Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 11

A government by the Fox New host

So far, Trump has selected at least 19 former Fox News hosts, journalists, and commentators for senior positions in his second term as President.

Of those, seven were working for Fox at the time Trump tapped them for their government position.

This is a government of TV personalities and propagandists.

We’ve certainly moved on from Trump’s first term’s failed promise of “the very best people.”

I suspect that Trump discovered that the “very best people” thought he was uninformed, incompetent, and self-serving, so he’s decided to go with sycophants instead.

A fiery night for forget but will likely be remembered

Some nights don’t work out as well as others.

I went to New York City last night with my friends, Jeni and Sharon, to attend (and hopefully perform in) a Moth StorySLAM.

When we arrived at The Bell House at 7:30 PM, I discovered that we were in the wrong location. The StorySLAM was actually taking place more than 30 minutes away in Manhattan.

We had actually driven past the show and into Brooklyn unnecessarily.

The problem?

The StorySLAM was listed as The Bell House on my Google calendar, but my tickets listed a different location. Dimitri Martin was performing at The Bell House last night, which would have been a great show to attend, but sadly, we didn’t have tickets for that show either.

By the time we arrived at the correct location, the StorySLAM would’ve been at least halfway finished.

Dejected, disappointed, and depressed, we decided to get ice cream before heading home.

The first ice cream shop we drove to was out of business (even though the internet indicated it was open and had 4.3 stars), so we found an ice cream shop in Little Jamaica in the center of Brooklyn with a sign that reads:

“The Best Homemade Ice Cream in the World.”

Jeni would later say, “That sign was a lie.”

It’s hard to ruin ice cream, yet all three of us threw our ice cream away, marking the first time in any of our lives that we tossed full bowls of ice cream into a trash bin.

It wasn’t really ice cream by the typical ice cream standards. It was like someone had taken Italian ice, added cream, and stirred.

Jeni said it was like the homemade ice cream she made as a kid, where you mixed ice, water, milk, and flavoring into something that looked like ice cream but was inedible.

Just like ours.

One of the flavors we passed on was charcoal. That should’ve been enough to chase us away, but sadly, it was not.

But the tragedy of the ice cream was soon forgotten because as we left the shop, we discovered that the four-story building a block up and across the street was on fire, and about seven fire engines had already arrived. Hoses were being affixed to hydrants. Firefighters with oxygen tanks and axes were heading inside. Smoke and flames filled the air.

My minivan was parked adjacent to the burning building, of course., In fact, a fire engine had parked alongside my car and had elevated its ladder above my car’s roof and onto the building’s roof.

There was so much smoke surrounding my car that Sharon thought my car was on fire for a moment.

Ultimately, every street surrounding us and the building was blocked by fire engines, ambulances, and police cars. Residents were evacuated from the building. Some were removed by stretcher and moved to a triage location just past my car at the other end of the block.

By the time everyone had arrived on the scene, there were about twenty emergency vehicles of every kind and dozens of first responders.

I asked one police officer if it might be possible for me to move my car. It was impossible because the ladder truck adjacent to my car had deployed enormous stabilizing feet so close to my car that firefighters had placed bumpers against my driver’s door in case the engine shifted and hit my car. But the police officer laughed and said, “Honey, even if you could move your car, every street around us is completely blocked. You’re going to be here a while.”

It was true. We had time to take photos and video, tell one another stories on the corner, visit Walgreens for drinks, chat with police officers and residents, and search for a restroom in a Burger King and Pizza Hut before Jeni met an employee at a Blazin’ Wings restaurant down the street who allowed us to use their restroom.

No toilet paper, of course.

About an hour later, Sharon finally sweet-talked a police officer to let us leave after the stabilizers and ladder had been retracted, and one of the streets was now open.

However, backing up the car so that I wouldn’t hit the car behind me or clip the fire engine beside me was difficult, given the numerous flashing lights in my mirrors and the camera. As I shifted into reverse and began the maneuver, the police officer told me to stop and asked if I had been drinking.

