Tag: education

The Engineer’s Paradox

In late October of 2012, something strange happened.

A hurricane that was churning in open waters took a hard left and barreled toward the Northeast coast of America.

By the time the storm made landfall on the Jersey Shore, it was considered post-tropical. But that moniker did nothing to dull Superstorm Sandy’s wrath.

Trees toppled in the wind. Low lying areas flooded. And millions of people lost power.

The devastation was especially pronounced in the New York City area. When I visited months later, there were still debris piles in several places around the city. And if you looked at walls and embankments, you could see where the water had risen to during the storm.

Still, the recovery efforts were mostly complete. With one exception.

New York City’s subway system was snarled by the rushing water. And even after the tunnels had dried out, problems persisted.

Signaling systems faltered, tunnel walls were left unstable, and delays piled up.

The Metropolitan Transportation Authority would ultimately spend the better part of a decade refurbishing the worst-hit areas of the system. This process led to more delays, more grumbling, and potshots from the peanut gallery.

Pundits would point to the age of the tunnels, budget cuts from years gone by, and inadequate maintenance when they lampooned the New York City Subway in those days. They likened it to a dinosaur on life support – a relic from the past that wasn’t worthy of such a costly resuscitation.

It was a convenient argument. But a shortsighted one.

When I was young, I was a hardcore transit nerd.

And I was particularly obsessed with the New York City Subway.

Growing up in the area gave me ample opportunity to ride the city’s 250 miles of subway lines. And I was amazed by the entire operation.

Tunnels wound through the city in a complex maze, with a variety of station designs. Several long, elaborate transfer passages connected the platforms of different subway lines as well.

The New York City Subway seemed like its own subterranean ecosystem. Riders were protected from the rain and the wind, from the summer heat and the winter chill.

Other cities had their mass transit systems too. And each of them had their own unique flair.

Boston boasted underground trolley cars on one line. Washington had long escalators that descended from the street into bunker-like stations. Chicago had miles of elevated train lines punctuated by quaint wooden platforms.

But none of these features were as elaborate or imaginative as the New York City Subway system.

Much of this was by design. Three separate companies laid most of the Big Apple’s tracks back in the early 1900s. The companies had to navigate densely populated areas of town while building around each other’s tunnels and stations. It was quite the operation.

I didn’t think much about these details as a kid. I was just happy to ride the trains and stare out the windows.

Still, as an adult, it’s hard not to marvel at what New York created – and when.

You see, these subway tunnels were built in an era before smart machinery, computers, or Artificial Intelligence. Renderings and surveys were done by hand. Most construction required a human touch.

And yet, despite all those restrictions, the system remained structurally sound for decades. It took a black swan weather event for any cracks to show.

That is a testament to the power of engineering. To following the exacting principles of measurement, mathematics, and physics to a T. To committing to the creation of something that lasts.

That rigidity offers us a sense of security – even beyond the subway turnstiles. Adherence to those principles provides the peace of mind that the structures around us won’t fall apart and put our lives at risk.

It’s a powerful benefit that we all enjoy. But at what cost?

Many of those childhood subway rides led me to the Museum of Modern Art in the heart of New York City.

My grandparents served as volunteers in the museum back then. They answered visitor questions on the weekends. And during breaks in their shifts, they show me around the galleries.

I was often perplexed by how different the artwork looked. Piet Mondrian’s work was full of rigid blocks and lines. Andy Worhol’s artistry tended to convey of Campbell’s soup cans. And Jackson Pollock’s creations were mostly paint splatter.

My grandparents explained that each artist saw the world differently, and they put those perspectives on canvas. Art was a form of expression for them, free of rules and inhibitions.

This concept terrified me. Surely, there had to be a right answer, or some guidelines for the artists to follow. How else would they know if their work was viable, let alone successful?

I was too young to recognize it, but I was thinking like an engineer.

The irony of all this isn’t lost on me. For not only was I a poor prospect for engineering back then – as proved by my horrendous math and science grades – but I was also sharing this opinion half a block from the 5th Avenue/53rd Street station.

This was a split-level station located deep under the street. Once you descended the long escalator, you’d find westbound trains on the upper-level platform and eastbound trains on the platform beneath them.

At first glance, this design made sense. 53rd Street was rather narrow, and it was flanked by tall buildings. Stacking the tunnels deep underground seemed like a necessary engineering decision.

