Tag: judgment

The Boolean Trap

I got into my SUV and turned the ignition.

But before I threw it into reverse, I tapped a button on my smartphone.

The phone was sitting in the one of the cupholders beside me. But thanks to the magic of Bluetooth technology, it could stream music or podcasts straight through the car speakers.

I could be my own DJ. And I often was.

But not today.

The Bluetooth, you see, was not connecting properly. Sure, the little screen on the center console of my vehicle said it was connected, but no audio was streaming.

I set my sights on fixing the issue.

I toggled the Bluetooth switch on my phone’s settings off and on. I turned off the SUV and refired the ignition. I rebooted my phone.

By now, I’d wasted enough time troubleshooting that I was late for work. So, I put the vehicle in reverse and made the drive in silence.

That evening, I picked the thread up anew.

Sitting at my dining room table, I fired up my laptop, headed to the automaker’s support website and searched for help documentation.

It took a few minutes of dogged searching even to find my entertainment system on the site. The automaker had moved to a different system in newer vehicles, and most articles were for that system.

And the few support documents for my system were useless. They encouraged me to try what I’d already attempted. Plus, they site provided no way of reporting any issues that hadn’t been covered.

It felt as if the automaker was thumbing its nose at me. All the possible issues with this entertainment system are on this page. And if you find something else, you’re the issue.

I felt offended. I was enraged. I screamed into the void.

I had now wasted countless hours on this issue. I’d searched and toggled and stressed myself into oblivion — all to find a resolution to something that was working just a day earlier.

And yet, there was one thing I hadn’t attempted — resetting my car’s entertainment system.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d gone through the settings menu on the console extensively. I’d combed those support documents until I had them memorized. No master reset option seemed to exist.

So, the next morning, I called the closest dealership and made a service appointment.

When I brought my SUV in, I explained the issue in full. The service tech listened intently. But he furrowed his brow when I mentioned the words console reset.

There’s not really a simple way to do that, he explained. I could unplug the battery for 10 to 15 seconds, and then reconnect it. That’s a hard reset. But I can’t guarantee it will fix the issue.

It was worth a shot. I gave the tech the go-ahead to try. He took my keys and drove the vehicle over to a service bay.

A short time later, I got the SUV back. Sitting in the dealership parking lot, I tried to connect my phone via Bluetooth. The connection went through.

My nightmare was over.

As children, we learn about prominent innovative thinkers. People whose innovations and discoveries have direct impacts on our lives.

Albert Einstein is synonymous with defining the mass-energy equivalence. Sir Isaac Newton is acclaimed for conveying the laws of gravity. Thomas Edison is renowned for inventing the light bulb. And Henry Ford is feted for revolutionizing the automobile.

George Boole doesn’t sit on this Mount Rushmore. But perhaps he should.

Boole was a 19th century English mathematician who didn’t even get to celebrate his 50th birthday. But in his short lifespan, he unfurled something that has come to underpin all corners of western society — Boolean logic.

Boolean logic is an algebraic system that contains two variables – true and false. It judges mathematical expressions by their attributes and classifies them accordingly.

If the expression contains a desired element, it gets coded as a 1. If it doesn’t, it gets coded as a 0.

That series of 1’s and 0’s can blaze a trail through complicated equations, getting to a final answer step-by-step.

If you think 1’s and 0’s sound like computer source code, you’re onto something. Computer systems have been built on Boolean logic since the 1930s, and the associated if-then logic is now synonymous with that technology.

Perhaps that’s why we don’t give George Boole his due. Or perhaps the century between his discovery and the computer age caused us to lose the thread.

Regardless, we are fully immersed in the Boolean world today. We’re accustomed to navigating true-false strings and if-then statements to troubleshoot just about anything, from our health to the strange noise coming from the refrigerator.

This works well. Until it doesn’t.

In the early 2000s, a technology journalist named Chris Anderson introduced a new theory to the world

Anderson saw how the computer age and the growth of the Internet had democratized the decisions consumers could make. In the Golden Era of network television, Americans had three options of what to watch on a given evening. But now, people around the globe could enter any search query they wanted into Google.

These searches tended to fall into a normal distribution, or a Bell Curve pattern. A small number of search terms got most of the volume.

But those low frequency searches at the ends of the curve, they mattered too. Search engines still returned results for them. And savvy businesses had ample opportunities to serve these audiences as well.

Anderson’s theory came to be known as The Long Tail. He wrote a WIRED article and a book about it. And many business professionals came to treat it with reverence.

Including me.

Early in my marketing career, I used long tail theories to create content for my clients’ websites. I was working at a startup agency at the time, supporting several small home remodeling firms.

