(Disclaimer: While the seed of this entry is a real situation, the conclusions are general, and not specific to that situation or the wonderful people involved.)
I'm not a big sports fan. I don't hate sports—I like to play intramural sports and admire the commitment made by world class athletes—but I'm just not that into them, and can't imagine sitting down on a regular basis to watch professional athletes do their thing. When the Olympics comes around, I might tune infor an event or two, but really, sports isn't that important to me.
I don't think there's anyone wrong with being a sports fan, mind—some of my best friends are sports fans—just saying that for me, sports aren't as important as, say, reading a good book or seeing a new play. I'm entitled to my own tastes...I don't insist that others share mine, and I appreciate it when others don't insist I share theirs.
What brought this to mind was a recent situation where an argument was brewing. In this argument, I held one point of view while others involved held a differing viewpoint. I'm good with rhetoric—I know how to argue—but once everyone aired their perspectives and I saw that a win was unlikely (and more, unproductive), I made a conscious decision to just stop; to concede the argument rather than go for the win. I decided that "winning" wasn't worth what it would probably cost.
I do that a lot, actually. I count the cost of winning and decide that it just isn't worth it. I don't seem to have much of the drive to win that is so common in our culture. Maybe it's in part because I'm not a sports fan.
The sports culture in the U.S. seems to foster a fierce competitive spirit. It isn't a bad thing—it's often a very good thing, providing an impetus for achievement—but it can have negative consequences. We've all heard stories about the Little League coaches (or parents) who get so caught up in competitive fervor that they lose sight of the rest of the story: things like sportsmanship and the character-building possibilities widely touted as a benefit of athletic competition. And most of us adults have at one time or another encountered other adults who "go for the throat," willing to do whatever it takes to win.
My high school athletic career was as a swimmer. Swimming is the red-headed stepchild of high school athletics, and while it's a competitive and scored as a team sport, really it's individual and swimmers compete first and foremost against themselves and the clock. It isn't a sport that fosters the kind of fervor and passion found in soccer or basketball or football. Swimmers swim alone (even in relay events, each swimmer swims her or his own leg), and they often can't see their opponents at all. Your best may not be enough to win, but if you don't swim your best you've already lost the most important competition you face.
I'm sometimes mocked because I don't have much of that drive to defeat others. Some see it as a weakness, and they are of course entitled to their opinion. I see it as a peculiar strength. The person I must first master is myself, and that is the labor of a lifetime. I find no nobility in beating down another, even (maybe especially) if I'm right; I'd rather win against my baser instincts than let them drive me to trample another.
I'm the last choice for the general of an army or the admiral of a fleet. I'm the last choice for the captain of a rugby team or union negotiator. I'm the last choice if aggression is what's needed. That's not who I am.
Although I'm not aggressive, I'm not weak, either. I am strong on defense, I am strong on commitment, I am strong on forgiveness, I am strong on relationship.
My sense of self and sense of self-worth are not determined by whether or not I win or lose, whether or not I defeat (or denigrate, or humiliate) others. My sense of self and sense of self-worth are determined by how well I collaborate, how well I compromise, how well I support others.
Winning can be a very lonely thing, and I'm lonely enough, thank you very much. If winning is important to you, then you win. If defeating me is important to you, I concede the battle. I don't want to be in the battle. I don't want to fight. So mostly, I don't.
Mostly, I don't.
Precarious human existence.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
R.E.S.P.E.C.T.!
Respect.
You may remember Rodney Dangerfield's trademark complaint: "I don't get no respect!" It's a complaint most of us find ourselves making from time to time. And who can forget Aretha Franklin's "All I'm askin' is for a little respect?"
Respect is a highly desirable, often elusive commodity. In my classroom, students often demand it (although they aren't always good at giving it). In the workplace, supervisors expect it and employees crave it. Mutual respect is a hallmark of healthy interpersonal relationships. Respect is important.
So if it's so important, and pretty much everyone wants it, why don't more people have it? If people know how valuable it is, why don't more people render it unto others? According to popular wisdom, you've got to give respect to get respect...if people really believe that, why aren't they more generous in giving respect? Because if you're paying attention, you've noticed that most people seldom and reluctantly give respect.
