Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Roots and Branches

Where do our origins lie?

It’s a complicated question.

There’s the biblical explanation, with the tales of the Garden of Eden. There’s the scientific explanation, which ties us back to prehistoric Africa. And there’s the literal explanation, which links us with the community where we entered the world.

Each explanation covers one angle of our origins. So, it’s hard to fully dispel any of them.

And yet, none of them truly provide us the satisfaction we desire.

For when we ask this question, we’re looking for a compelling narrative. A story with a cathartic ending.

So, we turn to genealogy kits. To old photographs. To family heirlooms and documents faded by the hands of time.

And we organize it all into a system of roots and branches. Of family trees, tribal allegiances, and cultural identities.

By weaving this yarn, we hope to learn more about our ancestors. But quite often, we’re also seeking to find something within ourselves.

I’m a longtime Texan.

I’ve lived in the Lone Star State for more than a decade, and I’ve felt more at home between the Rio Grande and the Red River than anywhere else.

And yet, I’m not a native Texan. I wasn’t born here, I didn’t grow up here, and I didn’t go to college here.

In fact, prior to moving to Texas, I’d spent my entire life on the eastern seaboard, in a completely different cultural environment.

So, why has Texas felt so familiar to me? Why have I felt so at home here since just about Day 1?

I’ve pondered this question for quite a while. But eventually, the answer became clear: My father.

Now, to be clear, my father’s only connection to Texas is me. He went much of his life without ever setting foot here.

But my father also has ties to the heartland. For he was born in Missouri.

This was as much as matter of circumstance as anything else. When my father was born, my grandfather was attending medical school in the Show-Me State. And my grandparents had no other relatives living west of the Mississippi River at the time. But regardless the context, Missouri is the place where my father spent the earliest months of his life.

My father has no memories of those days. The family moved to Michigan before his second birthday, and then to Pennsylvania before he turned four. My father lived in the Philadelphia area through college, and he’s spent his entire adult life in New York. So, his own narrative — his experiences, memories and perspective — it all has a distinctly Northeastern tilt.

And yet, when I was growing up, my father would occasionally throw out a passing reference to his Missouri origins. He would pronounce it as Miz-OR-uh, just as he claimed the locals do. And occasionally, he’d host our neighbor — a Missouri native — for a barbecue in our backyard. My father and our neighbor would drink beer and talk late into the night about life far from the big city.

I should have recognized how ridiculous this all was — my father waxing poetic about a life he had barely experienced. But I never did.

Instead, I started to view my father’s time in the heartland as part of him. As a story that had been cut off mid-sentence.

And so, when I moved to Texas to work in broadcast television, I viewed it as more than a career decision. It was a chance for me to pick up the narrative my father had started. The narrative of life in the heartland.

Living that narrative was my mission and my purpose. Falling for Texas the way I ultimately did — that was just gravy.

Yet, even as my life transformed in the best of ways, something was still nagging at me. The narrative of my father’s origins still felt as open-ended as ever.

Fortunately, it wouldn’t be for long.

On a temperate August afternoon some years ago, I strode up a jet bridge at Lambert International Airport in St. Louis. I was fresh off the plane from Texas, taking my first steps over Missouri soil.

Inside the terminal, my father was waiting for me. His flight from New York had arrived moments earlier. And that meant he could greet me at the gate, instead of baggage claim.

As I looked at my father, a rush of emotions flowed through me.

This was the first time he’d been back in Missouri in 50 years — since that day the family packed up and moved east.

He was a toddler then. Now, he was a middle-aged man with gray in his beard. And here I was, bearing witness to this historic moment.

If my father also felt sentimental about all this, he didn’t say so. In fact, neither of us mentioned much about it the rest of the trip. There was no time for that.

We were slated to visit both St. Louis and Kansas City over the course of that weekend. We had tickets to baseball games in each city, along with plans to visit the Budweiser Brewery, the Gateway Arch and a few other sights. In fact, our schedule was packed so tight that we didn’t even consider taking a dogleg to the town where my father was born.

But even if the reunion tour wasn’t quite as advertised, that first moment still sticks with me. That sensation of arriving in a new place, while somehow feeling as if you’re returning back home.

There was nothing quite like it.

As I look back on all of this, I find myself perplexed.

What drew me to the narrative of my father’s origins? And why haven’t I been able to let that fascination go?

After all, I have no natural affinity for Missouri on its face. I don’t fantasize about Toasted Ravioli. I haven’t read Mark Twain in ages. And the St. Louis Cardinals haven’t stolen my heart — they’ve only broken it.

This dissonance is natural. For I represent the branches in my father’s life story. And those branches are far removed from the roots.

And yet, a connection remains. A connection that solely exists because of who my father is and what he means to me.

It matters that the man who raised me, believed in me from day one and challenged me to be my best took his first steps on Missouri soil. That he uttered his first words there. That he breathed in that fresh prairie air, just as I do all these years later.

His roots might not be my roots. But they’re part of my legacy.

So, forget the biblical or scientific explanations. Throw away logic and labels.

I am my father’s son. The heartland will always be where my origins lie.

The Magic Eraser

If I could turn back time.

These are not just the lyrics from a Cher song. They’re a common lament.

We all have things we wish we’d done different. Or things that we wish would have gone differently.

And while it’s too late for a re-do, it’s never too late for us to fantasize about what could have been. To envision wiping out what occurred and writing a new script.

We’ve done this for centuries, with a catch. All those machinations, tweaks, changes — they were confined to the bounds of our imaginations. For there was no Magic Eraser we could turn to in real life.

But now, things are changing.

A movement has been growing in recent years.

Like a wave, it started out innocuously, shielded by the vastness of the water around it. But it relentlessly rose from its surroundings, to the point where it couldn’t be ignored any longer. And then it crashed over us with a vicious fury.

This wave is called Cancel Culture. And it first crested during the Me Too movement, when women took a stand against acts of sexual misconduct by powerful men.

Many of the perpetrators were prominent figures — entertainers, producers and business moguls. The public knew their names, but not their alleged actions. Those atrocities were shrouded behind a wall of silence.

When the dam broke, and all those secrets saw the light of day, people were outraged. While some of these men ended up facing charges in court, all of them faced harsh judgment in the court of public opinion.

Casting out these men from their jobs seemed too limiting. The public sought to expel them from good graces of culture as well.

And so, everything these fallen figures had ever touched turned to ash. Many stopped citing or sharing their work. Instead of treating these men like cornerstones of modern history, people canceled them from the text entirely.

