Tag: youth

The Reverse Totem Pole

Wanna see something cool?

How could I say no to an offer like that?

I was 6 years old, and recess at school had grown tiresome. My friend and I had been in the same sequence of pantomiming GI Joe on the jungle gym for days. Something cool sounded much better.

My friend led me to a back corner of the recess yard. There, at the top of the hill, lay some old tires.

Where did these come from, I asked.

My friend shrugged.

Doesn’t matter, he said, as he set one upright. But look at what you can do with them!

He gave the tire a push, and we watched it roll down the hill. The tire picked up speed, hurtling out of control before it finally tipped over near the bottom of the slope.

I was awestruck. But my friend was already on to the next adventure. In fact, by the time I looked back at him, he’d already stood up another tire.

Pick up that one, he commanded, pointing to another tire a few paces from my feet. We’ll race.

Moments later, we were sending both tires down the hill simultaneously. Mine had a strong start, but it began to wobble midway down the slope. My friend’s tire made it down the hill first.

We headed down the hill to collect the tires. Then we pushed them back up to the top of the slope to race again. And again. And again – until the teacher called us back into the classroom.

Recess was over.

That evening at the dinner table, the tire race was all I could talk about.

I was obsessed with our recess activity. It was so much cooler than all the stuff I did in class. I wished that I could just roll tires down the hill all day long.

Well, you can’t, my mother replied. What you’re learning in school is important.

I groaned.

It’s just so boring. And it seems so pointless.

My parent chuckled uneasily. How were they to explain to a 6-year-old that his life would eventually be full of requisite monotony?

It had only been a few months since they’d broken the bad news to me that I would not, in fact, be getting my driver’s license as a 6th birthday present. The law wouldn’t allow for that until I was 16, they explained to me, as the joy evaporated from my face.

They didn’t want to burst my bubble like that again. So, they let me down easy.

Well, maybe tomorrow will be less boring. And hey, the tires should still be there at recess.

I think about the boy I was a lot these days.

I was naïve, sure. Naïve enough to consider recess tire races to be a worthwhile pastime.

But I also knew there was a chasm I needed to cross. A chasm of experience.

I couldn’t do all the things my parents did. Drink beer. Stay up late. Go to a fancy office with computers and rolling chairs and vending machines stocked with Coca-Cola and M&Ms.

I wanted to see what I was missing out on.

Yes, I was just like that Tom Hanks character in the movie Big. I yearned for everything all at once. Even if the laws of anatomy made that wholly impossible.

After all, our brains take years to develop. Our bones take decades to fuse together. And the firsthand experiences that help guide our decision making are more a slow trickle than a rushing waterfall.

But unlike Tom Hanks’ character, I didn’t blast through the divide. I didn’t wake up one day as a boy in a man’s body, doomed to suffer through the misadventures that time warp entailed.

Instead, I accepted the advice of my parents and my teachers. There were some things I’d need to learn with time. There was much I’d need to wait for.

So, I did.

I stopped dreaming of racing tires all day long. I dedicated myself to my studies in the classroom. And I remained inquisitive outside of it.

I gave myself a runway for growth – from the innocence of boyhood through the wilds of adolescence and on to the bumpy ride of adulthood.

As I climbed the Totem Pole, I never lost sight of the journey. Each etched notch that my hands gripped onto had a sense of accomplishment to it. Both for myself and for those who would follow behind me.

Or so I thought.

I’m now a seasoned adult.

By now, I’ve experienced much of what my parents once had. Well, with one exception.

I don’t have any children of my own. But many of my friends do.

Some are around the age I was when I ranged around the recess yard looking for tires to race. Others are a bit younger.

But all of them are wiser than I was at their age.

You see, children of this era have technology in their hands before they’re out of diapers. They can play games on their tablets, stream shows on their TVs, or take selfies with their parents’ smartphones.

Such a setup opens a world of opportunities – at lightning speed.

Kids can learn to write web code before they reach middle school. They can play with Artificial Intelligence before they get their driver’s license. They have many of the tools to thrive in adulthood at their disposal right now.

Some of those tools will take time to harness, of course. As that famous line from the movie Spiderman goes: With great power comes great responsibility.

But make no mistake. The path ahead for the next generation is far different than the one I followed.

I’ve gradually come to terms with this reality. I’ve accepted that while I will always be the elder, that won’t necessarily make me the teacher.

Indeed, I might be better served looking at the Totem Pole in reverse. In seeing what I can learn from those who stand where I once did, but with infinitely more knowledge at their disposal.

I’ll be better for this shift in perspective. We all will be.

If only we dare to take the leap of faith.

I’m ready and willing. Are you?

