Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Being Deliberate

Speed.

It’s exhilarating. Intoxicating. Addicting.

We strive to use speed whenever we’re in action — whether we’re driving, running errands or making important choices.

We can’t help ourselves.

Time is money, as they say. And life’s too short for us to waste any of it.

So we go ever faster.

We engineer our lives to win the next sprint — whether it be a week, a day or a singular moment. We rely on technology to cut out the slack in everything from ordering food to managing our finances. And we prioritize snap decisions at every turn.

It might seem as if the sky’s the limit with this approach. As if our skyrocketing productivity can lead to skyrocketing potential.

But looks can be deceiving.

In an era where everything moves fast, few things stand the test of time.

But one movie does just that.

The movie is called 12 Angry Men. It was released back in 1957, but still remains relevant today.

Why? Because it focuses upon a time-honored American tradition — jury trials.

The concept of justice being determined by a jury of one’s peers dates back to the drafting of the United States Constitution. And each week, somewhere in America, a group of 12 people sit in a room and determine the fate of the accused.

I’ve yet to meet someone who enjoys this task. After all, the burden of consequence for the jury’s decision is profound. And these discussions generally come after grueling days of testimony.

For men and women who have sacrificed their job and family responsibilities in the name of civic duty, this decisive phase of the trial can seem excruciating.

Yet, there’s another reason a jury decision seems as pleasant as a root canal to many of those involved. It’s a reason that cuts to the crux of 12 Angry Men.

Moments like these force people to be deliberate.

Jurors must consider the facts at hand and weigh their veracity. Then, they need to come to a unanimous decision.

Quick decisions generally won’t work here. There is often too much ambiguous information to consider. Expecting 11 others to come to a consensus in less time than it takes to heat up some taquitos in the microwave is simply unrealistic.

No, jurors must take their time, hash everything out, and then make an informed decision.

Jury deliberations are great examples of what the Nobel Prize-winning economist Daniel Kahneman has coined Thinking Slow.

Although this phrasing might make it seem like slow thinkers are dim witted, this is actually not the case. They are usually quite bright.

The difference between slow thinking and fast thinking comes down to approach. Fast thinkers prioritize the speed of the decisions they make over the breadth of information considered. Slow thinkers prioritize the breadth of information over the speed of decisions.

To be sure, there are situations that call for each type of thinking. If military commanders are under fire in a war zone, for instance, they must make decisions quickly to keep their entire unit from getting killed. But when out of imminent danger, such commanders are best served considering all the possibilities before deciding whether to move forward.

There is a delicate balance — one defined by the contours of context.

This balance is critical. Yet, it seems to have shifted in recent years.

Indeed, away from the jury room, the military base or the chess table, it’s hard to find places where slow thinking is encouraged anymore.

And that is a significant problem.

I am a deliberate thinker.

I take pride in gathering all the information I can before making my move. Even if it takes me a while to take decisive action.

When I was applying to business school, I spent five days determining which school’s offer I would accept.

When my car was in the shop for an AC issue, I built a full financial model comparing the likely cost of the repair with the cost of paying off my loan and replacing the vehicle.

In both these instances — and many others — my approach has helped guide me to the right choice. Even if that choice might not have been evident at first glance.

By removing the emotional influence of initial impressions, I can make decisions that are logical. By taking the time to digest the relevant information, I can make decisions that are well-informed.

The end result is worth the extra time it takes to get there.

But in a world set up for fast thinkers and quick decisions, my mission is challenged at every turn.

Critical decisions are often thrust at me without advance warning. And supporting information is often withheld.

All of this is done in an attempt to get me to make a hasty, emotion-laden decision. The kind of decision that separates me from my wallet.

This behavior is not unexpected. Consumer purchasing power is the fuel for capitalism’s engine. So, it’s only natural that others would covet my attention, my loyalty and my money — even if they have to resort to Jedi Mind Tricks to get it.

If I were inexperienced at this fast thinking game, I’d be vulnerable. Fortunately, I have the tools to operate in it — thanks to the time I spent as a TV news producer.

But while I can navigate the treacherous waters of fast thinking, it’s not a task I enjoy.

So, I do what I can to flip the switch.

I use guile in order to make decisions my way. To give myself the opportunity to be deliberate whenever possible.

This often means considering the what ifs.

It means anticipating a repair cost before I get the estimate. It means thinking about downstream results of a potential decision, and pontificating on the new choices those results will bring me.

These types of mind games take ingenuity, an understanding of systems and a fair amount of paranoia. They require me to abandon any air of the naivete that comes with living in the moment — all so I can imagine a far more ambiguous future.

Yet, I find this sacrifice is worthwhile.

For it allows me to prepare for those fast-thinking moments. And it allows me to make the decisions that are in my best long-term interest.

We all can benefit from being deliberate.

It will make us more conscientious, more self-aware and savvier. It will allow us to broaden our time horizon when evaluating decisions. And it will allow our minds to find a greater equilibrium.

So, don’t be afraid to ease off the accelerator. To pause long enough for a deep breath. To consider all the options before making your choice.

Slower can often be better.

Reference Points

Shake it. Shake it. Shake it. Shake it like a Polaroid picture.

These are lyrics from an up-tempo hit song called Hey Ya — which was released by the Hip-Hop duo Outkast. If you’ve been to a party in recent years, this song was likely on the playlist.

The song was recorded in 2002. Which means it’s not all that old, but it’s not exactly hot off the presses either.

And while the tune remains distinctive, signs of its age are evident.

There are some lines that name-drop figures that remain relevant today (Beyonce), and others that don’t (Lucy Liu).

And then there’s that reference to Polaroid pictures. A reference that’s starting to wilt against the weight of time.

Why? Consider this.

There are many several high school students across America who weren’t even born when Hey Ya first hit the airwaves. Teenagers who don’t even know what a Polaroid picture is.

In a few short years, these high schoolers will be the young adults at the parties where Hey Ya is played. And they won’t understand what Outkast is talking about.

A musical masterpiece will fade into mediocrity. All because the perspective will have shifted.

And that, in no small way, is tragic.

Hey Ya is not the only entertainment staple to age poorly. Far from it.

Many songs feature over-the-hill cultural references. Many TV shows have dated set decorations and graphics. And many movies feature “cutting-edge” features that have become a punch line in the years after their cinematic releases.

When we encounter these works of art today, we’re ensconced by nostalgia. The memories come flooding back, and our hearts gush as we reminisce.

Yet, there’s a bittersweet side to all the warm fuzzies.

For we know that there are others who won’t ever have a chance to see the world as we once did. To truly participate in the trips down memory lane these pieces of entertainment provide us.

There’s a connection that’s missing — one that has drifted out of sight behind us. These entertainment relics and our own memories are the only bridges connecting us to them.

Sometimes that connection is more style than substance. Polaroid pictures were one a nice gimmick — glossy photos that developed in real-time — but digital photography quickly proved them obsolete.

