Category: Thoughts

The Linearity Trap

You’ve got to stand for something, or you’ll fall for anything.

So goes the chorus of an old Aaron Tippin song.

Whenever I hear it on the radio, I get fired up.

Heck yes, we should stand for something, I think. There’s no use in being wishy-washy.

I’ve taken such perspective as gospel for years. But now, I’m starting to question this mantra.

Back in 2004, John Kerry was campaigning to be the United States President.

The Massachusetts senator had an uphill battle against him. The nation was only three years removed from the 9/11 terror attacks. American combat operations in Afghanistan and Iraq were nascent. And the incumbent president — George W. Bush — continued to earn strong marks for his handling of the job.

However, Kerry — the Democratic nominee — saw a window of opportunity. As the military got entangled in conflicts in the Middle East, reporters scrutinized President Bush’s prior service in the Air National Guard.

There were rumors that President Bush had sought to avoid combat in the Vietnam War, which was escalating during his time in the Air National Guard. And there were open questions about whether the president had fulfilled his military service.

Kerry pounced on this opening. He had served as a Swift Boat captain in the United States Navy, earning a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and three Purple Hearts for his service in Vietnam. Kerry made it a point to feature such accolades in his campaign, contrasting it to President Bush’s dubious service record.

In a country that loves stories of military valor, this strategy seemed like a slam dunk. But Kerry’s efforts quickly hit substantial headwinds.

A political organization — Swift Vets and POWs for Truth — challenged Kerry’s narrative, claiming he had misrepresented his service in Vietnam. The group also claimed that Kerry’s later criticism of the Vietnam War represented a betrayal of military trust.

Kerry tried to defend himself against these accusations, but they stuck. He became known as a flip-flopper — someone who would shift between opposing stances on a topic. He went on to lose the presidential election by a wide margin.

Swift Vets and POWs for Truth later disbanded, and the group’s claims were eventually discredited. But the damage had been done.

For many, John Kerry had defied the Aaron Tippin Edict. He had failed to fall for something. And as president, he was liable to fall for anything.

Four years after the Swift Boat scandal, I was eligible to vote in a presidential election for the first time. Kerry was not running for office in 2008, but I still scrutinized the candidates closely for inconsistencies.

Were they true to their word? I asked myself. Did anyone flip-flop?

I repeated this exercise for another decade. Linearity was the best policy, I told myself.

I should have known better.

It is not the strongest of the species that survives, not the most intelligent. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.

Those words come from Charles Darwin.

Darwin is notorious for his work with modern evolutionary theory. But the foundations of his principles continue to elude us.

Darwin saw evolution more as an arc than a straight line. As the environment changed, the process of natural selection would pick new targets. Only the most adaptable species could stay in the running each time the landscape shifted.

Evolutionary theory underpins much of our society these days. Modern capitalism, pop culture, and even the trajectory of industry all reward those who are most adaptable to the demands of a changing world.

Yet, we fail to get the memo when it comes to assessing our own viewpoints. Those Aaron Tippin lyrics fill our minds, and we feel determined to take a stand.

We refuse to admit that life is not linear. We refuse to change, even as the circumstances at hand shift drastically.

Such shortcomings have been made all too apparent during the recent pandemic. As an unknown disease spread around the globe, guidance on how to ward it off shifted.

An early focus on physical distancing and handwashing morphed into a new approach — wearing face coverings and getting inoculated. Activities that were shamed in the early days of the disease — such as small outdoor gatherings — were later deemed safe and preferable.

The shifting advice was as frustrating as it was confusing. Some defied it all together — rallying against masking, business restrictions, or vaccine adoption. Others refused to change their ways as the guidance evolved further.

These actions have led to strained social relationships, and they’ve accelerated the toll levied by the pandemic. Many have blamed the rebellious for these outcomes — pointing to their selfishness and lack of empathy.

These people do have some impact on the outcome, for sure. But our expectations are equally to blame.

For the more we follow the playbook laid out by Swift Vets and POW’s for Truth — demanding linearity above all else — the more we stand to lose.

Polarization will only go up. Discourse will only go down. And our ability to make choices that meet the moment will disintegrate.

Knowing all this, it’s hard not to turn a critical eye toward those Aaron Tippin lyrics.

Having a backbone does matter. But it might not be the panacea we think it is.

An immovable conviction may protect us from manipulation. But it can also close the door to coalition.

