The Punishment Paradox

I’d finally had enough.

I was being tormented by an elementary school classmate. Like a mosquito, this classmate persistently annoyed me.

For months, I had wanted to be left alone. And for months, he had refused to relent.

In hindsight, this scenario was likely low-level bullying. But in those days, bullying wasn’t exactly the Code Red topic it is now.

Back then, the tormented had two choices — stand up to their tormentor or grow a thick skin.

I was skittish and socially awkward, so I took the second approach. But it didn’t alleviate the situation. If anything, it only made things worse.

Anger and frustration simmered throughout me. It was a matter of time before it would all boil over.

And on this day, at recess, it finally did.

I can’t remember what was said that set me off. But what I do remember is that everything around me — the trees, the grass the people — changed color. For the first time in my life, I was truly seeing red.

Rage kicked in. I charged at my classmate and tackled him to the ground.

My other classmates grew silent, stunned by what they had just seen. Had one of the skinniest kids in the class taken down a much stronger classmate?

Yes. Yes, I had.

I don’t recall much of what happened after that. I’m sure that some teachers or administrators spoke with me about what I had done. But I don’t have any memory of a suspension or other punishment.

Eventually, I ended up going elsewhere for middle school. When I reconnected with my elementary school classmates years later, I showed no ill will to my erstwhile tormentor, and he showed no ill will toward me. We had both moved on, and that was that.

Still, decades later, I think about that day at recess. And I consider the larger message it sends.


Humans have many redeeming qualities. But some parts of our nature are less than pleasant.

One of these is our obsession with punishment.

We are emotional beings. But we’re not well equipped to handle the less savory emotions — such as frustration or anger — all that well. We become unhinged when bearing the brunt of these feelings, and we focus on unloading all that pain elsewhere.

Punishment provides a convenient outlet for us in these moments. We can isolate the source of our misery, and then make that source feel that same burn we do. We can make them pay for their transgressions.

The desire to inflict punishment is our emotional nature at work. But that energy, that zeal — it’s all misguided.

For while accountability is essential in society, we often push punishment too far. And once we cross that line, the blowback can be devastating.

I know this all too well.

The classmate who tormented me for months, he was punishing me for being a pushover. But those efforts ultimately backfired on the day I pushed him over.

If schoolyard encounters were the extent of this pattern, it would only be a minor issue. But the consequences can be far worse.


One of the enduring legacies of America is the conflict between the south and the north.

The divide dates back to colonial times, when it reflected differing economies and demographics. The southern colonies — Virginia, the Carolinas and Georgia — were mostly rural and dotted with plantations. The northern colonies — such as Massachusetts and New York — were more urban, filled with textile mills and manufacturers. And the two areas did not see eye to eye.

The earliest days of the United States were filled with compromises between the north and south — including where to build a capital city and how to manage the new nation’s currency.

As the nation expanded westward, the compromises quickly turned to another matter. Which new states and territories would allow slave labor, and which would ban the practice?

It seemed inevitable that these uneasy alliances between the north and south would ignite. And they ultimately did when southern states seceded, spurring the American Civil War.

The north won that war, at great cost. And that victory formally ended the abhorrent practice of slavery across America.

Efforts then turned to rebuilding the nation — a period known as Reconstruction. Yet, many northerners in government saw this as an opportunity to further punish the South for costing them four years of bloodshed and military expenses.

This pile-on punishment left the south destitute and hopeless. And the blowback has lasted ever since.

There remains a chasm between the north and south — one that I’ve experienced from both sides. Many southerners think Yankees are elitist and rude. Many northerners think southerners are stupid and shortsighted.

Neither opinion is accurate, of course. There are many humble and polite northeners, and many brilliant southerners. But these caricatures have persisted nonetheless.

Then there are all the atrocities the south has heaped on Black people since Reconstruction. Segregation, sharecropping, criminalization and extrajudicial killings have marred the region over the years.

Yes, racism is responsible for this. But racism is a learned trait. And I believe that trait has festered in the south in defiance of the heavy-handed punishments of Reconstruction.

In their quest to get a pound of flesh, lawmakers the Reconstruction era have left a long shadow. Their actions ultimately planted the seeds for so much of the strife that exists in our nation today.


About 40 years after Reconstruction wound down, America found itself in another conflict.

Simmering tensions in Europe erupted, sparking the first World War. While the United States didn’t join the fight until its final year, it ultimately sent about 2 million troops to assist the Allied Powers in Europe.

The Allies emerged victorious. But the allies then clamped down on the vanquished Central Powers, dividing their territories and leaving them in financial ruin. One of these nations — Germany — found its currency worthless within years of the conflict. And even after it emerged from its hyperinflation crisis, the nation was beaten down and without much hope for the future.

