Tag: narrative

On Prestige

He had a square face, a widow’s peak, and a strange surname.

And for a moment, Jack Gohlke had America’s heart.

Gohlke, you see, was a graduate student at Oakland University. But he was also a basketball player – one who specialized in long-range shooting.

And for one night in March, Gohlke couldn’t miss.

Oakland was facing the venerable Kentucky Wildcats – college basketball’s winningest program – in the NCAA (National Collegiate Athletic Association) Tournament. Kentucky had a name brand, elite athletes, and a high-octane offense. But they didn’t have an answer for Gohlke.

The twentysomething with a square face and widow’s peak connected on 10 three-pointers, leading Oakland to an upset victory. Some pundits quipped that a team full of future NBA (National Basketball Association) pros got beat by a future Regional Manager of Enterprise Rent-A-Car.

A day later, the nation was captivated again. The Yale Bulldogs stunned the Auburn Tigers in another NCAA Tournament matchup.

Auburn didn’t have the basketball bona fides of Kentucky. But NBA Hall-of-Famer Charles Barkley once sported their uniform, as did many other pro hoops stars. And the Tigers competed in the same athletic conference as the Wildcats, playing games under the bright lights of massive arenas.

They were no slouch. But just like Kentucky, their championship dreams were over in a flash. The surprise result only adding to the lore of the sporting event nicknamed March Madness.

Following the game, the Auburn coach lauded Yale’s team. He then harkened back to his early coaching days, when he led the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Panthers to Tournament victories over vaunted opponents.

I know what it’s like to be them, he exclaimed.

From my sofa, I chortled.

No, you don’t, I exclaimed out loud. None of us do.

College degree required.

These three words have long been hallmarks of job postings. And while that’s changed a bit in recent years, a degree can still hold plenty of sway.

I know this as well as anyone. I have two diplomas hanging on my wall — one for a bachelor’s degree, another for a master’s degree. I’ve seen the impact each has had on my career, and my life.

And yet, there’s an unspoken truth surrounding those framed pieces of embossed paper. The institutional name printed on the top matters more than my name printed in the middle.

Sure, the schools I attended do carry some cachet. Their names enhance discussions I have while networking or applying for jobs.

But other universities have bigger names. Names that can start these conversations on their own. Or even render them moot, entirely.

To underling this point, let’s take a closer look at those two schools that authored upset victories in March Madness.

Prior to those basketball games, you’d be excused if you thought Oakland University was in the East Bay of California. Many shared that misconception.

The few who knew where the school was actually located – namely, the suburbs of Detroit – were the ones who were more likely to value the name atop the diploma. Which is to say, the institution didn’t have much sway outside Michigan before Gohlke connected on some three-pointers.

Meanwhile, everyone knew where Yale was located. And even if they couldn’t describe what the city of New Haven, CT looked like, they understood what a Yale degree represented.

Yale, you see, is one of those names atop a diploma that renders a conversation moot. The institution’s reputation alone can opportunities for its alumni. Opportunities many of us can only dream of.

A glance at a list of prominent Yale alumni will feature award-winning authors, business tycoons, accomplished attorneys, political leaders, and much more. Five United States Presidents got a degree there. As I write this, one third of the U.S. Supreme Court and nearly a tenth of the U.S. Senate are former Yale scholars.

The one area where the prominent alumni list is slightly shorter is in athletics – particularly in football and college basketball. There are many reasons for that – including a paltry athletics budget and an institutional ban on athletic scholarships. But it leads to a scenario where Yale’s basketball team are the little guys, fighting off vaunted opponents like Auburn on the big stage.

The absurdity of all this is palpable. The gap between Yale University and Oakland University is as wide as the 2,200 miles between the cities where they shocked their vaunted opponents on the hardwood.

Yet, for a few days at the start of spring, we conflate them. We shroud ourselves in the underdog spirit. And we forget which direction up is.