And to fix what ails us, a coalition is exactly what we need.

It’s my hope that we can move beyond our differences. That we can restart discourse, both in politics and broader society. That we can face the needs of an evolving world, rather than anchoring ourselves in principle.

But this work can only start if we free ourselves from the linearity trap. It can only take flight if we accept that our views might change with the times.

Yes, we do need to stand for something. But that something should be openness.

Openness to connection. Openness to information. Openness to change.

I’m ready to meet the moment. Are you?

Scope of the Problem

On April 15, 1912, the Titanic sank.

In the dead of the North Atlantic night, the luxury liner hit an iceberg. Less than three hours later, she went under, taking about 1,500 people with her.

The sinking of the Titanic — on her maiden voyage, no less — is one of the most iconic disasters in maritime history. It’s led us to re-evaluate transportation safety protocols. It’s forced us to consider our own mortality. And it’s captivated modern generations, thanks to a blockbuster Hollywood portrayal.

Yet, none of those outcomes are what drew my interest.

My fascination with the Titanic saga comes from what it represents. Namely, the disaster that ensues when we don’t understand the scope of the problem.

Long before the Titanic took sail, icebergs were a source of maritime terror.
Hulking masses of ice could suddenly appear in the seas ahead without warning. Ships — built of wood and powered by the wind — would collide with these ice masses and capsize.

The Titanic did not have this issue. Its crew had the tools to spot water hazards by day and by night, and the ship had the engine power to steer clear of them.

Indeed, the Titanic’s first officer reportedly gave orders to evade the iceberg while the ship was some distance away.

But it was too late. The ship was doomed.

The frozen mass sticking out of the water was only one portion of the iceberg. Much more of the ice lay below the surface water and was undetectable to the naked eye.

That submerged edge of the iceberg was much closer to the ship than anyone realized. Within moments, the ship’s hull smacked into it, causing catastrophic damage.

This unfortunate incident was compounded by further missteps. The crew started an evacuation, but there were not enough lifeboats for all the passengers. Furthermore, the crew had not been briefed on proper evacuation procedures, leading them to launch several half-full lifeboats. And other ships did not respond to the Titanic’s distress signals until after it had already sunk.

At every turn, the crew of the Titanic had failed to grasp the scope of the problem. And these failures cost lives.

It’s been more than a century since the Titanic went down. And yet, we seem to run into more icebergs than ever before.

A modern world, powered by technology, has provided us access to troves of information. Yet, we fail to account for the complexity layered in.

We believe that everything is simple and that the answers to any issue are as clear as day. Our confidence is through the roof, and our brashness is on full display.

Still, much lies beyond our view, just like the submerged portion of an iceberg. And if we don’t know to look for these protruding angles, we risk our own catastrophe.

Understanding the scope of the problem is as critical as ever.

In the fall of 2001, the United States Military set its sights on a faraway land called Afghanistan.

It was a nation I’d first heard of only weeks prior, in the aftermath of the September 11th attacks. A terrorist network had plotted the attack from that land. And now, it seemed like the root of all evil.

The purpose of the military operation seemed clear. Kill or capture the terrorists who attacked our land. And wipe out the Taliban government that supported them.

It didn’t take long to achieve most of this objective. The mastermind of the attacks — Osama bin Laden — escaped to neighboring Pakistan, where he’d evade U.S. intelligence for nearly 10 years. But the Taliban were removed from power, the terrorist cells were scattered, and the days of Afghanistan threatening the United States seemed over.

Into this vacuum came a new mission. The American military would now be tasked with building a western-style society in the far reaches of the Middle East. Troops helped support a democratic government, building roads and infrastructure while standing up a massive Afghan security force.

This work lasted for two decades, with a price tag rising into the billions. Thousands of United States soldiers lost their lives over the course of the operation. Many others were seriously injured.

Eventually, the United States military pulled out of Afghanistan. But before the withdrawal was even complete, the nation had fallen to resurgent Taliban forces, spawning a humanitarian crisis.

The disastrous withdrawal was reminiscent of many of the United States’ exit from the Vietnam War. Suddenly, millions of Americans were sharing their hot takes on the fiasco.

Some said the U.S. had wasted the sacrifices of so many by ceding its post in the region. Others said two decades of conflict were proof enough that those sacrifices had been made in vain.

Both sides made a compelling case. But neither took the full picture into account.

