Tag: connection

Who We Need to Be

All I have I would have given gladly not to be standing here today.

Those were some of the first words Lyndon B. Johnson uttered on November 27, 1963.

Johnson had just ascended to the highest office in the land — the United States Presidency. It was a role he had long aspired toward. But now, in a speech to Congress, he seemed to yearn to give it all back.

In a vacuum, such desires might have seemed odd — even alarming. A reluctant leader of the free world would be a major liability.

But at this moment, those words were a torniquet for a wounded nation.

You see, just four days earlier, Johnson had taken the oath of office aboard Air Force One. President John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated during a parade in downtown Dallas. And Johnson needed to assume Kennedy’s office immediately.

The shock and horror of that event had rattled everyone. The worst had happened — in Johnson’s home state of Texas, no less — and now the nation was reeling. This surely was not how Johnson had envisioned his ascension.

Johnson had a reputation as a bulldog, a politician who could achieve objectives through sheer will and resolve. He was as tough as they came, and he could be emphatically persuasive.

But those were not the qualities the American people needed to see at a time like this. So, in that initial address to Congress, Johnson took far more somber tone.

An assassin’s bullet has thrust upon me the awesome burden of the Presidency. I am here today to say I need your help; I cannot bear this burden alone.

Johnson would later speak of the need for strength, and his obligation to honor Kennedy’s legacy by seeing through his initiatives.

But make no mistake. This was not a bold and fiery address. It was quite the opposite.

In a moment of turmoil, the normally tough-minded Texan had become exactly who the nation needed him to be.

About three months before Johnson took the dais in the United States Capitol, another man stepped up to a microphone on the far end of the National Mall.

Staring toward the Washington Monument, that man spoke of his dreams. Dreams of a future of improved racial relations, of civil rights, of hope.

That man, of course, was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And those words would go on to change history.

But they almost didn’t happen.

Indeed, if you were to peek at Dr. King’s script on that August day in 1963, the words I have a dream would not be on there. The reverend was planning to speak of reality, rather than visions.

This straightforward approach had been Dr. King’s hallmark. He took a plainspoken tone during the Montgomery Bus Boycotts and in his Letter from Birmingham Jail.

The objectives were to call out injustice and spur action. And this style of leadership had helped achieve both thus far.

But as he stared out from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Dr. King realized the crowd assembled before him needed something more. They needed hope.

And in that moment, Dr. King became who he needed to be to deliver it.

There’s no doubt that Lyndon B. Johnson heard about that speech. After all, the White House is roughly a mile from where Dr. King delivered it.

So, when it was his turn to speak to an aggrieved nation, Johnson had a blueprint. A shining example of how to speak from the heart. A case study in being what his audience needed him to be.

Johnson followed that blueprint and met the moment.

But his words ended up guiding us into the wilderness.

History has proven unkind to Lyndon Johnson.

An escalating war abroad and civil unrest at home ultimately did his presidency in. The fiasco redrew political lines in permanent marker, setting the precursor for a modern-day divided America.

Perhaps that’s why few point to Johnson’s address to Congress as exemplary leadership these days. Maybe they feel that discretion seems the better part of valor.

That could well be the case. But I think something deeper is at play.

You see, there is a popular leadership standard called The Steady Hand. This approach prioritizes consistency in all situations. And prominent examples of it are everywhere.

There’s Winston Churchill’s steely defiance, which remained intact through the ups and downs of World War II. There’s Derek Jeter’s quiet confidence, a metronome that steered the New York Yankees through years of baseball dominance. There’s even Steve Jobs’ petulance, which might not have been desirable, but still yielded consistent innovation.

These examples — and others — have helped The Steady Hand take on a life of its own. So much so that it’s become the de facto playbook for leadership.

Those who follow it are lauded. Those who eschew it are critiqued — through shouts or in whispers.

That’s what happened to President Lyndon B. Johnson. It’s even what happened to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Each is remembered for how their moment in the limelight ended. One a pariah, the other a martyr.

Such focus is a reflection on their malleability and their vulnerability. It’s a statement on the price to paid by those who buck the Steady Hand trend.

Yet, these broad doses of rug sweeping do us no good. It doesn’t cover up the inherent flaws in the Steady Hand approach.