Other times, the connection is more substantial. Payphones might seem ludicrous to anyone under the age of 25 these days, but they were once an important part of life to everyone else. In an era before everyone had a supercomputer in their pocket, payphones were critical for making plans on the go.

As time moves on and new tools emerge, these erstwhile staples of life get lost. And the cultural remnants capsize with them.

For the perspective has shifted. The new reality is all that’s relevant now.

Reference points mean everything.

Four years ago this week, I launched Words of the West with a confession. One that read I am not perfect.

That statement is as true today as it was then. But I wonder how much else from those early days is still valid.

The world has changed a lot in four years — becoming ever more complicated, divisive and cynical.

And I have grown a lot in four years — pushing my own boundaries and using my voice ever more boldly.

With all this growth and change, today’s reference points are a far cry from those of four years ago.

And while I’ve tried to make each and every one of these articles stand up to the test of time, I know that some simply cannot.

For what they refer to is dated. And their relevance has faded.

This bothers me.

I don’t want to my words to become mothballed relics. To be as irrelevant as Rand McNally atlases in the age of connected cars.

No, I want my words to remain resonant. I want my messages to help and inspire others.

That is why I’ve committed to sharing a fresh article each and every week for four straight years. And that why I plan on sharing articles for years to come.

Misplaced references represent missed opportunities for me to achieve these objectives. And while missed opportunities are inevitable in life, it doesn’t make them any more welcome.

And so, against my better judgment, I rue lost opportunities.

But should I?

There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then: a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try to talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone, and this old man is all that’s left.

This soliloquy comes from the 1994 movie The Shawshank Redemption. And even though that movie is eight years older than the song Hey Ya, this passage stands a better chance of passing the test of time.

Why is that?

It’s not because we inherently relate to the character who uttered it — Red Redding. After all, it’s unlikely that any of us have found ourselves in a parole hearing after spending 40 years in prison for murder.

No, we relate to this passage because of its mention of shifting reference points.

Red is candid about how time alone has changed him. He steadfastly admits that the man he is after four decades behind bars is not the one he was when he committed a heinous crime. But he also acknowledges there is no real link between those two moments he can traverse.

There is no silver lining. Just the cold, hard truth.

This moment resonates with me. For I see my own plight just as clearly as Red saw his.

With each day, new opportunity dawns. But old references fade further into irrelevance.

Past words lack meaning. Faded memories lack context. And old messages become as obsolete as the payphone or the Polaroid.

There is nothing I can do to stem the tide of change. I can only keep charging ahead, knowing that tomorrow will bring the promise of a bright, new reality.

Reference points are merely guideposts reminding me of where I’ve been. Reminding me of how far I’ve come.

Perhaps, in this light, the faded references from Hey Ya won’t seem so sinister. And the obsolescence of yesterday’s lessons won’t seem so stark.

Our future is bright. But our past doesn’t need to be forgotten.

So, let us not lose our reference points. They’re more useful than we might think.

The Danger of Premature Celebration

There’s an indelible image that’s lodged in my mind.

It comes from a Monday Night Football game between the Dallas Cowboys and the Philadelphia Eagles that took place several years ago.

In the second quarter of the game, the Eagles quarterback drops back and unleashes a majestic throw. The ball spirals sharply through the warm Texas night, landing in the arms of receiver DeSean Jackson as he’s running at full-stride 60 yards downfield near the goal line.

Jackson raises his arms in jubilation as he prepares for his touchdown celebration dance. He then points mockingly toward the Dallas fans and starts dancing in the end zone, just beyond the silver paint that reads COWBOYS.

It was a moment of sweet jubilation for Jackson — making a highlight-reel play on national television.

There was one problem. He didn’t have the ball.

When Jackson raised his arms, he was still two yards from the goal line. The ball popped backward out of his hand and bounded away behind him.

There was no touchdown. Just a fumble.

With all that dancing and gesturing, DeSean Jackson was only making a mockery of himself — on national television.

I’m captivated by this image. For it is the ultimate cautionary tale for our most obnoxious character flaw.

Premature celebration.

Our culture is built upon celebration.

As a capitalist society, we continually indoctrinate ourselves in the ethos of Taking what’s ours.

This ethos has had several iterations over the years.

First, pioneers and frontiersmen pushed their way west from the Atlantic to the Pacific, clearing swaths of forests and decimating native tribes to lay claim to the land.

Journalists of that era named the process Manifest Destiny — a term that whitewashed the true ugliness of what was going on. Out west, frontier life was punctuated by brutal acts of celebration.

Murderous bandits roamed the prairie, claiming ever bigger scores of gold and glory. Native tribesmen collected scalps off of their captives. And public hangings drew crowds of hundreds, even in one-horse towns.

In each case, someone was taking what was theirs, but at another’s expense. And they weren’t shy in letting the world know about it.

As the lawlessness of the west died down, a new revolution started back east. Stock and bond trading went from a side industry to the mainstream, turning Wall Street from a city street to a cultural icon.

Those who got rich in the early years of this movement weren’t afraid to flaunt their wealth. They dressed to the nines and threw extravagant parties. The era became known as The Roaring Twenties, and the roar was resonant — until the 1929 stock market crash brought an abrupt end to the party.

As America emerged from the Great Depression and the ensuing World War, the art of celebration went national for the first time. Radio and television programs made it from coast to coast, and Hollywood had more cultural influence than ever before. As new generation became infatuated with entertainment, our culture of celebration truly took root.

Now, what was once a campfire has erupted into a full-on inferno. Today, we focus less on what we accomplish and more on how we celebrate those accomplishments.

For that is how we’ll be judged. That is how we’ll be remembered.

And that, I assure you, that is what was running through the mind of DeSean Jackson when he foolishly dropped the ball two yards from glory.

Swim through the wall.

These four words sound like terrible advice — if you take them at face value.

After all, the water has plenty of give. It parts itself as we cut through it, as if beckoned by Moses’ staff.

The wall has no give. It stands as firm as the Himalayas, demanding deference.

But from a different perspective, what seems like folly is pure gold.

Yes, metaphorically, Swim through the wall means Don’t let up.

Or, more specifically: Achieve now. Celebrate later.

It’s simple advice. But that simplicity doesn’t make it any less effective.

DeSean Jackson could have used that advice on that warm Texas night all those years ago. But truth be told, we all could use that advice.

For the act of claiming victory is more foolish now than ever.

There is always more work to be done. In an era when information and collaboration travel digitally, the next challenge beckons around the corner.

Changing tastes make what’s acceptable today unacceptable tomorrow. Relentless innovation accelerates the demise of those who refuse to adapt. And the existential threat of violent extremism persists, no matter how relentlessly we beat it back.

Yet, it seems we can’t help ourselves. We can’t stop raising our arms in triumph and beating our chests, even as the goalposts for these issues drift ever further away.

