Tag: responsibility

Gardens to Tend

Swish!

It was the telltale sign of a good shot in basketball. The audible marker of an orange ball grazing the nylon strings of a net.

Growing up, I’d watch a fair number of basketball games on television with my friends. Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant would launch that orange ball into the stratosphere. And as gravity brought it closer to the basket, I would wait for that sound.

Swish meant success. And success is what kept me watching.

My friends would often focus on other aspects of the game – the crossover dribbles, the thunderous slam dunks, the gaggle of celebrities sitting courtside. But I was fixated on that swish.

It sounded cathartic. It provided more context than the often-blurred TV picture could.

And it was something of a novelty.

You see, I didn’t just watch basketball with my friends. I sometimes played it them as well.

These informal games or shootarounds often took place on outdoor courts in local parks. We brought the ball. The park had the rest.

Well, some of the rest.

You see, the park courts wouldn’t be confused for the glamorous ones Jordan and Bryant dominated on television. Instead of hardwood, there was blacktop. And instead of nets, there was…nothing.

There’d be no swish sound to indicate a made basket. There might be the clank of the rim or the thud of the backboard if a ball didn’t make its way through the hoop cleanly. But on the purest of shots, you’d hear nary a thing.

This bothered me. So, one day, I asked my father why the nets were missing.

I think those hoops used to have them, he replied. But then someone stole them. And that will keep happening if the city put new ones up. So, they’re leaving them be.

I was floored.

I’d never considered that public basketball courts could be anything but a net benefit. I’d never contemplated how others could use that public access for bad intent.

But now the blindfold was off. And there was no going back.

Several years ago, Malcolm Gladwell took aim at country clubs.

The acclaimed author and podcast host had traveled to Los Angeles for business. But when he ventured out for a morning run, he found himself relegated to a narrow dirt path wedged between a busy boulevard and the high fences of a golf club.

Those fences infuriated Gladwell. So, he made a podcast episode about them, and lambasted what they represented.

In the episode, Gladwell questioned why a group of golfers got exclusive access to the outdoors in a car-dominant city. He pointed out that in Canada and Scotland, golf course grounds were open to the public on certain days, or in certain parts of the year.

Surely, America could follow this pattern too, Gladwell argued.

This reasoning appealed to me. For I’ve long detested country club culture.

The exclusivity. The snobby attitudes. The idea of paying dues to get outdoor access.

None of it jibed with my own experience.

When I was growing up, I swam in the ocean at public beaches. I hiked through public nature preserves. And I played those aforementioned basketball games in the park with my friends. All without paying a dime.

These adventures were formative in my life. And I felt others deserved similar opportunities.

But I realize now that things were never quite so simple.

I might have moseyed about in my youth, enjoying myself for free. But there were others who looked after the spaces I frequented. A full roster of folks who kept those locales tidy and kept me safe.

There were workers at the park who mowed the grass and cleared the trash. There were lifeguards at the beach who saved swimmers from drowning. There were forest rangers who ensured the trails at the nature preserve were safe for hiking.

These officials took their jobs seriously, and they acquitted themselves well. But one must wonder if they felt as if they were rolling a boulder up a hill.

You see, the open nature of these parks, preserves, and beaches made their work obsolete quickly. Even after their garden was tended, a new crowd would converge on the space to lay waste to it once again.

It was as if they were fastening a fresh basketball net to the rim each day, with full knowledge that it would be gone by evening. No amount of salary or plaudits makes this work rewarding. And in a vacuum, the arrangement itself hardly seems to make much sense.

So, no, the answer to the country club problem isn’t as simple as Gladwell made it. But a better solution is out there.

We just need to shift our perspective to find it.

A few years ago, I captained a neighborhood kickball team.

The team didn’t play all that well. But where we played was anything but.

All the games in our league took place at a nearby sports complex. The fields were well-designed and meticulously maintained. They were far better than some of the fields I played high school baseball on.

