Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

The Burden of Ignorance

In January of 1995, two men strode into some Pittsburgh-area banks and robbed them at gunpoint.

The robbers made off with roughly $10,000 in cash. But they weren’t exactly modern-day members of the Dillinger Gang.

Neither man concealed his face during the crime spree. Instead, each doused themselves in lemon juice – believing it to render them invisible.

They weren’t, of course.

Bank security cameras offered up clear images of the criminals in action. And they soon found themselves behind bars.

In the interrogation room, one of the robbers – McArthur Wheeler – offered up the following excuse to bemused detectives.

But I wore the lemon juice! I wore the lemon juice!

Wheeler’s explanation, absurd as it was, became Exhibit A for a newfound psychological phenomenon – The Dunning-Kruger Effect.

As I’ve written before, The Dunning-Kruger Effect proclaims that those who are the most confident in their performance are all too often overconfident.

It leads to people making idiotic decisions with delusions of genius. And those decisions – like covering oneself in lemon juice and robbing a bank – can turn into amusing stories.

But the collateral damage behind the headline? That’s no laughing matter.

When you’re dead, you do not know you are dead. It is only painful for others. The same applies when you are stupid.

Ricky Gervais uttered these lines as a joke. But he was onto something.

Wheeler and his accomplice were certainly stupid when they robbed those banks while doused in lemon juice. And they got what they had coming to them – namely, years in prison.

But the collateral damage was not so neat and tidy.

Anyone in those banks that day likely felt traumatized by the brazen robberies. Anyone outside of the banks felt obligated to look around for the suspects, after their faces popped up on a Crimestoppers poster. And ultimately, the criminal justice system felt strained by the plea deals and sentences the incident required.

This is the burden of ignorance. When it bursts into the open, blind stupidity can cause an unwieldy mess. And others are saddled with the mop and bucket.

This pattern can be insidious.

The accused might grasp that they’ve done something wrong. But if they’re too ignorant to understand why their actions sparked catastrophe, they stand little chance of making better decisions moving forward.

They’ll keep stepping in it, again and again. After all, it’s hard to avoid what you don’t understand.

All the while, those affected by these transgressions seethe in their discontent. They ostracize the ignorant to put distance between themselves and the next disaster.

Fissures grow through this process. Polarization and resentment fester.

And we find ourselves on a road to nowhere.

Intelligence is a gift. But it’s also a skill.

I know this as well as anyone.

Growing up, I knew I was a smart kid. I got good grades in school. I easily recited statistics from memory. I read books in my spare time.

Yet, I was ignorant about using my gift. I struggled with social nuances and with other everyday activities.

It was only through experience that I was able to hone my intelligence. To apply it to life’s intricacies. And to thrive.

This journey took years to crystallize. But once it did, it spurred my ethos.

Be present. Be informed. Be better.

I’ve committed to following these three principles for quite some time. But I realize they contain a massive blind spot.

These principles, you see, say little about how to deal with others. Particularly those who might unwittingly throw a banana peel in my path.

My instinct has long been to wall them off. To protect myself from bearing the burden of ignorance whenever possible.

But such a strategy does me little good. It leads me to elevate myself over the ignorant, and to judge them with disdain. All while remaining at risk of their shenanigans.

My circle gets smaller through this process. And as exclusivity grows, so does disassociation.

Eventually, I’m the one who’s ignorant. Not for a lack of intelligence, but for a lack of real-world context.

It would be far better for me to extend an olive branch to those I seek to avoid. To teach, to coach, to mentor. To lead both with the context of example and with a vocalized compassion.

Such actions would provide the misguided the same opportunity once afforded to me. An opportunity to grow beyond naivete, and to avoid disastrous missteps.

There’s no guarantee that everyone would see the light. But if I keep the door closed, no one will.

So, I’m pledging to do better going forward. But such a commitment can only go so far.

Don’t bring me problems. Bring me solutions.

Some version of this phrase has been uttered by just about every executive in the history of business.

The implication is simple – airing problems without antidotes only causes them to proliferate. It wastes time, it strains resources, and it stifles productivity.

With all this in mind, we hesitate before airing professional grievances. We ensure we have a proposed solution in tow before sounding the alarm.

Shift the setting outside the office walls though, and it’s far different. We openly gripe about ignorance, without offering up any strategies to combat it. And we grow agitated as history repeats itself.

Why do we expect anything different? Ignorance can’t fix itself, after all. That’s the whole premise of the Dunning-Kruger Effect.

No, to flip the script, we need to take command. We need to lift the torch high and shine a light for the wayward to follow.

We must serve as a guide, not a gate. We must meet the ignorant where they are, and shepherd them to where they ought to be.

Such a shift requires humility on our end. It requires conscientiousness. It requires virtue.

This is no small ask. But the benefits far outweigh the costs.

So, let’s do our part. Let’s help cast off the burden of ignorance. And let’s lift our society into a more enlightened future.

It’s our move. Let’s make it.

Lessons of Bitter Medicine

I stood in the backyard practicing my batting stance.

I steadied the wooden near my shoulder. Then, I took a practice hack – and clobbered my sister in the face on the backswing.

Startled, my sister started to cry. Then she ran into the house to let our father know what happened.

It was an honest childhood mistake. My sister had stood too close to me. I hadn’t checked my surroundings before swinging the bat.

But I still got in trouble.

Some years later, the two of us were standing in the same spot in the yard of our childhood home. I had just demonstrated how to swing a golf club. Now, my sister was giving it a try.

She took a practice swing — and clobbered me in the face. Karma couldn’t have been more complete.

My father ran out of the house, concern washed over his face. He was frantic, speaking a mile a minute.

Are you alright? Are you bruised? Are you bleeding?

I was in my late teens by this point and well-conditioned to take a blow like this. So, I found his over-the-top reaction amusing.

I’ll be fine, I chuckled. I’m just an idiot. But I guess we’ve all learned our lessons about standing too close.

Indeed, we had. All too well.

That’s a bitter pill to swallow.

This adage has transcended the generations.

It’s been years – decades really – since the days of bitter-tasting medicine. These days, many pills are coated in sugar, mixed into gummies, or otherwise made to seem bland.

Yet, the phrase remains transcendent. Why is that?

I believe this has everything to do with the underlying message. We may have solved the Bitter Medicine Taste problem. But we haven’t found a way to avert unpleasantness itself.

This might not be as dire a concern as it seems.

