Tag: risks

Thunder Road

Thunder Road has been the source of my favorite line in all of music since I’ve had a favorite line in all of music: You ain’t a beauty, but, hey, you’re all right.

But as I’ve been listening to it lately as a middle-aged guy, I’ve been thinking more about the whole song. Not as a part of an album (which is a remarkable whole). And I know next to nothing about music, so my reflection is mainly just about what it says in words.

I find it insightful. It articulates emotions specific to a particular time of life, emotions that feel urgent at that time, but perhaps deceptively so when observed from the distance of middle age, when you know there’s almost always another chance, another opportunity coming. Patience, in other words, is usually rewarded. But I suppose that makes for less compelling lyrics. . . .

The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey, that’s me and I want you only
Don’t turn me home again, I just can’t face myself alone again
Don’t run back inside, darling, you know just what I’m here for
So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we ain’t that young anymore
Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night
You ain’t a beauty but, hey, you’re alright
Oh, and that’s alright with me

The song starts with a start, a door slamming, but immediately makes it clear that our narrator is in love. Soft language follows – “Mary’s dress waves” – with an image that rivals any description of any lover anywhere: “Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays.” What listener can’t superimpose an image of his own love as he hears that line? And then Springsteen invokes one of the great classic plaintive songs of the rock era – Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely – and begs to be heard: “Don’t turn me home again.”

But then he shifts his tone, challenges his love to confront their future: “Don’t run back inside,” and “So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we ain’t that young anymore.” And then he encourages, cajoles even: “Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night.” And then he professes his love in the most Springsteenian way ever: “You ain’t a beauty but, hey, you’re all right, Oh, and that’s all right with me.” He tells her that he sees her as she is, and that her flawed self is still perfect for him. It’s the most brilliant “I love you” ever, because it acknowledges the puzzle of love, that imperfect beings can be perfect in the context of the right relationship.

You can hide ‘neath your covers and study your pain
Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain
Waste your summer praying in vain
For a savior to rise from these streets
Well now, I ain’t no hero, that’s understood
All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey, what else can we do now?
Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
Well, the night’s busting open, these two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels
Climb in back, heaven’s waiting on down the tracks

The song gains momentum in the second verse, as Springsteen makes his case for change. First he paints the futility of the status quo: “You can. . . Waste your summer praying in vain for a savior to rise from these streets.” He points out his love’s passivity, waiting for someone else to change her circumstance, which becomes perhaps a little ironic when he subsequently presents himself as a non-heroic savior of sorts. And he frames his question as a both a gamble – “With a chance to make it good somehow” – and no choice at all – “what else can we do now?”

His pitch then is for escape, for throwing off the frustration of their current situation for the uncertainty of leaving it behind, betting that “heaven’s waiting” somewhere down the road. And without a particular destination to offer, at least not yet, he focuses on the feeling of the journey: “roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair.”

This is youth speaking, impatient for change, believing anything is better than this current situation, willing to chuck it all because he hasn’t built up enough of an investment to consider keeping it. He’s a have-not-wants-more. And now he’s selling his solution to the woman he loves, a woman who seems to be hesitant to embrace it.

Oh oh, come take my hand
We’re riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh oh oh oh, Thunder Road
Oh, Thunder Road, oh, Thunder Road
Lying out there like a killer in the sun
Hey, I know it’s late, we can make it if we run
Oh oh oh oh, Thunder Road
Sit tight, take hold, Thunder Road

The chorus distills all the relevant pieces into a few lines. It’s a stirring argument to be sure, especially when paired with the music, ratcheting up the intensity, building energy beneath the words. He won’t go alone: “come take my hand.” His urgency grows – “Hey, I know it’s late, we can make it if we run” (yet another great, great line!) – and the non-specific destination shimmers in the distance: “. . . the promised land.”