“No,” I said and laughed, knowing I haven’t consumed alcohol in about 30 years except for the occasional wedding or New Year’s toast.

“Okay,” he said, Then you’re just really bad at this.”

I didn’t appreciate the comment. It was the first time I had attempted to exit a parking spot blocked by a car, a fire engine, and a building that had been burning 30 minutes ago, all while surrounded by flashing lights, wandering pedestrians, and smoke lingering in the air.

But eventually, we escaped, and I managed to climb into bed around 1:00 AM.

Sadly, I was awake at 3:30 AM. The cats have been fighting because of an oddity in which cats sometimes perceive a threat — in this case, another cat outside — and for some reason, misdirect their anger at each other. So Tobi was locked in our bedroom while Pluto was downstairs, causing Tobi to meow, hiss, and climb all over me starting around 3:00 AM.

I was also coughing for much of the night, and it didn’t occur until now that my sore throat and persistent cough are the result of the smoke I inhaled during the fire. My throat feels almost seared, and the urge to cough is almost constant, thus ensuring that the frustrations of the night will persist for at least one more day.

I made the point last night that “Tragedy plus time equals comedy.”

It’s true. But when you’ve only managed to sleep about two hours and can’t stop coughing because of smoke inhalation, there hasn’t been enough time to turn this tragedy into humor.

You might disagree.

Cheerfulness is a wise state of being

“The most certain sign of wisdom is cheerfulness.”

I love this quote by sixteenth-century writer and philosopher Michel de Montaigne.

I couldn’t agree more.

While it’s impossible for some people to achieve cheerfulness for reasons beyond their control — chemical imbalances, trauma, unthinkable living conditions, New York Jets fans — I think many people in the developed world could take steps toward a more positive, cheerful attitude by adopting a broader historical perspective, embracing gratitude, recognizing their propensity toward being aggrieved, and passing on needless drama.

All of these things can make you a happier (or more cheerful) person, but all of them require the wisdom to do so.

If you can’t see why — despite the enormous challenges facing our country and the world today — you’d still rather be alive in 2025 than during the Civil War, the Great Depression, or World War II, you’re lacking historical context and denying yourself an opportunity to feel thankful for when you are alive.

If you can’t see how it’s better to be alive today than to be a black sharecropper in the Jim Crow South or an American soldier drafted to fight in Vietnam in 1968 or a Japanese American forced into an internment camp in 1943, you’re denying yourself cheerfulness.

If you can’t find at least a small amount of gratitude for simple things that we take for granted today that were unavailable to human beings not so long ago — abundant food, indoor plumbing, free libraries, life saving medications and vaccines, free public schooling, low cost air travel, clean air and water, freedom from enslavement, the right to vote, GPS navigation, the democratization of content via the internet, free long distance phone calls, refrigeration, anesthesia, baseball, streaming services, air conditioning, and fee-free stock trading,  — you’re denying yourself cheerfulness.

If you are someone who is constantly aggrieved — always upset or angry over real or perceived slights and injustices by others, rather than letting go of those trivial and meaningless things — you are denying yourself cheerfulness.

If you’re a person drawn to drama—gossip, overreactions, needless feuds, whisper campaigns, performative emotion, catastrophizing, and self-centeredness — you’re denying yourself cheerfulness.

I think what Michel de Montaigne recognized many years ago was that even though cheerfulness (or happiness) is not always possible given life’s circumstances, people often sabotage their chances for happiness when they lack the wisdom to adopt a reasonable, productive, and sensible mindset about themselves and the world around them.

Wise people give themselves the best chance at happiness by avoiding the nonsense that consumes so many and finding perspective and gratitude for the life and times they are living in.

Also, I’ll bet Michel de Montaigne could’ve been even more cheerful had he not worn that ridiculous poofery around his neck.

