Tag: standards

On Adequacy

The image speaks volumes.

I’m standing on a racing podium, displaying my silver medal. Beside me are the gold and bronze medalists. We all look happy, but my smile is the most radiant.

I’d headed to the starting line of this race with a clear objective. I wanted to traverse the 10-kilometer — or 6.2 mile — distance in under 40 minutes.

It was an audacious goal, one that required equal parts speed and endurance. The fact that the race was occurring on hot summer morning — and that I’d been battling an injury in the week prior — only made this mark more difficult to attain.

But against all odds, I’d persevered. I started out the race briskly, settled into a steady pace, and survived the final couple miles.

As I crossed the finish line, the clock read 39:54. I’d set a personal best for this distance.

Mission accomplished. Well, sort of.

You see, my finishing time wasn’t atop the leaderboard on this day. In fact, I wasn’t even in the top 10 of all racers. And when it came to my division — the subset of male racers who were around my age — my performance was only second best.

That’s why I was holding a silver medal on the podium, rather than a gold one or a winner’s plaque. I’d earned those in other races — either for overall performance or standing in my division. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for similar accolades this time.

But I wasn’t going to let my standing impact my mood. I’d done my best on this day, and I’d proved my adequacy in the wake of some tough competition.

I had everything to smile about.

It’s good enough for government work.

I was dumbfounded when one of my high school teachers stated this to my class.

The solution he’d posited on the whiteboard was not quite complete. It was maybe 90% to the point of where it should be.

Why call it a day there? And why smear the government like this?

Clearly, there was much for me to learn about the ways of the world. And I needed to rid my mind of its utopian perceptions.

In the classroom, achievement was graded on an A to F scale. Expectations were clearly defined, and it was my responsibility to attain them.

If I paid attention, completed assignments, and studied diligently, I’d find the rewards of the winner’s circle. Sparkling grades, the praise of my teachers, a chance to continue my studies at a prestigious university — they were all possible if I just did the work.

Adequacy was everything in this environment.

But in the world outside the classroom windows, things were far murkier. There was no framework of expectations. There was only a bar to clear — one that could be set higher or lower at will.

The government, in my teacher’s telling, set that bar lower. There was too much bureaucracy in play to demand a culture of excellence.

But other corners of society were more akin to an Olympic high jumping competition. People could set the bar higher and higher, until they were leaping halfway to the moon.

The context was established by the pace setters, the winners, the high-fliers. Doing an adequate job in this environment would earn you precisely nothing.

It was a hard lesson to take in. In fact, I’m still wrestling with it today.

I tried so hard and got so far. But in the end, it doesn’t even matter.

That refrain is the centerpiece of Linkin Park’s hit song In The End – which was playing seemingly everywhere during my teenage years.

I found those lines needlessly dark and brooding back then. After all, this was the land of opportunity, and my future was bright. Why should I think my hard work would go for naught?

But now, I feel a kinship with them.

You see, I’ve attained quite a bit in my adult life. I’ve embarked on a career, left it, and built another one. I’ve increased my net worth, grown my social circle, and expanded my knowledge base.

I’ve shown adequacy at every turn. And I’ve taken every opportunity to demonstrate my competence.

But what has it gotten me?

Far less than I’d anticipated.

According to my teenage logic, I should have been well-established by now. I should have already reached a higher standing in my professional field, with my own piece of land to call home, and enough in the bank account to be perpetually comfortable.

But instead, I’m hearing Linkin Park in my head, over and over.

Some of this has to do with the era I’ve come of age in. Economic turmoil, a pandemic, and rapid technological innovation have scrambled the deck more than ever before.

But I believe a more specific shift is at play. One that rejects adequacy in favor of exceptionalism.

Now, to be clear, the allure of the exceptional has always been there. But with the world more interconnected than ever before, it’s now easier to find unicorns. And the risks of settling for anything less are dauntingly steep.

This presents quite the problem for the adequate.

Indeed, in every corner of my life, I feel like I’m in a silent auction with moon jumpers. I can put in my best effort and prove my adequacy. But there will inevitably be someone with more means, more accolades, and more abilities to seize that which I am striving for. Someone I cannot see or size up. Someone I will only hear of after the fact.

There is no silver medal for me to claim. There is nothing for me to do.

There is only me standing on the podium in the wind. And the smile on my face is gone.

I sat on an upholstered chair in a wood-paneled office next to the school gym. The baseball coach sat across the table from me.

He got straight to the point.

I’m sorry. You didn’t make the team.

Those seven words stung, no doubt. I’d yearned to be a pro baseball player for years. Now, I wasn’t even going to have the chance to suit up for my sophomore year of high school.

But I can’t say I was all that surprised.

I’d done a few good things the prior season, and I’d given my best during tryouts. But others had attained more. They deserved a spot on the team more than I did.

I walked out of the room, hearing the door close behind me. And I started to consider which doors ahead might open for me.

I had good grades in school, and I knew I could write. Plus, I liked watching movies. Maybe I could be a screenwriter.

I followed this thread all the way into my first year of college. But after taking a few film classes there, I discovered that television was more up my alley. So, I switched my major to Broadcast Journalism and parlayed that into a job as a TV news producer.

Adequacy hadn’t helped me live out my baseball dreams. But it opened other avenues for me to move forward into self-sufficiency.

Now, all these years later, I’m unsure where to turn. The path forward to the next era of my life seems to be reserved for the unicorns, the invisible exceptionalists. I have no guidance on what’s needed to reach their level. And I have no alternative avenues to get me to my destination.

Adequacy has led me to a dead end. And I’m stuck in the cul-de-sac.

