Tag: crisis

Efficiency Mode

I was in line at the car wash when the issues started.

First, the Check Engine light turned on. Then the airbag deployment indicator illuminated.

The electronic display near my center console started flickering on and off. And my power windows stopped working.

It was as if my car was having a seizure.

I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. My alternator was failing, and my car’s electrical system was on its last legs.

My car still worked, but my options were severely limited. If the engine were to idle for a few minutes longer, I’d be done for.

I didn’t have the money for a tow truck. And I didn’t know who to call for assistance.

There was but one option. I had to get this hunk of sheet metal to the mechanic while I still could.

The first task was to peel out of the car wash line. Fortunately, I was far enough from the cashier that I could cut away without incident.

But that only started the adventure.

The mechanic was four miles across town, with a maze of city streets in between. I’d need to find a route that didn’t have too many turns. And I had to go just the right speed to glide through every green light without effort. For if I stopped – or braked and accelerated too much – the car might have died on me.

Fortunately, I knew this part of town like the back of my hand. So, the optimal route came to mind instantly.

There’d be one left turn at the next intersection, followed by a two-mile straightway, a right turn, a one-mile straightaway, two more right turns, and a half-mile jaunt down a highway access road.

So, four turns and two long straightaways. With five traffic lights mixed in for good measure.

It wouldn’t be the easiest sequence for a dying car to traverse. But it was a Sunday afternoon, and the roads were half empty. If I made it through that initial left turn, the rest would be attainable.

I turned out of the car wash entrance and made my way to that first intersection, gradually applying pressure to the gas pedal. The left turn arrow was illuminated ahead of me. But I was still hundreds of yards away.

Seconds felt like hours as the traffic light drew closer. Don’t change yet, I begged silently. Don’t change!

The light stayed green.

I barreled through the turn, pressing the gas pedal one more time as I hit the long straightaway.

The next three traffic lights were now my nemesis. I had to clear them in sequence without maneuvering my car too much.

It turned out I’d built enough speed to make that happen. Two miles rolled by without red lights, and I roared through a right turn onto the shorter straightaway.

I was about halfway through that straightaway when the electrical display went dark. As I cruised through the final green light at 40 miles an hour, I saw the speedometer needle go from 40 to 0 and back to 40, before cutting out entirely.

I was still going 40 miles an hour but in a mostly dead car. I had a mile to go and two turns to manage. And I could only steer and decelerate.

I could have given up then. But I’d come so far. I was determined to make it.

I guided the car to the end of the road, my foot hovering over the brake pedal. With the power steering now failing, I turned the wheel with force, making it through the successive right turns without incident. And I let the car glide down the access road until the mechanic shop came into view.

Then I turned into the parking lot and hit the brakes one last time.

I had made it.

Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.

This bit of wisdom comes from the pugilistic philosopher Mike Tyson.

The boxer infamous for biting his opponent’s ear and for getting a face tattoo might not seem like the best source of life wisdom. But Tyson is right.

We like to think we have a foolproof plan. We thrive under the illusion of control.

But inevitably, our best plans will get waylaid. And our reaction to that unexpected disruption will ultimately define us.

I wasn’t planning on my alternator going out while I waited for a car wash. The power failure hit me like a sucker punch to the jaw.

But I rallied.

I made a contingency plan on the spot. And I executed it nearly flawlessly.

As I reminisce about all this, one question above comes to mind above all others. How was I able to react so smoothly in a flash?

Some of it was experience. I’d just replaced my alternator months earlier, so I knew the warning signs of a power failure.

But much of it was innate. The quick, decisive actions I took were the product of something I like to call Efficiency Mode.

Efficiency Mode exists within all of us. It’s what steers us to the nearest restroom when our stomach starts acting up in public. It’s what shepherds us to safety when the skies darken and thunder booms around us.

Efficiency Mode brings out our best. It narrows our focus narrows and hones our decisiveness. It slows down time and enhances our ability to deliver optimal results.

But there’s a catch.

