Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

The Art of Being Real

What objective are you striving for?

Is it to find greatness? To maximize fulfillment? To attain balance?

These are popular goals to shoot for in life. But my answer to this question is a lot less glamourous.

I strive to be real.

Each and every day, I seek to stay grounded by a singularity of purpose.

I tend not to sugarcoat things, or put on airs.

Instead, I say what I mean. And I do what I say.

The premise is simple. If people know what to expect of me, they can count on me to deliver.

The congruency of my words and actions builds trust. That trust speaks volumes. But it also keeps me on my toes.

For being real is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Once one gains a reputation of reliability, one is expected to maintain it.

Others expect me to be true to my word. And staying true to my word means staying true to myself.

This cycle keeps me grounded in reality. At least in theory.

In actuality, my sense of reality is different than just about anyone else’s. It’s inherently biased by my perceptions of my own experiences.

This contradiction is present everywhere I go, and on everything I touch. It’s perhaps most prominent on this website — Words of the West.

When I started this site, I labeled it as a forum where I would share my truth. Yet, that truth often belies the brand I’ve built.

The words I share here are not particularly western. These articles are not Cowboy Poetry, or the words you might find read at a Chuckwagon Roundup. In fact, many of them draw from my experience growing up along the East Coast of the US.

So, what gives? Why would I — someone who values being real — create a brand laced with inconsistency?

The answer has to do with aspiration. Words of the West is as much about the reality I seek to live into in the future than it is about the one I embrace today.

Let’s dive deeper into that statement.

In my view, there are three components of being real.

One component entails understanding your origin. It requires full awareness of where you came from, and how that shaped who you are today.

A second component entails understanding your surroundings. It requires awareness of the intricate web of context in the world around you, and how your actions will be perceived.

A third concept entails understanding your future. It requires the awareness that your reality today might differ from your reality tomorrow.

Unless we find ourselves running from a traumatic childhood, we can often reconcile with the first component. By the time we reach adulthood, we tend to understand how our origin impacted our perspective.

Yet, we often trip ourselves up on the second component. If we have a poor sense of self, we might spring ourselves into action without first considering the contextual consequences.

The words we say and things we do in these moments are impulsive. They lack a central underlying theme.

As such, we find ourselves with such unwanted labels as fake and two-faced.

A commitment to consistency can change this narrative. Aligning actions and words to a common line of thinking can help us build the social capital we need to be considered genuine and true.

This seems like the goal to shoot for. But we can, and should, go much farther.

For our reality will continue to evolve. And the more we can see around the bend, the better we’ll be able to stay on course through these changes.

This is what I’m seeking to do with Words of the West.

In my case, my origins are back east. My present reality is located physically in Texas and holistically within the context of modern American culture. And my aspirational reality — the reality I seek to achieve — that is what I write about each week.

Much like the west, the reality I aspire toward appears simple but is filled with hidden nuance. Its possibilities are wide open, yet its path is guided by a sense of morality. It tells its own story — one that appears grandiose but it never too big for its britches.

It’s the reality I dream of. But not the one that I’m ready to live into quite yet.

That awareness is what inspires me.

It motivates me to keep sharing my voice here. And it reminds me to stay true to the standards I’ve set for myself each and every day.

These objectives might not be glamorous. But they’re real.

And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

The Unknown Paradox

Give me a chance, and I’ll make it worth your while.

There’s a good chance we’re familiar with this line.

After all, opportunities are critical components of life. And earning opportunities requires us to cede some control.

If we’re not born into royalty or extreme wealth, our destiny isn’t handed to us on a silver platter.

Sure, our parents and our advocates in the community will put us in position to succeed — if we’re lucky. Yet, the keys to the most impactful opportunities in our lives often lie in the hands of others.

They require a leap of faith by someone newer to our narrative. Someone weighing the balance of hitching their success to ours — often without a longstanding connection with us preceding their decision.

When we ask someone out, when we pursue college or graduate school, when we apply for a job — we’re putting the fate of life changing decisions in the hands of someone new. We’re providing our flight plan to a distant acquaintance and praying that we’ll be cleared for takeoff.

Many times, we’ll get approval. Other times, we’ll be rebuffed.

Either way, our fate is not fully in our hands. We need a leap of faith to open the gate to the next adventure.

There is no such thing as the Self-Made Man. If we’re working for the man, we need an advocate who offers the employment agreement. If we’re trying to be the man — and working for ourselves — we won’t get far without the faith of consumers in our business.

After all, it’s hard to pay the bills when there’s no money coming in.

And if we’re looking for the love of our life? Well, it’s best if the person we seek finds the same quality in us. Otherwise, happily ever after for one might be a living nightmare for another.

Yes, our destiny relies on others to give us a chance. Even when familiarity is lacking.

Getting past this hurdle requires both bravado and humility. We must make the case that we’re worth choosing. We must also reconcile with the fact that we might not be chosen.

I believe this process makes us better.

I, for one, don’t believe I’d be the man I am today if the world simply rolled out the red carpet for me.

At each twist and turn of my journey, there was someone who gave me a chance.

The decision to give me a shot could not have been easy for these individuals. It was a choice peppered with risk.

But these brave men and women pushed forward anyway. They provided me the chance to go to college and graduate school. They gave me an income and a foothold in two disparate careers.

I would, quite literally, not be where I am right now if even one of those opportunities had not been granted to me.

I’m continually grateful for the chances I’ve been given. For those who put their faith in me when it wasn’t necessarily the logical decision to make. It’s something I will not forget.

Yet, while I believe this Leap of Faith system generally works — as I’ve seen it work in my own life — I’ve come to recognize it has a significant blind spot.

I call it The Unknown Paradox.

The Unknown Paradox shows up when someone seeks a 180 degree turn in their life trajectory. When they seek to jump in the deep end of the pool to reboot their narrative.