I think that, for whatever reason, we humans are under the impression that the intangibles—respect, love, consideration, good will—are limited resources, the way tangible resources are. It isn't true, by the way: the human psyche generates things like respect, love, and good will on demand and to any extent needful. They aren't really finite resources. Yet we tend to think of them the way we do finite resources like oil and coal and chocolate. Because we think of them as finite resources, we only want to render them when they are "deserved." We know that in an economy based on scarcity, it's important to be careful how we spend our finite resources.
I totally get that. I do. I am as much a product of our cultural conditioning as anyone else is.
The problem is, not all resources are scarce. This is a lesson we're having to learn in the digital age. Information used to be scarce; it took enormous time and energy to make a discovery, and then it took more time, energy, and material resources to duplicate it. Ask any college student about the cost of textbooks, and you'll get an earful on how expensive even mass-produced duplicated information (a.k.a. "texbooks") is.
Even in the digital age, it may take enormous time and energy to make a discovery. Once it's been committed to digital form, however, it becomes quite inexpensive to reproduce it for consumption. The information economy is going to have to come to terms with abundance.
When dealing with intangibles like good will, love, respect, we have to come to terms with abundance. When we give someone love, it doesn't deplete our own "love account." On the contrary, it tends to increase the love we have. When we give good will, we don't lose anything, and we often gain good will in return. When we render respect to another, it doesn't make us respect ourselves less; it doesn't cost us anything.
I don't want to say that we should respect all people in the same way or to the same degree. I've actually imagined a hierarchy—a kind of layer cake—of respect. It looks something like this:
Like just about everyone, I crave respect and I am lucky enough to get it. I don't get it from everyone I ought to, and maybe sometimes I get it when I don't deserve it, but I am blessed with respect. Sometimes I forget that—sometimes I say, like Rodney Dangerfield, "I don't get no respect!"—but whether I forget or remember, I am respected, even highly respected.
How lucky I am!
You may remember Rodney Dangerfield's trademark complaint: "I don't get no respect!" It's a complaint most of us find ourselves making from time to time. And who can forget Aretha Franklin's "All I'm askin' is for a little respect?"
Respect is a highly desirable, often elusive commodity. In my classroom, students often demand it (although they aren't always good at giving it). In the workplace, supervisors expect it and employees crave it. Mutual respect is a hallmark of healthy interpersonal relationships. Respect is important.
So if it's so important, and pretty much everyone wants it, why don't more people have it? If people know how valuable it is, why don't more people render it unto others? According to popular wisdom, you've got to give respect to get respect...if people really believe that, why aren't they more generous in giving respect? Because if you're paying attention, you've noticed that most people seldom and reluctantly give respect.
I think that, for whatever reason, we humans are under the impression that the intangibles—respect, love, consideration, good will—are limited resources, the way tangible resources are. It isn't true, by the way: the human psyche generates things like respect, love, and good will on demand and to any extent needful. They aren't really finite resources. Yet we tend to think of them the way we do finite resources like oil and coal and chocolate. Because we think of them as finite resources, we only want to render them when they are "deserved." We know that in an economy based on scarcity, it's important to be careful how we spend our finite resources.
I totally get that. I do. I am as much a product of our cultural conditioning as anyone else is.
The problem is, not all resources are scarce. This is a lesson we're having to learn in the digital age. Information used to be scarce; it took enormous time and energy to make a discovery, and then it took more time, energy, and material resources to duplicate it. Ask any college student about the cost of textbooks, and you'll get an earful on how expensive even mass-produced duplicated information (a.k.a. "texbooks") is.
Even in the digital age, it may take enormous time and energy to make a discovery. Once it's been committed to digital form, however, it becomes quite inexpensive to reproduce it for consumption. The information economy is going to have to come to terms with abundance.
When dealing with intangibles like good will, love, respect, we have to come to terms with abundance. When we give someone love, it doesn't deplete our own "love account." On the contrary, it tends to increase the love we have. When we give good will, we don't lose anything, and we often gain good will in return. When we render respect to another, it doesn't make us respect ourselves less; it doesn't cost us anything.