And the scene outside the lines was no less impressive. Knowledgeable referees oversaw the kickball contests. And representatives from the recreation department kept an eye on the proceedings, resolving any situations that might arise.

This all floored me at first.

For we were technically playing ball in a city park. A public space, open to all.

And yet, none of the associated chaos had found its way here. It was all so…organized.

Perhaps this had something to do with where we were. Namely, a small suburb outside of Dallas. There was plenty of space to be found all over town, and thus little impetus to run this complex into ruin.

But I think the orderliness could also be attributed to the fine print of the kickball league. All teams had to pay a fee to register. (The community manager for the neighborhood I live in covered those costs for our squad.)

On top of that, all property owners in this suburb paid taxes and fees – with that money supporting both the recreation department and the sports complex.

These costs, while not exorbitant, sent a powerful message.

Yes, you can play ball here. No tall fences will keep you out. But if you think you can desecrate these fields on our dime, you’ve got another thing coming.

This suburb was not letting anyone shield their eyes from those who tend the garden. That process was instead shared, allowing order to rise from chaos.

Perhaps this is the model Malcolm Gladwell is looking for. Perhaps this is the scenario my younger self would have thrived in.

There’s only one way to know for sure.

So, let’s stop treating public spaces like entitlements. And let’s start treating them as gardens to tend instead. Let’s mind the space as if it were our own. And let’s respect those tasked with maintaining it.

A little shift can go a long way. Let’s forge that path.

The Caretaker Conundrum

I wasn’t feeling well.

My forehead was feverish. My knees were weak, and chills cascaded up and down my spine.

I knew the protocol. I’d need to take some Tylenol and rest. My parents would take care of me while I recovered.

Only, they wouldn’t. Not this time.

For I was a freshman in college, a thousand miles away from my home. No one was hopping on a flight to help me get back to health. I would need to take that task on myself.

As this sank in, I felt terrified.

How the heck would I take care of myself in this delicate state? And what if I couldn’t?

Fear gave way to instinct. I wasn’t going to get any better standing around in my dorm room. So, I lay down, pulled the covers over me, and dozed off.

I woke up with a clear mind, if not a clean bill of health. And with this fresh start, I was able to do what it took to recover. By the next day, I was right as rain.

This experience was transformative. I had learned how to care for myself at a point of vulnerability. And life would never be the same.

Well-being.

This term has exploded in popularity in recent years.

Getting to live another day is no longer the objective. Living in a healthy, sustained manner now is.

This thinking has helped grow lifestyle brands, expand the wellness industry, and proliferate demands for work-life balance.

All these innovations have their benefits, but they come with a dangerous assumption. Namely, that others will be our caretakers.

You see, that existential crisis I faced while I was ill in college — it’s hardly a novel one. We all yearn for TLC when we’re at our weakest. And when there’s none to be had, we can feel rattled.

Still, we persevere. Tossed into the deep end without support, we’re forced to care for ourselves. And we learn from the experience — just as I did.

But while some view this moment as a point of no return, others will yearn to recreate what was lost. They’ll look to build a caretaking ecosystem, so that they never find themselves out in the cold again.

And in doing so, they’ll set out on a road to nowhere.

The professional world looks far different today than it did generations ago.

The Internet has transformed the way we do business. Tasks that were previously handled on-site can now be done remotely. And employee turnover is the rule, not the exception.

This last development has led to a lot of hand wringing.

High turnover is a challenge for companies. While Henry Ford’s assembly line model rendered workers as interchangeable, the business world is far more complicated now. Change management is a constant headwind that business must contend with.

In a fit of frustration, some corporate leaders have yearned for the good old days, when employees would stick with a company for 40 years before retiring with a gold watch and a pension. These managers believe that the workforce was loyal back then, and they pine for a return to that stability.

Some employees share this sentiment with the C-Suite. Moving from company to company can take a heavy toll. It’s much simpler to daydream of an era when an employer would take care of you for the duration of your career. That loyalty would be much appreciated in the unpredictable modern era.