Many years ago, some floormates and I held court in a cramped dorm room.

We were new to college and new to being neighbors. And we were going through the getting-to-know-you routine.

At some point, the conversation turned to what other schools we had applied to. Where else might we have been, if circumstances were different?

One of my floormates exclaimed that he’d been accepted to Auburn University. But he cautioned that you only need to be able to sign your name to get in there.

It was a joke, I thought. But I wasn’t completely sure.

After all, I had applied to a university with a somewhat similar arrangement. Maintain a certain high school Grade Point Average or get a certain score on a standardized test — and you’re in automatically.

I cleared both bars with ease. Only to spurn that institution for the one I now sat in.

To this day, I have no idea if the admissions qualifications for Auburn University were ever as simple as signing one’s name on a piece of paper. But the truth only matters so much.

Indeed, this perception of Auburn University as a cupcake school is what’s so damning. It limits the horizons of those who graduate from that institution.

Their four years might have been spent doing far more than drinking beer and tossing rolls of toilet paper into oak trees. They might have spent much of that time in the library or the research lab, molding themselves into young professionals.

But to attain the future they were striving for, they’d need to fight uphill. Auburn’s reputation – unfair as it might be – was sure to cast a long shadow over these graduates. A shadow that didn’t exist at – say, Yale.

This is why I was so troubled by the dueling underdog stories of the Oakland University and Yale University basketball teams. It wasn’t just that Yale held a level of prestige that Oakland never would attain. It was also that this narrative took away the one thing that institutions between the two on the prestige scale could claim.

If getting a job on Wall Street or Capitol Hill was so much tougher for an Auburn alum or a Kentucky alum than a Yale alum, couldn’t they enjoy athletic glory? Or at least not get mocked as the toppled giant when they fall short?

Was that too much? Apparently so.

Make no mistake. Yale University is no David with a slingshot. It’s Thanos with all the Infinity Stones.

It is inevitable. And it’s time we recognize it as such.

Back in that cramped dorm room, I recounted my own would have journey.

Yes, I qualified for that one school by meeting two of its standards. And I had clearly gotten accepted to the university I now attended.

But I’d applied to plenty of others. All with nationally recognized sports programs. And all with campuses on our nation’s southern tier.

I was entering college as a student, not a student-athlete. But I still wanted to attend an institution with a host of school spirit. And somewhere without snow.

In March Madness terms, I was aiming more for an Auburn than a Yale. (In reality, I applied to neither of those schools.)

It was only later that I learned the cost of this choice. It was only later that I understood the value of prestige. And how the collegiate culture I sought would leave it out of reach.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. But that experience helped me grow into the man I am today.

I don’t rely on prestige to open doors in my life. That option is off-limits to me.

I must work four times as hard as those twice as fortunate. I must be magnitudes better just to get my shot at achievement.

I’ve made my peace with this arrangement. For it reflects the way the world is organized. And that setup is beyond my control.

So, let’s not feign ignorance.

Yes, we can celebrate when a square-faced sharpshooter outshines a gaggle of future NBA pros. Yes, we can bask in the glory when the alma mater of presidents earns a rare NCAA Tournament victory.

But that’s no excuse for getting carried away.

We must stop acting as if power dynamics have shifted on the wings of two nights in March. We mustn’t pontificate about prestige flowing in new directions.

That hasn’t happened. And if past is pretense, it won’t happen.

It’s high time we govern ourselves accordingly.

Closing the Chapter

Don’t miss the exit.

That was the last bit of advice I got as I headed off to visit my great-grandmother.

I had spent plenty of time with her over the years. But this was the first time I was visiting her on my own.

The warning was prudent.

My great-grandmother’s assisted living facility was not far from the highway. But the exit that led to it was tucked in the back of a highway rest stop.

I had to drive past the service center and the gas pumps to find it, but fortunately, I did so without incident. Moments later, I had parked and made it to my great-grandmother’s room.