Efficiency Mode only exists in crisis. It only emerges when our plans have been waylaid. It only thrives when we’ve been punched in the mouth.

This leaves us with a conundrum. How do we handle the non-crisis times?

Do we carry on through life as usual, embracing the mantle of control while capturing only a fraction of our potential?

Or do we long for a rogue wave to knock us down, taking our efficiency into high gear?

The choice is ours.

The TV show Justified features plenty of colorful characters.

But few are as memorable as Bob Sweeney.

Sweeney is the fictional constable of Harlan, Kentucky. An awkward yet pleasant fellow, he’s played by the comedian Patton Oswalt.

Although his job is paperwork-heavy, Sweeney craves the thrill of big-time law enforcement actions. So, he always brings his “go bag” so that he’s “ready to jump” if the action gets heavy.

Many of us who have experienced that rush feel like Bob. We yearn for that next opportunity to use our “Go Bag,” because we know we’ll be bringing our best.

But the times between those times matter just as much.

If we can’t maintain excellence through the monotonous moments — when we can only top out at 80 percent of our potential — our crisis maneuvers will prove irrelevant. We’ll lose more in the balance than we gain in a pinch.

Yes, we need the plan and the ability to deviate from it. We need to throw confident haymakers and to rise from the mat when we take one on the chin.

When we master both, we will truly be in position to make an impact. But it takes a duality of commitment.

I’ve bought in. Will you?

Survival Mode

“No problem of human making is too great to be overcome by human ingenuity, human energy, and the untiring hope of the human spirit.” -George H.W. Bush

The 41st United States President dispensed this wisdom decades ago. And it has continued to prove prophetic.

In the years since, we’ve developed systems to improve retail logistics and reduce man-made health risks. We’ve closed the information gap through the growth of the Internet. We’ve enhanced diplomacy tactics to tamp down brewing global crises.

But what happens when the problem is not of human making? What happens when it’s a force of nature?

There too, human ingenuity can shine through. There too, human energy and the human spirit can lead us to rise to the occasion.

But the process is far messier.

For we must figure out what hit us before we can respond. And the possibilities are nearly infinite.

Life must go on, of course, while we pursue this damage assessment. So, how do we steer through a period of such uncertainty?

We go into survival mode.

If you listen to just about any motivational speech, you’ll hear about the power of resilience.

This is no accident. Emotions drive our choices. And few things pull at our heartstrings more than a good comeback story.

Yet, we are terrible at assessing our own resilience. We overestimate instances where we encountered a bump in the road and adjusted to it. We treat these small victories as something far larger. Namely, as proof of our invincibility.

Such misjudgments have come into clear focus in recent months, as we’ve been forced to reckon with true crises.

The rapid spread of a lethal virus has put the entire world on pause. Wildfires have destroyed homes in Australia and the western United States. Major hurricanes have pounded the upper Gulf Coast with relentless fury. And a potent winter storm has left millions in Texas in the dark in bone-chilling temperatures.

Some of the regions victimized by these forces of nature were prepared — or at least as prepared as they could be. California has faced wildfire dangers for years. And Louisiana is no stranger to hurricanes.

But in many other instances, we were off-guard.

Despite Bill Gates’ warnings, the world was not prepared for a pandemic. And the breakdowns of Texas’ power grid and water supply systems showed how unprepared the Lone Star State was for an Arctic blast.

In the wake of such disasters, governments have ping-ponged between passing blame and scrambling for contingency plans. Meanwhile, the masses have been left to deal with the fallout.

In a heap of desperation, we’ve been forced to dig deeper in the well of ingenuity than ever before. We’ve become immersed in the survival mode doctrine.

Survival of the fittest.

Anyone familiar with Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution knows those four words.

Darwin believed that certain species adapt to the conditions of their environment better than others. The most well-adjusted species are the ones who persevere.

Humans clearly belong in the well-adapted column. We’ve gone from being stalked by prehistoric predators to controlling much of the world.