Don’t believe me? Consider this.

There was a time when entertainers like R. Kelly, Bill Cosby, Michael Jackson and Kevin Spacey were the toast of the town. We talked about their brilliance and their talent — and turned the other way as they abused the power of their celebrity.

There was a time when quarterly earnings from Sears and Kodak drew news coverage. We made the Sears catalog a staple of our holiday shopping lists and planned around Kodak Moments — dismissing the notion that such references would ever be obsolete.

And there was a time we spoke of the end of segregation, the end of toxic radicalism, and the end of hate — conveniently forgetting that such troublesome ideas are like a Hydra, and don’t just die with the body they’re housed in.

Over and over we’ve declared victory too early. And in each case, the collateral damage was massive.

We should know better than this. We should recognize that life can rarely be placed into neat little boxes, each topped with a bow.

No, life is a messy, unpredictable journey. A constant parade of experiences and challenges to claw our way through. An abundant set of opportunities for us to pick ourselves up and reach for something greater.

We’re better off embracing that climb, and the inevitable change that comes with it. We’re better off preparing for what’s ahead than celebrating what’s imminent.

So, let’s not make a mockery of ourselves. Let’s not get egg on our face.

Timing is everything. Best to get it right.

On Mortality

I ain’t here for a long time. I’m here for a good time.

Those words are from a song recorded by King of Country himself — George Strait.

Strait’s up-tempo, Western swing tune, taps into the cliché Live like there’s no tomorrow. That cliché, of course, is more well-worn than the country star’s signature Stetson.

We’re all in on being in the moment. On living life to the fullest.

But what about the other side of that phrase? What if there really were no tomorrow?

This is a more troubling proposition for us. So much so that we try not to consider it.

Yet, we’re doing ourselves no favors by acting in this manner.

I’ve thought plenty about life over the years. And I’ve shared a lot of those thoughts right here.

But I’ve also thought a great deal about death.

I was less than 10 miles away from the World Trade Center on September 11^th, 2001. The horrors of that day served as a stark reminder that nothing can be taken for granted.

I have tried to make the most out of my life ever since that fateful day. To broaden my impact and not leave my cards on the table.

Still, no matter my approach, I recognize that everything could be over in an instant. One wrong step and I could be gone. One Act of God could be the end of me.

It’s admittedly a bit strange going through life fully transparent on Boogeyman lurking over my shoulder. But I don’t want to delude myself into a false sense of security.

For there is no such thing as total security. As I get older — and my body starts to betray me — I get ever more convinced of that fact.

Yes, safety is a fairy tale. It’s the story we tell ourselves so we can sleep soundly at night.

The sooner we recognize that, the better.

Not too long ago, a tragic incident in Dallas made national news.

An off-duty police officer returned her apartment building. She opened the door to what she thought was her apartment and found a man inside. She fired her service weapon at that man, thinking he was an intruder.

It turns out that the officer had parked on the wrong floor of the building’s embedded garage. She was not, in fact, in her apartment when she pulled her weapon. The man she shot was her upstairs neighbor. And that gunshot killed him in his own apartment.

There are no silver linings in the story. An innocent man is dead, and the erstwhile public servant who shot him has been convicted of murder and sentenced to 10 years in prison.

Stories like these are why I got out of the broadcast news industry years ago. I felt sick covering the most tragic acts of humanity.

Still as a fellow Dallas-area citizen, I do feel the need to reflect on this particular tragedy.

The now ex-police officer who fired the fatal shot is my age. She made the worst kind of mistake — one that cost an innocent man his life.

And the young man whose life she ended? He was an accountant with PwC, a devoted member of his church and an aspiring leader in the Dallas community. He was a better man than I. A better person than most.

His life was cut short because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But in this case, the wrong place was his own apartment.

I can only imagine how confused and terrified he must have been in his final moments. One minute, he’s sitting on the couch, eating ice cream and watching TV. The next, a stranger is in his apartment, firing a gun at him.

We can try and imagine how we might have reacted in that position. But the end result likely wouldn’t have been any different for us than it was for him.

A few years ago, I was standing in my kitchen slicing a bell pepper when I saw a man scaling my balcony railing and climbing onto my patio.

He was a maintenance worker who was giving the inside of the railing a fresh coat of paint. I had gotten an email alerting me to his presence, and I noticed ladders and workers all around the building when I came home from work an hour or so earlier. So, I should have been prepared for him.

Yet, even with that prior knowledge in hand, I was terrified for a moment when I first saw him.

As he pulled out his paint brush and waved at me, my fear subsided. I went back to slicing the bell pepper.

Still, my mind was racing.

What if that had been an intruder? What would I have done?

I probably would have attacked with the kitchen knife, I concluded. But how well would that strategy have worked?

I’m not trained in hand-to-hand combat, or on using a kitchen knife for any other purpose than slicing food. If an intruder had any skills in these areas, I’d likely be bleeding out on the carpet within seconds.

Yes, even if I mentally prepared for the worst-case scenario — by brandishing my kitchen knife like Crocodile Dundee and obsessively scanning the doors and windows for burglars — there’s no guarantee I would survive a home invasion.

And if I was caught off-guard in that situation? Heaven help me.

What do I mean by all this? Well, that young accountant who was sitting on his couch after a long day at work? He never had a chance.

He had done everything right in life. But from the minute his door opened and an armed person walked in, he was doomed.

Safety is an illusion.

What does all this mean, in the grand scheme of things?

Everything. And nothing.

There are no patterns we can use to fully protect us from death. There’s nothing we can do to guarantee we will wake up tomorrow.

The timeline of our future is largely out of our control.

It is this vast abyss of the unknown that makes death so scary.

After all, death will be the terminal destination for all of our journeys. Yet, we are in no way equipped to reach that destination.

Every fiber of our being seeks to resist the inevitability of death. Our brains process pain signals from other parts of the body to shield us from lethal hazards. Our hearts pump blood throughout our bodies, keeping us lucid. Our lungs bring in fresh oxygen to fuel these functions.

Death runs counter to all of these processes. It’s fundamentally against our nature.

This is why the will to live is so strong. It’s why we fight, struggle and hang on for dear life when we feel imperiled.

Yet eventually, death will claim us all.

And the sooner we accept this fundamental fact, the better.

I don’t want to think that tomorrow could be my last day. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

But I know that it’s a possibility.

Coming to terms with all of this is oddly freeing.

It provides me a point of reference, as far as worst case scenarios go. And that allows me to shake off those instances when things don’t go as planned.

When my sense of security — emotional, financial or physical — gets knocked down a peg, I don’t despair. For I know, in the grand scheme of things, even my roughest days aren’t so bad.

The worst case scenario hasn’t hit me yet.

It’s not my place to preach as gospel the best way to approach the subject of death.