A few years earlier, those businesses would have relied on the Yellow Pages and word of mouth referrals to stay viable. But thanks to The Long Tail and digital marketing, they now had a sustainable path to growth.

Long tail theory succeeded in filling the gaps of Boolean logic. It acknowledged that the world is messier than if-then statements can count for. And it resolved to clean up the mess.

But as technology has evolved and the economy has fluctuated, long tail theory has faded into the background. Innovators have favored tightening the Boolean engine over sweeping up the bits it misses.

This is what led to my odyssey to get my vehicle’s entertainment system fixed. There was no roadmap for me to follow because if-then logic didn’t account for the issue.

Out of sight, out of mind. Until it wasn’t.

You can’t fit a square peg into a round hole.

This proverbial wisdom has held for generations. And despite the attempts of innovators, streamliners, and futurists, it’s sure to endure for many more.

You see, ceding all infrastructure to Boolean theory is not a viable solution. It’s a trap.

Long tail concerns will not evaporate when swept under the rug. They will fester, agitate, and afflict. They will drive us to frustration, trust loss — or worse.

This corrosion has gone on far too long already. And it’s imperative that we keep the rot from settling in further.

It’s time that we give an audience to the edge cases once again. It’s time to inject independent judgement into the fringes of the logic machine. It’s time to account for all the outcomes we can imagine and consider solutions for the ones we can’t.

This process will be clunky and inefficient. It won’t provide the two true outcomes we’ve grown so accustomed to seeing in our systems.

But it will remove the daylight between our lived experience and the systems we rely on. It will allow us to optimize our outcomes at every turn.

And shouldn’t that be what matters?

Boolean logic is a great thing. But it needn’t be the only thing.

Let’s go for better.

The Poison Hook

On a summer night in 2008, a left-handed batter won over the crowd at Yankee Stadium.

With mighty swing after mighty swing, the slugger sent baseballs flying deep into the bleachers. Some threatened to leave the stadium altogether. It was a sight to behold.

This man wasn’t wearing the pinstriped uniform of the hometown New York Yankees. And the bold AMERICAN across his chest did little to hide his status as the budding star of a league rival — the Texas Rangers.

But that mattered little to the New York masses.

As Josh Hamilton shattered the record for first-round tallies in the Home Run Derby, a chant cascaded from the stands.

HAM-IL-TON! HAM-IL-TON!

Hamilton didn’t win the derby on that summer evening. But he certainly won the night.

Not just because of his power prowess. But because of his story.

Hamilton, you see, had been a top baseball prospect a decade earlier. As a teenager, he’d appeared on magazine covers and was touted as the future of the game.

But after sustaining injuries in a car crash, Hamilton turned to alcohol and cocaine. And he soon became addicted to both.

The substance abuse sent his career spiraling. And he quickly found himself booted out of baseball.

Hamilton ultimately made his way back from this nadir, getting clean and returning to the sport. The journey eventually took him big leagues for the first time. Then found his way into the hearts of the New York faithful on that magical night at Yankee Stadium.

Hamilton followed that up by winning a batting title and a Most Valuable Player award. He powered the Rangers to their first two World Series appearances.

That mighty potential had been realized. Hamilton’s redemption seemed complete.

It wasn’t.

Hamilton relapsed, and everything fell apart. He started struggling at the plate and in the field. He took potshots at the Texas fans while departing for a division rival. And his marriage disintegrated.

It was a sad ending to a promising story.

The poison hook had the last word.

I was once a fan of Josh Hamilton.

I was in the stands that night he won over New York. And I proudly sported a Texas Rangers t-shirt with his name and number on the back for years.

But when things went south, I soured on him.

I was deeply hurt by Hamilton calling out fans like me. And I was frustrated with his inability to kick addiction.

So, I cut bait. I gave those T-shirts to Goodwill. And when Hamilton returned to Texas to close out his career, I refused to cheer for him.

This all might seem heartless. But given all I’d been through at that time, it made perfect sense.

Not long before Hamilton’s second fall from grace, I had tried to help some alcoholic friends. I’d bent over backward to keep them from hurting themselves or others. But when their demons returned, I was left holding the bag.

I ultimately cut ties with these friends, recognizing that my abandonment could lead to dire circumstances. It hurt my soul knowing that my choice increased the odds of a drunk driving crash or some other tragedy. But I had to protect myself.

This ordeal led me to form a dim view of addiction. I saw it as a lack of mental fortitude, rather than a powerful disease.

I hadn’t been in my erstwhile friends’ shoes, let alone Josh Hamilton’s. Yet, I felt that I had.