I don't want to say that we should respect all people in the same way or to the same degree. I've actually imagined a hierarchy—a kind of layer cake—of respect. It looks something like this:
- all people are due a certain baseline respect by simple virtue of their humanity
- some positions (firefighter, police officer, volunteer military, supervisor, president) are due (a somewhat abstract) respect for the position
- excellence or competency earns additional respect
- respect for others when it is due earns additional respect
- kindness and generosity earn additional respect
- integrity and honesty earn additional respect
- "goodness" and selfless sacrifice earn additional respect
Like just about everyone, I crave respect and I am lucky enough to get it. I don't get it from everyone I ought to, and maybe sometimes I get it when I don't deserve it, but I am blessed with respect. Sometimes I forget that—sometimes I say, like Rodney Dangerfield, "I don't get no respect!"—but whether I forget or remember, I am respected, even highly respected.
How lucky I am!
Friday, May 4, 2012
You Gotta Compromise a Little
We've all been there.
We've all been in a relationship (and I'm not talking exclusively or even primarily about romantic relationships; consider relationships familial, professional, or friendly) where one party feels—sometimes justifiably—that s/he contributes more to the relationship than the other. And we've all felt that it isn't fair that we do so much and the other does so little. And sometimes it isn't fair—sometimes one or both of you aren't getting what you really need or are giving more than you can afford—but sometimes we treat relationships like business transactions, expecting a value-for-value exchange that balances out on some imaginary ledger, and that's just crazy.
There's no real economy in relationships. It is almost impossible for two persons to contribute equally to even the best, deepest, strongest, most meaningful relationships. Each of us has different needs and different strengths, and it's unlikely to the point of impossibility that two people who happen to come together should match up perfectly. In the immortal words of Trentell (one of the characters in the musical revue I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change), "You gotta compromise a little, you dickheads!" In fact, you always gotta compromise a little.
It's a mistake to keep score in relationships. It's powerfully tempting to do so—our culture predisposes us to think of things in terms of profit and loss, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," quid pro quo—but it isn't needful, it isn't helpful, and it isn't fair.
Fair has nothing to do with ledgers and balances and scores and everything to do with everyone getting what they need to be healthy and whole. There's nothing unfair about doing more for someone who needs more.
This is how relationships can be "unequal" and healthy. If the people in a relationship respect one another's rights, give what they can, and receive what they need, who cares about scoreboards and ledgers? Keeping score is a wonderful way to ruin a relationship. Imbalance is only an issue when people aren't getting what they need (emotionally and relationally—I'm not talking about "things").
So tear up your ledgers and scorecards. Stop keeping track of who does more for whom. Instead, ask yourself these questions:
We've all been in a relationship (and I'm not talking exclusively or even primarily about romantic relationships; consider relationships familial, professional, or friendly) where one party feels—sometimes justifiably—that s/he contributes more to the relationship than the other. And we've all felt that it isn't fair that we do so much and the other does so little. And sometimes it isn't fair—sometimes one or both of you aren't getting what you really need or are giving more than you can afford—but sometimes we treat relationships like business transactions, expecting a value-for-value exchange that balances out on some imaginary ledger, and that's just crazy.
There's no real economy in relationships. It is almost impossible for two persons to contribute equally to even the best, deepest, strongest, most meaningful relationships. Each of us has different needs and different strengths, and it's unlikely to the point of impossibility that two people who happen to come together should match up perfectly. In the immortal words of Trentell (one of the characters in the musical revue I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change), "You gotta compromise a little, you dickheads!" In fact, you always gotta compromise a little.
It's a mistake to keep score in relationships. It's powerfully tempting to do so—our culture predisposes us to think of things in terms of profit and loss, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," quid pro quo—but it isn't needful, it isn't helpful, and it isn't fair.
Fair has nothing to do with ledgers and balances and scores and everything to do with everyone getting what they need to be healthy and whole. There's nothing unfair about doing more for someone who needs more.
This is how relationships can be "unequal" and healthy. If the people in a relationship respect one another's rights, give what they can, and receive what they need, who cares about scoreboards and ledgers? Keeping score is a wonderful way to ruin a relationship. Imbalance is only an issue when people aren't getting what they need (emotionally and relationally—I'm not talking about "things").
So tear up your ledgers and scorecards. Stop keeping track of who does more for whom. Instead, ask yourself these questions:
- Am I respected and treated as a person of worth and dignity?
- Is the relationship satisfying?
- Am I giving what I can and should?
- Am I receiving what I need?
- Do I respect the other person and treat her/him as a person of worth and dignity?
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Consensus Reality?