After all, discomfort is an important part of our life experience. A strange rite of passage. A feature, not a bug.

Old school medicine carried the promise of healing if you could get through the bitterness first. Perhaps swallowing those new school bitter pills – accepting discomfort – can bring us the promise of some invaluable lessons as well.

I am proof positive of this idea.

I would not have understood the danger of black ice if I hadn’t once slipped on it and taken a spill. I would not have appreciated the value of sunscreen if I hadn’t once gotten sunburned. Such knowledge was embedded in the bitter pill I swallowed each time.

Now, this theory is far from absolute. When discomfort becomes habitual or continuous, its lessons wash away. Suffering is all that remains.

This is why teaching someone a lesson with a fist or a belt is a fool’s errand. Beyond being immoral – and in many cases, illegal – this act does little beside inflict vengeful damage upon its victims. It’s also why intentional self-harm – in all its forms – is nothing short of disastrous.

But, when we allow ourselves to spontaneously encounter discomfort, we often come out of the experience wiser. When we step out of our cocoons – accepting the risk of unpleasantness in the process – we tend to reap the benefits.

The pain of the bitter medicine is temporary. But the lessons are forever.

This is why I don’t regret taking that golf club to the face (although I still feel guilty for accidentally hitting my sister years earlier). The experience taught me what I would never have otherwise learned.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

As I write these words, we are nearing the end of another year.

The holiday spirit is in full swing. And we’re preparing to flip the calendar over once again.

A year is just a construct. One I don’t take all that much stock in celebrating.

Yet, this trip around the sun has been quite the journey.

I started the year by undergoing ankle surgery. The procedure relieved some lower leg discomfort that had turned into suffering. But it left me with a grueling rehab.

I learned much from this ordeal. I became familiar with the tribulations of disability. And through the process, I found out just what I was made of.

But even after I got my range of motion back, I wasn’t out of the woods. I was able to walk unencumbered once again, and I would soon be back to running.

But the injuries kept coming. A lower back bruise. Right knee tendonitis. A stress fracture in my left leg. An intercostal strain. A right hip flexor strain.

Some of these injuries were exercise-related. Others were the product of bad luck. All caused me more than a modicum of discomfort – leaving me wondering when I’d ever be back to “normal.”

But licking my wounds and ruing misfortune was getting me nowhere. So, I embarked on a new approach.

I started thinking of all these injuries as bitter medicine. As ordeals I’d need to endure to learn more about myself.

For years, I’d neglected this task. I’d focused on brain health, on expanding knowledge, and on honing decision-making. I’d also focused on heart health, making a concerted effort to stay in shape.

But the rest of me? I often took that for granted.

Who cared how my joints operated, how my bones replenished themselves, or how my muscles interconnected? I hardly noticed them when I was healthy. So, I felt little need to maintain their function.

It was only when things went wrong that I started to see the whole picture. That experience taught me how to properly take care of myself from head to toe.

So yes, this year has been unpleasant at times. In the most physical, visceral of ways. But I wouldn’t trade this ride I’ve been on for the world.

For more than half a century, families have made a pilgrimage to the middle of Florida.

Their destination? A 27,000-square-acre oasis called Walt Disney World.

Walt Disney World has long been billed as The Happiest Place on Earth. And as a four-time visitor, I can verify that elation does radiate there like the tropical sunshine that illuminates the grounds.

Yet, this billing has an unspoken downside. For once families, leave the oasis – once they reach Interstate 4 or the Orlando International Airport – they return to reality. A reality that, by definition, is less happy and less pleasant than the place they’ve just visited.

This is an unsettling fact. One that we’re determined to dispel.

We try ever harder to protect our children from unpleasantness and to delude ourselves from its existence. We wall ourselves off inside convenient fantasies and put our risk-aversion senses on overdrive. We encase the pills of our life experience in a mountain of sugar, consequences be damned.

But such attempts are far from ironclad. Now and then, unpleasantness overwhelms our defenses, washing away our defenses.

Maybe this unpleasantness is an unconscionable terror attack on our shores. Or a financial meltdown in our markets. Or even a pandemic infesting our atmosphere.

Our pleasantness at all costs crusade leaves us ill-equipped to handle such stark reality. So, we stumble through the fallout, feeling lost and betrayed. And all the while, we wish the experience had never happened.

Perhaps we can follow a more productive path. Instead of relying on dreams of revisionist history to restore our fantasy, perhaps we can build off our ordeal. To take the lessons of bitter medicine, internalize them, and be better for it.

I’ve embarked on this journey, this past year especially. But my experience – and my mindset – should be anything but extraordinary. It should be but one case of millions – millions who accept unpleasantness as a vessel toward improvement, rather than a scourge to eradicate.

Let’s make it so.

The Cost of Free Choice

As we sat down at a table at a Mexican restaurant, my friends gave some advice.

Don’t worry. You won’t even have to look at the menu. They only serve nachos, enchiladas, and fajitas. Simple enough.

Simple enough. But also, kind of complicated.

The nachos, you see, were smothered with cheese – an ingredient I could not digest. The enchiladas were smothered in sauce, making a mess inevitable. (Oh, they also had cheese, for good measure.) And the fajitas required extra effort to assemble.

Where were the steak tacos I was craving? Or, to that end, the tamales or flautas?

Not at this restaurant. And so, my options were crude.

Order the fajita platter I didn’t want. Or go hungry – and explain to my friends why.

In essence, there was only one choice. So, when the waiter turned to me, I blurted out Beef fajitas, please, without a hint of hesitation.

My friends were right. I didn’t even have to look at the menu.

There are many reasons why this restaurant kept its menu so tidy.

Convenience. Simplicity. Tradition.

But also cost.

Mexican food, you see, often draws upon common ingredients. Corn tortillas. Flour tortillas. Salsa. Grilled steak. Grilled chicken. Peppers. Onions. Spiced rice. Refried beans. Cheese.

It’s the way that these items are assembled that comprises a menu. It’s what makes tacos different from enchiladas or burritos or chimichangas.

This interoperability makes ingredient costs a minor concern. Everything except the meat is generally affordable – no small detail in an industry with tight margins.

But preparation costs? That’s a different matter entirely.

It takes more work to, say, season grill a carne asada to perfection than it does to roll some shredded chicken in tortillas and smother the whole plate in sauce. It takes more work to assemble grilled skirt steak into tacos than it does to bring it to the table wholesale as fajitas.