The issue was not solely how long the U.S. stayed in Afghanistan. It was the assumption that Afghans would welcome a shift to Western society.

The U.S. hadn’t accounted for the cultural nuance of the region, much as it hadn’t understood the cultural nuance of Vietnam decades earlier. Our nation had failed to understand the scope of the problem. And because of that, the efforts to solve it came undone.

Wise men say only fools rush in.

Elvis Presley once crooned these words, before abandoning this advice with the song’s next line.

I am not Elvis Presley. I’m not famous. I’m not musically talented.

But I am staying the course.

I’ve made solving problems a core tenet of my life. And yet, I refuse to rush into this endeavor.

Indeed, each time I come across an issue, I try and determine the scope of the problem first. What angles am I missing? Which perspectives can I learn from?

Such determinations take rigor. They run counter to expectations of instant solutions.

But this sacrifice is essential.

We can only hope to find real answers if we can see the whole picture. Anything less and we’re just guessing.

I’m committed to removing this guesswork from my process. I’m determined to reduce my chances of accidentally sparking a catastrophe.

Are you?

The Half Glass of Adversity

I couldn’t sleep.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Excitement wasn’t blocking The Sandman’s advance. Neither was anxiety.

No, what was keeping me awake was a buildup of acid on my throat. It surged up my esophagus into the back of my mouth, leaving a burning sensation in its path. Every time I tried to doze off, nausea would jolt me awake.

Antacids didn’t help. Neither did raising my pillow. There was no relief to be found.

So, after a sleepless night, I threw in the towel.

I booked a doctor’s appointment, walking out of the office with a prescription that would help keep the acid at bay. But even with relief in my clutches, the adventure was far from over.

Over the next two months, I’d undergo a litany of tests — an ultrasound, an MRI, two endoscopies. I’d spend hours away from my job and incur tens of thousands of dollars in insurance claims. And at the end of this gauntlet, I’d find myself frustratingly devoid of answers.

There was no silver bullet for what ailed me. The risk of another flare-up would always be around the corner.

I had to get used to that.

I know, dear reader, that tales of runaway stomach acid are not the most pleasant. They might even seem taboo to share in a forum like this one.

But these ordeals are my reality. And the tactics I use to avert them are my reality too. 

Living with digestive issues saddles me with rules. Rules about when to eat. Rules about what to eat. And rules about how to react if I break protocol.

It all can be overwhelming at times. And it all can be socially isolating at others.

Insisting that companions commit to an earlier dinnertime is never pleasant. Triple-checking with restaurant staff about the ingredients in a dish makes me feel like a pariah.

I wish I didn’t have to go through this dance. I wish that I could live unencumbered and carefree.

But I don’t have that option. So, I do what I need to get by.

And yet, merely calling all this survival is missing the point.

Nearly two decades ago, my life was inexorably changed.

Terrorists toppled skyscrapers mere miles from my middle school classroom. A crystal-clear September morning devolved into a day I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

For years, I was filled with anger, grief, and confusion on account of this atrocity. To a large degree, I still feel this way today.

And yet, I made it past the 9/11 attacks. I didn’t let them break me.

Many years later, I moved across Texas without a job lined up. Over the course of three months, I burned through my savings as I sought steady employment.

All of this was also traumatic. I was filled with shame and doubt for not landing on my feet quickly.

And yet, I made it past that experience as well. In the subsequent years, I’ve built a career and generally thrived.

This resurgence took a hit when a global pandemic brought the world to a halt. So much of the life I’d built succumbed to the virus’ long shadow. So many initiatives that I’d set suddenly had to be scrapped.

The darkest months of the pandemic — filled with social isolation and the tension of uncertainty — felt like misery in slow-motion. They were nothing short of excruciating.

And yet, I’ve made it past those difficult days. In a relatively short timeframe, I’ve gotten myself back on track.

Yes, resilience has been a hallmark of my life. Time after time, I’ve faced significant roadblocks. And in each instance, I’ve risen to the challenge.

I’ve chronicled many of these crises here on Words of the West. But in general, I’m loath to dwell on them.

For the memories remain bitter. The scars persist.

I don’t want adversity to define me. And yet, its imprint is unmistakable.

The trouble started with a milkshake.

I drank the beverage at a diner back when I was a teenager. I immediately regretted it.