Fate doesn’t deal all of us the same hand. We are unique, each with our own set of fears and circumstances to navigate.

Yet, I do think there is a benefit to recognizing the presence of our mortality. And to make our decisions accordingly.

If we cease the search for non-existent guarantees — if we stop letting fear of the unknown paralyze us — our uncertain future suddenly becomes much brighter. Our impact on our community becomes that much greater. And the weight on our shoulders becomes that much lighter.

A life well-lived is one not wasted.

The destination might be ambiguous. But that should not keep us from enjoying the ride.

On Process

Brick by brick.

Those three words carry the weight of a metric ton.

We use them to describe the methodical nature of creating something big. To convey the importance of building on a solid foundation.

Most of all, we use them to talk about process.

Process is not the sexiest of words. It doesn’t have the sizzle or pizzazz to turn heads.

But process is not a word to be taken lightly. For it keeps the world turning.

When I was 6 years old, I went with my family to see the latest blockbuster Disney movie.

Its name: The Lion King.

The movie had everything a Disney production is renowned for.

I remember being captivated by the illustrations of the African savannahs, ensconced by the musical score and captivated by the storytelling.

But most of all, I remember one concept from the film: The Circle of Life.

That concept, of course, was immortalized by an Elton John song. But it was also part of the movie’s dialogue.

Early in the film, the great lion Mufasa warns his young son Simba — the movie’s hero — to understand the balance of the world around him and respect all creatures. Mufasa reminds Simba that even though lions feast on antelope in life, they themselves will eventually die and become part of the grass the antelope eat.

This cyclical pattern is not without precedent. Shakespeare featured it in many of his plays. And it manifested itself in history with the rise and fall of the Roman Empire.

Still, it was The Lion King that really drove the concept home for me.

I have been process-oriented ever since I left the theater that day. In fact, process has become part of my life’s mantra: Accept the challenge. Embrace the process.

Process has taught me the value of patience. It’s shown me the power of persistence. And it’s unveiled for me the majesty of the bigger picture.

Life-changing takeaways from a Disney movie, indeed.

I firmly believe the Lion King was the seminal movie of my generation.

Proof abounds to support this assertion.

The Lion King was the highest grossing Disney animated movie of the 1990s. Many of my peers have named their pets Simba, Nala, Mufasa and Sarabi. And friends and acquaintances have lifted up small animals or infants skyward with both hands, as Rafiki does to the newborn Simba at the start of the film.

Yes, the movie is a cultural staple — more than a quarter century after its release.

But I’m not sure if the Circle of Life metaphor carries that same level of gravitas.

Things move faster these days. And with that increased speed comes an acceleration of instant gratification.

Instant gratification would have been as far-fetched a term in the 1990s as smartphone. More of a pipe dream than imminent reality.

The world simply didn’t work that way back then.

When The Lion King was first released, people traveled to movie theaters to see it. Families waited in long lines at the box office and strode across floors sticky with spilled soda in order to claim the best seats.

After the theatrical release was complete, the film would disappear for a few months. Then, it would appear on store shelves as a VHS tape. You know — the physical cassettes you had to rewind once the credits stopped rolling.

Those videotapes would sell like hotcakes. For consumers knew that once the VHS release period was over, Disney would put the film into the mystical Disney vault — thereby blocking direct access to it for years.

Looking back, this was an incredibly inconvenient process. Still, there were few alternatives. The Internet was nascent and Disney had full control over distribution.

Families had to clear these hurdles to ensure they had on-demand access to the film.

Today, the barriers are largely gone. Disney still has distribution rights to The Lion King, but the entertainment giant has re-released it as a live action movie and a Broadway musical. And the company is on the verge of launching a streaming service that is sure to bring The Lion King to household TV screens worldwide at the click of a button.

The sticky movie theater floors? The rewinding of the videotape? Both are relics of the past.

For a nominal price, instant gratification can save the day.

My generation has soaked up this phenomenon outside of the Disneyverse as well. My peers have become obsessed with push-button solutions to their every beck and call.

Technology providers are more than happy to fill this void with streaming entertainment and smartphone apps for everything from food delivery to online dating.

Yet, even with the world at our fingertips, process doesn’t disappear.

The Earth still turns at the same speed, and our lives still follow the same familiar cycle.

It’s simply our patience for the big picture that has waned.

The instant gratification revolution has made our lives better in many ways.

It’s made shopping less of a drag and enabled our entertainment channels to travel with us. It’s allowed us to stay informed at every turn, and it’s freed up more time for us to be productive.

Yet, instant gratification is not a panacea.

There are plenty of areas where the slow hands of progress reign supreme — by design.

These include fitness and our relationships. But they also include the workplace.

I’ve heard of plenty of young adults these days entering the workforce with outsized demands. They want the keys to the castle from Day One, with all the bells and whistles.

Amazingly, in a historically tight labor market, many of these aspiring career launchers get much of what they ask for off the bat. But after a few months, the shine wears off.

These young employees get frustrated or bored and jump ship for another opportunity. The company fills the position with a new twentysomething, and the cycle perpetuates.

I don’t fault the young adults or the employers for this pattern. Both parties are adapting with the times in a society where the market climate dictates the terms of play.

However, I do take issue with the lack of regard for process in our working lives.

When I graduated college, I moved halfway across the country to take a challenging job as a TV news producer. My salary was less than those of the cashiers at the local Walmart, and my work schedule had me on-duty until 11 PM each night.

Yet, despite these obstacles, I came to work energized and determined each day.

I knew that I was young and inexperienced in the working world. And I understood that improvement would take time and consistent effort.

So, I focused on being better at my job each day than I was the day before. I embraced the process.

By the time I left television, I was far better as a producer than I was the day I started.

I’ve replicated this pattern in my digital marketing career, in my business school studies and in my volunteer leadership work. Even in environments focused heavily on the here and now, I’ve taken the long view in my approach. I’ve committed myself to the process.

This approach hasn’t always given me instant gratification. My increases in position and salary have been sporadic and modest.

But what it has given me is opportunity. An opportunity to look myself in the mirror each day with full knowledge that I’m building toward something greater.

This is what being process-oriented is all about. And, in my humble opinion, this is what careers should be all about as well.

So, in these fast-moving, on-demand times, don’t forget to consider the greater picture.

Take a step back to recognize the subtle beauty of process.

For if our lives are what we make of them, we can do better than endlessly pursuing hacks and short cuts. We’re better off building our future.

Gradually. Methodically.

Brick by brick.

The Evolution of Beats

Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you’re in my head? Cause I know that it’s delicate.

Isn’t it? Isn’t it? Isn’t it?

These are some lyrics from a Taylor Swift song called Delicate.

As you see them, you might experience any range of emotions — from delight to disgust and anything in between. Like any musician, Taylor Swift is a polarizing figure.

But when I see these lyrics, there’s only one thing in my head.

