Tag: outcomes

Patience, Grasshopper

We ventured out onto the pier. My grandfather and I.

Suddenly, we stopped and turned toward the water.

A large bridge towered over us. That structure had long ago replaced this one, ferrying traffic over the intercoastal.

As I gazed upwards in wonder, my grandfather took some bait out of a box. He fixed some to the hook on the end of his fishing rod. Then he did the same with my fishing rod.

We cast our lines into the water. And as we watched the bait disappear below the surface, I asked one question.

What now?

My grandfather smiled.

Now, we wait, he said.

It was quiet on the pier. And boredom quickly started to wash over me.

But then, I felt a tug on my line.

I reeled it in with the ferocity of a caged tiger. Only to find the bait gone – and seaweed stuck to the hook in its place.

I had caught nothing.

My grandfather helped me rebait the hook. I cast my line once again and stared at the water.

How long is this going to take? I openly mused.

He glanced over to me.

It depends on the fish, he replied. It could be minutes, or hours. Patience. Patience is key.

These were not the words an 8-year-old wanted to hear. And I protested vehemently.

So, we reeled in our lines and went home empty-handed.

Fishing was a flop.

Cult classic.

These words are overused today. But in a less hyperbolic era, they perfectly defined the TV series Kung Fu.

Back in the 1970s, shows like M*A*S*H, Happy Days, and The Brady Bunch permeated American culture. Kung Fu never gained the level of eponymy that those shows did. But it’s maintained critical acclaim through the decades.

The series covered the travails of Caine, a Shaolin monk with a deft proficiency in martial arts. As he drifts across the American frontier, Caine’s calm demeanor seem as out of place as his fighting skills.

A series of flashbacks help audiences fill in the gaps. They show Caine’s origins as an orphan in a Chinese monastery.

A blind master named Po oversees much of Caine’s training. And whenever Caine acts restlessly, Po turns to some variation of a familiar phrase.

Patience, young grasshopper.

Those words come to define Caine’s life. And that phrase has come to define the series.

This is all more than a bit ironic.

You see, for all its Asian tendencies, Kung Fu was an American show. It catered to an audience that stood for the Star Spangled Banner.

Americans have held many defining traits over the generations. But patience has not been one of them.

Just look at our history.

Impatience was behind our decision to declare independence in the wake of British tax hikes. It’s what spurred us to rapidly expand our borders westward to the Pacific Ocean. It’s what fueled us to unleash technological innovations that changed the world.

So, what led us to reverse course while viewing Kung Fu? What caused us to embrace a phrase we fail to embody?

Necessity. And aspiration.

Not long ago, I was looking for tickets to a major sporting event.

The tickets never went on sale to the general public. So, I was forced to scour the resale market.

Going the resale route is like taking a plunge into a frigid lake. Sellers can set their own prices based on demand. And the sticker shock often stings at first.

This was the case when I searched a prominent resale database. Ticket prices were not only outside my budget, but also outside the realm of reason.

But the event was a little more than a month away. I’d already committed to attending, and I’d gotten time off from work to do so. I needed these tickets.

What was I to do?

I stared at my computer screen, my mouse cursor hovering over the Buy button.

I was ready to bite the bullet. I was prepared to overpay just to get in the gate.

But then, I heard a voice in my head.

Patience, grasshopper.

There was no harm in waiting. Prices likely wouldn’t get much worse until the eve of the event. And there remained a chance that they’d go down as sellers got desperate to unload their inventory.

I heeded the voice of reason. And I closed out of the website.

A couple weeks later, I checked the website again. Across town, another pro team was playing for a league championship. All the attention was on them at the moment, and the resale prices for my event had dropped precipitously.

I quickly clicked Buy. Patience had paid off.

I’d come a long way from the fishing debacle to find the ways of Caine.

But that road wasn’t easy.

What are we gonna do now?

If I were to tally up my most common phrases of childhood, that one would be near the top of the list.

I demanded a planned activity at all waking hours, much to my parents’ chagrin.

Learn to entertain yourself, they’d grumble.

This proved to be a challenge.

Books were a dud, as I kept losing my place in the text. Toys were exciting until they weren’t. We only had access to three TV channels; smartphones and streaming were still decades away.

And so, my impatience festered.

This is one of the reasons I spent so much time with my grandparents growing up. My grandfather was already retired when I was born, and my grandmother retired when I was in elementary school. They had plenty of time to embark on adventures with me, and to keep me entertained.