Indeed, there are times when this approach is not enough. There are times when we need to see our reflection in the eyes of those who inspire us. There are times when we need our heroes to be human.

And in those moments, the best leaders become exactly who we need them to be.

We seem to have forgotten this lesson. But it’s not too late to change course.

There’s a concept out there called Active Listening.

Rather than just opening their ears, active listeners open their minds. They absorb the speakers’ words rather than jumping at ready responses. They try to understand what the speaker is thinking and take that context into account.

I learned of this concept in business school and was smitten with it instantly. It’s changed how I communicate and how I live.

There’s more nuance to my personal and professional relationships now. I better understand where friends, family and co-workers are coming from when they speak with me. And I’m more adept at meeting the moment and being who they need me to be.

It’s worked wonders for me. And I’m certain it could have a similar effect for others.

You see, we could all use some active listening. We could all use some malleability in our approach. We could all use some practice in being who we need to be.

So, let’s put away our stubborn pride. Let’s stop standing on ceremony. And let’s get to work.

A world of good awaits us. Let’s unlock it.

The Rhythm of Connection

I had some time to kill.

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

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

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

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

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

The scene around me was too interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, cafes have remained popular.

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

It’s because of the connections they help forge.

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

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

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

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

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

But those efforts proved fruitless. Social connection persevered.

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

The company he redefined? Starbucks.

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

You can observe a lot by watching.

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

But there is a great deal of truth to it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We still need to tap into that rhythm of connection.

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

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

Origin Stories

It’s not where you came from, it’s where you’re headed.

You’ve likely heard this a time or two. Or something like it.

The idea is straightforward: Where we come from is insignificant.

There is no cap on our potential. With hard work, determination and a little luck, we can get where we want to go.

This idea is akin to an ideal. It’s aspirational. It’s uplifting.

And it’s not true.

In reality, we do care about where we came from. Our origin stories matter.

In every aspect of our lives — from family to food to entertainment to shopping, we are obsessed with origins.

Whether we’re traveling through the silver screen to Tatooine to meet Luke Skywalker in Star Wars, reading of Apple’s beginnings in a garage or learning of where the ingredients of tonight’s meal are from, the origin stories are a big part of the ride. Similarly, getting to know new people often means trading stories of where we came from and how we got here.

These patterns are inherently embedded. They’re why the three act structure of storytelling is so prevalent in movies, theater and TV shows. They’re why meeting a romantic partner’s parents is such a key milestone in courtship.

This is no accident.

Origin stories break down boundaries. They make us relatable. And they help forge emotional ties.

As social beings, we are wired for these types of interactions. Yet, we are also vigilant at fighting off the threats that might undermine our existence.

We’ve come up with an elaborate system to reconcile these opposing sensations. One where we separate the world into those we rely on and those we’re wary of.

The dividing line between these two segments is trust. We build social relationships with those we trust. And we try and avoid contact with those we don’t.

Trust is inherently valuable. And earning it is no easy feat.

It requires a series of consistent actions. It requires proof of selflessness. And it requires relatability.

The first two components can be achieved with a measure of persistence over time. But the third one requires something more.

It requires a massive dose of humility.

And there’s no better vehicle for that sensation than an origin story.

For no matter how powerful we might seem, our origins are derived from a place of vulnerability. We start the journey of our existence meekly, lacking the ability for self-sufficiency.

This is true no matter the circumstances of our origin. Regardless our ethnicity, nationality or socioeconomic class, our early days are ones of weakness. They’re the cocoon we metamorphize out of.

In many ways, these formative years are our greatest shared human experience. They’re the great equalizer we can all relate to.

Rehashing them can help us find common ground. They help us put our cards on the table and say Hey, I’m human too.

It might feel cringe-worthy to harken back to those early days. We might instead feel the urge to share with others what we have acute control over — our decisions, accomplishments and aspirations.

But there is power in the past.

The power of context. The power of introspection. And the power of connection.

This is the power that forges the strongest bonds. This is the power that can help us continue to grow and thrive.

It would be foolish to pass this potential up in the name of vanity and ego.

Yes, where we’re headed matters. But so does where we came from.

Never forget that.

 

How Can I Help?

These are the four most important words in our toolset.

The question “How can I help?” isn’t just meant for customer service anymore. Nor is it restricted to our corporate identity. It resonates in every aspect of our lives.