You see, I had picked up my own bad habits over the years. Nothing as illicit as drug abuse or alcoholism. But still nothing that would be considered healthy.

Month after month, year after year, I let these bad habits fester. Instead of doing what was sensible, I settled for what was comfortable.

At some point, I saw the light. I realized that better habits would yield better outcomes. And I sprang into action.

One by one, I kicked my bad habits. I learned to treat old tendencies as the enemy. And I fought like hell to keep from falling back into them.

I succeeded, over and over. And my life improved as a result.

This accomplishment was noteworthy. But it made me overly judgmental.

I believed that if I could overcome my vices through sheer will, others could just as easily conquer their demons.

How wrong I was.

When I returned to competitive running after a long hiatus, other runners would often ask me the same question.

What brought you back? Was it the runner’s high?

I had heard about the runner’s high before. But I wasn’t lacing up my shoes to capture any endorphin-fueled euphoria.

So, I replied truthfully. Running was a task, not a calling for me. It helped me stay in shape and I’d shown some prowess at it. There was nothing more drawing me in.

Yet, as the months passed, my relationship with running began to change. I was hitting the streets more often, and for longer mileage. Not by grudging obligation, but by willful compulsion.

I knew I was taking on more than my body could handle. But I found it impossible to stop.

What happened next was utterly predictable. An injury forced a full shutdown, and a marathon withdrawal. I was devastated and lost, unsure of how to start my day without pounding the pavement.

I poured my despair into injury rehab, determined to come back with a vengeance. But once I was cleared to run again, I did too much, too fast. I got hurt again, with this newest injury requiring surgery. I was on the sidelines for months.

As I worked my way back from the brink, I remained dedicated. But one day, during a grueling physical therapy session, I paused to ask myself a simple question.

Why?

Why was I putting myself through hell for a sport that had broken my heart, and my body, twice?

What kept drawing me back to running, against every ounce of common sense?

As the answer dawned on me, I turned pale as a ghost.

It was addiction.

I was addicted to running. Its poison hook had an impermeable grip on my soul.

I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. The act of running – as frequently as possible and as long as I could – was an involuntary compulsion

I’d keep thrusting myself into the fire, no matter how badly it burned.

This revelation shook me to my core. I realized that I was no better than those I’d cast off. Despite all my false bravado, I never really knew them at all.

Shame on me.

I still haven’t forgiven Josh Hamilton.

The man who lost his baseball career to addiction — twice — would later plead guilty for savagely beating his daughter. And that’s something I can’t abide by, demons or not.

Still, I wish I’d shown him a bit more grace back when he was playing ball and trying desperately to stay clean. I wish I’d done the same with those friends I turned my back on.

Their compulsions were certainly more unsavory than my running habit. But they deserved better than harsh judgment as they grappled with it.

The poison hook of addiction is insidious. It’s a powerful riptide we have little chance of swimming away from. The best we can do is try and keep our heads above water.

I recognize that now. And I’m committed to be better. To give those afflicted with addiction a second look. To provide more support, without prejudice.

May we all.

Ingrata Terra

Way up on the overpass, you can see the marks. Silt-laden smudges leaving a permanent tattoo on the concrete.

They’re the marks you might expect to see on the bottom of a Mississippi River barge. Or perhaps on a bayfront causeway.

But this overpass was neither of those things. Instead, it was part of a highway intersection in Houston, Texas.

Now, Houston isn’t exactly the desert. There are plenty of bayous, streams, and lakes around town.

But this intersection wasn’t near any of those. And that made the silt markings even more jarring.

Indeed, those rust-colored imprints are a reminder. A reminder of a time when the water flowed into places normally high and dry.

I’m talking, of course, about Hurricane Harvey — the thousand-year storm that inundated Southeast Texas in 2017.

Houston had dealt with flooding events before, and it had been decked by the occasional hurricane. But it had never seen anything to this magnitude.

Days of heavy rain saturated the area. Roads turned to rivers, and inundated homeowners awaited rescue as the rising waters destroyed their possessions. Power and supplies dwindled as desperation soared.

By the time it was over, Hurricane Harvey had killed more than 100 people and caused $125 billion in damage. As Americans looked on in horror, a question started percolating.

Why would anyone want to live in a place like Houston?

The irony was palpable.

For the Houston metro area — the nation’s fifth largest — had once been lauded for its livability.

There were ample jobs in multiple industries, bountiful entertainment options, and plenty of large homes to choose from. Most of the country was a three-hour flight away. And there was no state income tax.

Sure, the summers could be swampy, and the traffic could be miserable. But idea of setting down roots in Southeast Texas was considered more boon than burden.

Harvey changed that. And now — long after the floodwaters have receded — Houston is viewed by many as Ingrata Terra, or unwelcome land.