It shows up when the playboy bachelor decides to settle down and get serious. Or when the Wall Street hotshot aspires to leave the hedge fund behind to become a chef.

These changes are the fodder our favorite literature and movies are made of. They’re the embodiment of freedom of destiny. They’re encapsulations of the American dream.

Yet, in practice, they’re often an exercise in futility.

For the leap of faith needed to continue the metamorphosis is all too often lacking. No one is willing to give the person a chance to prove themselves.

The career-shifter, the reformed person — they’re too much of an unknown.

They’re a potato fresh out of the oven. Too hot to touch.

I experienced this firsthand when I left the news media.

While working in the news, I had seen several colleagues transition from journalists to corporate communications and media relations roles. So, as I prepared to make a career shift, I pursued these jobs doggedly.

I set my sights on Dallas, which had far more companies with open job positions than the cities in West Texas did. I applied to a couple of positions each day, before heading to the TV station for my shift.

At first, I scored a few phone interviews. But the interviewers seemed to consider me more of an anomaly than a legitimate candidate.

Soon, the interview opportunities dried up. Then, my apartment lease ran out, and I ended up relocating to an extended stay hotel in Fort Worth without a job lined up.

Over the next three months, I proceeded to burn up my savings and max out my credit card as I searched for that elusive opportunity. The situation got so dire that I was applying for Administrative Assistant jobs when I finally landed a full-time job.

That job was in digital marketing — something I had less experience with than the communication roles I’d been applying for. Yet, my former boss saw fit to offer me an opportunity back then, and I ran with it.

I’ve since evolved into an experienced marketer, and I continue to work at growing my knowledge of the craft.

But even though my story ended favorably, I can’t shake the memories of my difficult career transition. In particular, a question from those harrowing days continues to haunt me.

Why were so many so afraid to give me a shot?

Was I expected to be a prisoner to my resume? Was my career path anchored by my college major? Did my decision to switch roles paint me as unmotivated or unreliable?

It’s impossible to know for sure. But based off of what I experienced, I’d have to believe the answer was Yes. Or at least Maybe.

And many others stuck in The Unknown Paradox would likely say the same.

This is both ironic and problematic.

Our eligibility for opportunities should not rest on our initial choice of career path. We make those decisions when we’re teenagers — lacking in maturity, adult experience and real-world decision making expertise.

We rarely get it right the first time. Often, it’s because of that wayward experience that we gain the skills needed to get it right the second time.

Yet, gaining that second opportunity is exceedingly difficult when we’re banished to the penalty box for being off the mark with our initial career choice.

This confounding Catch-22 is bad enough. But The Unknown Paradox also sends the message that grit and initiative have little real-world value.

It’s a message that’s as confounding as it is demoralizing.

Those seeking the opportunity to make a change are likely the most motivated to bust tail if given a chance to begin anew. Freezing them out is shortsighted and counterproductive.

And, of course, this all taps into another conundrum: Gatekeepers demanding experience from opportunity-seekers without providing the opportunity to obtain said experience.

Add it all up, and the Unknown Paradox closes doors to more opportunities than risks. It’s a net negative.

It’s time to end this wasteful cycle.

It’s time to stop demanding tried and true. And to embrace energized and new in its place.

For the current system isn’t working the way we intended.

The safe bets, the reliable choices — they can end up far from extraordinary. Those great skillsets and track records can all too often disintegrate into a pool of apathy.

And the more we hitch ourselves to this decision-making model, the further our society is pulled into the quicksand of lethargy.

We need a boost. A shock to our collective system to drag us away from the abyss.

This jolt lies within those who have the courage to change. With those who have the guts to put themselves out there and risk everything for a more fulfilling future.

The people who do this might not have the proven attributes we’re looking for on paper. But they have initiative, grit and heart.

These are attributes that can’t be taught. But they can be invaluable to have on our side.

They’re worth opening a door to. They’re worth braving the fog of the unknown to find.

It’s about time we did so.

Bridging the Gap

Differences.

They’re a constant in life.

The way we experience daily life differs from the way others do. What’s matters to us might not be of concern to them, and vice versa.

This gap is as wide between Denver and Dakar is it is between South Central LA and Beverly Hills. And it can be as present amongst our neighbors as it is amongst those further afield.

The freedom some of us might take for granted is far from certain for others. And we are blissfully unaware of the fear others face taking on what might seem to us to be mundane tasks.

These experiential differences often exacerbate divisions between corners of our society. They can provoke radical movements, some of which can turn ugly and violent. And they can serve as a barrier to unifying solutions.

This final effect is perhaps most concerning. For while our society increasingly values productive collaboration over The Self Made Man these days, it’s hard to work together without common understanding. And it’s hard to find common understanding without knowledge of differing perspectives.

To bridge this gap, the prevailing wisdom is to take a walk in someone else’s shoes. To live as others would live. To see the world from their eyes.

This is what Baba Amte did in India. A lawyer by trade, Amte encountered a leper on the side of the road one rainy night. Amte ran away in horror, but later returned and comforted the dying leper. Then he created a lepers’ colony and moved his young family to it — even though none of them had leprosy.

This is also what Daryl Davis did right here in America. Davis, a black blues musician, met with Ku Klux Klan leaders and attended their rallies. He took these actions so that he could understand the perspective of Klan leaders — even if some of those perspectives shook him to his core.

(Thank you to Mark Manson for sharing Davis’ story in a recent article.)

Of course, not all of us have the commitment or courage to do what Amte and Davis did. Indeed, it was quite dangerous — possibly even reckless — for these men to do what they did.

But we don’t necessarily have to walk in another’s shoes to understand a new perspective. Sometimes all we need to do is take a run in our own.

At the start of a sweltering summer day, I prepared for my pre-dawn run.