It was a drastic move, to be sure. But for many, it was a cathartic one as well.

The rush of water had crested and crashed, washing clean the sins of recent history.

And yet, this was no rogue wave. It was the start of a tidal surge.

Indeed, Cancel Culture has continued to thrive in the wake of the Me Too movement. And in the process, it’s consumed a far wider swath of transgressions.

But now, it might be at the point of no return.

The moment we’re facing is dire.

A global pandemic has raged for months, and it shows few signs of abating. Around the world, millions have been infected and hundreds of thousands of people have died. People have been asked to avoid each other in the name of public health. And all of this has led to an economic recession and the upending of many societal traditions.

But in the midst of this crisis, another one has come to the forefront. A series of racially charged incidents in the United States have led to widespread outrage. Coast to coast, people have left their isolation bubbles to protest this injustice. And difficult discussions regarding race relations have come to the fore.

It is within this perfect storm — this mix of helplessness and rage — that Cancel Culture has surged. With so little recourse to fix the present crisis, we’ve focused our attention on the past. On just how much of it we can omit.

Now, the waves of change aren’t mere whitecaps. They’re a tsunami.

This tsunami has led to some overdue changes. Statues of confederate leaders have been removed. The offensive name of Washington’s National Football League team has been changed. And mentions of one racist United States President from a century ago have been scrubbed from Princeton University.

These changes had been debated for years, so they were a long time coming. If we want to live in a world of equality and racial justice, we should not immortalize those who led armies against such concepts. We should not promote those who spoke forcefully against it. And we should not allow anyone to profit off of it by selling team t-shirts featuring racial slurs.

Perhaps, if the changes had ended here, we’d be alright.

But a tsunami does not attack with precision. It obliterates everything in sight.

And so, we now see some people demanding that more of American history be scrubbed. That everything from the era of inequities be stricken from the record.

Those fighting for this cause might mention that George Washington owned slaves. They might exclaim that American Indians never called themselves that name. Or point out that the original Texas Rangers weren’t exactly kind to Mexicans or Blacks.

They might claim that the song Dixie was once used in minstrel shows — even though the term itself was the French translation for a 10-dollar note. They might mention that Sam Houston lived in the Antebellum South — even though aimed to keep Texas out of the Confederacy.

Never mind the context behind any of these examples. The context does not matter. At least that’s what these reformers would have us believe.

After all, they would argue that well has been poisoned. That these people and entities were the beneficiaries of a broken system.

And now, in more enlightened times, our only recourse for reckoning with this system is take out the Magic Eraser and wipe it all away. The statues. The names. The mentions. All of it.

This might seem like a compelling case to make. But it’s a fatally flawed one.

Many years ago, I stood on a steep hillside in Germany.

It was a warm summer day, but I had chills up and down my spine.

For the hill I was standing on was within the gates of the Buchenwald Concentration Camp. Decades earlier, more than 50,000 people had lost their lives at the hands of the Nazis there.

The Holocaust happened well before my time, and well before the times of many others now walking this earth. And yet, it still resonates with us in the most horrifying of ways.

It does so not because of history textbooks, documentaries or movies. Those can always be canceled away from our collective consciousness.

No, the Holocaust resonates because of sites like Buchenwald. Sites of horror that have been preserved despite our overwhelming urge to bury them from memory.

The Germans stripped the names of the Nazis from symbols of their culture. You won’t find streets named after Gestapo officers or key figures in the Reichstag.

But the Germans took great care not to wipe their history books entirely.

Cities pay homage to Gutenburg, Goethe, Schiller and other key figures who predated the Nazis. And the concentration camps remain scarring reminders of the darkest era of European history. An era that we cannot afford to let happen again.

It is this point that Cancel Culture seems to miss.

If we go overboard with the Magic Eraser, we lose track of our mistakes. We set the stage for history to repeat itself in the most brutal of ways.

Let’s avoid this trap.

Let’s treat history with a scalpel, not a machete. Let’s proceed deliberately, not emotionally. And let’s heed the words of Hippocrates — the ones imploring us to do no harm.

This will allow us to learn from bygone eras without exalting them. And it will provide us a roadmap to building a better future.

So, let’s put the Magic Eraser away. In an age where we have all the tools, that’s not one we need.

The Err of Bluster

The team is staring down a challenge.

Great opportunity lies ahead. But so do obstacles. Obstacles determined to keep this opportunity out of reach.

With the fog of adversity looming, a leader steps in front of the group and gives a fiery speech. The words energize the team. They overcome the odds and reach their goal.

Chances are, you’ve seen this situation unfold. Maybe you experienced it in real life. Or you saw it in a movie about sports or war.

It’s become the de facto playbook for wide scale leadership.

Bluster on. Rally the troops. Achieve victory.

It sounds good on paper. But that playbook has a fatal flaw.

Speak softly and carry a big stick.

If you weren’t nodding off in history class, you might remember that this quote comes from Teddy Roosevelt.

Roosevelt talked the talk. But he also walked the walk.

He made his name in the Spanish-American War, when he led his regiment — the Rough Riders — in a daring charge up a hill in Cuba. He often ventured out to the Dakota wilderness to hunt ferocious animals. And he treated the United States as a global power — even though it was yet to truly be one.

Roosevelt became the 26th President of the United States in 1901, when his predecessor was assassinated. And he instantly stood out. For in its 125 previous years, the U.S. had never quite seen a leader with his level of bluster.

Indeed, the three other presidents immortalized on Mount Rushmore with Roosevelt — George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln — conducted themselves much differently.

Washington led the fledging Revolutionary Army to victory over the British. But he didn’t achieve this feat by charging at the enemy in broad daylight. Instead, he used a series of skirmishes and retreats to lure them into a trap.

One need only look at the most famous painting of Washington to understand that he was more about guile than bile. That painting shows him and his troops crossing a frigid river for a surprise attack.

As President, Washington maintained his understated style. Despite the divisiveness all around him in the early days of the nation, he refused to resort to bravado.

The same went for Jefferson. As President, he’s perhaps most famous for purchasing land from the French. All the bluster was reserved for Vice President Aaron Burr, who got into an infamous duel with Alexander Hamilton.

And Lincoln? He led the United States through a Civil War with candor and compassion. His most famous speech — The Gettysburg Address — was more solemn than boisterous.

Yet, Roosevelt blazed a different path. And in his stead, a new form of leadership emerged.

The blustering style was in to stay.

Bluster has had a long run. Nearly 125 years in the daylight, to be precise.