Some of these treks didn’t go as intended. The fishing trip was one of those.

Yet, most others went swimmingly. At least that’s what I felt at the time.

But now, I wonder if I had it all wrong.

There’s a case to be made that my grandparents’ endless activities only fueled my impatience. That it deferred the concept of delayed gratification. And that made me ever more restless in the process.

Indeed, I reached adulthood nothing less than impulsive. I ran up my credit card balance in college, without much consideration as to how I’d pay it off. And when I had to wait six weeks after graduation for a job offer, I was completely despondent.

I had no concept of the value of waiting. Of letting the dust settle and the picture come into focus.

It took years to gain that clarity. But once I finally embraced it, I felt like a changed man. A better man.

I’m better equipped now to avoid overpaying for a sports event. Or making a poor career decision. Or ditching an exercise plan prematurely.

I’m better able to embrace the process and reap the results.

Patience, you see, is a weapon. It allows us to read situations fully before acting. It cuts out rash actions. It keeps us in control.

Patience is the road not taken. Yet, it represents the best path forward.

This isn’t a hard and fast rule, of course. There are plenty of times where waiting it out can be quite costly.

But on the balance, we could use more patience than we currently exhibit.

We could stand to be more like Caine. We could be well-served fending off our impulses. We could thrive when embracing a deliberate pace.

There is nothing in the way of this future. Nothing but ourselves.

Patience is a virtue. Let’s make it our own.

Excess on Parade

The lagoon was massive.

The body of water filled a space the size of six football fields.

Around its edges, tourists milled about. Street performers did their thing. And fancy hotel structures towered over the water.

At first glance, this man-made structure seemed like a mistake. A waste of valuable space and real estate.

But then the music would start. The tourists would take note. And the hustle and bustle would fade away.

For a few majestic moments, the lagoon would transform into a majestic fountain, with water shooting up to 400 feet in the air. The experience would leave everyone watching in a trance.

Yes, the Fountains at Bellagio are about as unnecessary an attraction as there is. Gallons upon gallons of water housed in the Nevada desert, whose only function is pure spectacle.

And yet, they’re as intractable a part of Las Vegas as slot machines, neon lights and showgirls. The essential of all essentials. Something so iconic that even the strait-laced, reclusive business traveler — that would be me — makes a point to seek it out.

It’s excess on parade. And we can’t get enough.

About 800 miles east of Las Vegas, a billboard rises menacingly over the open plains of the Texas Panhandle.

It tempts drivers passing through Amarillo on Interstate 40 to stop at the Big Texan Ranch and try the 72-ounce steak.

Such a cut of beef carries a hefty price, even out in the heartland. But those who polish it off in one sitting – along with a few preordained sides — can have their check comped. It turns out there is such a thing as a free meal.

I love Texas as much as anything, and a good steak as much as anyone. I would seem to be the right clientele to take this challenge on.

But as I drove by this billboard, I was nauseated.

I thought back to my teenage years, when McDonalds would goad me into Super Sizing my fries for additional sweepstakes entries. I’d feel worse and worse with each bite, as excess calories filled my stomach and excess regret consumed my mind.

The Big Texan Steak challenge wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t about to take it on.

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But clearly, some do.

There’s a reason that highway billboard is there. Just like there’s a reason why there are fountains in the desert.

Excess on parade is a powerful magnet.

Excess has always been in our DNA.

This nation’s beginnings were essentially an agrarian revolt. A group of mostly rural colonists objected against taxes levied by a faraway monarch. They decided to go it alone instead.

Yet, the Founding Fathers sold a vision far grander. The reframed our fledgling nation as a beacon for liberty and democracy. It was quite the overstatement for the actions of settlers who were tired of paying the crown.

This expression of excess morphed into a rallying cry in the decades that followed.

We decided that expanding westward was God’s will, displacing native tribes and Mexican settlers in the process. We lionized the titans of the Industrial Revolution, even as the front-line workers at their companies toiled away in squalid conditions. And we focused our gaze on the biggest, the brightest, and the most extraordinary. Nothing less would do.

All of that led us to the present moment. Where we’re expected to step into boots two sizes too big and fill them with ease.

This is not the world we live in. It’s the world we’ve created for ourselves.

Excess on parade is part of the fabric. Consequences be damned.