Survival mode is encoded in our DNA. And yet, such a feature seems foreign to us.

Why is that?

The answer largely comes from our reliance on two constructs: Infrastructure and social patterns.

These elements have turbocharged our evolution. For instance, lighting, climate control, and indoor plumbing systems have allowed many to shelter in safety and comfort. And sociocultural norms have helped us find belonging and fulfillment.

Put together, these elements provide for much of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. They are so essential that they’ve become ubiquitous throughout the developed world. Even in the developing world, some aspects of these constructs exist.

Humanity doesn’t agree on much. But these do seem to be causes we can rally around.

Mother Nature is the only fly in the ointment. It’s the only force powerful enough to unleash a microscopic virus on us, fill our skies with smoke, inundate our lowlands with seawater, or send polar air to the subtropics.

Such wild forces can overwhelm our infrastructure systems. They can disrupt our social norms. And they can leave us without a roadmap to safety.

It is within this torrent of disruption that we must unearth those Darwinian survival skills. While everything is crumbling around us, we are asked to rise above.

No wonder we struggle to persevere. And no wonder we feel traumatized long after we do.

At the edge of my neighborhood, there is a pasture. A sea of intermittent brush cascading down a hillside.

On some days, I can spot cattle at the edge of the pasture, grazing near the barbed wire fence. The bovines chew at the grass and thrash their tails. And they do all this in herd formation.

Animals have herded together for millennia. Banding together has helped them fend off myriad dangers. It’s helped them evolve and thrive.

Humans are the same way. We have long found strength in numbers, building societies, and enhancing our possibilities together. It would only be natural for us to come together in times of strife as well.

But survival mode runs counter to all that. It asks us to act instinctively against grave danger. And it forces us to do so in isolation.

The systems and traditions we rely on are all built upon a backbone of community. And when they fail, we are thrust into the darkness — forced to combine an untested toolset with an unfamiliar mindset.

This is why the greatest challenge of survival mode sits between the ears. Indeed, managing the mental and emotional exhaustion can be a Herculean task.

It’s just not in our nature to be this way. And yet, for a time, it has to be.

There’s no way to fully obliterate disaster.

Diseases will continue to threaten our bodies. Fires will continue to scorch our landscape. Hurricanes and tornadoes will continue to turn some of our homes into rubble.

We can’t avoid these unsavory possibilities. The best we can do is to prepare for them.

We can tend to our hygiene. We can maintain emergency supplies. We can have an evacuation plan.

And we can prepare for survival mode.

We can recognize what it asks of us. And we can come to terms with what it takes out of us.

Such preparation won’t transform our experience into a pleasant one. But hopefully, it can make our endeavors less jarring.

And when the times are toughest, that can make all the difference.

Hidden Heroes

I was driving down Interstate 45, somewhere between Dallas and Houston. All around me, a vast Texas landscape unfolded — a cornucopia of rolling hills, thicketed trees, and pastures dotted with cattle.

But in the midst of all this scenery, something else appeared through my windshield — the back of an oil tanker.

The big rig was in my lane, and I was gaining on it quickly. I prepared to cut over to the left lane and whiz by the tanker. But, to my dismay, I noticed there was an 18-wheeler camped out in that lane. I would have to slow down and wait my turn.

I had been making good time on my journey, and I was none too happy about this temporary delay. The tanker seemed like nothing more than an inconvenience — a nuisance meant to foil those seeking to make the Dallas-Houston run in less than four hours.

As I waited for my opportunity to pass the tanker, my mind drifted.

Suddenly, I found myself a few years back in time. I was sitting in a 90-minute line at a North Texas gas station, waiting for the opportunity to refuel my SUV. It was hot out, and I was agitated.

In the midst of this misery, I saw an oil tanker pull into the fueling area. My mood shifted. My spirits soared.

I’d never taken much note of these vehicles before, even though I’d spent three years in West Texas oil country. Out in the patch, these vehicles were as pedestrian as they were unwieldy.