Making ourselves useful never goes out of style. There is always more that can be done to make the world a better place.

But a spirit of utility goes further than promoting productivity. It can enrich our lives through the connections it builds, the goodwill it spawns and the positive outcomes it makes possible.

You see, every opportunity we come across is a learning experience. But we learn more when we’re active than when we’re passive. In other words, when we’re taking the initiative to provide assistance, we’re putting ourselves in position to learn by doing. We’re taking ourselves out of our comfort zone in order to improve our world, and gathering a bevy of actionable takeaways at the same time.

This is far better than sitting back and waiting for learning experiences to be given to us. While both assigned tasks and sporadic bouts of adversary can provide us powerful lessons to iterate and grow from, they are explicitly out of our control. So, if we learn exclusively this way, we train ourselves to be reactive instead of proactive.

And this means we sell ourselves short.

I say this because our society is built upon utility and connection. That is, the more useful and connected we are, the better off we will be.

With these constructs in place, why would we settle for only the opportunities we’re given? There are so many more opportunities to be had, if we only have the stones to seek them out. And it starts by offering to be useful.

This is a prime reason I commit to asking how I can help as often as I can. It’s not about boosting my ego or padding my resume. It’s about being a better person.

Indeed, offering assistance has helped me gain valuable knowledge beyond the scope of my job function in two separate careers. It’s helped me meet new people and endear myself to them quickly. And it’s made me a better family member, friend and colleague.

More importantly, it’s helped me become a better citizen. Twice in the past decade, I moved to a new region where a hardly knew a soul. But both times, a spirit of utility has helped me forge a foothold in my new home — and quickly.

It’s worked both ways. I learned how to build authentic and lasting connections with my new community simply by being helpful. In turn, I earned a reputation of being empathetic to the everyday trials and tribulations my new neighbors faced.

In fact, I believe the life I’ve built for myself is a direct result of my willingness to put myself out there and lend a hand.

But this principle doesn’t apply to just me. It can work for all of us.

Offering assistance at every turn can make us better employees. It can make us better spouses and parents. And it can make us better friends and neighbors.

Plus, when we all commit to this together, it can make our society more connected and conscientious. When we’ve all got each other’s backs, there’s no limit to what we can do.

It all starts with us. So, let’s use those four powerful words whenever we can.

How can I help?

Navigating a Complex Society

As I reflect on the state of our society, one thought lingers:

I feel lost.

Not in a dark and hopeless way. More in the sense of: Where do we go from here?

The roadmap used to seem so simple: Do the right thing, connect with each other, grow as one. But there are layers of complexity making that path much more obscure.

Consider this:

  • We aim to build bridges across cultural divides in pursuit of a common good. Yet, by ignoring those cultural divides altogether, we ruin all the goodwill we’ve built.
  • We strive to care about each other and share a goal of a brighter future. Yet, by caring too much, our partisanship serves to divide and alienate.
  • We seek to trust others and find solace in their best intentions. Yet, blind trust easily exposes us to exploitation.

Shades of gray are everywhere. And they make the principle of unity seem as unfeasible as it is noble.

You see, striving for a common good requires us to rally around what we share, and use empathy to connect over what we don’t. But that connection only goes so deep. As a white man in Texas, I can’t pretend to understand the plight of a black woman in California. There are barriers of geography, skin color, gender and upbringing — along with 400 years of ugly historical constructs.

I can’t break through that barrier; neither can she. Even as we each strive to build a better future for our collective society, our differences remain a visible scar.

How do we build off this? How can we accept and celebrate our differences without letting the presence of that divide – and its associated fear, mistrust and isolation — destroy us?

I don’t know. But I know we need to try.

We must seek to get a better grasp on the complexities of our society. We must discover what unifies us and what divides us. We must understand what we should rally around together and what we should respectfully leave be. And we must build upon what we share without whitewashing that which we don’t.

This process will be difficult and uncomfortable. But it will help us remove the divisive stench of racism, misogyny and xenophobia — three ugly results of our unwillingness to come to terms with a complex society.

It will take a lot more than truly understanding the real ground rules of how we create to each other if we want to build a brighter future for everyone. But we owe it to ourselves to at least take that first step forward.