I find it strange how different my perceptions of myself are from the perceptions others have of me. I think I
know myself pretty well—I'm self-reflective, (mostly) comfortable in my
own skin, pretty self-aware, thoughtful, intelligent, perceptive—yet I
keep encountering people who see me very differently than I see myself.
The most obvious (and startling, at least to me) disconnect has to do with my appearance or attractiveness. I have always thought I had a realistic view of myself—nothing special, not ugly but plain—and I was okay with that. I always felt my sterling character (LOLz!) would more than compensate for my rather ordinary appearance.
The fact of the matter is that I still think of myself that way—nothing special, plain but not ugly—but that perception seems to be skewed somehow, at least based on recent statements made by others, as well as an experience or two that would seem to suggest the reports are accurate and my perceptions flawed.
I'm currently in a play: Neil Simon's Laughter on the 23rd Floor. The cast (an amazing cast; I'm honored to be numbered among them) includes two lovely young women. Before last night's dress rehearsal, in the course of a conversation about my marital status (never married, no children, few relationships), both women said that they didn't understand; that I was quite good looking (and they'd talked about it frequently).
What?
The explanation that seemed obvious to me was that "there's no accounting for taste," until I remembered something that happened on Monday.
As I often do, I took myself out to dinner at a fairly nice downtown restaurant, BeX Bar & Grill. I often dine out alone; if you're comfortable in your own skin, it isn't really any different than dining in alone and you don't have to do the dishes after.
The hostess seated me and almost before I could blink, a very pretty waitress slid into the booth across from me, gave me a sultry smile, and asked me what I'd like...to drink.
"Gah, guh, uh, uhr, uhm..."
Not my finest moment.
In truth, none of my finest moments involve interactions with attractive women.
At any rate, I managed to stammer out a drink order, she gave me another sultry smile, and she glided away.
That exchange was repeated with minor variations throughout my meal. She'd glide up, sit down across from me or stand very close to me, maintain bold eye contact, grace me with sultry smiles, and speak...suggestively.
I think maybe she liked me.
What makes this event (as well as several other encounters that, on sober reflection, bear it a strong resemblance) and the observations of the two young women in the cast so baffling to me is that it represents a world-view completely at odds with mine. I look in the mirror and I see just what I expect to see, a man with plain features, not ugly, but not handsome, either. It would seem that at least some others see me in a very different light. How is it possible for human beings to see things so differently.
I don't know.
I wonder, however, whether the consensus (as evidenced from multiple sources) is more likely to be accurate than my singular perception. Is perception a case where the majority really is right?
I don't know.
I just don't know.
The most obvious (and startling, at least to me) disconnect has to do with my appearance or attractiveness. I have always thought I had a realistic view of myself—nothing special, not ugly but plain—and I was okay with that. I always felt my sterling character (LOLz!) would more than compensate for my rather ordinary appearance.
The fact of the matter is that I still think of myself that way—nothing special, plain but not ugly—but that perception seems to be skewed somehow, at least based on recent statements made by others, as well as an experience or two that would seem to suggest the reports are accurate and my perceptions flawed.
I'm currently in a play: Neil Simon's Laughter on the 23rd Floor. The cast (an amazing cast; I'm honored to be numbered among them) includes two lovely young women. Before last night's dress rehearsal, in the course of a conversation about my marital status (never married, no children, few relationships), both women said that they didn't understand; that I was quite good looking (and they'd talked about it frequently).
What?
The explanation that seemed obvious to me was that "there's no accounting for taste," until I remembered something that happened on Monday.
As I often do, I took myself out to dinner at a fairly nice downtown restaurant, BeX Bar & Grill. I often dine out alone; if you're comfortable in your own skin, it isn't really any different than dining in alone and you don't have to do the dishes after.
The hostess seated me and almost before I could blink, a very pretty waitress slid into the booth across from me, gave me a sultry smile, and asked me what I'd like...to drink.
"Gah, guh, uh, uhr, uhm..."
Not my finest moment.
In truth, none of my finest moments involve interactions with attractive women.
At any rate, I managed to stammer out a drink order, she gave me another sultry smile, and she glided away.
That exchange was repeated with minor variations throughout my meal. She'd glide up, sit down across from me or stand very close to me, maintain bold eye contact, grace me with sultry smiles, and speak...suggestively.
I think maybe she liked me.