Into this void stepped a boisterous figure, preaching of a grand nationalist vision for Germany. The German populace threw its support behind this figure, whose name was Adolf Hitler. And the rest, devastatingly, was history.

Less than 30 years after World War I ended, Germany was in ruins again. It had helped spark a second World War — a war it again had lost. And it had committed genocide, sending more than 6 million people to their deaths in concentration camps.

The Holocaust will forever be known as one of the worst atrocities in human history. Germany will forever bear the brunt of responsibility for the attempted extermination of Jewish people across Europe.

Yet, the punishment the Allied Powers heaped on Germany in the aftermath of World War I likely played a role as well. By kicking the nation when it was already down, the allies created the environment for a devastating blowback.

Fortunately, the Allies didn’t make the same mistake after World War II. The nation was still bisected, thanks to the Soviets. But western powers put resources into rebuilding West Germany — with the most notable efforts coming from the United States under the Marshall Plan.

In the aftermath of World War II, high ranking Nazis were hunted down, tried for war crimes and executed. (Some infamously claimed at trial that they were “Just following orders.”)

But the rest of the German people didn’t face death sentences for their tacit support of the Holocaust. Their cities had been firebombed. Their government had collapsed. And their nation’s atrocities were condemned by the world. That was punishment enough.

As a result, Germany is a much more progressive place these days. It is candid about its past atrocities and committed to preventing future ones.

It’s a case study we can all learn from.


As I am writing this, America is once again facing an inflection point.

National elections are always fraught. But this time, the angst seems particularly palpable.

Our nation seems as polarized as it ever has been. And there is a looming referendum on that polarization.

But it’s not the election event I’m most worried about. It’s the aftermath.

For regardless who comes out on top, there will surely be an urge to punish the other side. To kick the vanquished when they’re already down.

These days, such an urge extends past the political figures themselves. It stretches to their supporters. People on each side of the political divide have already committed murders in recent weeks. A sustained vengeance campaign might accelerate the violence — which is not an acceptable outcome.

We must learn the lessons of Reconstruction and of post-World War I Germany. Tightening the screws on vanquished opponents only sets the stage for further horrors. For once they reach their breaking point, they will rise up and take us down — much in the way I took down my classmate at recess all those years ago.

It’s up to us to ensure this doesn’t happen. It’s up to us to ensure the Goldilocks principle applies to punishment — not too much, not too little. This requires us to get off our high horse, to assess the situation and to make the right decision.

This is a lot to ask of us in the heat of the moment, as emotions are running high and vengeance is top of mind. That’s why I call the path forward The Punishment Paradox.

But we must adhere to this plan. It’s essential that we get this right. Our future depends on it.

So, let’s do what it takes to conquer the Punishment Paradox. There is simply no other option.

When We Lose the Governor

It was a beautiful Florida day.

Blue skies stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with puffy white clouds. Sunshine and warmth abounded. The slightest breeze kept things from getting insufferable.

But on this day, I wasn’t on the beach or dining under a palm-lined restaurant patio. Instead, I was behind the wheel of my old Saturn, trekking up the Florida Turnpike from Miami to Orlando.

The route was boring and monotonous. An endless stream of trees and swamps that were occasionally interrupted by suburban neighborhoods.

But as I passed the Fort Pierce interchange, my heart started beating faster.

For I knew what came next. A 40 mile trek across a remote corner of the Everglades.

Between Fort Pierce and Yeehaw Junction, there were almost no distractions. There were hardly any trees. There were few onramps, offramps or curves in the road. And, most importantly, there were no sheriff’s deputies with radar guns looking to make their speeding ticket quota.

I could go as fast as I wanted. So, I pushed the pedal to the floor.

The Saturn accelerated as it roared down a long straightaway bracketed by sawgrass and swamps.

I watched the speedometer gauge on my dashboard move ever more to the right. 85 miles an hour. 90. 95. 100. 105.

But when it hit 107 miles per hour, I felt a jolt. Suddenly, I was traveling at 80 miles an hour again.

The governor had kicked in on my engine. I had hit top speed.

Not the 120 mile per hour clip my speedometer advertised. But not far from it either.

Either way, the experience was truly terrifying.


In the moments after my need-for-speed encounter, my mind was still racing.

Suddenly, the potential consequences of what I had done were clear to me. I recognized that by flooring the gas pedal, I had actually ceded control. My actions had increased the risk of the car rolling over, veering off course or going up in flames.

The governor saved me from all that. And I was truly grateful for it.

In all the years since this incident, I have never tested top-speed in any vehicle I’ve driven. And even as I’ve moved on to vehicles with more powerful engines, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve cracked the 100 mile per hour mark.