These early morning jaunts through my neighborhood have become a staple of my workout routine in recent years. During the stifling Texas summers, they’re a borderline necessity. When the sun rises, so does the risk of heatstroke if you’re exerting yourself.

Yet, this time as I set out, I did something peculiar. I left home without a shirt.

The previous time I had gone running, I found myself sweating through my shirt. Even with temperatures at their lowest point of the day, and the sun well beyond the eastern horizon, the midsummer night air wasn’t exactly refreshing.

So this time, I decided to run shirtless. What can it hurt? I asked myself. It’s dark out anyway.

I made it to the halfway point of my run, and made the turn for home. But moments later, a pickup truck traveling in my direction slowed down and started pacing me.

As I turned my head to the left to see what was going on, the driver rolled down the window closest to me. He hollered Keep it up. Then the truck sped off.

This incident completely freaked me out. And the last mile of my run that morning seemed to take forever.

By the time I got back home, I resolved not to run without a shirt again. I’ve stayed true to my edict, and I’ve yet to encounter any incidents like that again.

What was it about this incident that left me so badly unhinged?

Well, for one thing, I did not appreciate the unwanted attention I received. If a woman on the sidewalk had hollered the same thing to me this male pickup truck driver did, I would have been just as freaked out.

I was not seeking to get noticed that morning — or anytime I go running.

Sure, I might wave to passing runners. But otherwise, I’m in my own realm. I abhor being recognized, unless I’m in the path of a passing vehicle.

But there was something more that bothered me.

As I replayed this odd situation over and over in my mind, I kept asking myself the same questions.

What if this pickup driver had a gun? What if he had ill intentions he was hell-bent on acting upon?

These are odd prospects to consider. But so is a pickup truck pacing a runner on a road before dawn.

This is exactly the type of scenario that can lead to a drive-by shooting, or an abduction. And while there was no rational reason for those fates to befall me that morning, immoral actions are all too often irrational.

As I thought of these prospects of foul-play, I recognized just how vulnerable I was in that moment. I had hardly any recourse to protect myself. And that realization was terrifying.

Yet, as unnerving as my running incident was, I realized it would have been even worse for others.

For I am a white man. The chances of bad fates befalling me are relatively low.

Sure, I could end up in the wrong place at the right time. There’s always a chance I might get robbed, or get injured in a car accident. If I drank alcohol or hung around bars more, I would also increase my chances of something bad happening.

But by and large, I can go through my day carefree.

If I were black, Hispanic, Arabic, Asian, or Indian — well, sadly, I wouldn’t be able to say the same. If I was running without a shirt and happened to be one of these ethnicities, I would likely have been on high alert from the word Go. If noticed a pickup truck pacing me, my first instinct might have been dread, not confusion. The tension I would feel would be instant and palpable.

And if I were a woman of any ethnicity in this scenario — in a sports bra or fully-attired — the terror meter would be up to 11. There have been enough stories of women being abducted during early morning runs that many have abandoned the practice entirely.

In fact, the thought of venturing out alone at night alone — for any purpose — can terrify some women. There have been too many nefarious stories to make even a few steps under the stars seem prudent without a can of pepper spray or a firearm.

I’ve encountered this trepidation firsthand. When I worked evenings as a news producer in West Texas, some of our female reporters occasionally asked me to walk out of the building with them at the end of my shift. This made them feel safer then venturing into the parking lot alone.

I always obliged — not because I knew their fear firsthand, but because I empathized with the fact that it existed.

I still can’t say I know the fear women, or men of other ethnicities, face in these instances. But the more I think about my running incident, the more I recognize how paralyzing it must be.

And the more I want to do what I can to eradicate it.

Bridging the gap in our perspectives and experience doesn’t require the drastic odysseys of Baba Amte or Daryl Davis. It doesn’t require getting yourself into scenarios that unveil our vulnerabilities, as I did.

It only requires two things: Understanding and action.

We must be able to understand that what seems mundane to us might be terrifying to others. Even when we cannot internalize the fear ourselves, we must be aware of its presence.

And with this knowledge in mind, we must act to protect those who face these terrors.

We’d be well-served to believe women who come forward as victims of abuse. We’d be well-served to hold police when they put the lives of unarmed minorities in danger.

When walking down on the street, we’d be well-served to look upon those who look different than us with friendliness, not scorn. We’d be well-served not to stare at women based on the contours of their bodies or the dearth of their attire.

We won’t always get it right, of course. Incidents between police and citizens can be complicated, and sometimes unarmed minorities might not be innocent bystanders. Some women who come forward with accusations might have an axe to grind, instead of a true story of victimization. Some of the people we encounter on the street do indeed have nefarious thoughts on their minds.

But these edge cases are not, by themselves, significant enough for us to burn all bridges of understanding. They’re not prevalent enough for us to sever all hope of a more united, connected tomorrow.

The truth remains: There are plenty of people with innocent souls who must contend with paralyzing fear, day-in, day-out — simply because of the rotten way the world treats them for how they look.

Our collective assumption biases shatter innocence, sow division and provoke tragedy. It’s a poison pill for progress.

Yet, there is another way. We have the power to change our perspectives, and reshape the future.

We must do so.

Plasticity

How malleable are you?

It’s an important question.

It implies that flexibility is paramount. That shifting our perceptions can be advisable.

Depending on the context, this may indeed be true.

Surely, we’re expected to know more toward the end of our lives than we are at the start. After all, we’re not born with the capability to chew solid food or lift up our heads. We don’t start school knowing how to solve algebra problems or structure prepositional phrases.

We must be able to adapt as we grow, so that we can add these abilities to our tool chest.

Whether ingrained through nature or through such imposed structures as the school system, we’re compelled to get from Point A to Point B. To transform ourselves from drooling babies to fully-functioning adolescents.