Yet, at the next station to the east – at 53rd Street and Lexington Avenue – both tracks were on the same level, with a central platform between them. The street was just as narrow, and the buildings flanking it were just as tall. But the engineers had gone with a different design.

This all makes me wonder if I’d given the engineers who designed the New York City Subway enough credit. Sure, they’d passed the most critical test – creating something precise enough to withstand the test of time. But they’d also mixed in just enough reasoned creativity to make the system interesting – especially to young transit nerds like me.

Perhaps the choice wasn’t between regulations and rebellion. Perhaps there was room for a shade of gray.

And perhaps that silver lining was a necessity.

I am the son of teachers.

My parents are now retired. But they spent the bulk of their working lives in the classroom, teaching an entire generation of children.

I was in grade school myself for the first half of this endeavor. And I was planting a flag for my own career in the second half. So, I rarely talked shop with my parents.

But little morsels of information still made their way to my ears. And one of those morsels – from my father – has stuck with me.

No two students learn the same way, he recounted. It’s best to be adaptable, and cater your lesson to each student, so that the entire class can take the information in.

I think about this often, particularly in the case of engineering. After all, that discipline seems to fly in the face of adaptability.

How have so many generations of engineers earned their stripes without buckling under the weight of rigidity? It’s a question that seems to defy response.

Or does it?

Yes, the clues to unlock the Engineer’s Paradox lie deep beneath the streets of New York City, where only Superstorm Sandy’s floodwaters can reach.

Down there, it’s possible to have built a mass transit marvel – a century-old masterpiece that stood the test of time – while still maintaining just enough creativity to keep things interesting. Down there, the surety of tradition could mesh with the promise of advancement in the best possible way.

Engineering is precise. Humanity is erratic. But against all odds, that pairing manages to sustain itself year after year. And we all get to reap the benefits.

I’m grateful for that.

Generous Indulgence

We pulled up to the bakery in a 1985 Toyota Corolla. A boxy, tan sedan with a stick shift transmission and seat belts that only went over the passengers’ laps.

It was the ultimate nondescript 1980s car. But this was the early 1990s, so it was even more obscure.

We all got out of the car — my grandmother, my younger sister and I. And as we walked to the bakery door, my grandmother gave us a friendly warning.

Now remember, kids, she said. Don’t let grandma get a Danish, cause they make grandma fat.

Instructions in hand, we walked inside. My sister chose a rainbow cookie from the display case, while I selected a black and white cookie.

For the uninitiated, a black and white cookie is basically heaven in a baked good. It’s made of cake filling and topped with hardened chocolate and vanilla icing. And as a child, I was obsessed with them.

I was salivating, imagining the taste of that sugary goodness, when I heard my grandmother’s voice calling out to the bakery associate.

And one Danish, please.

My sister and I turned to my grandmother, horrified.

Grandma, no! we called out in unison. You told us not to let you get a Danish!

My grandmother smiled back at us. I know, but they’re so good! I can’t resist.

Over the years, this pattern would play out over and over on our trips to the bakery. In fact, it soon became a running joke between my sister and I. Grandma’s going to tell us not to let her get the Danish, but still order it anyway.

This scene was my grandmother in a nutshell. Determined, yet indulgent.

 

My grandmother always had a sweet tooth. My sister and I would stay at her house about one weekend a month, sleeping on in our mother’s childhood room.

When we woke up in the morning, our grandmother would serve us Entenmann’s donuts — chocolate iced goodies stuffed with cake filling. She stored them in the refrigerator, which made them delightfully crisp as we took our first bite.

It was a decidedly unhealthy way to start the day. But my grandmother didn’t care. The smiles on our faces made it all worthwhile.

For dessert, we’d all have ice cream — even if the sugar kept us up past an acceptable bedtime. My grandmother loved ice cream. So it only seemed sensible to her that we’d be allowed to have it too.

These were only a few of the ways she spoiled us. She would also get us gifts and let us watch our favorite movies on VHS tapes over and over again. Her reward for all this generosity was the sheer joy in our faces.

And yet, these seemingly small gestures were far from empty for her. They represented fulfilled dreams.

I’ve written a lot before about my grandfather. My mother’s father was a World War II veteran, a renowned storyteller, and one of my heroes. Black and white photos of him in his Navy uniform adorn my home, and I continually feel his presence in my life.