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I like my first name. Most people do.

A new YouGov survey of 2,567 U.S. adults found:

42 percent of people “love” their first name
31 percent of people “like” it
19 percent of people are neutral on it.
4 percent of adults who dislike their first names
2 percent who outright hate their names
2 percent of respondents said “not sure.”

Not sure? Who can’t make up their mind about their own damn name?

People make no sense to me.

I love my first name. It fits me, I think. I feel like a Matt.

I’m also never asked how to spell my name, which is lovely.

My mother told me that my father wanted to name me Barthalomeau, so I dodged a bullet.

I’m sure Barthaloameau is a fine name, and Bart Simpson has certainly done it proud, but that would’ve meant a lifetime of spelling my first name, and “Bart Dicks” doesn’t sound great.

So my mother did me a solid, and I am forever grateful.

Matthew is also a versatile name.

Most people call me “Matt.”

Friends who have known me for more than two decades often call me “Matty” — a name my friend, Bengi, assigned me back in 1990 when we were living together in a place we affectionately called “The Heavy Metal Playhouse.”

I played golf yesterday with three friends. Two refer to me as Matt, and the third calls me Matty.

Some people call me Matthew, including some clients and people who have read my books or watched me perform, but I don’t feel like we are on friendly terms yet. Additionally, some people, including my mother-in-law and principal, call me “Matthew” when they are annoyed with me or when I’ve broken a stupid rule or failed to complete a meaningless task.

So it’s three names in one.

I love it.

My middle name is “John,” which I don’t like because it’s boring. It has been one of the most common male names for over 100 years. I feel like my mother and father punted when choosing my middle name, simply grabbing the name of another one of the Bible’s Gospels rather than trying for something better.

But a middle name is a place to be creative. Give your kid something interesting or unique—a show-stopper.

Something like Ace, Rocket, Wyatt, Ambush, Knuckles, or Elroy would’ve been nice.

John is a nothingburger.

I made the mistake of sharing my feelings about my middle name with my students last year, and one of them, named John, said, “Hey!”

Oops.

He reported “liking but not loving” his first name.

Elysha loves her first name, although it wasn’t originally Elysha.

When she was born, her parents named her “Jordan,” but a doctor told them that “Jordan” was a boy’s name and that she shouldn’t be burdened with such a problematic and misgendered name.

Can you imagine this happening today? The parents would probably sue the doctor for a Civil Rights violation.

But that was 50 years ago, so, bending to his will, her parents decided to choose another name, but spent three days in indecision.

They liked the name “Alicia” but had someone in their life named Alicia who they didn’t like, so they didn’t want her name to conjure thoughts of this other rotten person.

So finally, on day three, when the nurses threatened to write “Baby” on her birth certificate, her parents found an original way to spell Alicia, thus eliminating the stigma associated with the traditional spelling, and thus Elysha finally had a name.

See?

That’s how you choose a name.

That’s a story.

If my parents had put just a bit of thought into it, I could’ve been named “Matthew Steelbender Dicks” or “Matthew Ironhorse Dicks.”

If I had a name like that, I’d require all emcees to introduce me by my full name.

We are so smart.

The amount of information that a person learns in their lifetime can fit on a flash drive with lots of room to spare.

This depresses me.

It doesn’t seem like a lot.

It’s also bizarre:

Human beings have created a device capable of holding all the information they could ever learn, including the information required to build the thing that can store all their information.

Weird. Right?

Also, the device is pretty mundane and inexpensive.

Children know how to use it.

When you lose a flash drive, you probably think, “Oh well, I have three more,” or “Darn it. I’ll buy another one. Thank goodness they cost almost nothing.”

It’s become as ordinary as a hammer or a spoon, but it can store everything you or I will ever know with ease.

In that regard, it’s incredible what we’ve accomplished as a species. The most intelligent animals on Earth, besides humans — bottlenose dolphins, ravens, chimpanzees, elephants, crows, and octopuses — haven’t made anything.