It turned out I was lactose intolerant. Many of the dishes I’d enjoyed to that point did not appreciate me in kind.

This revelation changed things.

Eating would no longer be a thoughtless activity. It would now be a minefield to traverse.

So, I did what had to be done. I established a diet. I cooked at home more often. And I stocked my medicine cabinet with digestive aids.

Such measures were largely successful. But not universally so.

Indeed, the night I lay awake with acid churning in my throat came years after that fateful milkshake. I had done so much right, and yet it had all turned out so wrong.

In the wake of such an ordeal, it would be so easy to fall back on old habits. It would be all too tempting to call that experience — and the litany of medical tests that followed — something to survive. It would be all too natural to bury the painful memories and move on.

But I refused to do any of that.

This time, I thought of all the changes I’d made to meet my digestive challenges. And I considered the benefits those adaptations brought.

Continual meal planning, for instance, honed my anticipation skills. Instead of just penciling in the next meal on the docket, I started thinking of what plans and obligations lay ahead in my day. I started considering how I could prepare for them.

Similarly, a necessary aversion to late-night snacking made me consider my sleep patterns. If digesting a burger at 1 AM was a bad idea, then maybe staying up until 1 AM was also a poor decision.

Considerations like these might seem trivial. But they provide a significant silver lining.

These details help us see adversity as a glass half-full. They give us something to build off.

These silver linings don’t validate the strife we went through. But they show how the byproduct of that struggle can be a lasting force for good.

That’s how it’s worked out in my life, at least. But I have a feeling I’m not alone when it comes to this sentiment.

So, let’s take a fresh look at adversity. Let’s reconsider how we define it and how we quantify it.

Something vibrant can emerge from our most challenging moments. We just need to know where to look.

The Competitive Edge

As the game ended, my team got into a single-file line. We approached our opponents, who were also in a single-file line.

Good game, we exclaimed to each opposing player as we gave them a fist bump. Good game, each opposing player replied.

The handshake line has always seemed like another order of business to many athletes. It was just another part of the game experience to get through.

But to me, the handshake line seemed like an opportunity. It was a chance to honor the achievements of others — even if those achievements might have come at my expense.

We go at each other tooth and nail on the field. But at the end of the day, we can show each other mutual respect.

I’m writing this in the wake of another Olympic games. And while the memories of these Olympics will likely stay with us for some time, there’s one moment that will remain front and center for me.

This moment came after the final round of the high-jump competition. An official approached two of the competitors — a Qatari and an Italian — and let them know they were tied for the top spot on the podium. The two men would need to jump once more to decide who would get the gold medal.

Upon hearing this, the Qatari turned to the official and asked Can we have two golds? When the official replied it was possible, the erstwhile competitors embraced, setting off an emotional celebration.

It turned out the two men knew each other well. They’d trained together before and were close off the track. One had even attended the other’s wedding.

Still, that doesn’t make the decision to share the gold medal any less remarkable.

In the heat of the moment, two men from opposite parts of the world seeking acclaim decided to share that glory. And we all won for witnessing it.

The story of the high jumpers stands out to me, in great part because it’s so different from my understanding of competition.

I grew up watching Michael Jordan, an uber-talented basketball player who told himself his opponents were slighting him at every turn — even when they weren’t. Jordan played these tricks on himself so that he could maintain a Dominate and destroy mindset.

That’s what competition was supposed to be, I was told. It was about getting the upper hand. And that meant vanquishing any obstacle in our path.

Such an approach had its benefits. Edgy competition raised the quality of the games Jordan played in, providing premium entertainment value.

But there were some costs as well. Jordan’s Chicago Bulls found themselves in nasty rivalries with the Detroit Pistons and New York Knicks over the years. And two of Jordan’s most iconic moments included him celebrating over defeated opponents.

This was not the best look, and it did not provide the best example for the next generation.

No, what that generation — my generation — needed was precisely what those Olympic high jumpers displayed.

I have a strong competitive spirit.

I loathe the participation trophy trend that’s pervaded our society. I believe accolades should be earned, not mass distributed. And I do my best to prove my worth each day.

And yet sometimes, my best is not enough. Sometimes, there’s someone out there who’s faster, stronger, or better.

Am I supposed to resent their success? Should I treat their achievements as a personal slight?

I shouldn’t. And I don’t.

I know to tip my cap when I know I’m outclassed. I understand the importance of giving others their due.