But now, this tanker represented the cavalry. It would save me from running out of gas. It would save all of us in this Godforsaken line.

The fact that there was a line at all was a sign of the times. Hurricane Harvey had recently devastated the Texas Coast, and its floodwaters had forced the refineries in Houston to shut down. Suddenly, something we all took for granted — an endless supply of gasoline — seemed anything but certain.

A full-on fuel panic ensued. People raced to the nearest fueling spots to top off their tanks. Gas station owners jacked up their prices. And some drivers even cut off their air conditioning in order to stretch their fuel range.

All of this was an overreaction. There were plenty of other refineries — in Louisiana and further inland — that were still up and running. There would be plenty of gasoline for everyone.

But the die had already been cast. Pandemonium had taken over, and gas stations were getting sucked dry.

In the midst of all this, the oil tankers crisscrossing the region got their star turn. The fuel in their tanks became our version of Manna from heaven. And the drivers of these rigs were our heroes.

How strange it must have been for those drivers. They surely didn’t take that role to save the world. They were just looking for a steady job with good pay. Anonymity came part and parcel with the role.

That anonymity had evaporated, thanks to a series of events outside these drivers’ control. Now, they were the center of attention.

But the moment would prove fleeting. Once things got back to normal, the tankers and their drivers would fade into the woodwork once again.

One would only have to look at me — trapped behind a tanker on the Interstate and muttering under my breath — to see how far the pendulum would swing in the other direction.

There are many things our nation struggles with. But honoring our heroes is not one of them.

We pay tribute to the brave men and women in our military at seemingly any opportunity. The days of veterans getting spat upon during their return home are long gone.

Now, military families are honored with parades and standing ovations at sporting events (in non-pandemic times). They’re rewarded with such perks as affordable housing and specialized insurance. They’re treated with the respect they deserve.

Other professions also get the hero’s welcome in times of crisis. Firefighters got critical acclaim in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. Airline pilots got applauded after Sully Sullenberger landed a compromised commercial jet on the Hudson River.

Still, such goodwill does not always stick. When the lights go down and normalcy returns, the hero arc comes to an end. These professions find themselves ignored, or even antagonized.

Just look at the New York Police Department. The NYPD has had its issues over the years, and the department has been vilified in some quarters. But as the World Trade Center lay in ruins, New Yorkers softened their tune.

Officers put it all on the line, running toward the crumbling towers to save those still inside. A total of 23 NYPD officers lost their lives in the attacks that day — a toll that wasn’t lost on anyone.

Yet, the hero turn didn’t last long. As New York rebuilt from its bleakest moment, it once again cast a critical glance at those in blue. Issues of racial profiling bubbled back to the surface.

And then, in July 2014, police choked Eric Garner to death while arresting him. At the moment anger over police brutality was spiking nationwide, the NYPD found itself on the wrong side of history. Barely a decade after its brightest moment, the department faced arguably its darkest one.

The NYPD’s saga is sobering, but it’s hardly unique.

As the saying goes: You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

As a deadly pandemic continues to rage, we are finding new heroes to fete.

Healthcare workers. Teachers. Delivery drivers.

The men and women in these professions have done yeoman’s work, as the virus continues to turn our lives upside down. But they’d also done yeoman’s work long before the era of masks, sanitizer, and social distancing. We just never took the time to notice.

As the son of teachers, this chasm has long been apparent to me. And while I am glad to see these professions finally get their due, I worry about what comes next.

How soon will it be before we forget? How quickly will we overlook these industries and those devoting their lives to them? How long until we’re back muttering at that slow-moving oil tanker ahead of us on the highway?

Hopefully, a real long time.

Unlike our military, teachers aren’t called to put their lives on the line. Unlike our police, healthcare workers don’t have to reckon with use of force concerns. Unlike our airline pilots, delivery drivers are not confined to invisibility when times are good.

There is no reason why our applause should stop when the danger ends. There is no reason for our adulation to come with strings attached.