This restaurant we were visiting was known for running a streamlined kitchen. Minimizing preparation costs were the ethos of its menu.

It’s a menu the restaurant has long mastered, to critical acclaim. But for someone like me, it took the words free choice off the table.

Literally.

Being saddled with one undesirable option at a restaurant might seem like a first world problem. And indeed, it is.

But this frustrating moment represents the tip of an iceberg. An iceberg sabotaging the fundamentals of our society.

We claim to live a land with liberty and justice for all. And for the most part, we do. We are free to vote, work, and entertain ourselves as we see fit.

But the options we have when exercising that free choice? Those have a cost.

Consider governance. As a representative democracy, we elect leaders to run our country’s affairs on our behalf. Those elections are open to nearly every American adult, free of charge. And myriad efforts to restrict these rights have been quashed over time.

But the choices on our ballots? Those are not nearly as open as our right to choose from them.

Not just anyone can make a serious run for office. To be viable, you need sterling credentials, a semblance of name recognition, and money. A lot of money.

You don’t rise from nothing to become President in America. You just don’t.

The earliest occupants of the office – our Founding Fathers – were wealthy plantation owners. Despite humble origins, Abraham Lincoln gained acclaim as a lawyer before pursuing the White House.

Even modern-day outsider candidates — Barack Obama and Ronald Reagan — had a leg up over everyday Americans. Obama earned a law degree from Harvard University, while Reagan earned acclaim as an actor. Each amassed a small fortune before even turning to politics, let alone pursuing the highest office in the land.

Make no mistake. Politics is awash in money. Money provided by special interest groups, by mega-donors, and by the politicians themselves. There’s a reason why the size of a candidate’s war chest matters as much as their poll numbers.

This creates a contradiction.

When we step into that voting booth, we exercise free choice. Free choice among options who paid to play.

The people whose names are on that ballot don’t seem much like us or relate to our lived experience. If we were to draft a list of who would best represent us, they likely wouldn’t make our Top 10.

And yet, here we are, left to choose between them. To decide whether Option 11 or Option 14 should be our Number 1.

We might want tacos, but we’re offered enchiladas or fajitas.

Free choice carries quite the cost. Make no mistake about that.

That’s just the way it is. Some things will never change. That’s just the way it is. Yeah, but don’t you believe them.

Bruce Hornsby and the Range rose to the top of the Billboard Hot 100 chart on the strength of those lyrics nearly four decades ago. Hornsby and his band found acclaim. And yes, they earned quite a bit of money in the process.

The central premise of those lyrics remains a work in progress. We are still working at breaking barriers, eliminating preconceptions, and defining what’s possible.

I believe in that work, and the mission underpinning it. But I also believe it’s critical for all of us to be clear-eyed about something fundamental.

We may have been bestowed the right of free choice. But the power contained within that right is minimal.

Sure, we can help determine who sits in the Oval Office. Sure, we can help determine which automaker sells the most vehicles.

But there are other forces — capitalist forces — that put those options on the table for us in the first place. And it’s within those forces where the true power lies.

It’s my sincere hope that someday, that process will be more accessible. That we’ll be able to determine what makes the menu, not just what we want to order from it.

But that’s a long way off.

In the meanwhile, maximizing the power of our free choice means getting comfortable with three words:

Follow the money.

I am. Are you?

What’s Productive

The car on the left goes first.

This mantra played in my head as my car idled at a red light.

I was 18 years old, and I had only held a driver’s license for a short time. Yet, I knew that the intersection I was waiting at was trouble.

A double turn lane merged onto a single lane road. And a race from the turn lanes to that single lane road would surely end up in a demolition derby.

The rules of the road stood paramount. The car on the left goes first.

On this day, I was the car in the leftmost turn lane. But the car on my right had tinted windows and was blasting loud music.

These weren’t the trappings of a rule follower. But I still trusted the rule. And I expected them to carry the day.

When the light turned green, I bolted through intersection — only to find the other vehicle in my way.

Suddenly, I was getting pushed across the double yellow line toward oncoming traffic. I had no choice but to back off.

After a few moments, the road widened back into two lanes. Fuming, I cut into the new lane, speeding past the car that had just cut me off. On the way by, I flashed my middle finger at the driver.

I’d gotten the last word. Or so I thought.

It turned out there was a red light up ahead. And as I brought my car to a stop, the other car pulled up beside me.

The driver rolled down his window and motioned for me to lower mine. As I did, I noticed his tattoos and his chains.

This guy was from the streets. I was a feeble teenager.

I was no match. Still, I was indignant.

So, when the other driver shouted What’s your problem? at me, I shot back with aplomb.

You can’t do that. I had the right-of-way. You could’ve gotten me killed.

Shut up! the other responded, adding some profanities for emphasis. Then the light turned green, and he drove off.

By the time I got home, I was in a rage. How could this other driver do the wrong thing and then yell at me about it? Was there any justice in this world?

Still, as I recounted this tale to my parents, they looked concerned. I was lucky to be alive, they said. And I should’ve been more careful with my indignation.

This wasn’t about right or wrong, they stated. It was about what was productive.

Getting in a shouting match over blame would not yield a better outcome. If anything, it would cause further problems.

It would be better to focus on what could propel me forward.

It’s been half my life since I got that pep talk. And while I occasionally get a bit hot under the collar while behind the wheel, I’ve tended to avoid altercations. I know now that it does no one any good.

Yet, I’m far too alone in this thinking.

The Monday Morning Quarterback.

It’s an well-worn phrase in our society.

The day after a football game, onlookers will give their unsolicited opinion. They’ll state which playcalls were wrong, which throws should have gone to a different target, which rush attempts should have been executed differently.

Such punditry means to illustrate a point. If the team were to make the right decisions, it would see better results. This point would hold true regardless of the competition it was facing or the game scenarios it was up against.

This, of course, is all ludicrous. Hindsight is 20/20, and it’s often colored by the outcomes we observe. When the game is going on, that script is still being written. The options we see clearly in the morning light are fogged over in the heat of the moment.

But that hasn’t stopped Monday Morning Quarterbacking from catching fire. There are more than a dozen football games in each pro or college football season. And pundits will spend about 60 additional days reimagining the action.

Worse still, the Monday Morning Quarterback effect has spread to other facets of life. Many companies feature post-mortems to replay ventures gone sour. Congressional committees skewer officials from myriad industries about decisions gone wrong. Wall Street investors get spooked by isolated incidents, causing stock devaluations.