Of course, it’s easier to do this when the stakes are low. Losing a recreational sports event is not the end of the world. Getting beat out for a job that would cover my rent? That’s a tougher pill to swallow.

Nevertheless, I make a point of not villainizing my competition for wanting what I want. I don’t blame them for executing their game plan more masterfully than I.

If there’s something I could have done better, I focus on how I can improve going forward. But if I gave my best and it wasn’t enough, I show my respect and move on.

This approach has worked well for me over the years. But I wonder if those at the top of the pyramid would find similar success with it.

After all, competitors like Michael Jordan are in another stratosphere. They’ve reached the pinnacle by harnessing the edge that others couldn’t. They’ve refused to accept that their best wasn’t good enough.

I can’t find that gear. I know that as well as I know anything.

And yet, I’ve long questioned whether such an admission is a knock on my ambition.

Now, finally, I believe I have the answer.

Most mornings start the same way for me.

I get up, put on workout clothes, and lace up my Nikes. Then, I go for a run.

Running gives me great peace. In the still of the early morning, I can be alone with my thoughts. I’m carefree as my feet hit the pavement in rhythmic harmony.

Still, this solitude can get monotonous at times. So, I joined a running club to change things up.

My first workout with the club was a bit of a culture shock. I simply wasn’t used to running in a pack.

Every other time I’d encountered a group of runners on the sidewalk, I’d tried to breeze past them. This wasn’t so much for bragging rights as to satisfy my self-competitive spirit.

If an entire group was running at that speed, surely, I had it in me to surpass it. At least that’s what I told myself.

But now, I was supposed to stick with the group. I was meant to follow the pack, not lead it.

I struggled with this notion for a couple of miles. But then a revelation hit me like a thunderbolt.

Running with the group wasn’t weakening my running prowess. It was making me stronger.

Sure, everyone was going a bit slower than I liked. But their steadiness helped me build stamina, and their camaraderie helped me build confidence.

This activity wasn’t going to close the gap between me and the top finishers at 5K races. But it was making me a more well-rounded runner — one who could look on a fifth-place finish with acceptance rather than self-loathing.

This is the spirit that the Olympic high jumpers were tapping into. In a world that often divides us into winners and losers, they proved that giving our all can represent an even sweeter sense of victory.

So, let’s put away the yardsticks. Let’s turn off the scoreboards. Let’s ease off the comparisons.

We don’t need to stay one step ahead of everyone else to maintain our competitive edge. Our best is enough.

Principles and Results

I got set in the starting blocks, my heart pounding. To my left and right, 7 other runners did the same.

I was 11 years old, and this was my first track meet. There were people in the stands, coaches all around, and a slate of competitors who surely looked less green than I did.

All of this was intimidating. But at this moment, with the race impending, I was most terrified of one thing.

The starting gun.

I had issues with loud noises at this age. The flushing of industrial-strength toilets would terrify me. So would the honking of car horns and the firing of guns.

When I heard these sounds, my heart would skip a beat. I’d freeze, startled like a deer in the headlights.

Such a response would be devastating in this 100-meter race. I needed to get off the blocks quickly when called upon.

So, I tried to block out my fears. I reminded myself to be ready to run.

And when the gun went off, something unexpected happened. I reacted impeccably, rising into a sprinter’s position and taking off.

Now, I was flying down the track, outpacing the other kids by a few steps. Fear had evaporated into opportunity. I had a real chance to win this race.

Yet, as I thundered ahead, I worried that I was out of balance. My legs felt like they were leading the way, dragging my upper body along.

I knew that I needed to be in sync, so I leaned forward to compensate. But I leaned too far, and I took a tumble.

Now, the pack of competitors was far ahead of me, charging for the finish line. My legs were bloodied from the asphalt track. My hopes were dashed.

Even so, I wasn’t going to give up. I got back on my feet and charged forward with all that I had. And I crossed the finish line.

Just like that, my race was over. I was left to think about what might have been had my sprint not gone awry. That would be the narrative of this experience.

Or so I thought.

In school the next day, my teacher called me to the front of the class. She asked me to pull up my pant legs, so the class could see my scraped knees.

My teacher then explained that while I hadn’t won a medal in the 100-meter contest, I’d done something just as noteworthy. By getting back up and finishing the race, I’d shown courage, determination, and heart. And that was worthy of recognition.