So now, in this moment of sustained crisis, let us make a pledge. Let us ensure that these men and women are hidden heroes never more. Let us continue to give them the due they deserve.

We owe them that.

The Blame Game

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

If you were to go to a college hockey game in recent years, you were likely to hear the home fans chanting this at the opposing goalie for letting a puck fly by.

In a vacuum, this chant seems infantile. After all, the scoreboard already tells the story.

Why rub salt in the wound? Why make the goalie feel even worse for coming up short?

There is no rational explanation. And yet, the chant has lived on for years.

Some of this has to do with home ice advantage. The chant adds an element of intimidation to the proceedings, making it even more daunting for the visitors to come away victorious.

But a lot of it comes from a human obsession. An obsession in finding someone to blame.

There are few more compelling figures in our society than the scapegoat.

We worship the heroes and abhor the villains. But we depend on the scapegoats.

For these figures provide us a target for our attention. A release valve for our exasperation. A convenient excuse for why things veer off course.

Yes, we need an explanation for each hardship we face. A foil for the moments when our visions of perfection eviscerate into the murkiness of reality.

So, we look for somebody to blame.

This urge to point the finger is so prevalent that it’s practically muscle memory. We instinctively turn toward its seductive glow time and again.

At the moment we find our scapegoat, we feel relief. Our angst, confusion and vulnerability give way to the rush of adrenaline of grabbing the pitchforks and torches.

Of course, nothing on the surface has changed. The circumstances we are facing are just as they were.

But now we have a cause to rally around. A rationale for feelings of renewal.

All while someone else is left to shoulder the burden of our suffering.

There’s a prevalent school of thought. One that equates finding fault with serving karmic justice.

This is a fallacy.

For justice is blind to bias. It does not care about our feelings, or bend to the whims of our desires.

No, true justice is only about one thing: Balance.

Now, some may argue that apportioning blame restores balance. That transferring the burden of responsibility to someone at the origin of our troubles gets the universe back on track.

But reality is rarely this straightforward.

Indeed, the line between accountability and vindictive rage is often perilously narrow. And in the fog of distress, we can easily cross to the wrong side of the divide.

And so, scapegoats find themselves culpable for violations of standards that defy reality. Or wrongly accused altogether.

These are terrifying situations. They are outcomes that we don’t want to find ourselves facing.

And so, we hedge.

We hold back. We play it safe. We do all we can to reduce the risk of blowback.

This defangs us as leaders and innovators. But it also takes the worst case scenario off the table.

Or so we think.

On September 11, 2001, the world changed.

Millions watched in horror as two hijacked airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City, and another plane crashed into the Pentagon near Washington.

It was the darkest day of my life — and I’m sure I’m not alone in that fact. But the days that followed weren’t much brighter.

There was an uncomfortable stillness in the air. Anxiety and uncertainty were everywhere you turned.

Then, President Bush announced that America was going after those who brought this evil to our shores. Less than a month after the attacks, the United States Army invaded Afghanistan.

At the time of the invasion, it was hard to find many who were opposed to it. We had all just lived through an attack. If we didn’t go after those who were to blame, we would invite another act of terror.

And yet, two decades later, the results of that decision are less clear cut.

The masterminds of the 9/11 attacks are just about all dead or captured by now. And yet, the war in Afghanistan wears on.

What started as an action of blame has morphed into a costly quagmire. Some of the participants in it today were not even alive when the conflict started.

Pointing the finger took us further than we’d ever hoped to go.

As I write this, we are in a new kind of crisis.

A virus with no cure has killed tens of thousands of people across America. And the mass quarantines meant to contain it have caused 30 million people to lose their jobs.

The pain and strife are catastrophic. And the devastation lies on multiple fronts.

As battle through this uncertainty, we focus our attention on one question. Who’s to blame?

Some have pointed to China, where the virus first erupted. Others have pointed to political leaders, who didn’t act quick enough to contain early cases. Others still have blamed government agencies, who botched the rollout of testing for the virus when it was still in the nascent stages of its spread.