From my couch, I watched with a mix of horror and amazement.

On my television screen was the United States men’s soccer team. The finest of the Stars and Stripes were taking on a Belgian side at the World Cup in Brazil.

Well, more like chasing the Belgians.

Indeed, the Belgian strikers and forwards had a couple of steps on the closest American defenders for most of the game. They would waltz unimpeded toward the goal, only to be stymied by goaltender Tim Howard.

Howard made a remarkable 16 saves in that game — a record for any World Cup match.

But it wasn’t enough. The Americans lost the knockout-round game 2-1 in extra time. Their World Cup quest was over once again.

I was baffled.

America had dominated the world stage at every turn throughout my lifetime — and for a generation before it. Our nation had outsize influence on both the global economy and geopolitics. It had driven pop culture trends. And it brought home the most medals in nearly every Olympic games.

Yet, the United States was an afterthought when it came to World Cup soccer. Our nation had never won the tournament — or even played in the championship match. And now, a country whose population was 96 percent smaller had outclassed the best soccer stars America had to offer.

The United States invested plenty in avoiding this outcome. The U.S. Soccer Federation had invested plenty into training and player development.

But it didn’t matter. Howard’s brilliance was the only protection against total obliteration on the soccer pitch.

As I stared on in silence, I started questioning the principle of Excess on Parade. How valuable was it anyway?

Consider one of Belgium’s culinary delicacies – Frites. The same dish that we like to Super-Size actually originated across the pond.

Over the years, Belgians have perfected the art of the Frite. But instead of serving up piles of it at a time, they put a sensible amount into a paper cone, and serve it with dipping sauces.

The Belgians favor quality over quantity. They don’t participate in Excess on Parade.

These same principles have made their way to the Belgian soccer pitch. Instead of going all-in, sparing no expense to build a title contender, the Belgians focus on perfecting their craft. On doing just enough for the moment, and doing it well.

It might not be flashy. But it gets the job done.

And more often than not, we don’t.

It’s time.

It’s time to shed the illusions of grandeur. It’s time to do away with spectacle for spectacle’s sake.

It’s time to say goodbye to Excess on Parade.

For this pattern wastes much and achieves little.

It does us no favors. And we needn’t kowtow to it.

So, let’s chart a new course. Let’s write a new chapter. One free of high-volume, yet full of substance.

This new path might feel strange and unnerving at first. But it will fit just right.

And shouldn’t that be enough?

The Reality of Hope

As I sat in the hot tub on a steamy Florida night, I pondered my future.

Hours earlier, I’d walked across the stage at my college graduation. My family then celebrated the occasion with dinner at one of the ritziest restaurants in town.

But now, the ceremonies were over. We had retreated to my family’s hotel near the airport.

And now, submerged in warm waters flanked by the not-so-distant roar of jet engines, we commiserated.

The conversation quickly turned to what was next. And as it did, my triumph faded into a sense of failing.

For I didn’t have a job lined up. I didn’t even have any interviews pending.

In the throes of a brutal recession, I would need to move back in with my parents until I could launch my career.

My family assured me this was no big deal. I’d earned myself a break, they said.

But had I?

To me, college was not a four-year party. It was a proving ground for professional life.

And without the first step in my career imminent, I felt I had failed. I had wasted my time and countless dollars of tuition.

Fortunately, this despondence didn’t last long. I soon landed some job interviews, followed by a job offer. Two months and a day after my college graduation, I reported to my new role as a news producer in West Texas.

And while I’ve long ago left that position — and that career — behind, I’ve remained self-sufficient throughout adulthood.

My story had a satisfying conclusion. My quest for a career launch was simply deferred, rather than denied.

Some of that had to do with the industry I was seeking to join. Some had to do with the economic realities of the moment I was in. Much of it had to do with sheer luck.

I never gave up hope throughout this process. Even in those dour moments on the evening of my college graduation, I retained faith that things would work out.

But attributing the outcome to me sense of hope is a fool’s errand.

Many of my peers faced the same circumstances as I did as they walked the stage at commencements across America that spring. Despite some despondence over their lack of immediate job prospects, they remained hopeful.

And yet, despite sterling credentials and supreme self-belief, that faith was not rewarded.

Many of my peers ended up waiting tables for months on end, just to be able to pay the bills. Some were forced to give up their career hopes entirely after years of rejection.

It was cruel and unfair. But it was reality.