Upon hearing this, my classmates applauded.

In hindsight, this seems like a special moment. A moment worth cherishing.

And indeed, I do hold this memory dear these days. But back then, I remember feeling supremely confused.

After all, I had fallen. I had failed.

There were no medals to show for my effort. No sterling race splits. There was just a row at the bottom of the results table with my name and unspectacular race time on it.

Why was I now being feted?

I didn’t know quite how to react.

There is no substitute for hard work.

So proclaimed one of America’s greatest innovators — Thomas Edison.

Edison’s inventions are widely known, but the winding journey toward such success are not. There were hundreds of challenges, setbacks, and outright failings along the way.

Many would-be innovators would have thrown in the towel in the face of such adversity. But Edison didn’t. He kept trying. And eventually, he turned those struggles into success.

Today, we laud those who have followed Edison’s lead. We single out those who try hard, and who stick with it through adversity.

Still, such positive attention ignores a key fact. Our effort doesn’t always correlate to our performance.

As I’ve explained before, effort and execution are two entirely different things.

In my 100-meter race, I had failed miserably at one of those tasks. And yet, everyone was acting as if I hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

It didn’t seem right.

There is a narrative out there claiming that America was built on hopes and dreams. But our society relies on results.

Results are how we evaluate performance in a free-market economy. It’s how businesses are valued. It’s how athletes are defined. It’s how musicians go Platinum and movies break the bank.

Even in a changing world, there is little appetite to change this model. We might squabble about providing a social safety net, but we still believe in singing for our supper.

Yes, if one was to brand an American mantra, it would likely be Deliver results.

And yet, that is not the recognition we espouse. We focus instead on principles.

Principles are how I ended up with that round of applause just for finishing a race. Principles are what drive us to recognize others for their work ethic, passion, or chivalry.

We celebrate these attributes because they’re culturally significant. We want to live in a world full of determined people who still have the presence of mind to care about their neighbors.

But if we focus too much on that side of the coin, we’re setting ourselves up for trouble.

In 1970, economist Milton Friedman wrote a New York Times Magazine article that changed the business world.

The Friedman Doctrine mandated that a public company’s only objective was to provide value to its shareholders. It tossed aside any grand sense of principle and zeroed in on the bottom line.

The Friedman Doctrine helped spur the rise of cutthroat capitalism. In the years that followed, businesses went to great lengths to drive results and increase their valuations.

Innovation soared and shareholder value exploded. But it wasn’t all rosy.

In the years following the Friedman Doctrine, corporate America abandoned its sense of humanity. Workers became more expendable than ever before, and the compensation gap soared. A focus on results for some did not provide benefits for all.

These days, there is a backlash to this pattern. Scholars and activists have demanded more from companies than an increase in stock prices. Employee empowerment and corporate social responsibility are among the items on their wish lists.

But progress in these areas has been staggered.

For while we feel strongly about principles, they don’t usurp results.

Companies must demonstrate success to stay in business. A runner must cross the finish line first to get the gold medal.

We put a lot of attention on how we can get there. But in the end, what matters is that we do get there.

So, let’s take a fresh perspective.

Let’s treat principles as table stakes, rather than exalted virtues. And let’s redirect our focus on the results they can bring.

The way we carry ourselves matters. But our achievements matter even more.

On Infrastructure

Several years back, a friend of mine was taking his now-wife to meet his parents for the first time.

The journey to his parents’ house was not normally a lengthy one. But on this day, a bridge along the route was closed for repairs. So, my friend had to take an extended detour. This only added to the suspense.

I’ve heard this story quite a few times over the years. But each time, I keep focusing on a singular detail — the closed bridge.

You see, I’ve gone to my friend’s parents’ house on several occasions. Just about every time, I’ve driven across that bridge to get there.

It’s not a majestic causeway over a lake or a grand suspension bridge over a wide river. It’s a simple concrete slab — buffeted by short walls — that traverses a tiny creek.

On most days, this bridge is easy to miss. But on that day when it was out of commission, it was impossible to ignore.

This story shines a light on something that’s generally left in the shadows.

Infrastructure.

Our default condition is not to think about the infrastructure around us. After all, the structures that shelter us, the roads that carry us, the bridges that support us — all of these are supposed to just work.

Their continued functionality is not meant to be celebrated. It’s not even meant to be noted.