There seems to be no simple path out of this morass. But I won’t give up.

I’ll keep trying my best, giving my all, and proving my adequacy at every turn.

Hopefully someday that will be enough to get me through.

The Imitators

The image is iconic.

Beyonce, dressed to the nines and looking bewildered.

The fodder for endless memes and GIFs across the Internet originated at the Grammy Awards. The iconic performing artist had tried her hand at a country album — Cowboy Carter. And Cowboy Carter had just been named Country Album of the Year.

Beyonce might have been stunned by her rapid ascent to the pinnacle of a new segment. But she shouldn’t have been.

From Post Malone to Shaboozey, and Chappell Roan to Bon Jovi, plenty of artists have crossed over to country music in recent years. While all of them found success, none have the pedigree of Beyonce — an international cultural icon with Texas roots.

So, while a Grammy award wasn’t predestined, it wasn’t exactly unexpected either.

And yet, when the moment arrived, many shared Beyonce’s reaction. For something had fundamentally changed. Something that could no longer be ignored.

After a moment of reflection, Beyonce took the stage to deliver her acceptance speech.

Humble as ever, Beyonce thanked God and expressed her surprise in winning. But she quickly pivoted into something more profound – the why behind Cowboy Carter.

I think sometimes genre is a code word to keep us in our place as artists. And I just want to encourage people to do what they’re passionate about, and to stay persistent.

With these words, Beyonce was seeking to sidestep the label of Imitator. She was hoping to reframe Cowboy Carter as art – no more, no less.

But this would prove to be a tough sell.

You see, I’m a longtime country music fan. And I listened to the songs on Cowboy Carter.

I thought they were good – really good. I thought they were creative and innovative. But I didn’t think they were particularly deep.

Sure, there are references to Americana, to poker, to outlaws and Levi’s jeans and cheating scoundrels. But those lyrics seemed disjointed and somewhat superficial to me.

The work seemed to lack the depth displayed by Martina McBride and Reba McEntire. It seemed to avoid the edginess conveyed by Miranda Lambert or Kacey Musgraves. It somehow seemed absent of the flair shown by Carrie Underwood and Lainey Wilson.

It was, in my view, an imitation. A tasteful, acclaimed imitation. But an imitation, nonetheless.

And I’m certain I’m not the only one who viewed the album this way.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

This axiom aims to take the sting out of mimicry. And rightfully so.

Artists like Beyonce mean no malice by trying their hand in a new genre. They are expressing their artistic freedom — and seeking to expand the genre in the process.

That’s noble. But the shift behind it is troubling.

You see, a wave of imitation requires a lifting mechanism. Something to set the scene and provide the imitator license to proceed.

In the case of country music, that launchpad has been slow to develop. But that extended timeline has only broadened the impact of the imitators.

A few decades ago, country music was in a far different place than today. Songs were full of depth and dripping with authenticity. But the audience hearing them was somewhat limited – mostly to rural areas across the heartland.

That started to change in the 1990s, as more artists went mainstream. I remember hearing music from Faith Hill, LeAnn Rimes, and Shania Twain over the intercom at suburban grocery stores back then. Those encounters were my first foray into country music.

As the mainstream shift continued, the songs coming from Nashville changed. The hyper-specific ballads of love and loss made way for fantasies of partying on truck beds in an open field. Bubblegum country took over.

The trend only accelerated as the years went by. Streaming shows like Yellowstone led to a surge in interest for everything rural. And the larger audience, combined with watered down country lyrics, made conditions ripe for imitators.

It’s no wonder then that Beyonce could win a Grammy for a country album. It’s no wonder that Amazon founder Jeff Bezos would sit for a Vogue cover shoot in an old truck, sporting a cowboy hat. It’s no wonder that honky tonks from coast to coast have become twice as busy as they were two decades ago.

The illusion is real. But how real is the illusion?

As I write this, I’ve lived in Texas for the better part of 15 years.

I’ve spent a fair bit of this time in boots and Wranglers, with pearl snaps adorning my shirts. I’ve sported this look to the office from time to time, and to countless rodeos and concerts.

Such a look is not out of place in the Lone Star State. But every now and then, someone will see it and ask if I’m playing cowboy.

When they do, I’m obliged to remind them that I’ve rode horses before. That I’ve milked cows, cleaned stalls, cleared mud from hooves, and fetched eggs from the chicken coop.

I may not be a cowboy, but I’m more than an imitator.

These bona fides matter to me. Because authenticity matters.

You see, I’ve viewed myself as a Texan from my earliest days living here. But the stigma of being non-native – of growing up beyond the state’s borders – it looms large.

I’ve long known that my zeal for Texas could be miscast as imitation if I wasn’t authentic. And being authentic meant leaning into any prior experience I had with the state’s cultural hallmarks, while becoming a student of the rest.

So yes, I’ve taken steps to assimilate. To make this place a part of me, and myself a part of it.

The same can’t always be said of other non-natives. They might treat the place like an eastern annex of California. Or wear their cowboy hat comically wrong. Or appear like they’re recreating the cover of Varsity Blues, as Bezos did.

When this happens, Texans will grumble and mock the imitators. The natives and the assimilated transplants alike.

For this is not a good look — for any of us. The state’s cultural code must be adhered to for true acceptance to be gained.

I think the same reckoning is needed in country music. So long as bubblegum country rules the roost, the genre will be a shadow of its former glory. And the bar to clear for imitators will be exceptionally low.

Put standards for depth and meaning back into country music, and only the best imitators will cross over. For doing so will require more than a catchy hook and a few superficial lyrics. It will require an immersion — an immersion that yields a more authentic product.

This is worth striving for. Let’s make it real.