To outsiders, those silt marks on the concrete are more than scars of a past trauma. They’re indicators of a cursed destiny.

Dropping anchor in the shadow of such symbols would be foolhardy. Better to choose somewhere safer.

The Ingrata Terra argument is gaining steam these days. And not just in Texas.

A spate of wildfires in California has sparked a backlash against development in the WUI — or Wildland Urban Interface. That’s the spot where human development intrudes upon nature.

In Florida, a deadly condo collapse has left many reconsidering the prospect of living on the beach. Between erosion and storm concerns, the risk certainly seems to outweigh the reward.

And in the Rust Belt, the decline of once-dominant industries has led many to claim some once-prominent cities dead. The supposed demise of Detroit, Cleveland, and Buffalo is a well-known tale these days — even if it’s being penned by those living several states away.

Yes, the glass house effect is in full force. We throw stones at locations that have weathered these storms, propping up our unblemished locales in comparison.

Such actions are foolish, for multiple reasons.

First, nowhere is truly safe from calamity. Disasters are getting more unpredictable by the year. Places that have been unscathed by them thus far are likely sitting ducks.

Second, Ingrata Terra assumes that cities can’t rebound. It posits that a metro area can’t better prepare itself for the next catastrophe. It presumes that the region’s eulogy is part and parcel with the initial crisis.

This thinking is simply not true. And there’s ample proof as to why.

Back when I was in middle school, I visited New Orleans with my family.

It was February, and the Crescent City was in the Mardi Gras spirit. I was amazed by the atmosphere, I was mesmerized by the food, and I couldn’t get enough of the warm weather. I couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to live down the Bayou.

Some years later, New Orleans got pummeled by Hurricane Katrina. The levees failed, the city got flooded, and many residents lost everything.

In the wake of this disaster, a new debate arose. Was the Crescent City worth rebuilding?

Many argued that it wasn’t. After all, New Orleans sat at sea level, surrounded by swamps, lakes, and rivers. With its Gulf Coast location, it would likely be in the path of many other hurricanes. And counting on the levees for salvation seemed like a fool’s errand, given what had just occurred.

Still, the city did rebuild, revitalizing the levee system in the process. The criticism was fast and furious, but New Orleans tuned out the noise and churned ahead.

Many years later, Hurricane Ida took fresh aim at the Louisiana Bayou. Once again, prognosticators called for catastrophe as the storm bore down on the Crescent City.

But the levee system did its job. New Orleans didn’t fill like a bathtub this time. It survived the worst of Ida mostly intact.

More than 1,000 miles away in New York, people weren’t quite as fortunate.

After churning its way through the Deep South and Appalachia, Ida’s remnants buzzed right across the Big Apple. Nearly a foot of rain fell in less than an hour, inundated many streets and homes. Several residents drowned in flooded basements.

The sense of irony was tragic.

Many calls for the abandonment of New Orleans post-Katrina had come from the New York area. The land of a million pundits was supposedly a more stable location for development than the lower Mississippi Delta.

But now, it was New York reeling in the wake of a storm. A storm that had decked Louisiana with all its fury but could not bring the Bayou to its knees.

Ingrata Terra? It’s pure folly.

Some years back, archeologists found the remains of an English king.

Such a discovery normally would not raise eyebrows. This is what archeologists do, after all.

Nevertheless, the discovery led to international news coverage. Mostly on account of where the remains were found.

You see, the dig site wasn’t some remote stretch of land, or the fringes of an old church. No, King Richard III was found beneath a parking lot.

This saga demonstrates a great many traits about humanity — including our knack for adaptability.

At the time of King Richard III’s burial, no commoner would dared have left his horse above his regal remains. But over the centuries, society adapted. Memories faded, areas were rezoned, and a parking lot cropped up on hallowed ground.

Indeed, the world is what we make of it. We’ve built cities in the desert, carved our likenesses into the mountains, and harnessed the energy of the wind and the sun.

Nature might strike back from time to time, but it’s hardly enough to slow our roll.

Ingrata terra might have applied centuries ago. But these days, it’s hardly a factor.

So maybe it’s time to look at those Houston overpasses in a new light. Those rusty marks are not harbingers of doom. They’re a reminder of all that we’ve overcome.

Ingrata terra can’t be found here.

Going Dry

It was a work of art.

A perfect glass of whiskey on the rocks.

The distiller’s name has evaded my memory. But the smooth taste of the libation has not.

I finished one glass, and then another. Then, I paid my bar tab and went back to my hotel room.

I haven’t touched alcohol since.