Of course, the good old days are long gone. And these desires to recreate it read like revisionist history.

The perceived stability of the bygone generation of work reflected on the era itself. Sure, the Cold War was going on. But it was much easier for companies to get a good read on the market in those days, making decisions that sidestepped turbulence along the way. Bailing on such a smooth ride would be foolish, so relatively few employees did it.

Caretaking didn’t factor into the conversation much, if at all. Companies cared about the three P’s — productivity, profitability, and potential — more than anything else. A stable workforce helped companies achieve those goals faster. But if the waters did happen to get choppy, and employees headed for the exits, companies would simply backfill the open roles.

Henry Ford’s interchangeable workers philosophy was still alive and well.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears. It’s a childhood classic.

In the fairy tale, a girl with golden hair wanders into the lair of a family of bears while they’re away. She methodically tests out everything in the house before determining what bowl of porridge to eat, and what bed to lie down on.

This step-by-step deliberation has gained wide adoption in the real world. In fact, the Goldilocks Principle is now a staple of psychology to economics.

We are all searching for just the right fit — in our business projects, in our academic exploits, and in life in general.

The Goldilocks Principle has a hand in the world of work as well. It’s what’s driven many of us to move from job to job unlike ever before.

We are looking for the right fit and balance in our professional exploits. Each twist on our journey serves as a data point — a guardrail that can help funnel us to our own nirvana.

There’s nothing wrong with any of this. But if we expect caretaking to be part of this fit and balance equation, we’re sure to be disappointed.

Employers have a more nuanced view these days than they did in the pension and gold watch ones. There’s an increased — and overdue — focus on diversity, equity, and inclusion in the working world. And such concepts as company culture and employee benefits have gone from perks to must-haves.

But make no mistake — the companies we work for are not going to serve as our caretakers. At the end of the day, it’s still all about the three P’s. And a more open relationship with employees is simply a means to an end.

It’s on us to recognize this. And it’s on us to adjust our expectations.

No one is going to unconditionally take care of us the way our parents once did. Not our employers. Not the wellness industry. Not our government. Not even our loved ones.

These people and entities will help. They’ll provide the tools to get us back to full-strength.

But it’s our responsibility to apply those tools. It’s on us to launch ourselves across the finish line.

This might not be what we desire, particularly when we’re at our most vulnerable. But it’s the hand we’re dealt.

So, let’s not fold. Let’s play our hand, and stay in the game.

Our prosperity depends on it.

The Limits of Liability

As I made my way around the curve, I was caught off guard.

There were brake lights in front of me. Directly in front of me.

The lane I was driving in was closed up ahead. Orange construction cones sat in the lane about 100 yards from my windshield.

Apparently, a driver ahead of me had lost sight of this until it was nearly too late. So, they had brought their vehicle to a complete stop on the left lane of a busy highway.

Now, the drivers behind this vehicle were faced with a double-whammy. There was both the lane closure and the stopped vehicle in their path.

I was driving the third car in this sequence, which means I had only a split-second to react. To my left was a concrete wall, and to my right, a stream of speeding vehicles. My only option was to hit my brakes as hard as I could.

I did, but it wasn’t good enough. Cars need space to decelerate from 70 miles an hour to a standstill. And I didn’t have enough of it.

I was probably going 25 miles an hour when I hit the back of the vehicle in front of me, driving it into the stopped car. The momentum pushed all three vehicles past the cones until we mercifully came to a stop.

The airbags in my car deployed, jolting me once again. And then], the horrifying incident was over.

I checked on my friend, who was sitting in the passenger seat. A half-hour earlier, she and I had been line dancing at a honky-tonk. Now, we had just absorbed a car crash. At that moment, I could have cared less if I was OK. I just hoped — prayed — that my friend wasn’t hurt.

Thankfully, she was alright. We were both shaken, suffering from shock and whiplash. But we had somehow avoided major injuries.