Yet, once we turn 18, the compulsory rigor is up. We’ve long ago willed ourselves to walk, talk and get dressed. We’ve gone through the ringer of 12 years of schooling. And we’ve finally stepped out from the shadow of our parents and guardians when it comes to ownership of decisions.

We’ve come to the end of the line. Any future opportunities to expand our minds are on us.

It’s a strange time for this demarcation. Although our bodies are nearly fully developed, our minds are not.

In many ways, we are at our most vulnerable. Our brash egos hide the overwhelming fear that lies within us.

We know nothing about responsibility from an adult perspective. How could we? We’ve spent our entire lives to date with a protective blanket bolstering our evolution.

So, we overcompensate by emboldening ourselves. We drive fast, act dumb and chase lust over love. We make the mistakes befitting of our immaturity.

Then, eventually, we see the error of our ways. And step by step, we change.

We settle down. We mellow out. And we take a broader, more mature perspective.

Or, at least some us do.

Indeed, this is where the issue of malleability comes in to the picture.

Theoretically, those who are malleable will have the courage and the humility to make the changes needed to act more responsibly over time. The others will stick to their adolescent principles, remaining irresponsible and short-sighted over the long haul.

There’s a clear imperative. Embrace malleability, or else.

Yet, there is such a thing as being too malleable. Of not having any principles to stand behind.

This too can present a problem. For in the pursuit of such overwhelming change, we risk losing our identity entirely. And in doing so, we risk losing ourselves.

As such, I prefer to consider adaptability by a different name — plasticity.

Plasticity implies maintaining a solid core, yet adapting our exterior to meet our surroundings. It means expanding our capabilities without sacrificing our personality. It means staying true to our principles in a way that betters those around us.

I find this delineation critically important. For it holds true in my own experience.

Like many, I was not ready for prime-time when I turned 18. Sure I felt like I was mature enough at the time, but I was only deluding myself. I had no idea how to act properly, from a social, psychological or financial perspective.

A recent visit to my college campus made this abundantly clear. As I walked the brick paths, memories came flooding back. All followed by the refrain I was so young and stupid back then.

How did I get from that point to where I am today? Slowly and methodically.

As I trekked through early adulthood, I came across new experiences and inherited new responsibilities. I had to adapt to meet these new expectations, handling each scenario in a context-specific way.

My core essence remained the same. But my outward presentation varied depending on the situation.

Sometimes, I equipped myself properly to handle the new scenario I faced. Other times, I fell on my face.

Either way, I gained experience and perspective. And this helped me act more conscientiously and responsibly as my adulthood progressed.

There’s no doubt in my mind that plasticity is the concept that best describes my evolution over the past several years. I haven’t so much grown as diversified.

And I believe plasticity applies on a wider context as well.

It explains the theory of having one self, rather than being our best self. We can adapt our mindset to unlock achievement, happiness and fulfillment. Yet, we don’t need to sacrifice our core essence to reach these results.

It explains the theory of selfless action. We can make our principles our tools, yet let our plasticity guide our endowment of those tools to help others ahead of ourselves.

And it explains the theory of growth mindset. We can allow our minds to expand, and new perspectives to factor into our decisions. All while remaining true to our personality.

Ultimately, that’s what life’s about. Being adaptable to the rise and fall of the tides, but having the backbone to stand tall in unrelenting winds.

Plasticity makes this all possible. We’d be best served to embrace it.

Unselfish

There’s a poignant moment from my childhood that still resonates with me.

It comes from the early 1990s. I was 5 years old at the time.

My family had returned from our first extended vacation — several weeks camping up and down the coast of Maine. My aunt and uncle were over at our home to hear the stories of our travels and look at the pictures we took.

(Yes, it’s hard to imagine now. But in a time before smartphones and social media, these types of social engagements were commonplace.)

It was a beautiful late summer day, so we soon found ourselves in the backyard. We had a new wooden playset that had been installed earlier that year, and I hopped on the single swing anchored to one end of it.

For the next several minutes I laughed exuberantly as the swing went forward and backward. I felt the breeze as I went back and forth, our home getting closer and then drifting further away.

Soon enough, my sister — who was 2 at the time — asked if she could ride on the swing. I said no; I was having too much fun to give it up.

“Now, Dylan,” my uncle said. “Don’t be selfish. How about you give your sister a turn after 10 more turns of the swing?”

I agreed, and he gave the swing a push. Suddenly, I was flying back and forth, the swing taking a much wider track on its pendulum motion. I could feel the wind under my knees, and my jubilation was reinvigorated.

Now, there was no way I was getting off the swing.

Sure enough, after the 10 back and forth turns of the swing were up, my sister asked to ride the swing again.

Actually, it might have been after 15 turns — she had not yet mastered the art of counting.

But either way, when she asked, I once again refused to give her a turn.

My uncle was disgusted. He walked away from the swing set, exclaiming “That was mean, Dylan. You’re being selfish.”

And being the 5 year old brat I was, I responded by repeating the word selfish over and over. It’s as if I treated the term as a badge of honor.

After a few moments, I noticed that my aunt, my parents and my sister had left the playset area too. I was being abandoned for my bad behavior.

I hopped off the swing and went to join them, acting as if nothing had happened. Yet, my uncle continued to admonish me for being stubborn and selfish. He insisted I apologize to my sister for not sharing the swing set.

After a few moments, I did apologize. And that was the end of the incident.

The rift was closed, and we moved on with the afternoon.

Why, then, am I writing about this story more than a quarter century later?

Because that one moment forever changed my approach to life.

Selflessness is one of my most prominent qualities these days.

I make this claim not from a place of aspiration or ego. I base it instead off what others have said about me.

And while I’m not preoccupied with what others think of me, I will admit it’s humbling to see one of my core values being recognized.