Youth and Experience

The ball wasn’t going where I wanted it to.

Sometimes it would slice. Sometimes it would hook. Sometimes it would skid across the grass.

With each swing, my frustration mounted. And a sense of dread started to sink in.

You see, I had come to this driving range near Fort Worth with good intentions.

I was unemployed at the time, residing in an extended-stay hotel, and applying to jobs left and right. But none of it was going well.

No hiring managers were willing to take a chance on a career-changer with no experience in their industry. Few even offered me an interview. And all the while, I was burning through my savings to fund my food and lodging.

I needed to get away from it all. To spend an hour or so outdoors, doing something that could clear my head. And spending $20 to hit a bucket of golf balls seemed like a sensible choice.

But now I was kicking myself.

My hand was chapped from gripping the golf club too tightly. My golf pants and polo were drenched in sweat. And my doubts about my golf game threatened to rival those of my employability.

Was I ever going to be able to earn an honest living again? And if I did, would I even be able to live life to the fullest?

If this day was any indication, the answer was no.

It’s been more than a decade since that afternoon on the driving range.

I’m now gainfully employed, and I’ve advanced in my career. I have a true place to call home and tangible financial stability.

At first glance, I have everything the younger me once craved. But looks can be deceiving.

These days, I could go to the driving range just about any time I desire to. The cost is negligible, and the stakes are low.

And yet, I don’t do that. I haven’t for years.

For the joy in that activity has dwindled for me. Just as it has for so many others.

Some of this change is physical. I don’t have the stamina to do as much as I used to. And when I do wear myself down, my body aches for days.

But the shift is also mental. I’ve lost the capability for unbridled glee. And the sensation of letting myself go now feels foreign to me.

For example, there was a time when I loved roller coasters. I would patiently wait in line for hours at the theme park, boldly lock myself into the safety harness, and cheer with vigor through each dip and turn of the track.

I was having the time of my life.

I still want to love roller coasters in this way. And occasionally I do find myself riding one.

But as my body is defying the laws of gravity, my mind is somewhere else. It’s staring down from a distance as I dip and twist and invert.

I’m just not there anymore. Not completely.

This, I believe, is the encapsulation of experience.

Growing long in the tooth can make a person somewhat jaded. It can leave one detached from the thrills of life. It can estrange one from the reckless abandon of innocence.

With those connections severed, the only way to relive such sensations is through one’s own memories.

And so, from my high perch of career and fiscal stability, I look back longingly at my younger self. The one who would venture out to the driving range to clear his head, even if such a trek was to end in futility.

The older me might have the trappings of a successful life. But not the inclination to get the most out of it.

A few weeks after my ill-fated trip to hit golf balls, I got a call back for a job application I’d submitted.

The hiring manager wanted me to come into the office for an interview. I accepted the invite.

The interview ultimately went well. While I wasn’t one to count chickens, I was relatively confident that I’d be offered the job.

So instead of microwaving a pouch of rice back at the extended stay hotel, I went to a Cajun restaurant for a proper lunch.

Sitting at the bar in my suit and tie with a plate of fried crawfish in front of me, I was hopeful. This was just the start of the pathway to success, I told myself.

I think back on that memory of myself more than I’d like to admit. For that young and scrappy version of me was looking unabashedly at who I am today. And yet, I find myself just as unabashedly staring back.

We’re both staring through the murky portal of time. Each wanting what the other has — and neither knowing it.

Truth be told, we each want to believe that there’s no inherent tradeoff between youth and experience. That gaining one doesn’t necessitate losing the other.

But given the inextricable truth of that tradeoff, we’re each looking to fill a hole in the current version of our life. For one, the substance to sustain the joie du vivre. For the other, the joie du vivre itself.

It’s devastating in a way. Even tragic.

But it’s the reality of my life. And I’m not alone.

Indeed, many of us look longingly at our former glory, just as we once stomped our feet yearning for our future to arrive. If we think hard enough on it, we can each find our own split-screen moment.

But should we? That’s open to debate.

There’s something to be said in leaving the past behind and living in the moment. On recognizing that what’s gone is gone. And on giving it no further mind.

But there’s also value in sustaining those memories. On recognizing the sensations we once had. And on gaining context from those recollections.

Such thinking might not eliminate the tradeoff between youth and experience. But it will provide helpful context in assessing our lives. It will also make us more empathetic and socially aware — which is always a plus.

The key to this, of course, is discernment. We must be able to glance at our youthful past without getting consumed by the memory.

That’s easier said than done. I’m Exhibit A as to how challenging it can be.

But I’m working on it. And I will continue to do so.

I hope I’m not the only one.