Well, I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk
And my car’s out back if you’re ready to take that long walk
From your front porch to my front seat
The door’s open but the ride ain’t free
And I know you’re lonely for words that I ain’t spoken
But tonight we’ll be free, all the promises’ll be broken

He finally gets to the one line in the song that’s forward looking and specific, the promise of what the future will look like once they’ve made their escape: “I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk.” And he follows it up with his hard close: “my car’s out back if you’re ready to take that long walk.” He recognizes that it’s a long walk – a tough decision – for her, and he’s a full-discloser too: “The door’s open but the ride ain’t free.” If she joins him, he sees it as a commitment, to him, to his escape, to the future he sees. He acknowledges that he hasn’t made an explicit commitment to her – “I know you’re lonely for words that I ain’t spoken” – and he still doesn’t, telling her instead that this act of escape will be a paradigm breaker, a self-evident act of commitment so that no explicit promise of love is needed.

There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away
They haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned-out Chevrolets
They scream your name at night in the street
Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet
And in the lonely cool before dawn
You hear their engines rolling on
But when you get to the porch, they’re gone on the wind
So Mary, climb in
It’s a town full of losers, I’m pulling out of here to win

Curiously, he continues selling past the close, digging into Mary’s psyche, recounting her history. She’s had other opportunities: “. . . ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away,” and those lost opportunities haunt her, those suitors screaming her name “at night in the street.” She hasn’t gone, perhaps because they didn’t treat her well – her “graduation gown lies in rags at their feet” – but by morning she regrets it, only to find it’s too late: “But when you get to the porch, they’re gone on the wind.” The message is laid bare: “So Mary, climb in.” Don’t face more regret in the morning. “It’s a town full of losers” – there’s nothing for you here. Come with me, because “I’m pulling out of here to win.”

What I’ve missed for the many years I’ve been listening to this song is that it’s not really about Springsteen and his act of escape. Rather, it’s a sensitive portrayal of Mary, the tension between her fears and hopes, the story of a soul caught between wanting more but not sure how to get it. It’s Springsteen talking, but throughout he is not just aware of Mary, she is the protagonist of the song. He is merely the vehicle of her potential happiness. And, interestingly, we don’t know how her story ends by the end of the song – I like to think she left with him, but who knows? After all, her history suggests otherwise. Still, it’s Springsteen, and with a song that builds so relentlessly and irresistibly to its crescendo, I can’t imagine she deflates that energy by denying it.

Differences

I am a product of my environment.

My family. Its genes and its values. My community. Its norms and expectations. My nation. Its identity and its archetypes.

My cousin isn’t.

I sometimes wonder if she might have a better answer than me. Not more or less right, but perhaps more effective at addressing the questions at hand: what’s the best way to secure yourself? Now, and for the future.

I am biased to independence. It seems the most secure path. And it feels like the most responsible path. The most moral path.

Of course, that’s because it aligns with my environmental expectations. Be self-sufficient. Avoid risk. Don’t put yourself at the mercy of other people – they are likely to choose themselves over you. And then where are you?

I think most people, at least in this country, feel the same.

But should we?

I heard some weeks ago that we are severely overinvested in personal transportation. 92% of cars at any given moment are parked. Sitting idle. So our desire for individual convenience has created an incredible automobile glut. Nine out of 10 cars are not in use, but waiting to be used. There are significant consequences for that decision as well: we are polluting our environment, we lose time in traffic congestion, we are more isolated from each other. The waste and damage is huge compared to other, more communal solutions to moving ourselves around.

Could we be making the same mistake in securing our futures?

My cousin has found a community that seems to be highly committed to each other. Their emotional connections seem to be deep, and they seem to value each other for what they are rather than for what they can give directly in return. What my cousin gives to the older members of that community is not expected to be repaid to her by those older people. I believe her expectation is that when she is older there will be a younger person willing to give the necessary time and energy to her care.

That feels like a very risky bet to me. And probably to most people who read this. But isn’t it wasteful for us all to prepare for a future independently?