In my career, my business school studies and my volunteer work, I’ve striven to put others first whenever possible. I might not be shipping off to remote villages in Africa to fix world hunger, but I also don’t spend every waking second looking out for #1.

My philosophy is simple: Help others succeed, and we all benefit.

As I’ve pointed out on Words of the West before, I don’t view the world as Zero Sum. The joy and success of those I care about reinvigorates me and brings me happiness in turn. Putting myself second to help them attain these results benefits everyone.

I did not always think this way. The swing set story makes that fact self-evident.

Yet, I can point to that incident as my spark for this movement. It was the moment I learned the true power and importance of selflessness.

Growing up, I idolized my uncle. I still do today.

My uncle is a renowned surgeon and researcher. His work has helped save the lives of many cancer-stricken patients. His commitment to training and teaching will help a new generation of surgeons and researchers save countless more lives.

These are accomplishments I will forever admire him for.

But back when I young, I admired my uncle for other reasons. He was in medical school back then, and he and my aunt didn’t have any kids of their own at the time. So, whenever we’d visit them — or they visited us — my uncle would spend a lot of time with me. It was an attention-seeking kid’s dream.

My uncle was even-keeled. He was cool and collected, not exuberant. Even so, he was fun to be around.

The last thing I wanted to do was let him down.

Yet, that summer afternoon on the swing set, that’s exactly what I did.

That was one of only two times I remember my uncle being visibly disappointed in me. (The other was when I stepped on a sharp shell at the beach as a teenager and blurted out a certain four-letter word.)

It stung.

I remember asking my parents what selfish meant that evening. And why that word upset my uncle so much.

It was then that my parents taught me about the importance of sharing. To be sure, they had told me about this several times before. But this was the first time it really sank in.

And from that day forth, I started to change.

I didn’t suddenly turn into a beacon of selflessness — I only was 5 years old, after all. But any time I did something self-serving and got called out for it, I would hear a voice in my mind. It was my uncle, saying “You’re being selfish.”

Step by step, year by year, I progressed toward my present-day mantra. I gradually came to see the value of helping others succeed, and I came to espouse it.

The funny thing? Even after transforming my outlook and reorienting my life, my uncle’s words from all those years ago still guide me.

Because truth be told, I still slip up a lot. There are plenty of times I find myself on the precipice of wholly self-serving decisions.

Whether the result of fatigue, multitasking or a lapse in judgement, I often find myself preparing to take an action that benefits me disproportionately at the expense of others.

Yet, when I’m on the brink of making a selfish mistake, my uncle’s words are there to save me.

You’re being selfish. Don’t be selfish.

They force me to pause and reevaluate. They encourage me to make a better decision. And for that I am thankful.

Yes, my uncle is a great man. He’s saved many lives, and the work he’s done will save many more. And in the smallest of ways, his timely words have helped to save mine.

I believe we can all benefit be being more selfless. I believe there’s an inherent advantage to putting others first and helping our communities thrive.

It’s less glamourous than pampering ourselves and basking in self-adulation. It flies in the face of the me-first zeitgeist sweeping across mass media and social media.

Yet, it builds stronger bonds with the people around us. It provides us the catharsis of making a tangible, positive difference. And most of all, it’s just the natural thing for us to do.

We’re meant to work for a cause bigger than ourselves. To build connections with the world around us and work toward a common goal.

Like the buffalo on the Plains from days gone by, there is strength in numbers. But this collective strength is only realized we take our ego out of the question and strive for a goal bigger than ourselves.

We might not be there yet. We might be the kid who refuses to give up the swing, as I once was.

But we can change. We can work at it, day by day. We can transform ourselves to meet an ideal truly worth our aspirations.

Let’s get to it.

The Common Code

I consider myself a communication enthusiast.

This might seem intuitive, given my background. My bachelor’s degree is in communications. I spent nearly three years as a TV news producer. I’ve shared my thoughts for years on Words of the West.

Yet, my passion for communication goes far deeper.

I am fascinated by languages. I learned Spanish in school, and I do my best to stay proficient in it. I also enjoy listening to languages I don’t speak — Italian, French, German, Japanese, Chinese — and picking up on the different patterns between tongues.

I enjoy web coding. I’ve become ensconced with HTML, CSS and JavaScript. The ability to change the look and feel of an online asset with a set of keystrokes is as fascinating as it is terrifying.

And I enjoy numbers. I consider the ability to solve problems and make predictions using a universal ruleset to be eye opening. And the impact these actions have had on our understanding of the world continues to inspire me.

Language. Web code. Numbers.

These seem to be a diverging diaspora at first. A set of interests that stray further and further from my passion for the written word.

And yet, I feel they are intrinsically linked.

You see, I view all of these disciplines as communication subsets. While each subset has its own context, they share a common purpose.

Language, web coding and numbers all serve as information transfer protocols. They all represent actions that lead to intended responses.

One can speak numbers just as well as one can speak with prose. And the impact of sharing this information can be just as profound.

Yet, these talents are not universal. We don’t have the innate ability to understand language, code websites or solve algebra problems.

Such abilities must be learned. We must put in hours upon hours of practice to gain proficiency.

This is no easy task. It’s rife with false starts, growing pains and frustration.

But when we attain mastery, we enter an exclusive club. We gain the ability to share information with others who are just as proficient. And we can use these powers to connect, collaborate and achieve.

This is the holy grail of communication.

It’s the backbone of human development. The neural network that drives innovation. The key to unlock that which has long been beyond our comprehension.

Communication, in all its forms, is essential to success. Albert Einstein couldn’t have shared the theory of relativity without the vehicle of math. Google and Amazon couldn’t have changed the way we search and shop without a code standard in place.

Yes, it can be frustrating that the protocols are scattered. That Portuguese is incompatible with Korean. That HTML code is different than algebraic expressions.