But now, the sun might be setting on it.

Indeed, as a global pandemic tears its way through humanity, the virus at its center punishes defiance. And yet, many leaders have felt compelled to bluster on.

One of these blustering leaders was Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. As the virus ravaged nearby nations — first Italy, then Spain, then France — Johnson seemed convinced that those in the British Isles had nothing to worry about.

Johnson blustered on about the strength of those across the UK. He continued to shake hands. And he resisted initial calls for a national lockdown.

This behavior all seemed reckless. But Johnson was not one to bow down to an opponent. He preferred the familiarity of a rally-the-troops style — even if it put his nation on a collision course with disaster.

Then, Johnson caught the virus.

He carried on with his duties at first, albeit remotely. But his condition worsened. Soon, he ended up in an Intensive Care ward at a London hospital, his life in the balance.

Johnson pulled through, and ultimately recovered from the virus. But he emerged from the ordeal deeply humbled. His brush with death had seemingly convinced him that the virus couldn’t be scared away with bold talk.

Johnson’s messaging has since taken a more pragmatic tone. And his voice has seemed to carry more weight.

The situation in the UK has remained dire. But the nation has avoided calamity, even as others have dealt with surging caseloads.

Perhaps this is a coincidence. But I think not.

It shouldn’t have to come to this.

Leaders shouldn’t have to risk falling in the abyss to see the light.

For the truth lies in front of us. Bluster just doesn’t work.

Sure, bluster might seem tantalizingly shiny when times are good. But when the going gets tough, all that glitter is as good as lead paint.

It’s dangerous. Even fatal.

Yes, when uncertainty takes hold, when fear and doubt infest us, we don’t look for the loudest voice in the room. We look for the steadiest hand.

We choose a Lincoln over a Roosevelt. Every time.

And yet, those in power can’t help themselves. After all those years watching war movies and all those months on the campaign trail, their egos have deluded them.

Noise becomes their most trusted tool. Their only trusted tool. And in the teeth of a crisis, they just turn up the dial.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. A prophecy in the form of a doom cycle.

Crises are good for precious few things.

But a fresh start is one of them.

The global pandemic has forced us to part with life as we once knew it. It’s compelled us to sacrifice so much that we once considered essential, in the name of survival.

So, why should we cling to a warped notion of leadership? Why should we tolerate the err of bluster?

Now is the time to celebrate a new class of leader. A leader who speaks through actions, rather than a bullhorn. A leader who is more deliberate than forceful. A leader who embraces humility over hubris.

Such a leader might not bring an aura. Their story might not catch the eye of Hollywood script writers.

But they will be the one that we follow out of the darkness.

It’s on us to make sure we continue to follow them in the light as well. That we make it clear precisely what we will tolerate from our leadership — and what we won’t. That we snuff out bluster once and for all.

Our future depends on it. No more. No less.

The stakes are high. Let’s make sure we meet them.

The Rhythm of Connection

I had some time to kill.

I had checked out of my hotel room. But my flight home wouldn’t leave the gate for another eight hours or so.

Sure, I could drive around in my rental car, or do some sightseeing.

But this was Florida in June. And between the swampy air and the constant thunderstorms, that didn’t seem like a great idea.

So, I did what many Americans do when killing time. I headed to the nearest Starbucks.

Moments later, I was sitting in an armchair with an iced coffee in hand. I pulled out some reading I’d brought with me, but I didn’t get far.

The scene around me was too interesting.

There was the group of young women looking for a caffeine boost. They were still wearing the commemorative t-shirts from the concert they’d gone to the night before.

There were the couples in line. Some seemed confident. Others seemed tentative.

There were some people speaking Spanish, some speaking English, and some mixing the two.

These snippets of everyday life weren’t playing out on the streets of a bustling city. They were taking place at a coffee shop in a suburban shopping center.

It seemed so normal. And yet, it blew my mind.

If I had hopped in a time machine and left the palm lined boulevards of modern-day Florida, I could probably find a similar scene to what I witness in that Starbucks.

For cafes and tea parlors have existed in parts of the world for centuries.

At first these establishments existed for functional reasons. Years ago, it was no small feat to make an espresso or an exotic tea at home. So many people would venture out to whet their appetites.

But all this has changed in recent decades. The advent of coffee makers and refrigerators make it far easier to enjoy any type of drink without leaving our front doors.

And yet, cafes have remained popular.

This is not because of the beverages these venues offer, or even the service they provide.

It’s because of the connections they help forge.

Drinking is a social activity. As humans, we like to share the experience with others. To take our time enjoying the concoctions in our mugs. And to soak up the ambiance.

Legislators failed to account for this when they enacted Prohibition in 1919. The act was meant to ban alcohol in the United States. But a vibrant Speakeasy culture popped up in its stead.

Speakesies didn’t take off because of the bootleg liquor inside. Sure, the opportunity to drink illicit alcohol was intriguing, but it wasn’t the main attraction.

No, the Speakeasies became legendary thanks to the scene they provided. Like moths on a sultry evening, people would flock to the flame of social connection that flickered at these secretive locations.

The United States government had tried to put out this flame. To defang the source of so many gatherings. To form a quiet, reclusive society.

But those efforts proved fruitless. Social connection persevered.

Decades later, Howard Schultz made sure not to repeat the U.S. government’s mistake. Noting the street café scene of Italy, Schultz reimagined the company he helmed. He rebranded it as a third place — a location where people were encouraged to linger and connect.

The company he redefined? Starbucks.

And now, on a steamy morning in Florida, it was all coming full circle. I was seeing Schultz’s vision unfold.

You can observe a lot by watching.

This Yogi Berra quote is whimsical, to the point of sounding ridiculous.

But there is a great deal of truth to it.

We live in a world that’s full of action. We inhabit a society where we’re encouraged to keep moving and keep creating.

But we cannot innovate if we don’t first imitate.

We grow by watching others and emulating their actions. We start by learning from our parents, but we soon evolve to learn from our peers.

The Internet has turbocharged this process, giving us a one-stop shop for everything from cooking tips to home improvement tutorials. But there are some things just can’t be shared through a laptop or a smartphone screen.

Some things can only be learned in person. In places like coffee shops, where people linger and connect. Places where so many corners of culture converge.

This spirit is what I was tapping into on this spontaneous trip to Starbucks. By simply sitting and enjoying a cup of coffee, I was immersing myself in the culture of this particular part of Florida. The nuances, the wrinkles — all of it was becoming more familiar to me.

The sights and sounds of coffee shops are far different these days.