There’s a primal instinct behind these actions. An instinct to apportion blame and administer punishment.

Once those elements are doled out, we’ll theoretically be set. The pain of our loss will be alleviated. Justice will be served.

But something goes missing when we keep looking backward like this. Namely, a path forward.

Yes, Monday Morning Quarterbacking – of all types – is like my altercation with that street-hardened driver years ago. It’s anything but productive.

And it needs to change.

What’s next?

It’s a question we ask often when things are going right.

There’s always the next mountain to climb, the next challenge to embrace, the next puzzle to solve.

Such thinking keeps us productive. It diverts us from complacenty. It helps us strive toward better.

But it’s also created something of a double standard. One where improvement is exclusive to those who have their house in order.

We don’t ask What’s next? when things are going off the rails. Not initially, anyway.

We’re compelled to Monday Morning Quarterback the situation first. And the quest for blame and punishment only takes us further off-course. So much so that we rarely have the energy to pursue a path forward.

This is a problem. A problem that must be fixed.

It’s time to flip the order of operations. To put the What’s next? question front and center in every conversation and every circumstance. And to leave all the rest in the background.

Such a shift might not yield ready solutions. But it will get us in a mindset to properly pursue them. And it will keep us from mindlessly playing the blame game.

In other words, it will allocate our energy in the right places.

So, let’s reconsider our approach. Let’s make what’s productive paramount. And let’s see what impact this ethos has on our lives.

It surely will be a good one.

The Middle

Why don’t you meet me in the middle? I’m losing my mind just a little.

A song featuring those lyrics rocketed up the charts a few years back.

The tune is catchy. So catchy, in fact, that the words within it can easily get lost.

But anyone who does pay attention to those lyrics gets a clear call to action. A call to find common ground and restore peace.

That’s what the middle has become about. Compromise and sacrifice in the interest of the common good. Sensible solutions to our most divisive problems.

It sounds too good to be true. And indeed, it is.

The one thing we seem to agree on these days is to avoid the middle at all costs. To make the cookie into a donut.

That’s a problem. A bigger problem than we might even realize.

The bell curve.

It’s an iconic sight. One that many of us have seen in math classes or business meetings.

The bell curve resembles a mountain. It’s a line that starts flat and then quickly rises before falling back to earth.

This symmetrical graph is the gold standard of statistical modeling. It shows the normal distribution of data. An arrangement with the highest amount of records in the middle.

This is not a hack to make mathematicians’ lives easier. The normal distribution is a real phenomenon, backed by science and human nature.

The middle is built to carry the weight. It’s the sturdiest portion of any unit. It provides balance and a semblance of security.

The edges, by contrast, are the most exposed to the risks of the surrounding world. And clustering at those edges can cause an imbalance of critical mass. It could send the whole unit flying into danger.

With this knowledge in hand, we’ve long complied with the rules of statistics. We’ve traditionally clustered in the middle.

Our political views would trend moderate. Our religious zeal would remain understated. Our fashion would be anything but excessive.

We wouldn’t have it all this way. But we would have enough to get by with a degree of comfort.

Recently, that has changed. Emerging technologies have allowed fringe viewpoints to proliferate. New megaphones have allowed fringe thinkers to influence without reproach. And a decay in decorum has lessened the impact moderation.

The incentives for staying in the middle have gone away. And we’ve abandoned that space accordingly.
But I don’t think the hallmarks of polarization are totally to blame for this development.

There’s a bigger culprit in the mix.

Fifty-seven channels and nothin’ on.

That was the title of a Bruce Springsteen song from the early 1990s.

In less than a decade, cable TV had gone from a novelty to a joke. And now, The Boss was nailing the punch line.

The ridicule was warranted. These were the earliest days of modern entertainment. And the experience was clunky at best.

Yet, the cause of this shift is as real now as it was then. And it can be summed up in one word.

Boredom.

America has long had a problem with the center of its bell curve. That peak of the graph is commonly known as the middle class. Its members tend to have a comfortable life, steering clear of trouble and strife.

Still, it’s a boring existence in the middle. And that boredom carries a long shadow.
Our society, you see, has long been built on stories. On heroes and villains. On adversity and triumph. On rags and riches.

These stories enthrall us. So much so that we seek to emulate them.

But it’s hard to do that in the middle.

It’s not that the center-cut life lacks the themes of a good narrative. It’s just that those themes are watered-down.

Adversity is not existential. Power is not boundless. And attempts to trumpet these themes come off as trite.

And so, those in the middle must make a choice. Carry on with their monotonous lives. Or hurl themselves toward the edges.

All too often, they choose the latter.

This is the thinking that spurred cable television. This is the thinking that subsequently caused the Internet to proliferate. This is the thinking that ultimately propelled social media into orbit.

It’s what’s led extremes to become mainstream.

Boredom is the enemy. And the middle is untenable.

My roots lie in the middle.

I had a middle-class upbringing, marked by comfort but not excess. My family was moderate in every sense of the word.

There wasn’t much to write home about. Home itself was seemingly enough.

The middle offered plenty of opportunities, and I availed myself of them. But once I graduated college, my journey took a sharp turn.

Like many, I’d been captivated by the American narrative. Of self-sufficiency, of initiative, of perseverance. And I thrust myself toward the edges on a Quixotic quest to attain it.

This quest brought me to Texas, and to a career that barely paid above minimum wage. Adjusting to my new reality was jarring, but I eventually found my way.

Not long after this I went back to the drawing board. I moved to a new city and pursued a new career.
Starting over would prove to be right move. But it put me at the bottom of a new totem pole, forcing me to climb the ladder.

I initially took on that task with aplomb. But eventually, that changed.

I came to realize that I don’t need to be top dog. I came to recognize that the reward is offset by the grind it takes to get to the top.

The middle is fine enough. Idyllic really. There’s no need to yearn for anything more.

And so, I’ve been living that mantra ever since.

I think we all can find value in my journey, and my subsequent epiphany. The grass is not always greener on the other side. Sometimes the middle turns out to be what we needed all along.

Might such realizations cure our polarized vitriol? Might they stabilize our society?

I’m not sure. But I do know that a shift inward would provide a start.

Why don’t you just meet me in the middle? There’s much to be achieved there.

Sharing and Sacrifice

Can I have the TV room for a bit?