My great-grandmother was 96 years old. Macular degeneration had rendered her nearly blind, and dementia had clouded her mind.

I resolved to be patient and not to get flustered if I got called by my father’s name. Mostly, I reminded myself not to expect too much.

Yet, to my surprise, my great-grandmother was in great spirits. We dove into a lively discussion. And for a few moments, it seemed like the old days.

But then, the conversation hit a brief respite. And after that pause, my great-grandmother seemed lost.

She started to rehash what we had already discussed. For she had already forgotten that we’d even talked about it.

I pivoted, trying to keep the discussion free of pauses to avoid repeating myself. But this was exhausting work, and my energy eventually dwindled.

At that point, I knew it was time to leave. I gave my great-grandmother a hug and headed for the door.

More than a year later, she passed away. I had just started a new job halfway across the country, and I couldn’t make the funeral.

I felt a bit guilty. But I wasn’t overwhelmed by that sensation.

For I knew I’d closed the chapter with my great-grandmother gracefully. And that mattered as much to me as anything.

Humanity is full of vices. Some are oft-discussed, while others fly under the radar.

The recency effect generally falls into that second category.

This concept states that we’re more likely to remember the most recent item in a series than the ones before it.

That late addition to the grocery list is the first one that comes to mind as we walk in the store doors. That lesson from last week is likely to be the one we nail on the upcoming midterm.

And that last bit of time we spend with a loved one is what sticks with us for years.

This makes sense. The everlasting emptiness of death is without comparison. So is the enduring power of memory. When the two converge, we want to engineer the encounter to meet our needs.

Yet, such an approach is far from sensible.

So much surrounding departures is beyond our control. But we try and put our stamp on the proceedings anyway.

I am no different. I had an inkling that my visit with my great-grandmother would likely be my last. This realization impacted my approach to the entire experience.

That experience went as well as could be expected. While I miss my great-grandmother, I’m at peace with the way our time together on this earth ended. The recency effect hasn’t left me saddled with regret.

That is not always the case.

Not long after my great-grandmother passed, my thoughts turned to another beloved relative — one of my grandfathers.

I’ve written about this grandfather before on Words of the West, reflecting on his impact on my life. While he wasn’t related to my great-grandmother — they were on different sides of the family tree — he was also getting up there in years, and I worried about what might come next.

My grandfather had survived two heart attacks and a triple bypass in his life. He had served in the United States Navy in World War II and lived to tell the tale. Growing up, I started to believe that he was invincible.

But now, his mortality seemed evident.

So, I took nothing for granted. Whenever I called my grandfather to check in, I would try and coax him to tell an extra story or two from his past. And I made sure not to assume that we’d speak again.

This proved prescient — but not in the way I expected.

For my grandfather eventually suffered a stroke. And while that malady didn’t kill him, it robbed him of much of his memory and communication abilities.

At first, I struggled to process this development. It hurt me to see my grandfather as a shell of his former self. And it threw a giant wrinkle in my plan to close the chapter with him cleanly.

But as the years went by, I gradually made my peace with what had transpired. I resisted the siren song of the recency effect. I instead tried to remember what had come before.

Ultimately, my grandfather did pass away. But as I adjusted to his absence, my refreshed approach proved to be a benefit.

Instead of zeroing in on those trying final years of my grandfather’s life, I remembered him at full strength. The stories he told. The way he was. The example he set.

I’ve tried to honor that memory as much as anything.

Perhaps we can all take a page from this revised playbook.

Instead of obsessing about missing our exit, we can glance at the highway that got us there. We can consider items deeper in our pile of memories.

For these memories are the bulk of our lived experience. They’re the ones that set the tone for the integral relationships in our lives.

We tend to consider these memories as mere guideposts on the grander journey. But they should be the narrative itself.

They should become our focus.

So, let’s cast off the tiring task of closing the chapter. Let’s stop obsessing over-engineering a clean ending and instead focus on something that truly matters.