With a global pandemic raging, many cafes have closed their doors. Others have pivoted to takeout service only.

Starbucks itself has largely moved in this direction. It’s a startling turnabout for a company that once refused to build drive thru lanes at its locations.

Not many coffee or tea drinkers have complained about this. For they can still get their espressos, lattes and Matchas ready to order from the counter or the drive thru window. And they don’t have to risk their health if they enjoy the beverages from the comfort of their vehicle or their home.

I understand this inclination as much as anyone. Yet, I still fear something is being lost.

The subtle din of the coffee shop, it’s not just fodder for writers like me. It’s a familiar soundtrack to so many of us.

It’s where the inquisitive can engage their curiosity. It’s where the cultural explorers can jet set, without boarding a plane.

It’s where friends can connect, romances can spark and business connections can be forged.

Yes, some of this can be supplanted in the virtual world. But it can’t truly be replaced.

We still need to tap into that rhythm of connection.

Maybe not at the moment I’m writing this, when gatherings are banned and interpersonal trust is fleeting. But someday, when this extraordinary moment passes, we will need the sights and the sounds of in-person interaction. We will need them more than ever.

I eagerly await that day, that eventuality. But until then, I hope the memories of that morning at a coffee shop in Florida will suffice.

Lone Star

The building was nondescript.

Single story. Concrete walls. A smooth facade near the roof painted a grayish blue.

It was just like so many shopping centers and strip malls across America.

Only this one wasn’t home to a retail store, a restaurant or a barbershop. Instead, the signage on the façade read Midland County Annex.

I walked through the front door, flanked by my father.

The inside looked like a bank, with several partitioned service counters, a number of security cameras, and a line of waiting customers. The only things missing were the plexiglass and the heavy steel vaults. There were no hordes of cash to protect here.

After a few minutes in line, we found ourselves at a counter across from a clerk named Hannah.

She was young and pretty, with brown eyes and dark hair. And unlike so many people who worked in government offices, she dressed in style.

My father and I explained that I was new in town. I would needed to get my car re-registered. I would also need to get it re-titled.

Hannah mentioned that she was new to the area as well. She had been living in one of the bigger cities across the state — Dallas, Austin, Houston, I can’t remember which — but she had moved west to help take care of an ailing family member. Suddenly the paradox of seeing a young woman like her working in the county annex made perfect sense.

A few minutes later, after exchanging some paperwork and a few personal checks, I walked out of the annex with a registration sticker and two new license plates. The plates read TEXAS across the top.

In the parking lot, my father fastened the new plates to my vehicle and added the new registration sticker.

It was all a mundane, bureaucratic exercise. But that moment, in the parking lot under the blistering heat of the midday sun, was an inflection point in my life.

It was July 9, 2010. And now, I was officially a Texan.

I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.

Those are the words of a bumper sticker that can be found on vehicles across the Lone Star State.

Many have joked that this sticker was made for me. My parents even bought me one.

But truth be told, that statement didn’t apply to me for much of my early years.

I was a suburban kid. Growing up in the Northeast, I had an affinity for the big cities. The knowledge that others were nearby gave me comfort.

When I would go on trips to the country, I would be terrified by the silence and the darkness. I worried that a predator would attack me under the cover of night. Or that I’d be stranded in the wilderness with no one to help me.

In my mind, Texas represented that wilderness. The stereotypes all painted it as vast, rustic and rural. And I wanted no part of that.

But soon enough, things started to change. When I was in middle school, my family went on a trip to the Grand Canyon. That vacation led me to fall in love with the southwest.

Then, in college, I shared an off-campus house with a friend from Houston. I visited her over spring break and went to the Houston Rodeo.

I was immediately hooked. I was in awe of how big Houston was, how friendly people were and how amazing all the food was. After that trip — my first ever trip to Texas — the Lone Star State was suddenly on my radar.

I returned to the Lone Star State twice more in the next couple of years. One was a short trip with my father and the other was for student media conference. By the end of that second trip, I started thinking of Texas as a place I might move to after college. But since I was completing a TV journalism degree, I would likely end up wherever the job opportunities led me.

That turned out to be Midland, in the heart of West Texas’ oil country. And now, a mere two months after my graduation, here I was. In the parking lot of the Midland County Annex, with two shiny new license plates on my car.

I was giddy. I was excited. But I had no idea what to expect.

That was probably for the best.

“Some folks look at me and see a certain swagger, which in Texas is called ‘Walking’.” – George W. Bush

Texas is a bold place. But if you don’t play your cards right, it can be a lonesome place too.

My early days on the dusty western plains felt desolate. I had an apartment, a TV news job and access to the services I needed. But I didn’t know a soul.

So, I would venture out on my own. I’d try the restaurants in town. I’d lounge by the pool. And I’d go to the ballgame or the rodeo.

Connecting with the culture of my new home was part of my job as a TV journalist. But I was already fond of the cuisine and recreational staples of the region. So, cultural immersion became something of a passion project. It helped me quell the feelings of isolation.

Then, one sweltering summer night, I passed out from dehydration at a Minor League baseball game. I ended up in the Emergency Room across town, getting fluids through an IV.

I had arrived at the hospital in an ambulance. So, once I was discharged, I had to walk 4 miles across town in the middle of the night to retrieve my car and head home.

As I made that walk, I realized the depths of my vulnerability. The ordeal had outlined just how tenuous my connection with my new home was. I felt both obsolete and hopeless.

Fortunately, that feeling didn’t last long. For when my colleagues found out what happened, they quickly exchanged cell phone numbers with me. Don’t ever feel you’re on your own here, they told me. We’re here to help.

Soon enough, I was hitting the town with them, and getting to know the reporters and producers at the other TV stations. Sometimes, we even went on weekend trips to other parts of the state.

After some initial stumbles, I was forming real roots in the area.

I might not have been born or raised in Texas. I might not have experienced the glory of Friday night football games or the pageantry of homecoming as a high school student. I might not have hung out at the local Dairy Queen as a teenager, because there was nothing better to do.

But even absent all of those experiences, I realized then that I had forged a deep connection. It was no longer a formality for me to call myself a Texan. Texas had become an indelible part of me.

Cause no matter how big it storms, I know I can find me a place that’s warm. The sun is shining somewhere in Texas. – Jason Boland

About three years after I first put my Texas plates on my car, I pulled into a parking space in a suburban apartment complex outside Dallas.

I climbed a flight of stairs approached the door of my new apartment. Then I turned the key.