But those divisions can be a blessing in disguise.

They allow for context-specific innovation. Innovation that is first incubated within a particular culture or area of expertise. Innovation that can only be shared outside of these circles with those who make the effort to learn the underlying protocols.

I believe this arrangement allows for greater diversity of thought. I believe it provides for a wider expansion of ideas than would be possible if everything was under one unifying code.

And for the intellectually curious, this arrangement ignites the passion to keep exploring. To learn, grow and discover.

These benefits overshadow the inconveniences of the communication diaspora. They underline both a common truth, and a call to action.

Communication, in all its contexts, is worth understanding.

Let’s expand our horizons.

Don’t Be Stupid

One of my favorite stories my father tells is of the time he first met his future father-in-law — my grandfather.

This took place in my mother’s childhood home in Queens, New York. The home was under the flightpath of LaGuardia Airport, and whenever my father heard a plane overhead, he would duck instinctively.

My grandparents and mother stared at him like he was from Mars each time this happened. Years of roaring jet engines overhead had numbed them to the sound of low flying planes.

Once my father adjusted to the engine noise, the conversation began in earnest. My grandfather — a longtime New York City Public School math teacher — asked my father what he planned on doing for a living.

My father, who was finishing up college at the time, said he hoped to work in advertising.

“That sounds alright,” said my grandfather. “But you should really think about teaching instead.”

He then listed off the benefits of the profession — steady pay, long summer vacations, union protection, and so on.

Eventually, the conversation moved to a new subject. But the exchange left an impression on my father. He would later say this was the first time he experienced my grandfather’s ethos:

You can do what you want and be stupid. Or you do it my way.

Even though this story happened before my time, I enjoy hearing it each time it’s told. I enjoyed telling it again just now.

It’s hard not to chuckle at the thought of my father ducking every few minutes as an airplane flew overhead. Or to smile when imagining my grandfather effectively saying Don’t be stupid… in a thick New York accent.

Sure, my grandfather didn’t say those exact words. But the message was very New York — blunt, edgy and filled with tough love.

Yet, the story also gives me pause — for several reasons.

For one thing, my father did eventually become a teacher. After working in advertising for 8 years, he grew to loathe the profession. So, he got a Master’s Degree and rebooted his career as an elementary school teacher. Fast forward 25 years, and he’s still teaching — although he’s “graduated” to middle school now. My grandfather’s words proved prophetic.

But more than anything, it’s the moral of the story that gets me. That heavy-handed message of Do the smart thing. Don’t be stupid.

It’s a message that fits symbiotically with its source.

My grandfather was a great man. But he was also a stubborn man who could be overly simplistic. His perspective on life was shaped by his experience living through the Great Depression, a world war and two heart attacks. However, that perspective often led to a My way or the highway approach to differing viewpoints.

It’s a bit cavalier to classify people in this way. And calling people who take a differing viewpoint stupid is downright reckless.

Yet, my grandfather was a man of principle. He was a man who stopped watching baseball for 40 years after his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers betrayed him by moving to Los Angeles. He was a man who made his own repairs in his home, rather than paying a professional to fix the issues that sprang up.

He knew his way worked. He saw it. He lived it. He believed in it.

So, in his view, the other way must have been stupid.

My grandfather had a major influence on my life. I idolized him. I’ve written about him before, and I’m sure I will again.

Yet, in the years since my grandfather’s passing, I’ve come to recognize I’m more and more like him. I have a similar wit, a similar love of storytelling, a similar frugality when it comes to money. And I even have some similar mannerisms.

What I don’t have is a penchant for calling people stupid when they take actions I wouldn’t.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Not long ago, I was driving down the road in a suburb of Dallas. Traffic was relatively light, and I was making good time when a car slowly turned from a side street into my lane, just ahead of me.

I slowed down to adjust to the newfound obstacle in front of me. But to my dismay, the driver never sped up. I tried to pass the car, but a stream of cars, trucks and SUVs in the adjacent lane blocked my path.

So, there I was, suddenly going 10 miles under the speed limit in the left lane, stuck behind a snail. At the rate I was going, I would hit every stoplight on the way to my destination.

My commute had gone from a breeze to a chore. I was less than enthused.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The car in front of me wasn’t just going slowly. Its driver seemed to be brake checking me intermittently. I found myself slamming on the brakes at random times to avoid a collision, even though there was no traffic in front of my new vehicular nemesis.

My displeasure turned to exasperation. Was this driver texting? Were they lost? And why couldn’t they pull off the road to sort themselves out?

Finally, the driver signaled to turn. But instead of gliding into the turn lane, the driver slowed down to a near stop, while still in the left lane.

I lost it.

Behind my fortress of sheet metal and glass, I screamed You are such an idiot. Why don’t you stop being stupid and learn how to drive!

That’s when it hit me.

I call people stupid when they do something I don’t agree with. Just like my grandfather once did.

To be clear, many of us would be agitated if we found ourselves in the situation I just described.

It’s hard not to be miffed when someone else blatantly disregards the flow of traffic and drives erratically in front of you.

Yet, the actions of the driver who caused this consternation were not illegal by any means. Inconsiderate, sure. But not illegal.

So why did I jump to such rash conclusions about the driver’s intelligence? Was I being as stubborn and simplistic with my perspective as my grandfather had once been?

Perhaps.

But I don’t want to take back what I blurted out behind the wheel of my SUV that day. Not one bit.

There’s an ongoing revolt against the word stupid.

It’s a small skirmish in the greater war for Political Correctness that’s overtaking our society. But for a singular battle, Operation Eradicating Intelligence Insults has raged for quite a while.

I believe it started with the release of Forrest Gump in 1994 — a movie that showed the world how those with low IQ can still live extraordinary lives. As the 90s progressed, expanding diagnoses of autism and a crackdown on bullying helped encourage a softer touch.