The question was innocent enough. But it made my blood curdle.

After all, I had been entrenched. Posted up on the couch, watching television. And now, I was getting booted from my perch, just so that my sister could watch her dumb show?

No way, no how. I refused.

My sister stomped off, quickly returning with my parents in tow. They explained that I had to share the TV room, and that meant ceding it in this instance. It was the decent thing to do, and the only thing to do.

I grumbled and stomped off to my room. The day was ruined.

Our society is of two minds.

We believe in individualism. We applaud self-sufficiency, initiative, and action.

Yet, we also believe in collectivism. In coming together to bask in the glow of our individual exploits.

I suppose this paradox mirrors that of nature. Even the most ancient of humans balanced hunting and gathering in their daily tasks.

And our own national lineage – that of settlers from faraway lands confronting a rugged terrain – also required such a shift.

But this dichotomy has not aged well.

The modern world has tipped the scales toward the individual. These days, it’s easier to strike out on our own without encountering a grizzly bear or a gang of bandits. We can get what we need and fend off danger.

Still, our collective tendencies have stuck around. More for tradition’s sake than anything else.

There are still plenty of restaurants that offer family-style meals. There are still holidays centered on mingling with loved one. There are still pressures to align ourselves with groups – whether civic, religious, or social.

The dichotomy this creates can be dizzying. We’re forced to tiptoe between two extremes — between go get it and let’s share.

It’s not easy to walk this tightrope. And the penalties for a misstep can be severe.

Be the CEO of your own life.

I can’t recall where I first heard that advice. But I’ve taken it to heart.

When it comes to my day-to-day, I take a business-like approach. I manage budgets, plan meals, and set actionable goals. I’m intentional about how I spend my time and who I share company with.

I lean on individualism to execute on all this. I put a lot on my own shoulders just to get by. But as an introvert, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Still, my quest does hit choppy waters from time to time. This is most notable when my journey barges through society’s collectivist tripwires.

Perhaps I stay in during a holiday. Perhaps I don’t eat anything at a banquet-style feast. Perhaps I duck out of a get-together before a board game is unfurled on the table.

I catch an inordinate amount of grief for these actions. I’m accused of not being a team player. I’m accosted for hurting others’ feelings. Or I’m told that no one should be alone on an occasion like this – essentially, that my own desires to do just that are invalid.

These rebukes are to be expected.

Marketing guru Seth Godin has frequently defined culture as People like us do things like this. And my actions often fly in the face of that mantra. Of course I’m going to hear about it.

The remedy to this situation might seem straightforward. I could just suck it up. I could share more, participate more, prioritize the collective over the invididual.

But it’s never that simple, is it?

I often think back to the day when I was booted from the TV room. It still gnaws at me.

Whatever I missed when I ceded the couch wasn’t all that important. And my sister was right in asking me to share the family television.

But the was a subtle demand under that ask is what bugs me.

Namely, the demand for a sacrifice.

For me to share TV access that day, I’d have to sacrifice control of the remote. This reality was unambiguous.

And this latent demand was far from unique. In fact, it underlies many other sharing scenarios we encounter.

Preparing for a long weekend? Get ready to account for who you spent your time with.

Attending a banquet? Be prepared to sacrifice your dietary preferences.

Participating in a social function? Don’t expect control over the agenda.

Sharing and sacrifice are intertwined. We might only speak to one half of the equation, but the other half is omnipresent.

This arrangement might be well-intentioned. But it’s not doing any of us any favors.

And the evidence is piling up.

In the early days of the COVID pandemic, civic officials shared a familiar refrain.

We all need to sacrifice our routines for the common good.

The specifics of the sacrifice varied by the situation. Sometimes it referred to putting on a face mask in public or staying home entirely. Other times it meant cancelling gatherings or sequestering ourselves from loved ones.

This was all to help keep a novel virus at bay. And yet, the refrain landed like a pile of bricks.

Some people still wanted to gather and to share in tradition, virus risk be damned. Others were cowering in fear of infection, and pointing the finger at anyone who didn’t share their view.

Divides widened. Trust plummeted. And we’re still dealing with the fallout, all these years later.

Scholars will likely spend years determining why this civic communication went so wrong. But I think the answer lies in the first five words of their refrain: We all need to sacrifice.

Sacrifice, you see, is a personal act. When we give something up, we feel it viscerally.

No one else can even pretend to understand that feeling. That loss is ours alone to bear.

As such, the most effective sacrifices are intrinsically driven. We feel the pull of a higher calling. And we part with something we care about to meet that calling.

Sharing is a natural biproduct of this process. But the choice to sacrifice — that comes from us.

This process can’t be reverse engineered. Telling us to sacrifice just won’t get the same buy-in. Neither will hiding such demands behind the virtues of sharing.

I’m not quite sure we fully recognize this point. And that needs to change.

It’s time for us to explicitly link sharing and sacrifice. And it’s time to make these attributes opt-in, rather than obligatory.

These actions won’t fix everything. But they’ll cauterize the wounds of our current approach. And they’ll plant the seeds for a more sustainable culture of sharing.

These are results we can stand behind. Let’s make them reality.

Break in the Chain

I ripped open the bag, pulling out a sandwich and placing it on my kitchen counter.

Instantly, I stopped in my tracks.

The bag had my name on the outside of it. But the sandwich wrapper sported someone else’s name.

I pulled away the wrapper and took a closer look.

Nope! This was definitely not my sandwich.

Suddenly, I had a dilemma on my hands.

Do I return to the sandwich shop and alert them to the mix-up? Do I eat someone else’s sandwich? Do I just throw it away and eat the cost?

I ultimately went with the first option, heading back to the shop and making a mild scene. An attendant quickly fixed the issue.

I took a seat at a table near the cash register. Then, I devoured the newly-made sandwich like a ravenous dog.

On the way back home, I checked my mailbox.

To my dismay, the package I’d ordered weeks ago still hadn’t arrived.

I walked in the front door and jumped on my computer. It was time to get to the bottom of this.

The package’s tracking number had separate two delivery services tied to it. One service was supposed to hand off the package to the other during the delivery process. But there was no proof that this had been done.

I tried to reach out to each delivery service. One didn’t allow me to fill out a contact form at all. The other sought to wipe their hands of the whole ordeal.

Eventually, I was able to fill out a missing package form. I received an automated response that my claim “would be looked into.”