I had made the transition from the plains of oil country to the big city. And, in doing so, I’d started over.

Once again, I was starting over in a place where I only know a scant few people. Once again, I would have to work to set down roots.

But this time, I didn’t have to grapple with what it meant to become a Texan. I already was one.

Even if my zip code had changed, this was still home. Knowing this gave me the confidence to build connections in the newest chapter of my life.

And in recent years, I’ve done just that. I’ve made a new slew of friends in greater Dallas and taken the reins of my university’s local alumni chapter. I’ve also built a marketing career and earned my MBA from a business school in Dallas.

The roots that started out west have solidified during my time in North Texas.

As I write this, I am nearing the 10 year mark as a Texan.

I generally don’t care for milestones, but this one is different.

The world has changed a lot in my first decade in Texas. I moved here in the midst of a recession. Years of prosperity followed. But now, we’re battling another recession — along with an oil bust and a global pandemic.

I’ve changed a lot in the past decade as well. I’m older, wiser and more self-assured now than I was when I first crossed the state line.

But some things haven’t changed. I still love Texas and am committed to making it my home for years to come.

I might not wear my boots quite as often these days. And I might not eat quite as much brisket or Mexican food as I once did. But Texas is still as much a part of me as ever.

I’m looking forward to the next decade here in my slice of heaven. And, God-willing, many more to come.

Texas is home. And I am oh so grateful for that.

The Secondary Effect Quandary

Cause and effect.

It’s a pattern that defines our lives.

When something happens to us, it has an impact. It shakes up the status quo and forces us to adapt.

The pattern of cause and effect has led humanity to adapt over the millennia. It’s transitioned us from primitive beings to the architects of advanced societies. It’s led to the practice of analysis in business, government and other subsets of life. And it’s allowed us to consider two time dimensions at once.

Yes, as we seek to move forward, it’s critical that we understand cause and effect patterns.

And yet, we continue to miss the mark.

For three months in late 2001, the skies over the New York Harbor were obscured by an ashy haze.

It looked like a plume of smoke was coming from Wall Street. That plume was actually dust and debris from the wreckage of the World Trade Center.

Every time I saw that plume, my entire body would seize up. For a moment, I’d be motionless.

The plume of debris was a visceral reminder about what happened in September of that year. It was a chilling warning of how that day would continue to affect me.

I was supposed to be one of the lucky ones. I didn’t lose anyone I knew in the attacks. I didn’t see the planes hit the towers firsthand. I didn’t have to run for my life as an avalanche of debris encroached upon me.

When the texts are written of that dark day, my story won’t be mentioned in them. From a historian’s perspective, I wasn’t part of the effect of that event.

And yet, I’ve carried the trauma of that moment with me every day since the attacks. That baggage has been with me for more than half of my life.

I don’t share this to claim victim status. The victims of that attack are the ones who lost their lives, and the loved ones who continue to mourn their loss.

But it’s clear that the attack had a wider impact. An indelible impact on anyone nearby who, on that day, believed our life was ending. An impact on anyone who encountered a heavily armed National Guardsman, imploring them to Go! Get out of here! An impact on anyone who saw the dust plume piercing the sky like a funnel cloud.

That someone was me. But it was also millions of others.

We might have been spared the primary impacts of the disaster. But the secondary effects are still scarring.

In the wake of disruptive change, it’s natural to think of the direct effects.

The rise of digital technology spelled the end for companies like Blockbuster and Kodak. The rise of nationalist movements in several countries represent a threat to immigrants.

These effects are well known and widely shared. Case studies illuminate the fall of analog players in the digital world. Endeavoring journalists warn of the dangers populism can bring to certain segments of society.

But while it might be poignant to feature the travails of these victims, their stories are just the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more under the surface.

Indeed, many consumers struggled in the transition to digital. Those who were not tech savvy faced challenges learning new techniques. And losing brands like Blockbuster and Kodak did not make that transition any easier.

And even if nationalist movements directly impact immigrants, those who rely on those immigrants for services are also impacted.

The secondary effects matter. So why do we keep ignoring them?

At the moment I’m writing this, the world seems as bleak as ever.

A global pandemic continues to rage, causing widespread devastation. The economy is in turmoil, as industries strain to recover from a series of lockdowns.

The primary effects of all this are not hard to find. Lives lost. Jobs lost. Families torn apart by illness or financial ruin.

It’s all a crushing reality.

Our society has largely failed to protect our lives and our livelihoods. And that puts us in a tough spot — one with no path ahead that spares more carnage.

Instant answers — such as unveiling economic incentives or imposing new lockdowns — might seem tempting. In theory, these solutions would remove half of the problem — thereby making it easier to focus on the other half.

But such plans have a familiar flaw.

They ignore the secondary effects.

Economic incentives only help if there’s business to be had. So long as consumers remain skittish due to health concerns, businesses will continue to struggle.

And lockdowns come with their own closets of skeletons.

There is the isolation factor. As we spend months without seeing our loved ones or celebrating special occasions, we lose social connectivity. As this pattern drags on, it’s hard not to feel that the world has passed us by.

There is the health factor. Staying home can make us more sedentary, leading to a new set of health issues.

And there is the essentials factor. With so many people locked down, the masses turn to a select few to deliver essential items — such as food or supplies. The divide between those staying safe and those taking on exponential health risks intensifies.

These issues might seem like minor grievances. After all, they pale in comparison to the specter of death and joblessness plaguing our society.

But that doesn’t make them irrelevant. Far from it.

Indeed, if we let these concerns go unchecked, they might plague us long after the crisis subsides. Months of quiet distress can lead to years of traumatic damage.

It’s what happened in the fall of 2001, when a plume of debris over the New York sky haunted anyone who laid eyes on it.

And now, history is poised to repeat itself.

It’s time we recognize the signs.

It’s time we see the gravity of secondary effects. And it’s time we factor those effects into our decision making.

For no matter how much we might think otherwise, choices are neither tidy nor simple. Change is difficult, and its aftereffects can be messy.

Sure, the primary effects of our moves might seem clear. But it’s what lies below the surface that will ultimately define us.

Let us not ignore that. Not now. Not ever.

A rebel might be without a cause. But a fool fails to consider the effects.

Now is no time to be foolish.

Forests and Trees

Vision.

It’s perhaps our most vivid sense.

We process the world through pictures. Through color. Through light and through shadows.

Vision facilitates our memories. It keeps snapshots of the faded past crystal clear in our minds.

Vision captivates our dreams. It makes these experiences so lifelike that we mistake them for reality.