The car, on the other hand, was totaled. The front end was crushed in. Its obituary was written right there on the road.

The police came on the scene to take everyone’s statements. A wrecker came to take my car away. And we got a ride home.

Later, I learned that I was deemed at fault for the accident. Since I was driving the vehicle at the back of the pileup, the liability lay with me.

I didn’t face any charges, but I had a black mark on my insurance record for several years. Because of that, I struggled to get a good rate on my coverage.

I’m well past all that now. And both my friend and I have no ill effects from the crash, aside from the traumatic memories.

But sometimes, I do wonder about that ruling. The one pinning the full weight of liability for the accident on me.

I am accountable to a fault, and I’ve accepted the judgment that was rendered. But I also wonder what else I could have done.

I was left in a no-win position. I did the best that I could, but I ended up paying the price for it. Meanwhile, the driver at the front of the line made a poor decision — only to be left with an unscathed insurance record.

Did that driver really not have any liability? How did that rationale make any sense?

I’ve been thinking about this more lately. With a global pandemic in full swing and a mix of political and social unrest overtaking America, the question of liability is top of mind for just about everyone.

Does the decision to leave our homes make us liable for someone’s illness, injury, or death? Do our words leave us liable for property damage, looting, and mayhem?

In some cases, the answer is clearly yes. If we get behind the wheel of a car while intoxicated and run over a pedestrian, we’ll face manslaughter charges. If we falsely yell Fire in a crowded space, we could be held to account for the ensuing stampede.

But in other instances, the situation is murky. If leaving home leads someone to unknowingly pass a virus to a passerby, who then passes it along to their grandparent, would that first person be liable for an elderly stranger’s illness? If one’s words inspire someone to drive halfway across the country and spark a riot, where does the blame fall?

As with my car crash, the answers aren’t clear-cut. But unlike that incident, there’s no clear protocol to sort out the mess.

I am a Texan.

My home state features vast landscapes, a diversified economy, and a philosophy that can be summed up in two words: Personal responsibility.

It’s not quite a free-for-all in the Lone Star State — anyone caught speeding on Interstate 35 is well aware of that fact. But the limits of liability are profound.

Such a philosophy speaks to the legacy of Texas. There have always been boundless opportunities on these prairies. But with them have come outsized risks.

In the early days, settlers were susceptible to sweeping Comanche raids or attacks by wild animals. Nearly two centuries later, the dangers of tornadoes, wildfires, and hurricanes remain omnipresent for many Texans.

These events have brought plenty of devastation. And yet, assigning blame for them is as futile as roping the wind.

So, the prevailing approach to liability around these parts is hands-off. Texans are expected to exercise good judgment. And, for the most part, they’re only held to account if their actions directly impact someone else.

I have not always been a fan of this limited liability philosophy. The lack of recourse when things go wrong has always seemed disconcerting.

But I still think it’s better than the alternative.

For if we blindly accept a world of broad liability judgments, we shrink our horizons. We limit our opportunities. We shackle ourselves.

After all, if we know the third car in the crash gets saddled with the bill, we’ll do all we can to avoid being that third car. We’ll box ourselves in to avoid misfortune. And, in doing so, we’ll forfeit the opportunities that would otherwise sit in our path.

By playing not to lose, we’ll still end up in last place.

We deserve a better fate.

So, let’s stop squabbling about liability. Let’s stop grandstanding about who’s to blame for each downstream effect. Let’s get back to living under the principles that have long shepherded our society — liberty and responsibility.

We’ll be better for it.

The New Dynamics of Power

Power has long been a hot-button topic. But perhaps never more than now.

Many prominent male figures have fallen from grace, as details of their transgressions have come to light — in particular, when it comes to inappropriate dealings with women in the workplace. Another autocrat has ascended to the Highest Office in the Land, and used his position (and social media) as a bully pulpit.