We’ll be happier and more fulfilled. And that’s the point of all this anyway.

The Picture and the Frame

A picture’s worth a thousand words.

We’ve uttered this phrase millions of times, collectively, over the years. But do we really believe it?

I don’t. In fact, I feel it misses the point entirely.

You see, I love photography. It’s one of my great passions, along with cooking and writing. And it’s one of the reasons why a sweeping desert landscape greets readers as they come to Words of the West. I took that photo, and I’m as proud of it as I am my many blog articles.

Still, I feel photography is underappreciated and misunderstood. In our technologically advanced world, too many people see photos as a snapshot reminder of a moment in time — a crystal clear alternative to a thousand winding words of prose.

I feel it’s something far greater. To me, photography a blank canvas open to interpretation.

For there’s so much more to a photo than just the objects in it. There’s lighting, shadows and sky color. There’s depth of field and the signs of motion. There’s framing, balance and orientation.

All of these elements converge on one theme: perspective.

Perspective is what makes photography more than just a Polaroid of a time gone by. Perspective makes photography as much art as science, if not more.

But perspective has a unique place in the world of photography — as it’s twofold by nature.

First, there’s the perspective of the photographer. The artist who manipulates factors of light, time and frame to create his or her own window into a moment in time.

Then, there’s the perspective of the viewer. The person who takes in the image secondhand in a gallery or on an Instagram feed and makes that window all their own.

Both perspectives are significant. Both are unique. And both demonstrate that even the simplest snapshot is not so simple.

This dual narrative is what draws me to photography, what captivates me. There’s something uniquely beautiful and powerful when one relatable piece of imagery has the power to tell two stories.

Yet, there’s something sinister about equating this phenomenon with a measure of the written word.

It’s apples and oranges.

After all, writing serves a different purpose than photography. It’s about conveying a message through a protocol that both the writer and reader share — language. While effective writing can stir emotion, there is often a narrow frame of interpretation for the reader. The rules of written language make it so.

With no words to steer a course, photography is much more open to imagination. How something is captured — and what’s left out of the image — are key elements in the story. The frame matters just as much as the picture.

This is an important distinction — and one that stretches far beyond the camera lens. For in a world where technology makes it easy for all of us to broadcast, share and connect, framing matters more than ever.

We cannot take everything we see, hear or read at face value. Whether they’re filled with truth or alternative facts, the messages we consume are just one part of the story.

How we frame them matters. Our perspective matters — more than any 1,000 words can say.

So never forget the dual narrative in every experience. We have the power to shape the stories we consume. Best to use that power wisely.

The Branding of Us

I’ll never forget my first encounter with branding.

I was about 7 years old, plodding around the playground at recess in my Converse High Tops. But all I wanted was a pair of Nikes.

My shoes were comfortable. They were functional. And, in hindsight, they were hip!

(Plus, my mother probably saved a fortune on them at Marshall’s.)

But none of that mattered. My friends had Nikes. MJ sported Nikes. All I wanted were Nikes.

A few years later, I got my coveted pair of Nikes. And, aside from one pair of cross country running shoes, every pair of sneakers I’ve ever owned since then has either had a Swoosh or a Jumpman logo on it.

Branding is real.

***

I’ve harkened back to this playground scene a lot recently. It’s been getting more and more difficult for me to find Nike shoes that meet my fashion standards and fit my wide feet. And when I do, I end up paying a fortune for a product that frankly isn’t worth the extra money.

Yet, I keep coming back, as reliably as Pavlov’s dog.

Despite my knowing better, I’m loyal to Nike. It’s my look — and that makes it my only choice, for better or for worse. When the University of Miami switched apparel providers from Nike to Adidas in 2015, I quietly mourned the decision; I’ve since significantly cut back on the amount of t-shirts I’ve bought from my alma mater.

Nike is part of how I express myself. And — though it loathes me to admit this — Nike matters to me.