Just as all those cars sit idle, a lot of the assets we accumulate to safeguard our future won’t be used by us. We accumulate them for security, just in case we need them. Like any good actuary would tell us though, some of us will live long lives and some of us won’t. If we all prepare to live to 90 or 95, then the person who dies at 75 or at 70 or at 65 is wasting resources, saving assets he or she will never use. If we had a communal pool of assets that we all contribute to – and an actuary would be very helpful to determine what that level would be – then those excess resources being invested could be put to use for other purposes.

This isn’t an original thought. It is, of course, the foundation of our social security system – we all pay in, and we all benefit, though not in the same proportion. For this to work, for people to feel good about it, we have to accept that some of us will be lucky with our lives’ duration and some of us will be unlucky. So be it.

It requires a profound shift in our communal values and expectations, a reordering of our communal priorities, and, perhaps hardest of all, a ceding of control. I am very reluctant to trust my fellow people to take care of me when I am vulnerable. I want to control that part of my life.

Understandably, perhaps. But necessarily? I wonder.

Timidity

Ah, cursed timidity! It has been my bane for the whole of my life.

I am smart. Maybe even very smart. I believe I’m generous. Kind. I don’t take myself seriously even as I am serious about my thoughts and ideas. I believe in the importance of living life for our own individual prosperity (broadly defined, to include emotional and intellectual satisfaction along with material wealth) as well as for our collective benefit, not sacrificing one for the other. My instincts are usually spot on, and, despite the current evidence of this paragraph to the contrary, I am humble enough to know that my strengths make me no more worthy of preference than any other person out there.

My faults are many too.

I spend most of my time between my own ears, often oblivious to what’s happening around me. I can be short-tempered, even irascible to those closest to me. I’m indifferent about keeping a clean house and yard, and it can take me a very long time to tackle important tasks that don’t inspire me. And, worst of all, I sometimes use my perceptive powers to wound people where they feel most vulnerable.

The scales may balance in favor of the good me, but the outcome is not overwhelming. What might make it more definitive is if I marshaled my not insignificant capabilities and did something impactful with them. Something that would make the world a better place. And not just marginally either.

Like found a company that would help people all over improve their health by exercising and eating better diets.

Or advocate about how we might find common ground and collectively manage our communities so they serve the needs of more people in more depth.

Or develop a curriculum that teaches us life skills that can prepare us to handle our own affairs more effectively.

Or create a resource that helps teenagers and twenty-somethings manage their transitions to independent, fully-functioning participants in our communities.

You see, ambition isn’t my limiting factor. Nor is capability. I believe I have everything it takes to create something significant. Vision. Ability to build a roadmap to success. Building a strong team. Communicating value to customers, employees, investors. Making decisions to benefit all stakeholders.

Everything, that is, except the willingness to take the risks to actually try.

Maybe one day I will find the courage to make the attempt and sustain it. My history warns against it, but I haven’t lost all hope.

I’m usually not one to quote beer commercials, but sometimes we find eternal truths in unexpected places, so: One life. Don’t blow it.

Validation

We need to be the center of our universe.

Or, said better, we need to be centered in our universe. We need to know ourselves, what matters to us, what our priorities are. We need to know these things to make decisions, both important and not, that allow us to live the life we want to live. If we want to live consistently with our values we need to know what they are.

Without that center, we are likely to be buffeted about. We can never know someone else as well as we know ourselves, and so if we look to others to validate our decisions, we will be constantly shifting, never quite sure which choice brings us closer to expectations. And we will be at a greater risk of making a choice that brings tremendous regret.

It embarrasses me to admit that I have developed a center much later in life than I wish I had. And I am fortunate (perhaps!) that my major regrets are nearly all on the side of missed opportunities rather than life-altering mistakes. I didn’t compromise most of my latent principles or contradict significant inherent values while I was unconscious of them. My worst blemish came when I deceived my parents into believing that I was continuing with graduate school after I had dropped out. It ate me up, but I made a complete confession a few years later, and they forgave me, as parents do. My worst was done to family, who give way more leeway and consider way more positive interactions to balance our sins than people who know us less well. And eventually I accepted that one major lie doesn’t invalidate me completely.