From armchair psychologists to Dr. Phil, there are plenty of people trying to figure out what’s going on. Does power give men an air of entitlement? Is a culture of pig-headed behavior in male dominated hotbeds such as Hollywood and Silicon Valley to blame? Are people naturally bad, and does empowerment simply provide them license to act in the disturbing ways they so often do?

The truth may lie in the answers to these questions. But I have a different theory.

I believe fear is what leads to this behavior. Fear of power, to be specific.

You see, we’re hard-wired to avoid gravitating toward positions of influence for two reasons.

  1. The expectations for leadership are too lofty. Living up to the standard is therefore an exercise in futility.
  2. History is filled with cautionary tales of how leaders have fallen victim to their own success. Namely, success leads to greed, which then leads to a swift downfall.

This toxic combination has led to a leadership void. People are hesitant to consider themselves leaders, because they’re terrified of the burden that comes with it.

Yet, plenty of people do rise to positions of power and influence. This is a natural function of a society obsessed with The Next Big Thing. So, we have plenty of people thrust into a position that they’re not ready for. One they’re actually terrified of, deep down inside.

The results of this conundrum are actually quite predictable. When we’re scared, we act irrationally, even immorally. So, when a person assumes a power position they secretly fear, there’s a good chance they’ll behave irresponsibly. And there’s a good chance that they’ll leave plenty of people as collateral damage along the way.

It’s a vicious cycle. One with no beneficiary.

So, what can we do to break the chain?

We can flip the script about what power means.

Instead of talking about the dangers of power, we can focus on the light it brings. On the opportunity to make a positive impact in the lives of others by using our influence to help put them first.

By focusing on the power of We, Not Me, we can make the concept of power more altruistic. And we can make the objectives associated with it more attainable for those who aspire to inspire.

With the new dynamics of power in place, we’ll be less likely to fear all that comes with positions of influence. And we’ll be less likely to tarnish the lives of others with our irresponsible actions.

So, let’s rediscover the magic in empowering others through our influence. The world will be a better place for it, and our closets will have fewer skeletons.

And that’s change we can all believe in.

Sharing the Burden

It’s not you. It’s me.

We’ve heard this cliché line again and again. And we know it means bad news.

Regardless whether these words come during a breakup or the breakdown of a business partnership, they effectively mean, “It’s over.”

Or, more accurately, “It’s over ‘cause I said it’s over. You had no hand in the decision.”

What a load of bull.

Of course, the other party had a hand in the decision, whether they know it or not. And pretending to fall on one’s sword over who’s to blame only serves to paint that other party as the villain.

It’s a twisted bit of guilt-tripping that paints a gray world as black and white.

Here’s the truth: If it takes two to make a thing go right, it takes two to make a thing go wrong as well. Partnerships are a shared burden. And when things break down beyond repair, both parties are culpable for letting go of that burden.

Now, this is not to say that all blame gets split 50-50. There are times in any partnership where one half of the equation might not act in good faith. Spouses might cheat, business partners might act fraudulently and friends might make selfish choices. In these instances, the blame for these actions fall on the offending parties alone.

Forgiveness could understandably be fleeting in times like these, as the moral ground has clearly been tilted. But if these feelings of tension and anger lead to the end of a partnership, the blame goes both ways.

For the fact remains that both parties once agreed to enter into that partnership in good faith. The dissolution of that partnership — justified or not — is the very definition of bad faith.

In the wake of this decision, the hoodwinked party should not be considered a victim. Instead, they’re guilty of dealing themselves a bad hand — even if 20-20 Hindsight is the only way they could know it. And they will ultimately have to pay the price for the decision they made — a price that will manifest itself in the ashes and scars of a once-promising agreement that goes down in flames.

So, don’t be fooled: There are no winners when a partnership breaks down. The responsibility weighs heavy, and both parties are eternally beholden to sharing the burden. Punting or posturing will only get them crushed in the end.