I’d spent hours my evening dealing with this issue. And yet, I was seemingly back where I started.

We’re in the golden age.

How often have we heard this in recent years?

Technology has turned science fiction into reality. We can buy clothes from our home or order food delivery with a single tap on our smartphones.

New horizons of logistics have helped deliver on these promises. Streamlined fulfillment has raised the bar for what businesses can deliver, and what we can expect.

Yes, the entire process is set up to just work. There’s no need to worry about what happens when we hit that Order button. We’ll get what we’re looking for. Guaranteed.

But what if we don’t?

It’s a question that we don’t consider. But maybe we should.

Make that definitely we should.

Nothing is foolproof.

You can take those three words to the bank.

Machines glitch. Humans falter. The tightest of supply chains can get gummed up. All despite our best efforts to avoid these scenarios.

Advanced technology and logistics can aid our cause, of course. Streamlined processes can reduce the chances of bad outcomes. But those same processes can expand the ways such bad outcomes can appear.

Take my sandwich adventure as an example. The mistake was innocuous enough. An attendant simply put a sandwich in the wrong bag. But when you add an automated ordering system to the mix, the fallout only grows.

How so? Consider the following.

For decades, there have been two ways to resolve sandwich mix-ups. The recipients could swap the misdirected sandwiches on their own. Or the sandwich shop could recreate the orders and distribute them properly.

Each process would be easy to pull off, right there at sandwich shop counter. But neither was available to me.

I ordered my sandwich ahead of time through the establishment’s smartphone app. The associates fulfilled the order – incorrectly, as it turns out – placed it in a paper bag and taped it shut. Then they left it on a Mobile Order shelf.

I picked up the bag from the shelf and brought it home before I unsealed it. That proved to be a mistake on my part. But even if I’d checked the order while inside the sandwich shop, it wouldn’t have fixed the issue.

For the man whose sandwich I received placed his order through a food delivery service. He was never going to set foot in the shop, under any circumstances. So, he’d face quite the ordeal to get what he ordered into his hands.

One simple mistake yielding two complex resolution paths hardly seems efficient. But all too often, it’s the new reality.

Nothing is foolproof. Whether we care to admit it or not.

In the early 2000s, an ecommerce company was all the rage.

The company was called Zappos, and it sold a wide selection of shoes online.

There were many attributes consumers liked about Zappos. The convenience of shopping from home. The wide selection of shoe brands. The competitive prices.

But what truly made the company stand apart was its customer service.

Throughout its heyday, Zappos had a dedicated customer support hotline. The number was easily visible on its website, and it would ring through to real representatives. These representatives would occasionally stay on the line with customers for hours – all to ensure their concerns were met.

This was far from the most efficient use of support staff. Yet, the Zappos brass refused to waver from this structure.

Zappos recognized that while its ecommerce operating model was efficient, it was not foolproof. And if there was a break in the chain, it would take hard work to get back on track.

The company’s customer service model absorbed most of this burden. It provided customers peace of mind, even if they were jilted by a shipping mishap or similar malady. And over time, this commitment helped garner consumer trust.

The Zappos model no longer exists. Amazon acquired the company years ago and did away with the customer service hotline.

They weren’t alone.

Relatively few companies offer any form of live support these days. Even finding an online contact form can prove tricky. I learned this the hard way when I tried to track down my missing delivery item.

This is a problem. A major problem.

It’s bad enough for businesses to gaslight the populace, claiming all is well when the house is actually on fire. But to take consumer money without delivering the goods — that’s a rupture in a fundamental promise.

A break in the chain is no excuse for businesses to get off Scot free. Promises must be kept.

Refusing such obligations is illegal. Deflecting them is immoral. Throwing gauntlets ahead of them is unethical.

These tactics need to end. Immediately.

The Zappos model of the early 2000s may be gone. But it shouldn’t be forgotten.

Customer service matters. Now more than ever.

Our world is filled with electronic data. Information stored in encoded bits and bytes.

And most of these data – the trillions of exabytes of information – reside in the cloud.

The cloud is essentially a logistics system. A network of data servers that can send information though a wireless connection.

There are many advantages to this model – including the function of redundancies.

Yes, the cloud can store copies of our data in multiple locations. That way, if something happens to one physical server – a power outage or a natural disaster, for instance – our data doesn’t go down with the ship. It’s still available to us.

Redundancies are, by nature, inefficient. And embedding them into a system that streamlines data storage might seem contradictory at first.

But their inclusion underscores a golden rule of systems management: When there is a break in the chain, efficiency descends in priority.

Yes, the data redundancy feature is an insurance policy of sorts. A preemptive, productive response to a break in the chain. It’s a feature, not a bug.

It’s high time for the rest of our systems to adopt this thinking.

No chain is foolproof. Nothing just works.

We need better answers for the worst-case scenarios. Let’s find them, and let’s deploy them.

Sooner, not later.

What’s Left to Prove?

This is where the cowboy rides away.

I heard this verse from across the arena, and I knew what it meant.

This would be the last song of this George Strait concert. Because it was the last song of every George Strait concert.

No use demanding an encore. Best to prepare to give The King a proper sendoff.

Up on stage, Strait crooned the familiar tune. As always, he was sporting boots, Wrangler jeans, a Western shirt, and a Stetson hat.

When it was all over, Strait smiled and waved to the screaming crowd. Then he left the stage.

The cowboy really was riding away.

There’s a home décor sign that’s popular across Texas.

It reads:

Unless you’re God or George Strait, take off your boots in this home.

Yes, The King is worshipped in his native Lone Star State. And the same is true outside its borders.

Why is that?

It’s not as if George Strait revolutionized country music. Perhaps the most radical thing he’s done was cover a Mexican corrido.

No, it’s the adherence to custom that’s made The King such a superstar. George Strait brought Western traditions into the modern era and introduced them to the masses.

Everything about his presence has remained intentional. Even as other country stars now show up on stage in tank tops or trucker hats, Strait has maintained his signature look. Instead of prancing around the stage like a showman, he’s simply picked at his guitar and sang. And at the end of each show, he’s ridden off into the sunset like the Western heroes of old.

George Strait has nothing left to prove. And he couldn’t care less if you felt different.

That is the stuff of legend in Texas. And that is why George Strait is the only human allowed to keep his boots on in every Lone Star home.

When I saw George Strait in concert, I was mesmerized by his presence. All these years later, it remains the greatest concert I’ve ever attended.