***

What keeps me coming back to the Swoosh? I could list any number of marketing psychology terms, but I’ll focus on one aspect — the narrative.

Stories are a powerful component of our lives, and branding is a key part of our personal stories — although not in the way corporate branding executives aim for. (Sorry Nike, I don’t think buying a pair of your cross-trainers will make me run like Usain Bolt.)

No, branding serves as a supporting actor in the feature production that is our lives. The styles we wear, the tech we buy and the food we eat at different points in the story — these are all impacted by branding. Either we’re loyal to certain brands or we’re consciously fighting the grip that a company name can have over our lives. In each case, brand influence is a factor in our personal brand.

***

And personal branding is significant. We are constantly sending a message — actively or passively, consciously or subconsciously. How that message is perceived can impact our destiny; this is why we try and take ownership of our own brand identity.

But where should we turn for inspiration when undertaking this task? I feel the best answer to that question is actually…companies like Nike.

You see, the impact of corporate brand influence on our lives is twofold. On one hand, it can embed itself in the story we tell. On another, it can provide us a reminder of which principles to master when crafting our personal brand.

Specifically, it can demonstrate how to build connections to our hopes and dreams. It can show us that how we act, how we dress, what we say and what we do can help us attain the life we desire — whether that be the job we dream of, the family we aspire to build or the circle of friends that we seek to maintain.

The foundation of the life we strive for might already be in existence. But until we take ownership of the narrative, our story is being written on autopilot.

***

It’s time to take control of the branding of us. Whether this means strengthening the connections we already have or breaking with them to build new ones, we must take the helm in writing the narrative of our lives.

We’re obligated to take on this task, because doing so can reap benefits for so many. A properly managed personal brand can help drive us forward, and positively impact those we come across. It can allow us to speak to our community in a way that truly resonates. It can help make the world a better place.

The branding of us is within our grasp. But it’s on us to make it happen.

The Golden Narrative

As the summer winds down, we once again find ourselves captivated by the Olympic Games. Against the stunning backdrop of Rio, we’ve watched the grace of gymnasts, the dominance of swimmers, the pure speed of sprinters — and so much more.

But it’s not the athletic feats that pique our interests, or even the superstars who perform them. No, it’s something far greater, yet so fundamental, that draws us in.

Stories.

Yes, narrative envelops the games, from start to finish. Broadcasters focus their coverage on it, athletes live it, and the world discusses it long after the Olympic flame stops burning.

Narrative defines the road the athletes take to reach the world’s pinnacle event. It helps define these competitors as more than the flag they represent. It helps show that even when achieving world record athletic feats, these athletic stars are just as human as the rest of us.

Narrative weaves the emotional components of these competitors’ journeys throughout the games as well. Swagger, revenge, grace, power, agility, adversity, resurgence, dominance and sportsmanship are just some of the ingredients that can be mixed into a juicy storyline.

And narrative is what makes a limited-run event live on forever. While the Summer Olympics occur as frequently as our presidential elections, they have an uncanny ability to resonate for eternity.

I’ll never forget the first Olympics I watched — the 1996 games in Atlanta. I was only 8 years old at the time, but moments from those games will stay with me for life. Moments like a Parkinson’s stricken Muhammad Ali lighting the caldron in the opening ceremony. Moments like Kerri Strug sticking the landing on an injured ankle to help lead the U.S. women’s gymnastics team to their first gold medal — on home soil, no less.

These moments are powerful because of the narrative. With the world watching, stories are told, adversity is overcome, and legends are forged. A moderately significant event — such as the lighting of a torch or the execution of a gymnastics vault — becomes timeless.

We should never lose sight of the power of the Olympic narrative. We should always remember that stories are the force that connects the world and allow it to overcome.

Let’s continue to share our narrative. Let’s use the power of the story to transcend borders and cultures for a common good. That’s the real meaning of Going for Gold.