A reality that was out of touch with a prevailing narrative.

You see, we tend to view hope as a self-fulfilling prophecy. This principle is central in Hollywood scripts and other narrative arcs.

Cinderella is in a desperate condition when the Fairy Godmother first encounters her. Yet, even in her darkest hours, she retains a semblance of hope — one that pays off in spades once it’s time to try on the glass slipper.

Similarly, the Rebel Alliance retains hope against long odds at the start of Star Wars. The Galactic Empire has a decided advantage. And the Jedi equipped to counter the Empire’s brutal reign are seemingly nowhere to be found.

That hope that sustains the Rebel Alliance from the first scene becomes the fabric of the franchise, interspersed into dialogue, story arcs, and even film names. (Once sequels hit the big screen, that original Star Wars film was rebranded Star Wars Episode IV – A New Hope.)

Given these prominent examples, it’s all too easy to believe that a little faith and determination are all guaranteed to provide a favorable outcome.

And so, we go all in on hope. We treat the fairy tale ending as manifest destiny. And we suppress the narratives where satisfaction doesn’t arrive.

This does us no favors.

As I write this, we’ve had a rough go of it.

In recent years, we’ve dealt with a global pandemic, a teetering economy, and societal polarization.

Through it all, we’ve followed a familiar playbook. We’ve tried to stay the course, clinging to the prospect of better days ahead.

We’ve clung to the promise of hope.

This might seem sensible at first. Looking across the long arc of history, things tend to even out. And Star Wars and Cinderella show that a little faith can pay big dividends. So why not bask in the glory of tomorrow?

But I’m not so sure that a bright future is imminent. There’s no guarantee that things will get better just because we hit a rough patch. And if the past is precedent, they might continue to get worse.

It’s easy to overlook how spoiled we’ve been spoiled in recent decades. Sure, things weren’t always ideal. But we’ve recovered rather swiftly from the adverse events we did face — be they the 9/11 attacks or the 2008 Financial Crisis.

This near-instant resilience was a blessing. For in prior generations, the route back was far more treacherous.

The Great Depression lasted a full decade, and it was followed almost immediately by World War II. One catastrophic event followed another, with devastation touching all corners of our nation.

America did emerge from the Allied victory in World War II with a robust economy and improved global standing. But people weren’t entirely jubilant. Instead, they were hiding under desks during air raid drills, terrified about the prospect of Soviet missiles bringing nuclear winter.

It’s only in the past few decades — with the Cold War over and the tech boom bringing unprecedented innovation — that we’ve seen hope blossom into true prosperity. And that prosperity has deluded us from the truth.

Indeed, the reality of hope is messy. It carries no promise of returns, let alone instant ones.

There are costs to shunning hope, as complete despair can leave us without the will to seize opportunities. But its benefits are minimal, at best.

This isn’t the message we want to hear. It’s not the tidy narrative that leaves us feeling fulfilled. It’s not the bright carrot that motivates us to keep moving forward.

But it is the message we need to hear. It’s the one we should heed.

Yes, hope is beautiful. It’s inspiring. It’s uplifting.

But it is not a crystal ball.

We cannot count on it to provide us opportunities. We can’t expect it to help us seize them.

Much of that power belongs to circumstance. The rest belongs to us.

Act accordingly.

Twists and Turns

It’s an adventure.

That’s what my aunt said, as my father and I sat at her kitchen table.

My car was out in the driveway, loaded with as many of my possessions that could possibly fit inside it. My father and I were heading halfway across the country to Texas, where I was set to start a job as a TV news producer. And we’d stopped at my aunt’s house near the start of our journey.

This whole endeavor was hard to fathom. Sure, plenty of people have set out for greener pastures somewhere across our fair land over the years. But not in our family.

That’s why my aunt called the whole endeavor an adventure. The word evoked an expectation that my foray to Texas would be short on time and long on memories.

As I sat at that kitchen table, I didn’t disagree with my auut. How could I?

After all, I had no idea what lay in front of me. I’d never been to the city I was moving to. I’d had no real career experience or adulthood experience. Add it all up, and it was hard to envision my move as anything more than temporary.

And yet, I never made that return trek by my aunt’s house, with my belongings in the back of my car. Instead, I made Texas my home for good.

That TV job? It’s long gone. And yet, I remain.

It might have seemed like an adventure at the start. But I ended up finding what I didn’t know I was looking for under the Lone Star flag.