The pounding drumbeat that serves as a baseline for the entire song.

It’s hard to put a drumbeat into words, but my best approximation would be as follows.

BOOM. Ba da ba. BOOM. Ba da ba.

The drumbeat is persistent enough to be annoying, yet not overpowering enough to be a nuisance.

Over the course of the four-minute song, you could even get used to it. Like the hum of a clothes dryer or the whoosh of cars on a nearby highway, it might sink into the background after a while.

That might work for you. But not for me.

Each time I hear that song, that beat takes over. And much like an Eskimo in the middle of the Arizona desert, I get the feeling that it’s out of place.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved listening to music.

My first memory was sitting in the back of my parents’ station wagon, listening to You Can’t Always Get What You Want from the Rolling Stones.

I must have been a year old, or even less. I know I was young because I remember thinking the song was about hot air balloons. (Perhaps because of the heavenly choir solo at the start of it.)

As I grew older, my tastes evolved. Soon, I was listening to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Then the Gin Blossoms and the Goo Goo Dolls. Then Hip-Hop and rap.

And eventually, I turned my attention to Reggaetón.

I was in high school at this time. I had just gotten my driver’s license, and I was taking any opportunity I could to get behind the wheel. The radio was my soundtrack for these expeditions.

Unfortunately for me, the Emo trend was in full swing at this point. So, the alt-rock stations I’d grown up listening to were serving up a never-ending buffet of whiny music by bands with names like My Chemical Romance, New Found Glory and Plain White T’s.

That was the last thing I wanted to listen to. So, I flipped over to the Spanish language station — which was starting to feature Reggaetón.

I was immediately drawn to the underlying drumbeat.

BOOM. Ba da ba. BOOM. Ba da ba.

The Reggaetón artists would rap over the beat in barely intelligible Spanish. I was taking Spanish classes in school, but that didn’t help me understand the lyrics one bit. There was too much slang, and too many of the words were slurred.

Still, it didn’t matter. The beat had me hooked. And that was all I needed.

I listened to Reggaetón incessantly for a year or two. Then, I stumbled upon some translations of the lyrics to some of the hit songs.

I recoiled in horror.

That slurred, slang-filled Spanish I was hearing in these songs? It was full of offensive and misogynistic references. I would even go so far as to say some of these lyrics graphically described sexual assault.

I’d had enough.

I deleted the Reggaetón from my music collection and said goodbye to that distinctive and addictive beat.

Or so I thought.

When I first heard Delicate, I was perplexed. What was Taylor Swift doing with the Reggaetón beats I’d listened to nearly more than a decade earlier?

It didn’t seem to fit.

Here was Taylor Swift — singer-songwriter turned country star turned pop icon — mixing some Caribbean beats into her latest hit. But not just any island drumline.

No, one of the most powerful women in music was appropriating the same beat artists once used to denigrate women.

It was absurd.

What was it that attracted Ms. Swift to this beat, anyway? When it was first making the rounds, she was just cutting her teeth in Nashville. She most likely wasn’t listening to the same music I was back then.

No, the return of the Reggaetón beat had to be part of a larger trend.

And indeed, it was.

By the time Delicate hit the airwaves, the fervor from two other songs was just starting to die down. One was a Katy Perry song called Chained to the Rhythm. Another was a Luis Fonsi song called Despacito.

Those two songs had little in common — one was a disco-pop hit in English and the other a Latin pop hit in Spanish. But both of them were wildly popular at the same time. And both of them had elements of that Reggaetón beat mixed in.

Taylor Swift simply took the beat and laid it under her entire song.

It was the next step in an evolution.

As times change, so do tastes.

There was once a time when people used the word Swell to express approval for something desirable. Eventually, that term was replaced by words like Rad, Far Out and Off The Chain. As I write this, terms like Lit and Woke are in vogue.

This is no accident.

As our society is based upon freedom and self-expression, culture is destined to be a moving target. Trends are perpetually shifting, as we seek to explore new avenues at every turn.

Yet, we are still rooted in our sense of community. Even in the most divisive of times, our cultural experience is meant to be shared.

Family matters. Friends matter. Traditions matter.

The pace of change cannot outstrip these constants.

So, our shifting trends and cultural norms take a cyclical pattern. High fashion from the 1990s sees a revival three decades later. Young adults flee the inner city en masse, only to return in force a generation later. And a drumbeat used in some trashy Reggaetón songs one decade becomes the backbone of a pop hit in the next decade.

Looking from this vantage point, the drumbeat from Delicate seems less jarring. Its presence is simply a reminder that culture evolves, and our perceptions can shift over time as well.

It’s important to keep an open mind. To be aware of the constants of change, and to embrace them wholeheartedly — no matter how vulnerable that makes us feel.

For someday, it might not be a hit song that surprises us with its evolution. It might be something even more impactful.

It’s in our best interest to be prepared.

Shell Games

The roadside sign caught my eye as I drove past.

New homes starting in the $300s.

Could it be? Brand new houses that cost less than an airline ticket?

No, of course not.

The 300 on the sign stood for $300,000. A princely sum, but hardly outrageous for real estate.

Still, as the sign got smaller in my rearview mirror, only one thought came to mind.

Wow, that’s a lot of money.

You see, I’m a numbers guy. But I’m also a pragmatist.

When I mowed the lawn growing up, my parents would give me $10. I knew that money could get me two McDonalds quarter pounders.

It was tangible. An hour sweating in the sun with the push mower equaled two tasty burgers.

Years later, with much larger paydays in my present and McDonalds in my past, I can still visualize where my income is going.

Bills and rent are less savory than burgers, but visualization is no less effective.

But $300,000? That’s not tangible. That’s Monopoly money.

I wondered if others reading that roadside sign felt the way I did. I wondered if the sheer volume of money in play blew their mind.

If they did, the sentiment surely didn’t last long.

There are new homes popping up everywhere these days. I see them on my morning run, on my drive to work and on my way to the grocery store.

These homes all hit the market with six figure price tags. Price tags that start with a 300 or a 400. But that doesn’t stop people from scooping them up in a flash.

In many respects, these homeowners are like me.

They work for a living. They have credit cards. They drive Fords and Chevys.

Yet, they have done what I have not. They’ve suspended their disbelief and taken the plunge. They’ve signed on the dotted line for a bank loan that they’ll spend 30 years paying off. All for access to a shiny new property on their own plot of land.

Monopoly money indeed.

The housing market is the most tangible example of a phenomenon that’s taken over our society.

A phenomenon I like to call shell games.

For anyone not familiar with the term, it comes from carnival lore. A midway proprietor would put a ball under one of three hats (the “shells”), and then rotate them around in a dizzying array.

When the motion stopped, carnival goers would try and guess which hat was hiding the ball. Invariably, their guess would be wrong.

Slight of hand is key to an effective shell game. All the movement and misdirection disconnects players from what’s tangible.

