resist the temptation to break out the spreadsheets. Let’s give our hearts the chance to guide the way.

Eraser Marks

Have you heard of Julius Caesar? What about Alexander Hamilton?

There’s a good chance you have. And not because you had a salad for lunch or watched a Broadway musical at some point.

We know these names because we are students of history.

In America, we learn about the history of our own nation in school. We also learn of those societies that came before — such as the Roman Empire.

Reminders exist far beyond the classroom walls as well. Idioms, memes, and other colloquial wisdom weave the markers of history into the fabric of our culture.

These lessons allow us to capitalize on what those before us did well. They also allow us to avoid repeating what our predecessors did poorly.

It’s been this way for generations. But now, this arrangement is endangered.

The sea change effectively started in 2017.

America was emerging from the shadow of some contentious events. A brash outsider had won the United States presidency months earlier. And there was a growing clamor that foreign nations might have interfered in the presidential election.

Tensions were high. Then, two events sent the kindling ablaze.

In August, white supremacists marched on a Virginia college town. Then, in October, the New York Times published a sexual harassment investigation of Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein.

At first, these events don’t seem directly correlated. The white supremacists were spewing racist hate on one side of the country. On the other, an entertainment mogul was coming undone after years of mistreating women.

But if you look at the response to each of these events, the connection is clear. In both cases, the repudiation of these actions went to a new level. Symbols tied to racism started disappearing from the south, while Weinstein-produced movies vanished from entertainment services.

This was a turning point in what came to be known as Cancel Culture.

The message was clear. No longer would those on the wrong side of history simply face scorn. They might find be erased from the record altogether.

In these initial cases, the cancellations turned out to be prudent.

After all, the Confederacy lost the Civil War, and racial discrimination is against the law. So, maintaining symbols of a vanquished cause did little good.

And as for Harvey Weinstein, he was ultimately convicted of rape and sentenced to prison.

But Cancel Culture would grow in the ensuing years. And as the revisionist history exploded, we started to lose our way.

I am a proud alumna of the University of Miami.

Like any institution, the university is not perfect. But it’s had a profound impact on my life. And it’s proven to be a valuable member of the surrounding community.

The university has made several transformational decisions in recent decades, including upgrading facilities and expanding its healthcare network across South Florida.

But a recent decision caused me to furrow my brow.

The university removed the names of several prominent figures from campus buildings, including that of founder George Merrick. The university claimed that an anti-racism stance fueled their decision.

On the surface, this decision seemed prudent. While Merrick donated 600 acres of land to build the university in 1925, he also spoke of keeping Black neighborhoods outside of greater Miami.

Viewed from a modern lens — or indeed, a humane lens — such ideals are repugnant. But in the 1920s, they were par for the course.

It was the heart of the Jim Crow era back then. And Miami was the newest outpost of the South — a coastal town built along a rail line extension.

Fidel Castro’s ascension in Cuba was still more than 30 years away. And it would be a decade before Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo ordered the infamous El Corte massacre against Haitians.

Such events helped spur a wave of migration to Miami, turning it into the multicultural mecca we know it as today. But back in 1925, Miami was a mostly white city in a segregationist state.

Merrick’s views on city planning are not to be celebrated, for sure. But canceling him from the university is not necessarily the answer either.

Such actions are effectively castigating one man for the sins of his time. It’s a move that even civic leaders think is unfair.

This is not the case of Alabama governor George Wallace openly defying the Civil Rights Act and bellowing Segregation forever. If George Merrick had lived in a more equitable era, there’s a chance he might have had a more progressive stance on racial relations.

But he didn’t. He lived in the South in the 1920s. And now, he’s being punished for that fate of circumstance.

There are few names more infamous than that of Adolf Hitler.

The Nazi leader led the genocide of 6 million people, spurred the rise of fascism in Europe and sparked the Second World War. In most circles, he’s considered the embodiment of evil incarnate.

More than 75 years have passed since the fall of the Nazis. Most Germans these days have no firsthand knowledge of that despicable era. But they do know who Hitler was.

This is intentional. In the shadow of World War II, Allied powers removed Nazi symbols from German buildings. But they didn’t scrub their atrocities from the history books.

The more German schoolchildren learned about the sins of prior generations, the less they’d be inclined to repeat them. At least that was the prevailing idea.

For the most part, this strategy has worked. Some pockets of right-wing extremism have bubbled up in Germany recently. But such scourges took many decades to re-emerge.

As I look at our society, I wonder why we are so set on deviating from this path. The actions of Confederate leaders — let alone the Nazi regime — are far worse than the thoughts of a George Merrick.

Cancelling Merrick for racist views — or any number of figures for the warts of their era — is a flawed approach.

Taking an eraser to the history books doesn’t wipe the slate clean. It simply leaves us with eraser marks.

Such actions deprive us of the database of missteps. They rob us of tangible signs of society’s progression. And they leave us every opportunity to make mistakes that could otherwise have been avoided.

History is made of people. And people are flawed.

Julius Caesar got power-hungry and ended up assassinated. Alexander Hamilton’s hotheaded style led him to a fatal duel with Aaron Burr.

Those flaws ended their lives, but not their relevance. In fact, those flaws have become a crucial portion of their relevance.

This is the power of history when it’s left annotated but unvarnished. It offers us the chance to make tomorrow better than yesterday was.

So, let’s not give Cancel Culture a free pass. Let’s stop pretending that eraser marks can rectify the sins of the past. Let’s investigate those sins at face value. And then let’s resolve to do better

Author: Dylan Brooks