Vision even crosses the void. When darkness sets in, our other senses kick into overdrive to compensate for what we now cannot see.

Yes, vision is essential for how we interact with the world. From the days of cave paintings to the modern day, it’s been a central part of our narrative. It’s served as a universal language.

And yet, much still gets lost in translation.

The view from my patio is leafy and green.

Not far from the railing — maybe 10 feet away — there is a large canopy of trees. And as I sit on my deck chair and take in the fresh air, the branches and leaves of the nearest tree extend out toward me, like a set of olive branches.

I love this view. It provides shade during the scorching days of a Texas summer. It provides a screen from the curious gaze of neighbors. And it provides solace from the noise and distractions that otherwise clutter my life.

And yet, this setup has its drawbacks. The trees rob me of the chance to gaze across the vast landscape. To feel the radiant warmth of the late morning sun. To ponder what lies beyond the horizon — or even see the horizon at all.

Fortunately for me, there are areas within walking distance that provide me such opportunities. But even then, there are tradeoffs. I must leave my leafy perch behind and venture out into the world.

I must decide whether to gaze upon the forest or look at the trees.

Details matter.

They might not shine like a marquee light. But they resonate.

Sure, you try and can go without them. You can stumble through life without paying attention to the little things. You might even get away with it, for a time.

But eventually, such brazen disregard for the details carries a hefty price.

So, I don’t risk it.

Yes, I have long obsessed over details. I’ve soaked up information like a sponge. I’ve looked carefully before I’ve leapt.

I’ve dumped my own health data into spreadsheets and crunched the numbers. I’ve read reviews before making a purchase. I’ve called service providers to make sure I understood how the fine print would impact me.

These habits have stemmed from my obsessive-compulsive nature, and my low tolerance for risk. But they’ve also plugged into a larger pattern.

For our society is addicted to detail.

Detail provides us the edge we need to thrive. And it provides the roadmap to live out our fantasies of perfection.

So, we follow its guidance.

We internalize adages like Take care of the little things, and the big things will follow. We make those words our ethos.

But all our efforts ring hollow.

We’re still missing part of the picture.

Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat.

This line is widely attributed to Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese military strategist.

Phrases like these fill book called The Art Of War. That text is ostensibly about military strategy. But it’s found a far wider audience in the modern world.

In the face of fierce competition, business leaders, politicians and enterprising individuals have all flocked to military texts like The Art Of War. They’ve scoured the words of legendary tacticians, searching for translatable takeaways.

And of all the takeaways, these eight words stand our most of all.

For if we fail to consider the bigger picture, the details don’t matter. The minutia become meaningless.

We must get a glimpse at the entire forest to get a true understanding of the trees.

Some years back, I took a gondola ride up the western face of the Sandia Mountains, near Albuquerque. I had read that Sandia Peak had the best view of the city, and this was the best way to get to it.

The ticket was expensive for a gondola ride. As I boarded, I discovered why.

The gondola ride was not billed as transportation. It was meant to be an experience.

Trips were listed as flights. And a tour guide spoke with riders throughout the journey.

As soon as I heard the guide’s boisterous voice on the intercom, I rolled my eyes and tried to tune him out. This was not something I’d signed up for.

And yet, about halfway up the mountain, the tour guide pointed out something I couldn’t ignore.

Do you see that tiny black speck down there? he asked. That’s actually boulder the size of this tram car.

I was floored. It was hard to imagine that something that appeared so tiny was actually larger than me.

The mental calculus hurt my brain. Years later, I still wince while trying to wrap my head around that fact.

That moment on the gondola encapsulates the relationship between the forest and the trees.

The 30,000 foot view provides context, but so does the ground-level perspective.

In moments of strife, we put blinders on.

We narrow our perspective, honing in on what can help us to survive the moment at hand. We consider our next move, in hopes of eradicating the threat — both now and in the future.

We focus solely on the trees.

Such a focus can help us to survive a brief shock. It can provide a lifeline in the wake of a storm, an attack or the loss of a job.

But if the struggle persists, everything breaks down.

Our laser focus makes us rigid. Our lack of perspective prevents us from adapting to our new reality.

And so, we endorse radical solutions. We turn to answers that may help in a pinch, but might have disastrous long-term consequences.

But this pattern cannot sustain itself.

Long-term crises require a dual perspective solution. They require us to focus on the forest and the trees.

We can’t just throw the most radical solutions at distressing disruptions — such as pandemics or recessions. There’s only so much runway for such stunts.

No, we must take a different tact.

We must first consider the overarching vision, the bird’s eye view. Then — and only then — can we descend into the particulars with an actionable plan.

Putting this plan into action requires a lot of it.

It means exploring the gray areas between the extremes. It means promoting sustainable behaviors. And it means thinking three steps ahead — even as the future remains wildly unpredictable.

This is hard work. Uncomfortable work, even.

But with so much at stake, we can’t hide from it.

So, let’s broaden our minds and widen our perspectives. Let’s not choose between the view of the forest and that of the trees.

Each should have its place on our plans.

Let’s make those plans a reality.

Faded Glory

It was so much better back then.

This is the great lament. The pang of regret, of longing, of melancholy nostalgia that eats at many of us from time to time.

When the present seems uncertain or uncomfortable, it’s all too natural to look backward. To rewind to a moment that seems more familiar and less scary. To gaze upon the shiny glow of that moment and believe in its superiority.

But as the saying goes, All that glitters is not gold.

When I look at the world around me, I tend to take the long view.

After all, the structures around us are built to last. Highways, homes and infrastructure have been designed to stand the test of time. And the average life expectancy in the developed world is going up too.

Yes, there are notable exceptions to these standard measures. But on the whole, things seem to be designed for the long-haul. And so, I focus on how we can continue to better ourselves over an extended time period.

But even as I stare toward the horizon, I’m keenly aware of what lies 6 inches from my nose. The short-term might not be my main focus, but it still matters.

In recent times, that fact has been more evident than ever.

A dangerous virus has forced us to upend our patterns of social interaction. A recession has left millions without an income. And longstanding tensions from race relations and political divisiveness have threatened to boil over.

The sun may still be shining in America. But it’s been hard to feel the warm glow.

As I’ve watched the short-term outlook deteriorate, I’ve found myself yearning for better days. Not in the uncertain future. But in the distant past.

I’ve found myself nostalgic for the 1990s.

The 1990s. What a time it was.