That’s why so many participants guess wrong, allowing the proprietor to line their pockets with ease.

The same goes for the housing market and similar types of investments. The illusion is so great, we often lose track of what’s real.

For years, Americans of modest means have been able to sign paperwork granting them keys to a property worth more than their current assets.

It’s like they’re playing poker and telling the world they’re bluffing.

Yet, unlike the carnival game, they still win in the end.

The banking system facilitates this victory, of course. Mortgages give banks some skin in the game, locking homeowners into decades of monthly payments.

By the time that last payment is made, the game is over. The full price has been paid, and the claim to homeownership is completely tangible.

But how often does that scenario actually play out?

It’s hard to find many people under the who’ve lived in a home for 30 years these days. My parents got close — reaching the 26 year mark — before selling theirs.

No, homes are treated like trading chips these days. In the age of Fixer Upper, people are buying houses in hopes of flipping them for profit. Even at the point of purchase, they’re thinking of the impending sale.

That sale could come in five years or ten. Either way, there’s little chance that the homeowner will have actually paid in full by the time they turn the keys over to someone new.

Instead, that homeowner is using the sale as an exit strategy. They’re divesting of their remaining financial obligations, and using the proceeds of the sale to invest in a new property.

It’s a shell game nested inside another shell game, much like a Russian doll.

What’s tangible is insignificant. Numbers on a scoreboard are all that matter.

I don’t own my home. Even as many of my friends become homeowners, I’m happy to maintain the lease on my apartment.

Sometimes, my friends tacitly protest my choice. They tell me that I’m burning equity by delaying homeownership. They remind me that I’m paying a premium for a space I can’t truly call my own.

They have a point. Homeownership has its perks — including the ability to enjoy some peace and quiet. (I know, I’m a grumpy old man at heart.)

But the leasing life has its benefits too — a dedicated maintenance staff and an on-site gym and swimming pool.

Still, all these factors are secondary in my decision.

The biggest reason I remain a renter is that I still haven’t gotten over my aversion to the shell game phenomenon.

Like many, I lived through the Great Recession. And the scars run deep.

I was in college in 2008 Lehman Brothers went under and the government bailed out Wall Street. My friends and I were renting a house off-campus back then. But suddenly, we started seeing foreclosure notices in the mail, addressed to our landlord. We got uneasy.

The landlord told us not to worry, but we weren’t taking any chances. We broke the lease and moved to a new rental home a couple of miles away.

At first, I thought the foreclosure notices we saw that fall were just an exercise in corporate greed. That the banks were treating some college kids’ lives as collateral damage in their never-ending quest to extract more money from homeowners.

Yet, it wasn’t long before I became aware of the growing calamity. The housing bubble had burst and the financial markets had crashed. Foreclosure notices and widespread layoffs were simply a sign of the times.

While we’ve all moved on from those days, the lessons remain vivid as ever. My biggest takeaway from the recession is that dealing in shell games is playing with fire.

So, I don’t.

My investment profile is conservative. I don’t trade stocks. And I still hesitate to take the plunge into homeownership.

Someday, that will change. But only when I have more to offer than my good name or a promissory note.

Is this the best tact to take? Perhaps not.

After all, shell games have solidified their place in our society. And they’ve helped form the modern economy.

Sooner or later, they are inevitable.

Even so, I believe it’s important to grasp on to what’s tangible. To avoid getting too big for our britches, if we can help it.

For practicality helps us keep our promises. It promotes a culture of fairness. It engenders trust and goodwill.

These attributes are far more important than a bigger house, a fancier car or a more robust portfolio. They pay far greater dividends, no matter the state of the market.

So, deal in shell games if you must. But proceed wisely.

What We Can’t Forget

As the car pulled away, I looked out the passenger side window.

There they were, my grandmother and grandfather waving from inside the screen door of their house in Queens, New York.

The memory feels like yesterday, but it was so much longer ago than that.

It has to be.

I’ve been in Texas for nearly a decade, and my grandfather was crippled by a stroke less than two years after I moved west. He spent most of his time sitting on the sofa when I went to visit him in the years following the stroke.

After he passed, my grandmother sold the house and moved into an apartment in Manhattan with my parents. Less than two years later, she too was gone.

Memories are all that remain. But the details are ever more in doubt.

As I get older, I have no way of knowing for sure if my memories are accurate.

Did everything really happen the way I remember it? Was what I recall seeing, hearing and sensing real, or was it just a mirage?

When I think of that image of my grandparents waving goodbye from their front foyer, I’m not sure if I’m digging up a memory from 10 years ago or if my mind is playing tricks on me.

After all, my grandmother waved goodbye at us from that same spot each time we left the home, up until she sold it. My memories could be conflated.

There’s no way for me to know for sure.

Never Forget.

Those two words are imprinted in my mind forever.

I’m sharing this article 18 years after the darkest day of my life: September 11, 2001.

I’ve shared my memories of that day and its aftermath on Words of the West before. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.

Sharing my memories of that day has helped me heal. It’s brought me a sense of peace I had thought I’d never find again.

Yet, even as I move forward, the memories of that day continue to haunt me. As is the case with any traumatic stress event, I’m sure I will remain affected for the rest of my life.

Those haunting memories spike on September 11^th each year. Not only do I know what the calendar reads, but all the old images and video clips resurface across the Internet, social media and mainstream media.

It’s like a refresher course, recalibrating my memories of the worst day of my life.

You could say I was one of the lucky ones. I was six miles uptown from the carnage at the World Trade Center. There are no Associated Press photos of me walking across the Brooklyn Bridge with the sky behind me looking like a war zone. There are no videos of me watching in horror as the twin towers crumbled.

Yet, I have my own memories to deal with. Of eerily quiet Manhattan streets. Of heavily armed National Guardsmen at a toll bridge, telling us Go, go, get out of here! Of thinking that at any moment, my life might be taken from me.

Those all come bubbling up, each time the calendar turns to September 11^th.

I don’t want to forget.

Good or bad — it doesn’t matter. I want to remember.

I pride myself on what I can recall. On how I use that past experience to make prudent decisions.

Memory is important to me because it impacts all three of the foundational pillars of my life.

Be Present. Be Informed. Be Better.

So, I fight doggedly against the fog of amnesia. I don’t drink alcohol. I get a good night’s sleep. I keep my brain active as often as I can.

And I hang on to my memories. Even the memory that has left me forever broken.

It’s difficult. Gut-wrenchingly difficult. But I fight through the pain.

I pay attention to the remembrances on September 11^th. And each year, when I visit New York, I go to the 9/11 Memorial and pray for the victims.

Yet, the more time passes, and the more I subject myself to this kind of masochism, the more doubt creeps into my mind.

The year 2001 was more than half my life ago. I was a young teenager — a kid — on the day my life changed forever. And now, there are now legal adults who have only known a post 9/11 world.