Never again.

Those words were on my mind as I walked away from the finish line on a sunny fall morning.

I’d just medaled in a state championship cross-country meet, finishing in the Top 25 of the final race of my freshman year. But I was tired.

I was done with sweating through late afternoon workouts. I was done with sore legs and side stitches. I was done with my gray New Balance 880’s, which could never be as stylish as a pair of Nikes.

I quit the cross-country team that day. There would be no more running for me.

And for a good decade or so, I stayed true to that prognostication.

But gradually, I came back around.

I started by running 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week after I lifted weights. Soon, I took the workout outdoors, running a mile on the road. And eventually, I convinced myself to sign up for a 5K.

It wasn’t pretty.

My medal-winning form from high school was a distant memory. I lumbered along for a couple of miles until I started seeing green flashes and hyperventilating. I had to stop for a couple of minutes to catch my breath before struggling my way to the finish line.

I was humbled by this ordeal and determined not to repeat it. But the scars of my cross-country days still festered. So, I kept doing what I had done before — running a mile or two after lifting weights. I entered a few more 5K races and did marginally better — making it to the finish line in one go. But my abilities were nothing to write home about.

Then, a global pandemic shut my neighborhood gym. Lifting weights was now impossible; running outside was my only option for exercise. So, I started running slightly longer distances more often.

It didn’t take long for me to notice the difference. I was stronger. I was faster.

But I was also bored.

And so, when an opportunity about for me to join a local running club, I didn’t hesitate.

My first run with the club was a 10-miler on a hot summer morning. I’d never ran that far in my life, but I managed to stick with the group the entire time. And, to my surprise, I enjoyed the experience.

Pretty soon, I was running with the group three times a week, putting more miles on my legs than ever before. And these efforts paid dividends.

I started medaling in races, putting up times I would have found unfathomable a year earlier. This inspired me to start a training regimen, which made me even faster.

Now, I’m signing up for half marathons all over the country. I’m spending a big chunk of my salary on workout gear. And I’m dreaming of the day when I can toe the line in the New York City Marathon.

I never could have imagined that putting one foot in front of another would get me so far.

These outcomes I’ve lived — they’re far different than anything I would have imagined back in my aunt’s kitchen.

They weren’t on the script. And yet, they’re now an indelible part of who I am.

What did I miss back then? Was I too young, too stupid, too naïve to anticipate what was around the bend?

Hardly.

Truth be told, there was no way I could have known what life would have in store for me. No matter how straight a course I’d chart for my future, there were always bound to be some twists and turns along the way.

Embracing those twists and turns is critical. For some of the greatest joys in life involve what you don’t see coming. Appreciation needn’t stem from anticipation.

Yet, even as I write these words — seeing their reflection in my own narrative — I struggle to adhere to them.

For I am predisposed to seek control. To chart a path for myself and follow that path to a T.

I struggle to leave things as they are. To sit still and let the waves crash over me. To allow the twists and turns to catch me off-guard.

This means my gratification is delayed. I can only experience the joy of the unexpected after the panic of being thrown off-course has dissipated.

It’s been like this for me for decades. But it needn’t be this way forever.

So, I’m adding a twist and turn of my own. Instead of charting my future, I’m simply committing to living my values. And I’m letting the chips fall where they may.

Life happens on its own terms. It’s about time I embrace the beauty in that.

Opportunities and Outcomes

We all sat in a school classroom on a rainy Saturday. In front of each of us was a booklet, a Scantron sheet, and some pencils.

As we waited for the go-ahead to start the SAT, I couldn’t help feeling that those of us in this classroom were at a point of divergence.

We all were about to embark on a great quest with this de-facto college entrance exam. But some of us were going to get every question right, and others were going to do much worse.

The opportunity was equal, but the outcome would not be.

When the scores came in, I wasn’t particularly close to the top. Any aspirations of going to a prestigious school were out the window.

In many places, such a development would spell disaster. But America has a wealth of options for someone in the situation I was in.

I ended up at a fantastic university — one with a palm-lined campus lined and a diverse student body. It was an experience that helped shape me. And it was an experience that defined the success I would see in adulthood.

The outcome was not guaranteed. But the opportunity was all I needed.

There are many things I’m not a fan of.

Fish tacos, cold showers, and the Houston Astros represent just a few.

But Communism is another.