Still, I couldn’t relate well with his persona. The understated confidence. The utter lack of edginess.

It was everything I wasn’t.

You see, when I set foot in that arena, my life was in turmoil. I’d left my first career behind and moved to another city. Money was low and tensions were high.

My confidence had been depleted by a prolonged job search. And the chip on my shoulder grew with every passing day.

I had something to prove to everyone — most of all myself. And there was no guarantee I’d get that opportunity.

Fortunately, my situation did improve. I ultimately landed a job and worked my way up the ladder in a new line of work. My bank account stabilized. My confidence grew.

And yet, I never quite lost my edginess. I never stopped feeling as if I had something to prove.

Until recently.

I’m an avid runner.

Passion plays a large role in my tendency to hit the pavement. As do the health benefits of exercise. But the burden of proof also looms large.

It turns out I have innate running talent. I’ve finished in the top 10 percent of all competitors in each race I’ve entered as an adult. And I’ve posted some blistering times during those competitions.

These accolades have only driven me to dig deeper and train harder. There are always higher levels of achievement I can unlock. There’s always more to prove.

At least that’s what I’ve told myself.

However, this quest has hit a snag lately, as I’ve dealt with a boatload of injuries.

The wake of these unfortunate incidents has seemed hauntingly familiar. I’ve found myself low on confidence and with plenty of work ahead. It’s all I need to put a Texas sized chip on my shoulder.

And yet, I have none.

I remain dedicated to regaining my form. But whether I ultimately exceed my prior abilities or fall short of them, I will be satisfied.

I have no desire to prove anything – to myself or those around me. That evidence is already etched in stone.

The same goes for everything outside of running. The obsession with proving myself professionally and personally has faded away. In its place lies a silent satisfaction.

This has all been a bit jarring to witness, even as I pull the strings. After all, my edginess has gotten me to this point. And now I’m willingly killing the golden goose.

Still, my running injuries have underscored the risks of the Prove It approach. By driving myself so forcefully and relentlessly, I’ve risked driving myself into the ground.

My accomplishments would be canceled out in such a scenario. My abilities would be wasted. My joie de vivre would be extinguished.

I want no part of that fate.

So, I’ve found solace in what I’ve built and accomplished. I’ve put that insatiable demand for more on the back burner.

What’s left to prove? For me, not much.

And that’s OK.

Now and then, I’ll meet with a financial professional.

These discussions are relatively standard. A recap of my medium-term goals. A review of my investments. And a discussion of my plans for retirement.

That last part always makes me squirm.

Now, retirement is in no way imminent for me. I am decades away from the big day.

And yet, I wish it was even further off.

My desire is to work as long as I live. Not for the money or the prestige. But so that I have something to do.

That old Bible verse that reads Idle hands are the devils workshop? I feel it in my soul.

There is always more to accomplish. More to offer. More to prove.

But perhaps my recent shift in perspective can challenge this maxim. Perhaps it can help me take a more productive path forward. Both with my far-off retirement, and with everything that comes before it.

Such a shift would certainly impact my life. But it needn’t be exclusive.

That’s why I’m sharing it here.

The chip on our shoulder can sharpen our edge. But that blade can cut both ways.

The insatiable drive to prove ourselves can drag us down just as quickly as it lifts us up. It can make our lives seem like empty vessels. It can shatter our confidence, break our will, and lay waste to hope.

It’s our obligation to get off this train before it jumps the tracks. To determine what well enough is. And to leave well enough alone.

This approach does more than benefit us. It benefits everyone in our orbit. And that’s an outcome worth striving for.

I’m proud to have made this shift. Will you join me?

The Second Chance Mirage

On a late October night in 2011, I watched a baseball game from a TV news studio.

The evening newscast I’d worked on had just wrapped up. But the World Series game that was airing on a different channel had not.

One of the teams in that World Series was the Texas Rangers. They were the “local” team – as the city I was in didn’t have a big-league squad. They were also my favorite team.

The game was nearly over, and the Rangers had a lead. A win would mean the team’s first-ever championship.

And so, I watched intently on a flatscreen next to the anchor podium. My colleagues gathered around me, ready to celebrate.

The Rangers got to within one pitch of sealing the win. But the opposing batter swung at that pitch and drove the ball to the outfield.

It looked like Texas’ outfielder might catch the ball to win the title. But it eluded his glove and rolled to the outfield wall. Two runners scored. The game was tied.

The Texas Rangers would go on to lose the game, and ultimately the World Series. It was a gut punch, but I refused to hang my head.

It’s alright, I told myself. They’ll be back real soon, and these guys will get it done.

How wrong I was.

The mulligan.

It’s a time-honored tradition.

Golfers have long requested a mulligan – essentially a do-over – if one of their shots went awry. And that practice has extended beyond the course in recent years.

A second chance provides hope. Hope for a better outcome. Hope for redemption.

But winning strategies are not built on hope. And they shouldn’t be built on second chances either.

Opportunities, you see, are not governed by our control. We can put ourselves in position to seize them should they arise. But there’s no guarantee they will.

This is doubly true for second opportunities. To get another bite of the apple, we need everything to align just right. And that rarely happens.

We can talk about doing better next time. But expecting there to be a next time is foolhardy.

The randomness of all this can be cruel. There are surely some who seize their third, fourth, even fifth chances. All while others are left with the memories of the one that got away.

But such is life.

Don’t be fooled. The mulligan is anything but an inevitability.

When I was in college, I wrecked my car.

Like so many accidents, the specifics of this crash were complicated. But the state of my vehicle was unambiguous. It was totaled.

In the days after the wreck, I called in favors to get from my house to campus and back. But I knew this wasn’t a strategy that would last long-term. And I was way too poor to buy a new car.

Just as panic started to cloud my mind, my parents called. They had recently bought a new sedan. And they’d had planned on surprising me with their old one as a graduation gift. But given the recent events, they’d decided to move that timeline up.

My father told me he’d bring the car down to me on one condition. This would be the only car gifted to me. If I wrecked it, I’d be on my own.

It would have been all too easy to ignore this warning. After all, second chances were all around me.

The federal government had recently bailed out the banking system and major automakers. Many of my classes allowed me to drop my lowest test score to boost my grade.

Still, I knew my father wasn’t kidding. So, I took his words as gospel. And I made the most of my opportunity.

I consistently played it safe behind the wheel. I drove defensively and strove to avoid risks. By the time I traded in the car six years later, it had nary a scratch on it.