I was only a kid back then, but I recall things being harmonious. There didn’t seem to be as imminent threats out there. And there didn’t appear to be as much division and despair as what’s commonplace these days.

We could just live back then. At least that’s the way I remember it.

But take a wider view, and it’s clear that my rosy memories of that era are incomplete.

For one thing, there was still plenty of division. It was just underground. The Internet as we know it was in its nascent stages. And with no social media channels or smartphones, it was all but impossible for the divisive bickering of that era to reach today’s levels of public consciousness.

For another thing, there was plenty of despair to be found. While the United States government was running a budget surplus, unemployment numbers were often still above 5 percent. Plenty of people were poor, hungry and without a path to a better tomorrow. The angst that bands like Nirvana channeled in their music those days was real.

But these facts weren’t hitting me in the face at that time. For I was in a middle-class household under the care of attentive parents. I was insulated from the darkness of those days.

Well, mostly.

My family did get the print version of the New York Times. And on my way to scanning the sports section, I would see the front page headlines.

The partisan bitterness during President Bill Clinton’s impeachment trial. Instances of racial profiling amongst the New Jersey state troopers. The horrific murder of James Byrd, who was chained to a pickup truck by racists in rural Texas and dragged for nearly three miles.

I would look at these stories in horror. But after a day or two, the routine of life would kick in — school, homework, family dinner — and I would forget all about the ugliness that lurked all around me.

There is no blissful ignorance. Not anymore.

Recent events have laid bare the disharmony of life. The gulf of distrust between us. The presence of vile hatred in pockets of society. And the inequality of opportunity.

In the past several years, we’ve been asked to part with our rooted assumptions. To change our behavior in order to promote equity and ensure safety.

We should be up for the challenge. After all, this task has been asked of us for the entirety of the millennium. Or at least since the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks.

And yet, we’d still rather escape to a rosy memory than tackle the beast in our midst.

Even as that rosy memory remains illustrative fiction.

Hindsight may be 20-20. But the benefit of clarity comes at the cost of context.

It may be easy to look back on a previous era and call it friendlier. But if we could hop in Doc Brown’s DeLorean and travel back there, the situation on the ground would look much different.

I may be look happily on the 1990s now. But truth be told, I wasn’t all that happy back then. I was saddled with anxiety and battling depression. My joyful memories help hide the acute pain I felt in that moment.

And I wasn’t alone. Plenty of people with more life experience than me were also miserable. And they yearned for an era that had passed them by. Even in the afterglow of the Iron Curtain’s collapse, many didn’t feel the present was a step forward.

This pattern has continued to perpetuate. In the social media age, people like to brand each year the Worst Year Ever. This branding stuck in 2009, when Michael Jackson died unexpectedly and a recession decimated the economy. But such a moniker also stuck in 2010, 2011, 2012, and so on.

In the fog of the moment, we are incapable of finding the right does of perspective. And that can become a major problem.

The moment now facing us is unprecedented.

It’s uncomfortable to have to abandon such hallmarks as social interaction or in-person entertainment. It’s disconcerting to think that a trip to a grocery store could ultimately kill us. And it’s excruciating to stumble through the mist with no idea when this moment will be over.

Just about no one is looking at this era with a smile on their face.

But we can do better than seeking an escape.

We can search for the silver linings. We can build for a brighter future. We can focus on our actions and mute our laments.

We can reshape our situation in a manner we can be proud of for years to come.

Nothing’s stopping us from doing this. Nothing but ourselves.

So, let’s break free of the hamster wheel.

The past might be comforting. But the present is still being written. And the future is up for grabs.

Let’s seize the moment.

Living With The Enemy

I was at my kitchen table when a heard a muffled sound.

It was that staccato of something bumping into a thin piece of metal.

As if by instinct, I turned my head to the left to investigate. My gaze shifted upward to find the area the sound was coming from.

As my eyes reached the track lighting near the ceiling, I found my culprit — a large yellow jacket.

I was instantly paralyzed with terror.

There are few things in life that I fear. Strangely enough, mud is one of those things. (That’s a story for a different time.) But wasps are certainly another.

Wasps are aggressive flying creatures. They have a painful sting. And they often set up nests in areas that people access.

As far as I’m concerned, wasps represent an impending disaster.

And so, as spring approaches each year, I am on guard. I have pest control on speed dial as I head out onto my patio. I walk gingerly as I approach blooming brush or dense wooded areas. For my nemesis could be lurking anywhere.

But this time, the enemy was inside the gates. I was trapped with a wasp, inside my own home.

What was I to do?

I sat there, motionless. Meanwhile, the wasp swan dived from the lights onto the stainless steel door of my refrigerator.

The insect was oblivious to my presence. It calmly rested on the metal.

As I watched it apprehensively, a thought came to my mind.

Leave it be.

I couldn’t believe myself. Was I really going to let something I feared take over my sanctuary like this. Had I gone mad?

But the yellow jacket was leaving me alone for the time being. I could at least try and do the same.

So, over the next hour or so, I followed through on my uneasy truce. The wasp and I co-existed in my home — it on the refrigerator door, me at my kitchen table.

But eventually, the wasp tired of its perch. It flew around the kitchen for a bit before landing on a doorframe. And at the moment its wings took flight, the fear came coursing back through my veins.

So, I spring into action.

I got a can of Raid, cornered the yellow jacket, and shot the spray at it. The wasp fell to the floor and stopped moving.

I didn’t have remorse for what I did.

After all, I’d removed all manner of pests from my home before — even the ones that didn’t fill me with terror.

But as I swept up the wasp and disposed of it, I thought of my initial instinct — the one telling me to leave it be. I considered how I had tried to conquer my demons, and to live with the enemy.

What had inspired me to make such an attempt? Was I going soft? Had I lost the will to take control over my own home?

No, I had not. Deep down inside, it seemed I know what I was doing all along.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

This is a bit of wartime wisdom, perfectly encapsulated in the film The Godfather, Part II.

Proximity to the enemy can yield abundant intelligence. And abundant intelligence can lead to effective strategy.

This is why guerilla warfare has had such a long run of success. Instead of facing off on an open field, guerillas can lurk in the midst of their enemies. They co-exist — at least until they have enough of an advantage to strike.

There is still risk in this confrontation. Casualties remain likely, if not inevitable.

But when compared to continual, open conflict, guerilla warfare can prove more effective and efficient.

And it all starts with the willingness to live with the enemy.

As I write this, we are in the midst of a crisis, as our health is threatened by a lethal virus.

It’s tempting to seek to attack this issue head-on. Or to hunker down until all the danger has passed.