These facts serve as a stark reminder that 18 years is a long time, and even the most traumatic memories can get distorted over that period.

I don’t know if my memories of that day are still accurate, or if they’ve faded a bit.

I want them to be accurate. I don’t want to be accused of embellishing anything from a day we are told — rightfully — to Never Forget.

But there’s no way I can know for sure how much of what I remember is accurate.

When the towers fell, I was in school — a school I left 8 months later. When I got home, my family watched Aaron Brown’s reports on the tragedy on CNN. But my parents and sister were too shell-shocked to keep watching the marathon coverage. So, I spent much of the event in front of the TV alone.

The only part of the day that was easily verifiable was the treacherous trip home. My father was with me that whole time. He recalls what I do.

The rest of the day — what I said, what I did, what I thought — I experienced alone. Those words, actions and emotions have been an important part of my life for nearly two decades. But now, more and more, I can’t tell which of them are real.

Perhaps it’s meant to be this way.

Perhaps our memories are meant to degrade when exposed to the cruel hands of time.

After all, our bodies betray us as we age. It’s only logical that our minds would follow the same path to irrelevance.

Even so, a fuzzy memory is not a welcome sight in our society.

In a world where cameras are always rolling, there is no room for error. The proof is there, in pictures and video. And we’re getting fact-checked all the time.

We don’t forget the events of 9/11 because we can’t forget. There are dozens of documentaries showing footage of the planes flying into the Twin Towers. Of the cloud of debris cascading down the cavernous streets of Lower Manhattan.

The evidence is overwhelming. But is that what really matters?

When I come across these iconic images, I’m almost numb to them. Sure, my pulse quickens and my face turns flushed, but that’s to be expected.

It’s my recollections of that fateful day that get me emotional.

The paralyzing sensation of fear. The realization that I might not survive. And the understanding that if I did, my life would be forever changed.

That is what brings tears to my eyes. That is what brings me to my knees.

And regardless how much my recollections of the details might fade, that is what I will never, ever forget.

Therein lies the truth of the matter.

Memories are not about logic. They’re not about timestamping the images in our mind and cross-checking them for rogue filters.

No, memories are about emotion instead.

That image of my grandparents waving goodbye is poignant because they are now gone. Regardless of the details, that memory is a bridge connecting me with two of the most beloved figures in my life.

And those recollections I have of the darkest day of my life are poignant as well. They might induce nightmares, but they also remind me not to take life for granted.

We all have memories that are intertwined with our emotions. Even if we didn’t live through the horrors of New York City on September 11, 2001.

Let us cherish these memories, rather than interrogate them.

For that connection to our heart and our soul — that is something we can’t afford to lose.

May we never forget.

The Systems Thinking Advantage

How do you look at the world?

It depends on your perspective.

Some might focus on the unpredictability therein. On the surprise occurrences — good and bad — that can either make our day or ruin it.

The temptation here is all too often to find a pattern in the random noise. To turn to a higher power — be it faith or superstition — to explain it. Or else, to turn to pessimism and declare that managing life’s volatility is a fool’s errand.

Others might focus on the constants. On the rising and setting of the sun. Or the feeling of fresh air in our lungs.

This view is fixed at the macro level. It’s far too tempting to ignore the ups and downs altogether — even if some of them can be quite significant. And it’s far too easy to check out from everyday life.

In reality, both of these ways of looking at the world — divergent as they may seem — share a common issue.

Both seek to place responsibility on a single entity for the adventures we encounter.

Whether we’re screaming at the driver who ran the red light and almost T-boned our car, or we’re thanking God for the beautiful weather, we’re placing all blame or praise in one place.

It’s just us and them. Nothing in between.

We act as if we have a ledger, and we’re making sure everyone knows the score.

But there’s no way that everyone knows the score. Because each person has their own scorebook.

The experiences we face are unique. Each of us faces our own reality each and every day.

And when our realities collide with those of others — literally or metaphorically — standing around and pointing fingers does no one any good. On the contrary, this only serves to sow divisiveness and mistrust — the dual viruses that happen to be plaguing our society more than ever these days.

So, when we find ourselves in this position, what should we do?

We should take a step back. And we should look at the underlying architecture.

Awhile back, I took a professional assessment. A questionnaire that looks at how someone thinks, and how that thought process jibes with their personality archetype.

Many of the results of the assessment didn’t surprise me all that much. But one floored me.

There, on the summary page were four words: Thinks like an engineer.

I looked at those words and laughed.

I fancied myself the furthest thing from an engineer. I despised math growing up, and I gave up on science before I could even get to physics.

I seemed to be missing all the ingredients needed to be a halfway-competent engineer, let alone a savant.

Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I realized this proclamation wasn’t about the craft of engineering at all.

It was about adherence to systems.

Engineers adopt systems thinking. They distill a volatile environment into a more manageable series of systems. Then, they design solutions that meet the specifications and constraints of each system.

This is the secret to engineering success. And engineering success has transformed our world.

While there have been some notable engineering gaffes over the years, they’re dwarfed by the number of successful projects and designs. One need only drive on an interstate highway, cross a bridge over the Mississippi or ascend a Chicago high-rise to see the brilliance of engineering.

Systems thinking has worked its magic, time and again.

Yet, systems thinking is not only an engineering phenomenon. It can also be used to deal with political drama and understand the makeup of entire industries.

The more we consider the landscape of the environment we’re probing, and the more methodically we can chart our moves, the more successful we’ll be. That’s how the systems thinking theory goes.

I believe in this theory, and have practiced it for years. I just didn’t realize it until I took that assessment.

What does systems thinking look like in day-to-day life?

It can vary, depending on the situation.

But in general, it requires taking a look at the underlying structure of whatever we’re facing, and seeing how this structure could have caused the scenarios you encountered.

As an example, let’s take a look at the workplace. If you’re like millions of other gainfully employed citizens, you might spend a few of your hard-earned wages at Happy Hour with your colleagues or friends.

And what do you do at Happy Hour? You complain about work!

You make a big fuss about how you’re overworked, underappreciated and underpaid. About how much your 9 to 5 life stinks, and how much those in charge are leading to your misery.

I know this pattern, because I once lived it.

When we feel underappreciated at work, it’s easy to blame our boss — either tacitly or at impromptu Happy Hours. It’s basically an American pastime at this point.

Yet, our boss likely has a boss. As such, they might be dealing with similar issues and frustration from up in the ranks.

In fact, even if your boss is the owner or the CEO, they still have people or standards to answer to. These might be customers, investors or the company legacy itself.

Yes, a business is a massive system. A system with many moving parts that must remain synchronized to see sustained success.

Understanding the dynamics of this system can help you assess the situation you face and rationalize actions or decisions.

Perhaps your boss is not actively working to snub you. Perhaps they’re dealing with a full plate themselves. Or perhaps they trust you enough not to micromanage you.