Put “It’s not you. It’s me” out of your mind. The only word that matters is us.

Leisure vs. Obligation

“I don’t have time for that.”

I’ve heard this time and again.

It’s cop out, an excuse — and a bold-faced lie.

Truth be told, we generally do indeed have time to satisfy more requests, to add obligations. But we’d rather not, so we make ourselves believe we don’t.

Why do we play this Jedi Mind Trick on ourselves? It all circles back to a misguided perception — one stating that mixing in leisure time with our daily obligations is important for maintaining good health.

Newsflash: It’s not.

***

If we put our minds to it, we could all be more productive. We could do more to expand our knowledge, serve our community, maintain our fitness and build our career. After all, there are 168 hours in a week — and 72 of those remain after you deduct 7 full nights’ sleep and 5 full days of work.

But filling those hours with productive activities is tedious. It’s mundane. It’s not fun.

So we fill much of that time with leisure instead — we watch TV shows, go out to dinner or drop a pretty penny at the mall.

At first, this might not seem so bad. But leisure is like a gateway drug — it sucks you in and clouds your perception of reality. Over time, we find ourselves devoting more and more of our time and money to leisure — and then rationalizing our increasingly reckless behavior by saying it’s necessary for our own well-being.

It’s not how the world works. It’s how we want it to work.

***

The sad reality is that our enthrallment with leisure is actually detrimental to our well-being. Leisure serves both as a mindless distraction and an enabler. It dulls our mental acuity and laughs in the face of responsibility. Worst of all, leisure creates a culture where we’re allowed to spin the narrative without reproach by generating endless excuses in its defense.

Ultimately, leisure serves as a tantalizing roadblock — one that prevents us from reaching our full potential. Its presence also robs the community around us — as it limits the amount of energy we can expend on making the world a better place.

Such a debilitating cycle, all starting with “a little fun.”

***

It’s time to stop the madness.

Let’s claim back our lives, and prevent leisure from running amok. We can do this by treating our leisure time like an obligation — planning for it and fitting it into a finite window — and by continually asking ourselves the tough question: “Is this activity going to make me more productive?”

The way we spend our time matters. It’s high time we regain control over it.

The Regulate Debate

Life doesn’t come with a map. But sometimes, there’s a guide.

Whether at the ballgame, the beach or the courtroom — chances are, you’ve come across someone assigned to regulate.

The name might change — umpire, referee, lifeguard, judge — but the motive remains the same. Namely, to view the event in an unbiased manner and ensure the rules are followed.

Step away from these venues, and the story changes drastically. Not only is formal regulation uncommon, it’s also deemed to be anything from a nuisance to a grave danger.

Indeed, throughout history, large-scale overregulation has led to everything from bureaucratic inefficiencies to the perils of authoritarianism. It’s a threat to our freedom, a death knell to individualism.

Quite simply, it’s something we want no part of — apart from a few finite situations. And it’s mostly accepted in those situations to keep things moving at an acceptable pace or to help us avoid deadly dangers.

The culture of self-regulation we’ve demanded is ripe with opportunities, yet fraught with challenges. Whether we’re on the golf course, in the board room or merging onto the highway, we must make the right calls to ensure everything progresses in an orderly fashion. We have the double responsibility of getting ahead while ensuring the playing field is not disturbed. One misstep, one blown call, and mayhem can ensue.

But therein lies the problem. Errors do happen. And it’s only natural that they do. After all, we are imperfect beings attempting the impossible. Although the rules of the road, baseball or a court of law were forged by other people, they were still intended to be followed to perfection — an expectation that belies our human condition.

Even computer regulation has proven to be less than flawless. For all the near-perfect capabilities of technology, there remains one fatal flaw — it was created by humans.

So given these constraints, these challenges — what should we do?

Well, we certainly shouldn’t throw in the towel.

It’s our responsibility — both collectively and individually — to make our system of self-regulation work. That means adhering to the rules to the best of our abilities, and — just as importantly — ensuring that we stay true to the spirit of those rules.