This means that we’re only paying attention when things go wrong. We only notice when a structure buckles, when a road fails, when a bridge is closed.

We grumble about how unreliable everything is at that moment. And we fail to account for the rest of the time, where everything was up to par.

This mindset is problematic. Because infrastructure is not like patio furniture. You can’t just set it out and leave it alone.

Continued investment is needed to keep things from breaking down. But getting the buy-in to maintain something we barely notice is challenging.

And so, we end up with the patchwork system we now have. Ambitious government legislation gets gutted to meet a lower price tag. Construction projects end up delayed. And a range of issues — from trivial inconveniences to outright disasters — ensue.

It’s tempting to point the finger in the wake of these organizational failures. It’s tantalizing to look for a scapegoat in these moments of calamity. But it’s important to turn the microscope on ourselves, as well.

What exactly do we want from the systems we use? And are we willing to commit to?

I love to drive.

To me, nothing compares to getting behind the wheel and watching the landscape fly by. Whether I’m driving a sports car, a sedan, or an SUV, that magical feeling never goes away.

Yet, several years back, I got another sensation when I buckled up and put the key in the ignition.

Dread.

You see, there was plenty of road construction in the Dallas area back then. In fact, all the highways near my home were under construction — at the same time.

Getting anywhere was a nightmare. I never knew when there would be lane closures. Giant construction vehicles continually clogged up the roads. And wayward nails in the roadway threatened my tires time and again.

It would have been one thing if this was all routine maintenance. But many of these projects were adding something new to these highways.

Toll lanes.

No, it wasn’t enough for these construction crews to maintain the existing roadway. They were also tasked to add something that would cost future drivers money. And in the process, that something that was costing all drivers plenty of precious time.

I was irate.

I wanted to scream at anyone who had approved such an agreement for leaving me in endless traffic jams. I wanted to give them the bills for all the tire repairs I endured.

But I soon realized the decision-makers who approved this project did not deserve my wrath.

They were tethered to the whims of the taxpayers. And those taxpayers needed to see something tangible for their money.

That’s what the toll lanes were for. They weren’t just a revenue source. They were a statement to the taxpayers. One that said Here, we built this.

I needed to come to terms with that fact.

In the late 1960s, a mysterious construction project grew from the Florida wilderness.

Thousands of acres near Orlando were transformed into a magical kingdom. A land that would soon bring happiness to millions upon millions.

Walt Disney World might have seemed like it appeared out of nowhere. But its staying power has been even more impressive.

Year after year, the Disney World theme parks are meticulously maintained. Everything looks as fresh today as it did in 1971 when the resort opened.

The secret to all this is not pixie dust. It’s infrastructure.

Disney World spends plenty of money to keep its parks shiny and new. And visitors help subsidize that cost by buying entry tickets, food, and souvenirs.

It’s easy to get this buy-in when there’s the power of Disney magic behind you. But how can we repeat the feat when there’s not?

What can inspire us to support maintenance on a bridge, rather than Cinderella’s castle?

It requires a shift in focus. It demands that we stop equating the visible with the vital and that we start paying attention to the details.

This is not a scintillating proposition. But it is an essential one.

For the alternatives are not feasible.

We cannot wait until our infrastructure fails us and calamity ensues. Such inaction will never be deemed acceptable.

And we should not rely on bells and whistles to get the required fixes underway either. We needn’t require toll lanes in the median just to ensure the highway pavement is replaced.

So, let’s lean in. Let’s take a fresh look at the status quo. And instead of shredding it, let’s think about how we can best maintain it.

A brighter future depends on what we do with our present. Let’s not waste it.

Lessons to Live By

As I got behind the wheel, I was terrified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons to live by always do.

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

This is something I’ve long struggled to comprehend.

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

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

Of course, it’s rarely that simple.

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

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

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

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

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

Still, asking such questions misses the point.

The learning process is a set of inputs and outputs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Opportunities and Outcomes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Communism is another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These developments both amuse and sadden me.

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

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

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

But such pettiness misses the point.

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

I grew up with the blessing of good fortune.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead, I was grateful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our future depends on it.

Breaking Contain

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

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

Great, I thought. We’ve got him!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because staying rigid is no less risky.

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

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

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

Such reluctance does us little good.

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

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

A stumble is survivable. A capitulation is not.

In Color

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is no coincidence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But my concerns go far beyond my own preferences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s find them.