The guardrail is there for a reason. Better not to use it as a crutch.


Governors don’t just exist in car engines. (Or as positions in regional politics, for that matter.)

They play a sweeping, yet pivotal role in our society.

Governors are the voices of reason that call to our conscience. They keep us from veering into anarchy.

For many years, a web of institutions has served as our society’s governor. These institutions have included civic bodies, religious establishments and the media.

Each institution has approached rationality in a different way. Civic bodies — such as police and the courts — have spoken to the rule of law. Religious establishments have spoken to the question of morality. And the media have spoken to the obsession with legacy.

No matter how reckless and swashbuckling we got, these institutions have continually provided a line in the sand. Cross it and become an outcast from society. A pariah. A wearer of the Scarlet Letter.

No one wants this outcome. And because of that, the societal governor has been quite effective at putting a lid on extremism.

But recently, that lid has been sent skyward.


Ever wondered what life would look like with no limits?

Look around you. It’s happening now.

Yes, we are in the midst of contentious times. Divisiveness is as high as it’s ever been. Trust in institutions is as low as it’s ever been. And more and more, there is a sense that the guardrails we’ve long heeded need not apply anymore.

Thanks to the growth of the Internet — social networking in particular — we can shroud ourselves in filter bubbles. We can rally behind ever more radical worldviews, casting stones at anyone who dares think differently from us. And we can count on a network of like-minded thinkers to rally around us, fortifying our views.

But what of the old establishment? We can cast stones at them too. We can call the civic bodies corrupt. We can call religious establishments hypocritical. We can call the media “fake news”.

We can, and we do.

Certainly, there is an element of truth to these accusations. Our key societal institutions are far from infallible.

But by painting them with such a broad brush — by undermining them in this fashion —  we remove the governor entirely.

We allow chaos to ensue. And with chaos comes absurdity.

Absurdity like a leading evangelical Christian magazine being branded as offensive for calling the President of the United States immoral.

Sure, the magazine took a controversial stand in an opinion column, calling for the president to be removed from office. But the rebuke of being branded as offensive hardly seems to fit the circumstances. As these words are being written, the president is facing an impeachment trial, and people on both sides of the political spectrum are questioning his morality.

In labeling the president’s actions as immoral, the evangelical magazine was trying to restore reason. To demonstrate where the lines in the sand for acceptable behavior are.

This is well within the scope of expertise for an organization that is built on the issue of morality. It’s within bounds for an entity that focuses upon morality as our one true measuring stick.

Yet, in a world where we’ve lost the governor, even measuring sticks get attacked.

There is seemingly no limit to what we can do or say without getting called to account for our behavior.

And that’s more frightening than feeling the engine lock up on a Florida highway.


It’s time for this madness to stop.

It’s time to bring the governor back into the equation.

We, and we alone, have the power to do this. For we are the ones who defanged the old system in the first place.

Getting this done will take us stepping out of our comfort zone. It will take us shunning our filter bubble and voluntarily putting restraints on ourselves.

This is a big ask. But for the future of society, it’s a worthwhile one. And a necessary one.

We built this monster. The time has come to slay it.

More With Less

I am a huge fan of the TV series Justified. For six seasons, the show brought a potent mix of vibrant characters, dark comedy and dramatic tension to my living room. It also brought this gem of a line into my consciousness.

“Boy, you say 40 words where four will do.”

Nine words of brilliance. Brilliance that cuts deep.

I am a writer. While it might not be the way I make my living per se, putting words on paper is my greatest talent.

Yet this gift comes combo-packaged with the curse of long-windedness. Indeed, I often say more than I need to in my writing; worse still, I become an unconscionable blabbermouth when I spend extended time with family and friends.

I know why this happens. I subconsciously feel the extra words will allow everyone to understand something I previously implied. I often have trouble deciphering implied meanings, so I aim to be an empathetic communicator for all who I can connect with.

But this strategy is foolish. Writing is about forging an emotional connection with your readers. Verbal communication with one’s inner circle is no different. That connection can be powerful when done right, but every extra word or unnecessary thought dilutes its potency, much as water dilutes alcohol.

This is why the most influential communicators have mastered the art of efficiency. Writers from Mark Twain to Seth Godin have imparted wisdom in short phrases, time and again. The impact of their words outweighs the amount of text on the page. The absence of explanation gives the audience something to chew on, making the prose more impactful and memorable.

My goal is to have this impact both with my writing and my verbal communication. So I strive to show restraint, to listen more and to think before speaking, every time.

It’s a challenge, but one that’s critical for me to take on. For if I want to be the best communicator I possibly plan, I must master this manta:

Say more with less.