But my grandmother has shaped my life as profoundly as my grandfather did. And in a roundabout way, I’ve helped define her legacy as well.

My grandmother was raised in Brooklyn during the Great Depression. The youngest of three children in an impoverished family, she didn’t have much growing up. But she did have grand aspirations for herself.

My grandmother did well in school and went on to get both undergraduate and graduate degrees. She worked for some time as a phone operator, connecting lines for phone calls in the days before automatic dialing. But she ultimately spent decades as a speech therapist in the New York City Public School system.

Even as I share this fact, I can’t help but chuckle. For my grandmother had a thick New York accent, and a knack for mispronouncing things. On trips to the zoo, my father would make fun of how she pronounced the name for a certain type of buffalo. 

It’s bison, he would say. Not Bye-sawn.

Nevertheless, my grandmother did well in the role over the years.

Still, my grandmother’s greatest passion was not her work. It was her family. My mother, my sister and I represented her direct legacy — particularly when it came to education. She knew of the doors that education provided her, and wanted us to realize similar opportunities.

We never lost sight of that fact. We couldn’t.

When my mother earned her doctorate, she treated the achievement as if it was my grandmother’s as much as her own. And when my sister and I earned our undergraduate degrees, my grandmother traveled all the way to Miami and Chicago, respectively, to cheer us across the finish line.

After all those indulgences we received, it felt great to indulge her. To see the sheer joy on her face.

Several years ago, my parents and my grandmother took a trip Dallas. My grandfather had recently passed away. And while his loss was still raw, it gave my grandmother a chance to visit me in Texas — which she had hoped to do for years.

As we walked down a sun splashed sidewalk next to the Dallas Museum of Art, my grandmother implored me to continue my education.

I had toyed with the idea of going to graduate school for years. But I didn’t want to quit my job to do so. And the prospect of joining a professional program — working by day and taking classes in the evening — seemed too daunting. So, I kept delaying, and delaying, and delaying.

Now, my grandmother was calling my bluff.

A business degree would do a lot for you, she mentioned. I won’t be around forever. I’d like to see you get started.

Her words resonated. This wasn’t the playful Don’t let me get a Danish routine. This was serious.

So, at long last, I started the process. I scoped out several local business schools. I took the GMAT. I applied to schools, and I earned acceptance letters.

And a little over a year after our conversation, I started my grad school journey. My grandmother was excited, and that elation kept me going — even as I struggled to return to my old educational routines.

Then, on the first day of my second semester, I learned that my grandmother had died of a heart attack. Suddenly, my mission changed. Getting an MBA was no longer about elevating my career or making my grandmother proud. It was about honoring her legacy.

The next 18 months were as grueling as they were enlightening. But I powered through, a man possessed. And ultimately, I earned my Masters in Business Administration — with high grades to boot.

At the reception following graduation, my parents shared a word with me.

We’re so proud of you, they said. But your grandmother would be so proud of you as well.

I let the words sink in. And as I did, I thought of all I had been given that got me to this moment.

I reminisced about the sweets — the black and white cookies, the Entenmann’s donuts, the ice cream. I remembered all the gifts I’d received — the toys, books and puzzles.

All that generosity had taught me the value of sharing and of giving. And throughout business school, I had tried to pay it forward to my classmates by helping them prepare for tests and assignments.

But most of all, I considered all the time I had with my grandmother. That was the greatest gift of all. And by fulfilling her dreams, I hoped I had made the most of it.

Not long ago, my sister sent me an audio file. It was of all of us — my sister, my parents, my grandmother and myself — sitting around the dining room table, telling stories about my grandfather.

The stories were entertaining, and many of them made my chuckle. But what stood out most was hearing my grandmother’s voice again.

I miss my grandmother.

I miss her kindness. I miss her smile. I even miss her occasional naivete.

All that is gone now. Or is it?

For everywhere I look, my grandmother’s memory abounds. Whenever I pass a bakery window, come across a word she mispronounced or see my diplomas on the wall, it’s as if she’s still here.

Most of all, the principles that my grandmother espoused continue to endure. The value of opportunity. The love of learning. And the indulgence of generosity.

It’s my responsibility to continue spreading those principles. And I plan on doing so for as long as I am able.