It’s all too easy to be immoral and selfish when given the keys to self-regulation, but all this behavior does is start a vicious downward cycle. And — as proven in our recent Recession — irresponsible regulatory behavior can make everyone suffer.

We must be better. We have the tools — a solid understanding of right and wrong, combined along with the power of influence. Now, it’s our obligation to use these abilities to keep everything moving forward.

This is the way to power and prosperity. This is the way to regulate.

Owning It

The thought of owning something doesn’t often cross our minds.

Sure, when we get the keys to a house or buy a new car, it’s at the forefront of our consciousness. But rarely anytime else.

Yet, ownership was front and center in my mind the other day, as I assessed my CD collection. Nearly two decades old, my pile of CDs has become completely obsolete, as all the music has been added to my laptop and backed up to my iPod, external hard drive and the cloud. My SUV has a CD port, but I’ve yet to use it — as I’ve been able to play music on the road through my smartphone, using voice commands.

Technology has made the process of playing music seamless; no more of those bulky music players at home, no more CDs roasting in holders on car visor flaps in the Texas heat. Yet, my collection remains intact.

It remains because I own it.

Yes, the only thing keeping those unsightly discs out of a dumpster is the fact that I paid for the right to own the music contained within them. (Although, in keeping with my new mantra of letting go, it might be worthwhile for me to get rid of those CDs after all.)

***

Ownership matters to me. Not because of the power it provides, but instead because of the sense of responsibility it instills in me. Maintaining something I’ve paid for requires an investment of consistency and care, an investment that builds character.

Sadly, it’s an investment fewer and fewer of my peers are willing to undertake.

Sharing is more in vogue than ever before. Ridesharing, streaming, leasing — these are staples of the Millennial generation. The movement towards a shared economy has been lauded with terms like efficiency and sustainability, but I think the revolt against ownership is actually a cop-out — a wide scale attempt to avoid the burdens of leadership.

You see, the more people leave their music to Spotify, their movies to Netflix, their transportation to Uber and their living arrangements to their landlord, the less the onus falls on them when things go wrong. There’s always someone else to blame if the server goes down or the AC goes out.

This new wave of pass-the-buck convenience is both lazy and counterproductive. And if it remains unchecked, our leadership void will continue to deepen.

***

If we’re to grow as adults, as community leaders, as spouses or as parents, we must be willing to take responsibility. We must be able to take initiative, to solve problems as they arise and to shoulder the blame when it’s warranted.

We must take ownership. And while the individual elements of the sharing economy are largely innocuous — heck, I lease an apartment and subscribe to Netflix — they shouldn’t be a replacement for our obligation to practice this skill.

Actually owning something is the best way to demonstrate responsibility and accountability. There is simply no substitute.

So buy that car, shop for that dream house, download that song or plant that garden. But no matter what you choose, make sure you’re owning it.

Why I Abolished Hate

There was a time when I used the word hate.

It was generally in the context of a sports nemesis or a food I didn’t particularly care for. At times, hate would describe a thoroughly miserable activity, or my feelings about history’s most twisted despots.

Hate was a brief, yet definitive word — four letters with the bold power of a Chuck Norris roundhouse. It aroused emotion, displayed conviction, and demonstrated an uncommon strength of descriptive purpose.

It was the perfect word to describe, say, the Florida State Seminoles — the archrivals of my beloved Miami Hurricanes. Every time their fans celebrated a touchdown during my time in college — regardless of the opponent — I would feel sick to my stomach.

Hate remained in my lexicon into adulthood. If something really upset me, that four letter word became my go-to descriptor as I rehashed the incident over late night drinks with friends.

But recently, I realized the error of my ways, and I decided to make a change.

Now, hate is no longer in my vocabulary.

***

You see, hate is like gasoline. It boldly fuels any discussion it’s injected into — and it can quickly burn out of control.