You see, I was born at the tail-end of the Cold War. I’m too young to remember the Berlin Wall falling. But I know what that moment signified.

No longer would the model of equitable outcomes envelop the world. The model of equitable opportunities had won the day.

Communist models still persist in China, Cuba, and other nations. But the global ideological chess game has softened considerably.

Still, if you look around America — the pinnacle of democracy and capitalism — you’d hardly know that the Cold War is behind us.

A full generation after the fall of the U.S.S.R., many Americans are still unclear what was won. They fail to understand the difference between equality of opportunity and equality of outcome.

The recent battles over history curriculums in schools illustrates this precisely.

In the wake of protests in the name of social justice, schools are taking a fresh look at our past. History is typically written by the victors, and that is as true in America as anywhere else. We’ve maintained a rosy view of the past without considering its discriminatory undercurrents. The collective project to teach our history more candidly is meant to change all that.

I don’t have an issue with this approach. Education is a better way to address the sins of our past than wiping its remnants away. And such an approach has worked before. Notably, it helped postwar Germany reckon with the horrors of the Nazi era.

Still, many others do not share my view. They’ve labeled such reforms Critical Race Theory. And they’ve claimed that educators are imposing socialism on our society. This has led to heated debates at school board meetings across America. And it has caused many states to restrict changes to historical curriculums.

These developments both amuse and sadden me.

The ideal behind the curriculum changes is equity of opportunity. Educators want to promote a fair playing field, which was sorely lacking during the eras of slavery and segregation. Only by reckoning with that contradiction can we escape its doom cycle in the generations to come.

And yet, Critical Race Theory opponents view the curriculum updates as promoting equity of outcome. They feel such changes are tantamount to providing handouts to some, rather than a fair chance at success to all. They see it as a betrayal of the democracy that they’ve benefitted from.

It’s tempting to point a finger at the misguided. It’s satisfying to call out their privilege and their bigotry. It’s easy to demonstrate that Critical Race Theory is, in fact, something entirely different than what these proposed changes advocate.

But such pettiness misses the point.

If we can’t tell between opportunities and outcomes — if we can’t distinguish between the starting gates and the finish line — then we’ve all lost.

I grew up with the blessing of good fortune.

I wasn’t born into wealth or prominence. But I found myself with an abundance of opportunity.

I had the freedom to pursue my dreams without anyone putting up roadblocks in my way. It was a luxury that sadly was not commonplace.

As I progressed through elementary school, my dreams gravitated around the game of baseball. I hadn’t participated in Little League, but I was determined to make up for lost time.

I spent plenty of hours playing catch or working on my batting stance. And all this preparation paid off. I became a full-fledged member of my middle school baseball team.

But by the time I got to high school, it was clear the dream was fading. I had a long swing at the plate, and I was slow to read fly balls in the field. Plus, I threw from a funky arm angle, causing the ball to tail off at the last minute.

The Junior Varsity baseball coach added me to the team after tryouts, but as a player-manager. I only got three pinch-hit at bats, although I singled in two of them.

The next spring, the door closed on my baseball exploits. The coach cut me from the team after tryouts.

I could see the pain in the coach’s eyes as he gave me the news. I had worked on fielding with him over the summer. I had joined the cross-country team — which he also coached — in the fall to stay in shape. I had been a model teammate and done everything he’d asked of me.

But I wasn’t any good. And my presence on the team would deny someone else the opportunity to suit up and play.

I should have been devastated by all this. I should have been distraught at the dashing of my dreams.

But instead, I was grateful.

I was grateful for the opportunities that I was given. I was grateful to be held accountable for what I did with those opportunities. And I was grateful that this outcome would give someone else an opportunity to do better on the diamond.

I was an immature teenager, still finding myself and my way in the world. And yet, I knew the difference between opportunity and outcome. And I understood the dual importance of maintaining a fair playing field and judging results on merit.

This isn’t rocket science. I’m sure millions of other Americans could figure this out too.

But this requires us to look inward. To think for ourselves, rather than parrot the words of others. To provide for others what was granted for us, rather than guard it under lock and key.

I don’t know what it will take for us to get to this point. The forces tearing us apart are the same ones keeping us from such introspection.

But I truly hope that we will be there someday. That we will understand that the principles of merit-based achievement on a level playing field is the most American concept of all. And that we will do all we can to make that happen.

Our future depends on it.