What I have learned from my better-late-than-never experience of finding what’s important to me is that no job, no money, no friendship is worth compromising my values.  I can find other work, I can get by on less money (for a short time at least), and I don’t need friends who encourage me to do things I really don’t want to do.  I have other friends I can impose on in a pinch.  But I will have to face myself every day.  I can make peace with honest mistakes.  But mistakes that I made because I outsourced decisions will haunt me. They have a long tail of recrimination and disappointment.

So know what matters to you. Think about the person you want to be. Ask yourself if you’ll be proud to tell your partner or your parents about the decision you make. Polonius has had it right all along: to thine own self be true.

We’ll have many fewer regrets if we follow his advice.

Politics

Our politics is rife with emotional conflict these days.

Republican vs. Democrat. Progressive vs. conservative. Flyover vs. coasts. Our perspectives have hardened, and there is not an inch given to anyone who has a different view.

I studied economics in college, and I believe that free markets use resources more efficiently than any other economic model. I’ve worked in corporations for decades, so I’ve seen company leaders make many decisions, and every one of the decisions I witnessed were made ethically and reasonably and with no intent to deceive or harm people. I think a healthy economy is important because it is the most effective way to improve the financial situations of the most people.

I consider myself politically progressive. I usually vote for candidates who promise to fund schools at all levels, invest in infrastructure improvements, purchase more park lands, extend unemployment benefits, and provide health services to low-income people regardless of status. Even if those actions will sometimes put stress on the economy and require greater tax payments from me and others at my income level (or above it).

As important as I think a healthy, robust market economy is to us, I think it’s more important for us to do what we can to help all members of our community be well and be whole, so they are more likely to achieve their goals and, in so doing, contribute to our society. My financial well-being doesn’t mean very much to me if other people are in misery. This is particularly important to me right now, given where we are in the history of the United States and the rest of the western world, where people’s suffering is justified with “we can’t afford to [fill in the blank].” We can’t afford to welcome Muslim immigrants because one might harm us. We can’t afford to help people without health insurance because that requires more taxes. We can’t afford to protect our water and air and workplaces because it reduces the number of jobs available. If I gave credence to any of these statements – and I don’t, because I think the cost argument is both simplistic and exagerrated – I would still choose to welcome the immigrants, provide health care, and protect our resources and our people. Jobs and money and financial security of the haves aren’t justifications to deny others the things they need to live a secure life so that they can pursue their dreams and contribute to our communities.

We can afford to treat everyone equally under the law, we can afford to treat everyone the same with regard to Constitutional rights, and those of us with means can afford to give up more of that wealth to help our communities run more smoothly while providing the tools and support for people to make constructive lives for themselves.

Apparently we just don’t want to.  And that profoundly disappoints me.

Courage

What is courage? And, more importantly, can I be brave?

Perhaps it’s my current preoccupation with death, or perhaps it’s the confrontations with my government and other citizens that seem so inevitable as I write these words, but courage has been on my mind a lot recently. And wondering how I will respond in situations when it is required.

I don’t think I’m very brave. I have jumped off a platform with a bungy cord attached to me. I have challenged myself with physical feats of endurance that haven’t been comfortable. I contemplate tattoos and career changes and vegan diets without pause, and I will try new things without reserve (to be fair, only after due deliberation however!).

But that doesn’t feel like courage to me.

In each of those situations I believe I understand the risks and that a disastrous outcome is so unlikely that I don’t need to feed it any emotional energy. I am not afraid, so I don’t need courage. Commitment, resolve, focus, discipline, adaptability – all those, yes. But not courage.

So what does take courage?

I believe in positive. I believe in win-win. I believe in encouraging others, and that we can do our best when we strive for a result by using our strengths rather than avoid an outcome by mitigating our shortcomings. Or maybe I tell myself this because I really hate hurting people. Even merely disappointing others unsettles me, whether or not it’s necessary. I’m not comfortable imposing myself on people either. For me, those circumstances take courage, courage that is often found wanting.

So how will I respond when I am called to do something both important and uncomfortable? Will I rise to the occasion? Alas, I fear the data to this point isn’t very promising.