By the time Millennials came of age, those who didn’t meet standards were no longer stupid. They were special.

And with that shift, stupid became just another S-word. A way to swear at those we despise, but solely in the context of name-calling.

Disagree with a politician? Say they’re stupid. Frustrated that your favorite team’s quarterback threw a game-ending interception? Call him stupid.

The word is nothing more than a form of catharsis these days.

But not to me.

I wasn’t calling the driver of the car in front of me stupid just to blow off steam.

Yes, I was mad. But if I solely wanted an outlet, I had saltier language to choose from.

No, the words I chose were quite intentional.

Just like my grandfather years before, I had a definition for stupidity. And this driver’s actions fit the bill.

In my view, stupidity constitutes inconsiderate actions that put one at a disadvantage.

The driver’s lack of awareness of the flow of traffic and constant brake checking certainly put me at a disadvantage that day. The term fit.

In my grandfather’s view, a plumber or a handyman in his home put him at a financial disadvantage. Why pay their fees when he could MacGyver it himself with PVC pipe and some duct tape?

And why fully support his future son-in-law’s plan to enter the advertising world from the get-go? That field was ripe with uncertainty — uncertainty he knew would put my father at a disadvantage. Better for him to go with the sure bet of teaching.

So, yes. I guess I do empathize with my grandfather’s simplistic perspectives and brazen style. It might not be politically correct, but it isn’t entirely self-serving either.

I believe that to heal our fractured society, we must all get comfortable understanding the concept of stupidity — similar to the form in which I’ve defined it.

We must identify its sources, call it out and eradicate it.

This starts with identifying inconsiderate actions, and recognizing the disadvantages they cause downstream.

It continues when we spread the word that these behaviors are detrimental to our society, and are un welcome.

These actions, in tandem, will spur conscientious-yet-aloof offenders to change their ways. To stop acting stupidly and causing unneeded problems.

And when enough of them do, it will cause a sea change in how we interact with each other.

If this sounds ambitious, it’s because it is.

But even if the end result seems far off, starting the process is well within our grasp.

Contrary to the old adage, stupidity is a fixable problem.

It’s about time we get to work on that solution.

The Components of Safety

Safety.

It’s a term that instantly stimulates our minds.

It evokes imagery of a blanket. Or a lock and key.

These connotations demonstrate just how pervasive this aspect of our lives is. What else can combine images of something so warm and soft with something so cold and metallic?

Even so, it’s hard for us to pinpoint why safety is so essential. Much like True North or gravity, we seem to take its presence in our lives for granted.

I believe this assumption is less willful than it is inevitable.

We inherently know to hold safety in high regard. Yet, we can’t seem to verbalize our instinct.

Perhaps this is the case because the concept of safety crosses basic boundaries of classification. There’s the physical component, which insulates us from mortal injury. And then there’s the mental component, which insulates us from disastrous consequences.

At first glance, the physical component would seem to be the most important. After all, if this aspect were to eviscerate, so would our existence.

The physical component of safety is the reason there are railings on balconies and seat belts in cars. It explains why we know better than to jump from a cliff face onto jagged rocks below. Or why we shuffle our feet when traversing icy sidewalks in tennis shoes.

By tending to our physical safety, we prevent ourselves from getting maimed, paralyzed or killed. Perhaps just as critically, we avoid reduction of our existence to a statistic of infamy.

The list of tragic blunders is already quite lengthy. Anytime we say Don’t do that. It can kill you. it means two things.

Someone did do that very thing and paid the ultimate price.
Someone else likely witnessed the tragedy and warned others not to repeat the action.

If we keep safety front and center, we avoid becoming one of these cautionary tales.

So, yes. The physical component of safety is quite essential. But it doesn’t hold a candle to the mental component.

The mental component of safety is what insulates us from undesired outcomes. These can include the loss of status, the loss of income and the loss of possessions.

These circumstances are seemingly less severe than major injury, paralysis or death. While those outcomes are permanent, it’s possible to recover from the setbacks from a loss or prestige or earthly possessions.

Yet, the mental component of safety has an outsized impact on our behavior. While the physical component impacts our actions in the moment, the mental component impacts our behavior over the long term.

And this is not always to our benefit.

Consider this.

When we prioritize our mental safety, we often aim for stability. This causes us to become risk-averse to a fault.

Why? Because risk provokes change. And change threatens stability.

Avoiding risk is tantamount to maintaining our status quo. So, the safe play is the least risky option.

Yet, risk-aversion can cause us to limit our potential. It can cause us to sacrifice happiness for steadiness. It can cause us to leave opportunities on the table when they aren’t a sure thing.

The more decisions we make under this guise, the more we find ourselves trapped.

We settle for what we get. And we stick with it, even if it saps the joy and vitality out of our lives.

Worse still, our society actively reinforces this behavior.

We’re expected to work to earn the money that pays the bills. To follow the well-worn path others have walked before. To be inconspicuous, safe and normal.

Our happiness and our untapped potential don’t factor into these expectations.

Sure, we pay lip service to these factors through Christmas cards, Hollywood movie scripts and the year-end bonus system. But we are trained to be means to an end. To promote the system that keeps us all ordinary, and thereby protects us.

The problem is that all of this is a grand illusion.

No matter how safe we’re taught to play it, risk abounds. Bad circumstances continue to lurk around the bend, looking for the right moment to strike.

And since we’re ingrained with the values of stability, we find ourselves woefully unprepared to deal with sudden and unexpected changes.

When we lose our job or our home, we feel violated. And when we lose our status, we’re devastated.

These situations generally don’t leave us dead or disfigured. They generally don’t leave us in mourning over the loss of a loved one.

Even so, we end up emotionally broken.