And perhaps, with everything functioning the way it should, the issue you face is not as significant as you’re making it. If you’re contributing to the mission, being compensated fairly for your efforts and not at risk of being shown the door, you’re in a good spot. Visceral approval from your boss is more icing on the cake than a fundamental need.

Better not to make a mountain of a molehill.

Did you notice what happened there? By applying systems thinking, we diffused the situation. Instead of our grievance being a budding confrontation between ourselves and our supervisors — an Us vs. Them scenario — it became a systems problem. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t much of a problem at all.

This type of collectivist thinking can help in many other situations too. When we understand the system, it’s much easier to recognize that we’re all in this together. We’re less likely to have an urge to spar — unless we’re confronted by someone who’s truly acting selfish or malicious.

So, let’s change our perspective. Let’s stop looking to pin blame or praise in one place. Let’s take the time to look at the underlying architecture instead.

Systems thinking works. Let’s see how it can work for us.

The Dunning-Kruger Reality

One of my favorite psychological concepts is the Dunning-Kruger effect.

This effect — named for the psychologists who discovered it — explains a common cognitive bias.

In particular, it describes the gap between how we think we perform at a task and how we actually perform at that task.

The Dunning-Kruger effect proclaims that those who are the most confident in their performance are, in fact, all too often overconfident.

For example, if someone is convinced they crushed an exam, there’s a pretty good chance they got a B instead. And if someone thinks they’re the best at the task they do, there’s a good chance they’re actually solidly above average.

This effect is more pronounced in men than in women. And since it’s a metacognition error, the person affected has no way of recognizing the predicament they’re in.

To borrow some old-school Hip-Hop lingo, those afflicted by the Dunning-Kruger effect are acting a fool, with no ability to check themselves before they wreck themselves.

There are many reasons to be intrigued by the Dunning-Kruger effect.

For one thing, it can serve as karmic justice who talk a big game yet fail to deliver. For another, it can provide scientific backing to the Schadenfreude we feel when those with the biggest egos get knocked down a few pegs by reality.

Most of all, can make us seem slightly less cruel when calling out people for their misplaced hubris. After all, saying You Dumbass is subjective. Saying You made an error in judgment that any of us could have also made is objective.

Yet, this is not what intrigues me about the Dunning-Kruger effect. For I see this effect as more than just a vehicle for derision.

I see it as an explanation of where we are as a society today.

If you’ve been paying attention to the news in recent years, you’ve likely noticed two themes.

Powerful men in media and entertainment have seen a reckoning, as the women they’ve exploited have held them to account. And powerful men in politics have acted more brazen and boisterous than ever, with seemingly no one in place to hold them to account.

It’s a strange dichotomy. One group of powerful men falling, and another group seemingly becoming infallible.

Yet, while these men are on opposing career trajectories, they have one thing in common: A large group of detractors.

The detractors despise these men. For who they are, what they’ve done and what they’re still doing. As such, they haven’t been shy in voicing their displeasure.

Yet, when these detractors describe their sworn enemies, they all too often use E words.

Entitled. Egotistical. Evil.

I think these detractors are off track. The word I think more accurately describes the powerful men in question starts with an O.

Overconfident.

I believe these men are mired deep in the quicksand of Dunning-Kruger effect. So deep that they’ve become delusional.

The ingredients are all in place for this explanation.

These men were raised in the early generations of Bro Culture. Many of the transgressions of their youth were often dismissed with the phrase Boys will be boys.

As they grew up, success seemed to follow them anywhere they went. Whether through talent or connections, they were able to make it to the next level with relative ease. Fame and fortune followed.

The result was predictably toxic.

A group of men who never learned boundaries with an outsized sense of confidence and too much power. The Dunning-Kruger effect on the biggest of stages.

The transgressions and blunders that followed were, sadly, predictable. Whenever that much unchecked overconfidence is in place, delusion sets in, and collateral damage piles up.

Tragically, that collateral damage has ruined many women’s lives and jolted international diplomacy and trade. It’s led to an era marked by mistrust, anger and polarization.

The world as we know it is getting sucked into the maelstrom. All because of a destructive condition we can’t control.

Or can we?

I am a terrible dancer.

I know it. I believe it. And I’m not shy in admitting it.

Whenever I’m at a party, I make it abundantly clear that I’m not going to be dancing.

I do this for self-preservation. It’s not just that I can’t bust a move. I’m literally afraid to try and do so.

Yet, as the night goes on and my friends get a few drinks in, they inevitably drag me onto the dance floor.

And each time, something interesting happens. I find out I’m not as bad at dancing as I thought I was.

I’m no Patrick Swayze or Bruno Mars, of course. But I can hold my own.

This revelation represents the other side of the Dunning-Kruger effect.

In Dunning and Kruger’s initial studies, they not only found a large group of people who were overconfident in their performance on a given task, but they also found several people who underestimated their abilities on the same task.

There are several explanations for this. On a basic level, people exhibiting this behavior might have experienced failure before, along with the dreaded sensation of FUD (Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt). These feelings, on their own, can raise apprehension and lower confidence.

But when you factor in all the overconfident people out there — the very ones who are exposed as frauds by the Dunning-Kruger effect — things get interesting.

Could it be that the underconfident people equate confidence with ability? That they see the people with the biggest bravado and exclaim There’s no way I’m at that level?

It could be so. And indeed it is.

Underconfident people often battle something called Imposter Syndrome. Even when they see visceral success, they often believe they are not truly qualified for the task, and it’s only a matter of time until they’re found out.

I myself frequently battle Imposter Syndrome — in my job, in my social life, and even occasionally when writing these articles.

It’s a crippling phenomenon. One only exacerbated by the Dunning-Kruger effect.

Someone battling Imposter Syndrome is likely to see an overconfident person as a standard bearer for achievement. While the actual gap in performance between the two might be small or nonexistent, the underconfident person will feel as if they just don’t measure up.

This thinking is problematic in our culture. Our society favors boldness and self-belief; Imposter Syndrome is all too often viewed as a self-created roadblock to realizing our own potential — one that must be eradicated at all costs.

Yet, given what we now know about Dunning-Kruger effect, I wonder if that’s the right tact to pursue.

If boldness makes us delusional and causes a trail of collateral damage that polarizes our society, is it really the best ideal to strive for?

Perhaps it would be better to let that FUD slip into our lives. To put ourselves in position to fail now and then so that we know where the guardrails lie. To estimate our abilities off our own experience, rather than the flawed self-assessments of others.

If we can do all that, then perhaps someday Dunning-Kruger effect wouldn’t be the catastrophe-maker it currently is. It could become a quaint psychological term to describe the select few who resist their better angels. The few who would still insist on talking the talk without walking the walk.

The rest of us would be grounded in reality. The reality of life in its rawest, purest form.

I’d sign up for a future like that. Would you?

Author: Dylan Brooks