When we say we hate something, we wish ill will upon it. Worse still, we wish pain and suffering upon it. The more we fixate our mind on these desires, the more dangerous they become.

Eventually hate can consume us, to the point where we become unbalanced and irrational. It’s at this point that those blinded by hate can cross the line from desiring the suffering of others to actually delivering it — causing shock, horror, pain and even more hate.

It’s a devastating, destructive cycle.

***

In the wake of the deadliest shooting in our nation’s history —one where someone used his contempt to deprive dozens of people of the most fundamental and precious thing they had — it’s time we think about the ramifications of hate.

The aggression, the senseless tragedy hate brings about — it’s simply unacceptable.

And it’s something we can prevent — by ridding ourselves of the sentiment in the first place.

We may not always identify with each other — I don’t personally identify with the LGBT community, the black community or the community of Florida State Seminole fans, for example — but we can still accept each other through our differences. We can at least find common ground there. We can, and we must.

This is why I abolished hate. This is why I sternly remind others that hate is a strong word whenever I hear them using it.

But it can’t start and end with just me. Everyone needs to pitch in.

We must abolish hate. Our future depends on it.

The Essence of Texas

I am a proud Texan. I drink my coffee from a Come and Take It mug, have a Lone Star flag emblem on the back of my SUV and care about March 2nd more than y’all do. Texas soil is sacred to me, and I consider it an honor to live on top of it.

But I’m not a native Texan. Far from it.

So how does someone who spends his childhood more than a thousand miles from the banks of the Red River identify with the land that lies between it and the Rio Grande? Safe to say, this uniquely authentic place has captivated me like none other.

And I’m not alone. Over the years, I’ve gotten dozens of non-Texans addicted to Torchys Tacos. My barbeque brisket has gotten such rave reviews up north that it’s become a holiday tradition. And I’ve been promised return visits from out-of-state family and friends who were pleasantly surprised by how much they enjoyed their time here. Yes, I’m sure my presence has something to do with it, but the unique aura of Texas has had some effect.

But my enveloping connection with Texas goes much deeper than exposure to good food, warm weather and Lone Star charm. Being a Texan has as much to do with the way you live your life as where you live it.

Values are everything in Texas. Doing the right thing matters here, and that includes treating others the right way. This is a breath of fresh air in a world that seems to glorify self-aggrandizement, entitlement, indulgence and misbehavior. Texas hospitality is relic of a more decent time, one which has been sustained into a more advanced and inclusive era.

Of course, Texan values are about more than how you treat others. They’re also about standing up for yourself. It’s a doctrine that found its roots within the walls of the Alamo, and is rooted within the souls of Texans today.

Don’t Mess With Texas is more than just a hollow saying, as Jose Bautista recently found out. (It should be noted that the source of that right hook — Venezuela native Rougned Odor — has quickly ascended to the status of Texan for his very public display of this value.) While violence is not encouraged, standing up for oneself most certainly is.

This complex mix of values serves the backbone of the collective spirit known as Texanism. We are proud to be Texans; by and large, we see no shame in publicizing that.

This is not always an easy concept for others to grasp. A recent New York Times article — written by a Texas resident who grew up in California — passed off Texanism as a regional, commercialized resistance to America’s rapidly evolving culture. I couldn’t disagree more.

Texanism is quite authentic; it’s a tacit solidarity embedded within the souls of those who do right by each other and stand up for themselves. Texanism not about resisting change; it’s about respectfully and gracefully accepting it without sacrificing our identity.

This is what makes Texas uniquely special, this compromise between new ideals and time-honored traditions. Openness is demanded, but heritage is still protected. Independence is lauded but respect is expected. Standing up for yourself is on equal footing with looking out for others. And morality is both a personal and collective responsibility.

Ultimately, the essence of Texas is finding balance in ideals — a concept I believe quite strongly in.

This is why Texas is a part of me. And I’m a part of it.

I am a Texan. I wouldn’t have it any other way.