By then, I was a full-fledged adult, with a steady income and an unwavering sense of responsibility. I’d come to recognize that second chances didn’t grow on trees. While I could make some minor mistakes, I could not blow the opportunities I was given.

For if I did, there’d be few chances at redemption.

Not long before this article was posted, the Texas Rangers broke through.

The team returned to the World Series and claimed its first championship.

Jubilation abounded. The Rangers had made the most of their second chance.

But had they really?

If you ran a quick check, you’d find exactly zero players from that 2011 team on the championship roster. Only one coach was on both squads.

Those guys who I thought would get back to the World Series and get it done — well, they never did. An entirely different group broke through. One unencumbered by the past.

Yes, this was the first opportunity on the big stage for many players. Others had succeeded under the bright lights before. Hardly any needed redemption.

It was the rest of us — the owners, the field staff, the broadcasters, and the fans — who yearned for another opportunity. But we didn’t swing a bat or throw a pitch. We never crossed the chalk lines into the field of play.

Our contribution was passionate, but it was ultimately passive.

Such is the nature of the second chance mirage. Lightning might strike twice, but it will rarely incinerate the same dirt both times.

We are more transitory than the structures we build. That makes it challenging for the moment to find us again. And that causes second chances to go up in smoke.

Yes, counting on mulligans is like wishing on stars. The return on our investment is low.

It’s far better for us to focus on seizing the moment at hand. On making the most of our opportunity the first time around. And on turning the page should things fail to work out.

This is sustainable. This is realistic. This is the most prudent way forward.

I’m ready to make this shift. Are you?

This, Not That

I stepped into the simulator bay and set a golf ball down on the turf. With a deep breath and a mighty swing, I sent it skyward.

The ball’s rising arc was quickly interrupted by the simulator’s backdrop. The screen took over from there, projecting it partway down an imaginary fairway. The ball – now virtual – took a hop and rolled for a bit before coming to a stop.

As I paused to admire my handiwork, I heard a voice from behind me.

That’s a good start. But try not to let your hips fly open. And make sure your arms don’t drift backward.

I took another hack, trying to internalize what I’d just heard. But the swing resulted in a dead duck.

The ball squirted feebly ahead for a few yards, barely gracing the backdrop with its presence.

OK, let’s try this, the voice responded, now close to my right ear. I turned to see my golf instructor pointing to the inside of my right arm.

See your triceps there? Imagine there’s a magnet connecting it to your side. As you swing, make sure you don’t lose that connection.

I took a deep breath and readied myself for another hack. And as I swung, everything was different.

The ball rose majestically off my club face, soaring much further down the virtual fairway than before. My instructor seemed satisfied.

Better. Much better.

I learned a couple things on that afternoon.

How to swing a golf club competently. But also, how best to internalize instruction.

Yes, it turned out that I did much better when I was told what to do, than what not to do.

When I was instructed about what to avoid, I’d tense up. I’d be tentative and get in my own way.

But when I was told what to focus on, I’d zone in. I’d incorporate improvements effortlessly, and I’d iterate my technique with fluidity. Results would inevitably follow.

This realization was a game changer.

On subsequent trips to the driving range or the golf course, my swing would occasionally get out of whack. But when it did, I wouldn’t get flustered. I’d calmly tell myself Keep that triceps connected. And I’d get back on track.

The same rule applied to life away from a golf club. If I was given a roadmap forward, I’d fare far better than I would with an edict of avoidance.

Do this resonated far better than not that.

Carrots and sticks.

It’s become a trope for leadership.

As best I can tell, this phrase originated in the horseback era. An angry owner might have flogged his steed as punishment for poor performance. But if the horse acted as expected, that same owner might have rewarded it with a carrot.

Horses, of course, are no longer a primary means of transportation. But in the realm of power wielding, the carrots and sticks debate persists.

Some of the powerful assert their influence through deterrence. Others inspire a following through benevolence.

Each has proven effective in certain group settings. But when it comes to individual improvement, the carrot stands apart.

Growth, you see, cannot be spurred by the heel of a boot or the buckle of a belt. Fear of suffering will not speed up evolution. It will only clutter our mind and make us hesitant.

To know the way, we must be shown it. And as we follow down that path, the reinforcement can help fortify us.

We can become more self-assured. We can build muscle memory. And we can see the full picture.

Then, and only then, can we focus on erasing the stray brush strokes. On eschewing what doesn’t fit in favor of what does.

The carrot must precede the stick. Do this must come before not that.

I made plenty of mistakes during my childhood.

Nothing critical, mind you. Just a large dose of youthful indiscretion.

When I erred, I’d often turn toward my father with my shoulders slumped. I’d fess up to what I’d done and prepare to face the music.

Each time though, his response would be the same.

What will you do differently next time?

This would inevitably catch me off guard. And I wouldn’t always have a response.

But the question was less a test than an invitation. An invitation to dialogue.

My father would coach me up. He’d remind me that I’d likely come across the same scenario in the future. And he’d help me formulate a sound game plan for that eventuality.

Then he would end the conversation with a warning.

Don’t make the same mistake twice.

I’d be lying if I understood this method in the moment. Truth be told, I thought I was getting away with my mess-ups.

I’d heard so many stories of friends and classmates getting grounded for their mistakes — or worse. Hadn’t I deserved that fate too?

But now, I recognize what my father was doing. As a longtime teacher, he was using his professional and parenting skills to help me grow. All while keeping me accountable.

Now, there is no one-size-fits-all manual for parenting, managing, or mentorship. Our experiences and styles diverge. But I do think that the pattern my father displayed has broad potential. Potential that is all too often left uncovered.

You see, we are overly obsessed with mistakes. They’re unfortunate, unsightly, and can cause downstream effects.

But mishaps, flaws, errors — they don’t occur in a vacuum. There’s so much more below the surface that can precipitate a wrong step. So much that will remain if we simply kill the visible part with fire.

We can’t adequately address the root cause that way. Removing all that’s wrong won’t necessarily lead us to what’s right.

It’s simply not that intuitive.

We need new seeds to supplant the unruly weeds of our garden. We need a torch to illuminate our path through the wilderness.

We need a guide for our journey. A guide who can help us find our own way.

We need do this before not that.

So, lets change our approach. Let’s reset our focus.

Let’s put ourselves on the best possible path to sustained success.

Author: Dylan Brooks