But such tactics are not sustainable. For a virus cannot instantly be stamped out or indefinitely be waited out. It evolves over time.

And so, we must learn to coexist with it. To recognize that its presence might continue in the short term, even as we seek to eradicate them in the long term.

Ideally, we can avoid direct conflict with the virus through this arrangement. But some risk will still remain present.

Even so, that risk is likely far lower than it would be under less sustainable tactics.

Months after my encounter with the yellow jacket, I climbed into the back seat of an SUV.

I had dropped my vehicle off to get repaired. And now, I was getting a ride back to the shop to pick it up.

But as the SUV went into motion, I heard a rustling sound. I looked across the back seat and spotted another yellow jacket. It was exploring the window guard on the other side of the vehicle.

This was all disconcerting enough. But moments later, the wasp flew right by me and nestled on the top of my window guard.

The wasp couldn’t have been more than 10 inches away from my face, and I had no way to elude it. There was no can of Raid to save me this time.

I had no choice but to confront my fears. I would need to live with the enemy.

And so, I sat there for five whole minutes, doing my best to ignore the insect. I was projecting calm — all while quietly freaking out. Each turn in the road had me worried that the wasp would get agitated and sting me.

But it never happened. The wasp minded its own business.

By the time I got to my destination, I felt triumphant. I had committed to living with my fears. And this time, I managed to avoid breaking that commitment.

We can all make the same commitment.

The commitment not to hide from the dangers all around us. Or to charge recklessly right toward them.

But instead, the commitment to pause. To seek out a more sustainable path. And to take it.

It’s a subtle power, this power of restraint. But that doesn’t make it any less resonant.

Yes, our enemies may lie in our midst. But if we play our cards right, they can bring out the best in us.

Righteous Resonance

There’s nothing I could say.

Chances are, these five words have crossed our mind on occasion.

For no matter how outgoing or socially adept we are, there are instances where communication fails us. Where words seem wholly inadequate.

This could be at moments of great elation. It could be at times of extreme shock. Or it could be in periods of profound sorrow.

I remember being speechless in the aftermath of 9/11. I recalled the events of that day viscerally. And yet, I felt powerless to put those memories into words. It took more than a decade before I was finally able to share my story.

I don’t regret taking so long to find my voice. After all, I had been mere miles away from major tragedy — one which was unfolded during the age when I was most emotionally vulnerable. Trauma like that doesn’t just come out in the wash. It takes its time to heal.

But there have been other times where I’ve stayed quiet. Like so many others, I’ve had moments where I determined I couldn’t understand what others were dealing with. Moments where I stopped trying. Moments when I mistook absenteeism for action.

Those instances are far too frequent. And they fill me with regret.

Several times I week, I go for a run through my neighborhood before dawn. I devote my days to my profession, without fearing it will drive me to a hospital bed. And whenever I venture out of my home, the worst outcome I might face from a law enforcement officer is a speeding ticket.

These might seem like normal activities or expectations. But they’re actually signs of privilege.

I am not wealthy. But I am a man of great fortune. And while I enjoy the advantages this brings, I do so with great guilt.

For there are so many who have been dealt a brutal hand. Who have seen their lives threatened by two insidious cornerstones of our society — medical disease and racism.

These two strains poison the well of equity. For they each cast an uneven burden — one indiscriminately and another full of discrimination.

Both medical disease and racism can tear families apart. They can deny opportunities. And they can exacerbate the divides between us.

Those of us who haven’t experienced this devastation have no reference point for it. There’s no way to know how it feels to live with the weight of injustice crushing us. There’s no way to simulate what it’s like living in constant fear.

We are living in an alternative reality. The connection is lost. And with it, our empathy.

So, we delude ourselves into silence. We determine we have nothing useful to share with the afflicted, and we slowly fade into the background.

Often, we make such moves under the guise of respect. We determine that it would be improper to inject ourselves — and our privilege — into another’s suffering.

But there’s hardly anything more disrespectful than remaining quiet.

As I write this, both medical disease and racism are top of mind in our society.

They have both been present on our shores for more than 400 years. But they haven’t always captured our collective consciousness the way they have now.

For the events of recent months have been tragic.

A lethal virus has swept across America, claiming more than 100,000 lives and decimating minority populations. And a spate of incidents involving law enforcement and vigilantes has left several unarmed African-Americans dead.

The veil has been lifted on these systemic problems. And yet, those of us not directly affected by this round of devastation are falling back into old patterns.

We’re convincing ourselves that since we can’t relate, we can’t help. We’re focusing on saving face instead of saving lives.

I know these patterns because I’ve lived them.

As the virus intensified, I stayed silent — even as the reports of death poured in from coast to coasts. Then, as a spate racial violence spurred widespread protests, I kept myself muzzled.

But gradually, I came to my senses.

I checked in with my friends of color to see how they were, and how I could assist. I spoke candidly about inequity and my subtle role in perpetuating it. And I vowed to make changes in my own life that would make the lives of others that much less difficult.

All of these gestures were small. But they were far from trivial.

For instead of passively observing the problem, I was actively trying to be part of the solution. Instead of obsessing over words, I was putting my weight behind my actions.

These actions won’t bring back those who have already been lost. And on their own, they’ll do little to change the state of affairs.

After all, I am just one dot on a map. One data point out of 300 million.

But if more of those dots take the same small steps, it will build a movement. A movement that can support the more boisterous one making the headlines. A movement that can lead to a better future.

Lasting change doesn’t come from a singular voice.

Government officials, faith leaders and scientists might provide us with the tools to enact change. But it’s on us to take the ball and run with it.

Martin Luther King Jr. gave us the dream to end centuries of legalized segregation. Jonas Salk gave us the means to defeat polio.

But if the people hadn’t adopted Dr. King’s message, the Civil Rights Movement would have died in obscurity. If the people hadn’t taken Dr. Salk’s vaccine, polio would still be rampant today.

Not everyone who advocated for civil rights had to sit on the back of a city bus. Not everyone who got the polio vaccine had to watch a loved one wither away from the disease.

But they leaned in anyway. And they helped the world change for the better.

Now, as we face new challenges among familiar fronts, we should follow the path they blazed. Instead of focusing on what to say to make things better, we should focus on what we can do.

Regardless of our background, we have the chance to make a difference. Our actions can yield righteous resonance.

But all of this can only happen if we allow it to.

So, let us not be silent.

We might not have the perfect words to bridge the gap. But our actions speak volumes.

Author: Dylan Brooks