We’re completely unable to cope with circumstance. The house of cards we built to organize our lives has been toppled by a Jenga tower. And we don’t know what to do next.

There’s only one way out of this maelstrom. And that’s to take a sledgehammer to the rules of the mental component of safety.

Only by accounting for risk can we be prepared to deal with it. That means acting a little bolder, staying a little truer to our spirit and even formulating Plan B while Plan A is humming along.

By making ourselves a little more vulnerable, we strengthen our resiliency.

And if we do this at scale, we can break the chains that bind us. We can formally reject the societal codes that leave us defanged in our volatile world.

So, let’s stop running from risk. And let’s embrace a universal truth.

Safety is important. But it’s not a panacea.

Act accordingly.

Nature Redefined

What is the best we can be?

The question is top of mind, following an advertisement that has stirred the pot quite a bit.

In the ad, razor company Gillette challenges its own tagline The Best A Man Can Get. The company addresses examples of bullying and sexual harassment. Then it challenges men to rise above this behavior, even launching a new tagline The Best Men Can Be.

This ad really resonated with me. After all, my mantra is Be Present. Be Informed. Be Better. And the ad spoke right to that third pillar.

Yet, the clunky delivery and heavy-handed message of the ad left many incensed. In one fell swoop, a company focused heavily on men’s products seemed to be attacking masculinity. To some, it seemed like a betrayal of the highest order.

On a basic level, I can empathize with this sentiment. As a man, it’s hard not to feel vilified these days. While the Me Too movement has held prominent men accountable for their abusive behavior, it has, at times, painted with a broad brush. And when it has, it’s lumped the entire male species in with the transgressors.

This bold typecasting is one of the most effective ways of sparking the discussion needed to effect social change. The process of cultural transformation is inherently uncomfortable, after all. It’s hard to make a difference without pushing the boundaries of what we’re collectively accustomed to first.

Yet, there’s a fine line between uncomfortable and threatening. And the Gillette ad was a bit cavalier at times when navigating that line.

As such, I understand some of the backlash. But not all of it.

Why? Because many of the angriest voices seemed to be rallying around the term Boys Will Be Boys. And that is unacceptable.

Boys Will Be Boys is the line that comes up most often when defending reprehensible male behavior. It attributes transgressions to male nature, rather than conscious immorality. And in doing so, it lets the offender go scot-free.

Boys Will Be Boys is a line that serves as a license to condone fighting, womanizing and drunken belligerence. It’s a line that serves as a license to permit a hazing and bullying to flourish systematically. It’s a line that even serves as a license to shrug off sexual assault allegations levied against Supreme Court justices — the supposed moral compasses of the land.

It’s a line that needs to go.

The more we skirt accountability as men, the more our society suffers. It doesn’t matter whether we’re 15 or 55. We must be held accountable for our actions.

This includes reining in the more garish sides of masculinity. It means eradicating behavior that make women feel inferior or unsafe — the very disparities that have sparked the Me Too movement.

Now, men are not entirely to blame for these disparities. Women have not always unified to protect their rightful sense of status or safety. In fact, the level of deceit and betrayal some women levy on other women could make the most stone-faced men blush.

But in a world where men have for too long had a monopoly of power and influence, it is men who must lead the charge to heal these transgressions. It is men who must set a new standard to help promote a world that is fairer and safer for all. It is men who must resolve to be better.

It starts with burying Boys Will Be Boys for once and for all. With understanding that nature can be redefined. With recognizing that new cultural expectations can, and must, be set.

This, I believe, is the message Gillette was trying to promote. And it’s one worth listening to.

Let’s heed the call. Let’s be the change.

Unexcused

Would you rather go all-in, or only venture part way?

Most of us will take the first option in theory. But we tend to follow the second one in practice.

One of our greatest talents is giving a full 95 percent. We do this for self-preservation — of mind, body and perception.

Going all-in in its truest sense is terrifying and potentially hazardous. Holding a little bit back seems like the safer play.

Yet, holding back comes with some nasty side effects. Most notably, it antagonizes our sense of accountability.

For when we give less than our all, we absolve ourselves of some responsibility.

In particular, we create a convenient forum for excuses when things don’t go right.

The buck no longer stops with us. We can name our own villains to make our lack of full commitment sound heroic.

We know this behavior is wrong. Immoral even. Yet, we still find ourselves falling into this obvious trap, time and again.

It’s human nature.

I understand this as well as anyone. I’ve long harped on the virtues of responsibility. On the importance of being conscientiously decisive. On the value of remaining accountable for our actions.

With every word I write and every idea I share, I seek to expand horizons and stamp out excuses.

Yet, I’ve done a poor job practicing what I preach. When others have asked why I haven’t taken the plunge on a daunting task, I’ve generally had a trusty excuse handy.

For the longest time, I didn’t think twice about this hypocrisy — the no excuse guy peddling excuses of his own.

But then, a friend shared six words that floored me.

Losers make excuses. Winners make money.

That message cut deep.

Not because I view the world as a zero-sum game of winners and losers. (I don’t.) Not because I’m keen on equating success with money. (I’m not.)

No, those words resonated because they quantified the value of excuses. A value that is precisely zero.

I don’t want to spend my days working on something worthless. And I’m sure I’m not alone in that regard.

Yet, each time we spout off another excuse, that’s exactly what we’re doing.

So, how do we dig our way out of this hole? How do we stop explaining away our actions to mask our cowardice?

We can start by hitting the throttle. By bursting through the barriers we build to self-censor our potential.

It’s time for us to stop demonizing heightened expectations. It’s time for us to stop fearing failure. It’s time for us to stop worrying about our external perception more than our internal growth.

It’s time for us to go all-in.

Excuses have no value in our narrative. Let’s leave them with no place to hide.

Author: Dylan Brooks