What makes this event (as well as several other encounters that, on sober reflection, bear it a strong resemblance) and the observations of the two young women in the cast so baffling to me is that it represents a world-view completely at odds with mine. I look in the mirror and I see just what I expect to see, a man with plain features, not ugly, but not handsome, either. It would seem that at least some others see me in a very different light. How is it possible for human beings to see things so differently.
I don't know.
I wonder, however, whether the consensus (as evidenced from multiple sources) is more likely to be accurate than my singular perception. Is perception a case where the majority really is right?
I don't know.
I just don't know.
Let It Burn
I've never actually hyperventilated from fear before.
I don't remember ever exhibiting such a visceral, exterior, visible response to fear. Maybe I've never been so frightened. I've come close—asking a girl on a date is nearly as scary—but I've never gotten to the point where I had trouble just catching my breath. Today, I'm terrified.
But I did it anyway. I set the torch to the timbers, and the bridge is burning. It's taking all my strength to just let it burn, but I'm letting it. I'm resisting the impulse to rush in and stamp out the fire before it gets too hot.
Let it burn.
I've done a lot of daring things in my life. I've rappelled down a 90 foot cliff. I've leaped off a cliff into murky water. I've white-water rafted. I've zip-lined. I've eaten at Da Crack. I scuba dive, I ride a motorcycle, I teach high school...I live life on the edge. But none of that as turned my guts to water, made my breath catch in my throat, made me tremble, nothing—not even asking a girl out.
I am my father's son. I am my mother's son. Those two respectable, sensible, appropriately cautious apple pie citizens raised me to be respectable, sensible, and cautious and I'm grateful for that—it's given me a certain freedom to pursue my passion for learning, to pursue my passion for serving others, to pursue my myriad interests. I would not be who I am today if not for that upbringing.
But who I am today needs to take a big chance, a big chance. Who I am today needs a new kind of freedom, one that is only possible if I cast off those otherwise-admirable qualities of caution and restraint. Who I am today needs to embrace uncertainty and insecurity.
Still, it's scary.
Defying a fundamental fear is exhilarating. The fear is part of what makes it exhilarating: fear provokes an adrenalin rush. The exhilaration doesn't displace the fear, but it does counterbalance it to some degree. Additionally, there's an element of pride that contributes to the exhilaration: it feels good to face and overmaster something that's been an insurmountable obstacle before.
While I've been writing, the fire's been growing. Soon it won't be possible to stamp it out. In just a few hours, there will be no bridge; no retreat possible.
Let it burn.
I don't remember ever exhibiting such a visceral, exterior, visible response to fear. Maybe I've never been so frightened. I've come close—asking a girl on a date is nearly as scary—but I've never gotten to the point where I had trouble just catching my breath. Today, I'm terrified.
But I did it anyway. I set the torch to the timbers, and the bridge is burning. It's taking all my strength to just let it burn, but I'm letting it. I'm resisting the impulse to rush in and stamp out the fire before it gets too hot.
Let it burn.
I've done a lot of daring things in my life. I've rappelled down a 90 foot cliff. I've leaped off a cliff into murky water. I've white-water rafted. I've zip-lined. I've eaten at Da Crack. I scuba dive, I ride a motorcycle, I teach high school...I live life on the edge. But none of that as turned my guts to water, made my breath catch in my throat, made me tremble, nothing—not even asking a girl out.
I am my father's son. I am my mother's son. Those two respectable, sensible, appropriately cautious apple pie citizens raised me to be respectable, sensible, and cautious and I'm grateful for that—it's given me a certain freedom to pursue my passion for learning, to pursue my passion for serving others, to pursue my myriad interests. I would not be who I am today if not for that upbringing.
But who I am today needs to take a big chance, a big chance. Who I am today needs a new kind of freedom, one that is only possible if I cast off those otherwise-admirable qualities of caution and restraint. Who I am today needs to embrace uncertainty and insecurity.
Still, it's scary.
Defying a fundamental fear is exhilarating. The fear is part of what makes it exhilarating: fear provokes an adrenalin rush. The exhilaration doesn't displace the fear, but it does counterbalance it to some degree. Additionally, there's an element of pride that contributes to the exhilaration: it feels good to face and overmaster something that's been an insurmountable obstacle before.
While I've been writing, the fire's been growing. Soon it won't be possible to stamp it out. In just a few hours, there will be no bridge; no retreat possible.
Let it burn.
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