As I write this, it’s been more than three years since I tasted that whiskey. Technically, I could say I’ve been three years sober. But I struggle to use that word — sober — to describe myself.

For the way I parted with drinking doesn’t match the sobriety stigma. There was no killer hangover, no devastating hospital diagnosis, no trail of collateral damage to force my hand. I was able to coordinate my own exit.

In this case, it meant saying farewell to alcohol at The Happiest Place On Earth — Disney World. I’d traveled to Orlando for professional training right after New Year’s Day. And with lodging and transport taken care of, I decided to make Disney World my last drinking hurrah.

So, I spent an evening sampling a drink from each of the country pavilions at Epcot — beer in Germany, baijiu in China, a margarita in Mexico. A couple of nights later, I had those two glasses of whiskey at the hotel bar. Then, that was it.

One month without alcohol became two, then three. While I had said my break from alcohol would be temporary, I began to reconsider that stance.

I was having nightmares about returning to drinking. And the anxiety about falling off the wagon overshadowed any lingering desire for whiskey or beer. So, I made my split with alcohol official.

I wasn’t going back. But moving forward would prove tricky.

America and alcohol go hand in hand.

Our obsession with drinking dates to our nation’s origins. Many colonial settlers came from England and Scotland — two regions with a legacy of brewing and distilling. And while these settlers dumped tea into the Boston Harbor in protest of a tax, we’ve long paid surcharges for booze without much complaint.

Our relationship with alcohol has not always been healthy. There are tales of liquored-up outlaws going on rampages in the Old West. And the rise of the automobile has led to an epidemic of drunk-driving deaths.

But our only national temperance effort backfired spectacularly. While Prohibition was the law of the land in the early 1900s, bootlegged liquor operations and speakeasy bars flourished. Organized crime outfits benefitted from this boom, and the collective love of libations only deepened.

Humiliated, the government repealed Prohibition in 1933. It had become clear that alcohol, for all its problems, would remain entrenched in our society. Indeed, many of our cultural norms — from dating to celebrating the new year — continue to involve sharing a drink.

When I decided to abandon this legacy, I found myself on treacherous footing.

Social life became surprisingly complex. I would often end up in alcohol-laden settings, turning down drinks left and right. And as I did, I faced incredulous questions from those around me.

How could I just swear off drinking? And why was I doing this if there I was not facing a crisis?

I knew why these inquiries were headed my way. My actions were unconventional.

Family, friends, and acquaintances were all trying to be respectful of my decisions — all while saving face.

Even so, the questions upset me.

I was feeling better than I ever had. And yet, time and again, I found myself on the defensive for the choices I had made.

I started withdrawing from social life to give myself a break. And when I did find myself in mixed company, I started announcing my aversion to drinking upfront.

It was draining. Demoralizing even. Then, a global pandemic hit.

Suddenly, social gatherings weren’t happening. And neither were the uncomfortable questions.

This was a relief at first. Even as my anxiety was soaring, this was one area where I could find a bit of solace.

Yet, as the months dragged on, I started to yearn for social life again. And now, as we emerge from the pandemic tunnel, I’m ready to reengage.

I just wish I could do so without being put on trial for going dry.

Behind every lifestyle choice we make is a mission.

My mission for going dry was to be mentally present for each moment of my life.

I didn’t get obliterated all that often in my younger days. But those times that I did still gnaw at me.

Losing control of my thoughts and actions was distressing. And the potential implications were terrifying.

By purging alcohol from my life, I wouldn’t have to worry about ever driving drunk. I wouldn’t need to concern myself with the harmful words I’d later forget ever having said. I wouldn’t be filled with humiliation after making a fool of myself.

These are all positive outcomes — both for myself and those around me. And yet, all too often, I feel like a pariah for choosing this path.

It shouldn’t be this way.

After all, plenty of people don’t drink alcohol. Some avoid imbibing because of their faith or their demons. Others make an active choice to abstain.

No matter the cause of our decision, we deserve better than to be cast into the shadows. We desire a kinder fate than the stain of scorn. We demand the benefit of the doubt in its place.

Social acceptance need not hinge on filling our bodies with poison. Irresponsible behavior need not be boundlessly lionized. And the implications of inebriation need not be ignored.

Yes, drinking will continue to be an important part of our society, our economy, and our culture for generations to come. But there can — and should — be room at the table for temperance too.

I yearn for that possibility.

I long for the day when sobriety is not a loaded term. I pine for the moment when the intricacies of social life are no longer dominated by what’s in our glass.

We are not there — not yet. But with a little more empathy and open-mindedness, we can be someday.

So, the next time you hear someone calling themself sober, don’t assume they have problems. It could just be that they have solutions.