The blame game provides us with a convenient distraction from the despair of the present reality. It provides us with prominent punching bags for us to lob our ire at.

But it is wholly misguided.

For viruses are forces of nature. They do not neatly follow the laws of human governance.

This is why there have been pandemics before. And it’s why there will be pandemics in the future.

Even if everyone we point the finger at had acted optimally, there would still have been carnage. There is no conniving terrorist in a faraway cave that wrought this devastation. Nature itself did.

And so, apportioning blame is a futile exercise. Especially in the midst of the storm.

Crises are painful. But they are powerful teachers.

And one prevailing lesson, proven time and again, that the rush to blame is futile.

Yes, accountability is important. Sometimes, it is even a matter of life and death. But it shouldn’t be our first order of business.

We must start by righting the ship. By mitigating the damage and adjusting to the circumstances. By putting survival first.

Only after the fog has lifted should we concern ourselves with determining the blame. With the crisis in our rearview, we can objectively determine who should foot the bill. Or if anyone should at all.

This truth should be self-evident in times of tribulation. In fact, it should be standard procedure even when we’re not on the brink.

It still can be.

So, let’s make it happen.

Let’s learn from our mistakes. And let’s put the blame game behind us.

There are far better uses of our time and energy. Let’s unlock them.

Better Together

Recent weather has rocked our country to its core. Monster hurricanes recently packed a one-two punch in Texas and Florida, causing life-threatening flooding and property damage.

These images from these areas have been heartbreaking. As someone who has lived in both states, I’ve found it overwhelmingly sad to see streets turned rivers, homes turned to rubble and prosperity turned to widespread despair.

Through it all, I kept thinking one thing, “I wish there was more I could do to help.”

Turns out, I’m not alone.

You’ve probably heard the stories by now — the Cajun Navy taking to the streets of Houston to save lives of those threatened by rising waters. All the volunteers helping Florida get back on their feet. People helping people, regardless of color, creed or political affiliation.

This is how it should be. This is how we were meant to be. So why are we only this way in the wake of an Act of God?

If there’s one thing that upsets me more than seeing an image of a woman being rescued from her roof, life as she knows it permanently altered, it’s seeing that image juxtaposed against another one of Tiki-Torch bearing Neo-Nazis storming a college campus in Virginia. Both these scenes played out within weeks of each other — and that’s a bad look for America.

Yes, it certainly appears we’re embracing divisiveness over unity, and only changing our tune in times of crisis. This leaves an open question as to what type of people we really are.

Are we undercover bigots who feign a spirit of inclusivity in times of trouble to boost social acceptance? Or are we good-hearted people who lack the guts to stand up to the angry voices that threaten to tear us apart?

I hope to God the second answer is the correct one. But it doesn’t really matter.

As the saying goes, “The evil we must fear the most is the indifference of good-hearted people.”

We are all part of the problem — in part because we’re afraid to commit to being part of the solution.

As I think back 16 years ago, to blue September skies suddenly shrouded by smoke and fire in New York City, I don’t just think of the horrific scenes of those towers falling. I don’t just think of those images of people jumping from 79th story windows, of people running from a cloud of rubble 200 feet high.

No, I think of what came after. Of the President addressing first responders through a bullhorn with the words, “The nation sends its love and compassion to all of you.” Of the country rallying to boost the spirits of New York and Washington — both of which had lost so much to an act of evil. Of strangers treating strangers with kindness and compassion, no matter their differences.

I wish to God that 9/11 had never happened. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.

But I also wish that spirit I saw in the months that followed would have stuck around.

After all, we’ve proven time and again that we can rally for each other when its needed most. But truthfully, unity always needed.

We owe it to those lost to 9/11, Katrina, Harvey, Irma —we owe it to all of them to be better. To put aside our differences and be as one, even after the smoke has cleared and the water recedes.

Most of all, we owe it to ourselves, and to our collective future. For it’s how we act between the storms, when the world isn’t watching, that will truly define our destiny.

So, let’s write that narrative. Together.