Not one single thing. Ever.

The best that some can do is pick something up and use it as something else.

But an invention? A device made by combining things with other things to make your life easier?

None of them have even come close.

Humans are exceptionally intelligent, even though everything we can know can be stuffed into two or three silicon chips.

Another school year in the books

I’ve completed my 26th year of teaching this week. Twenty-six years in the same school. Twenty-three of those years in the same classroom.

What a ride.

Twenty-five students came into my life in September and now move on to middle school in September.

It’s never easy to say goodbye. I sometimes think that summer vacation exists to soften the blow of saying goodbye to children whom you’ve come to love.

Think about this:

A school year lasts about 280 calendar days. In that span of time, teachers spend about seven hours per day for 180 of those day with their students.

Probably more time than they spend with most of their families and loved ones.

Nearly 20% of their time over the course of those 280 days is spent with their students.

Then, just like that, they’re gone. We may see them again, but other than the occasional former students who ultimately become friends, we see these children who we love in fits and starts.

Never enough.

So today is a bittersweet day. The onset of summer vacation, but the loss of children I’ve become accustomed to seeing every day and loving with all my heart.

It’s hard, but it’s also been the greatest honor of my life to teach children.

At the end of every school year, I gather my students for the last 45 minutes, and we share stories from the year we’ve spent together.

It’s a favorite moment of mine every year. As they speak, I write down notes on their stories, so I will never forget.

A few of those memories included:

I had the opportunity to teach children from Syria and Brazil this year and learn a great deal about their cultures.

I also progressed from being able to communicate with one student via an iPad for translation from Arabic to English to achieving perfect understanding and fluency by the end of the year.

It was a remarkable thing to behold.

He told me on the last day of school that one day, early in the year, I was scolding him for something he had done wrong. The whole time, he was thinking, “This dummy thinks I understand him. When will he stop so I can go to recess?”

The boy is hilarious. When his enormous head of hair was cut during the year, he told me that he looked like a chicken and would now be known as Chicken Boy.

The name stuck.

I also learned in October that another student in my class was fluent in Arabic but hadn’t bothered to mention it to me. Instead of fighting every day with an iPad and Google Translate, we could have been asking this student for help.

I’m still annoyed about it.

Other, stranger memories included:

It’s the first school year I’ve had to keep telling children to “stop hitting the teacher.”

Not in a bad way, but not in a good way, either. Sometimes it’s impossible to explain how the teacher-student dynamic makes sense, especially in my classroom. Things that sound ridiculous, inexplicable, and downright inappropriate make complete sense if you spend time in my classroom, where you can understand the culture, traditions, and love we share for one another.

It’s a crazy place at times, but it works.

Adults who spend time in my classroom come to understand it as well. I worked all year with a paraprofessional named Ellie who was responsible for two students but ultimately took care of all the kids.

Having two teachers in the room is always preferable to having one.

One of my students drew on my head with a marker. Her mother punished her later that night by making her eat Brussels sprouts.

Her mother recorded the punishment for my enjoyment.

I gave that same student Brussels sprouts as a gift during her parent-teacher conference.,

During a test, the tube in my ear dislodged, fouling up my balance and sending me to the floor. Because the class was so focused on their test, only one student saw me hit the ground, and she watched with amusement as I tried and failed to stand up. Eventually, a teacher found me on the floor and assisted me.

One student jokingly kicked her foot in my direction when I irritated her, but her shoe wasn’t tied, so it shot off her foot, hit a pipe on the ceiling, and ricocheted back onto my head.

It was hilarious and surprisingly painful.

One of my students reported having a “terrible weekend.” When pressed, he told us that he had discovered that his brother’s dorm room mattress was softer than his own.

That was it. That ruined the weekend.

I explained to the student that when I was growing up, bike helmets didn’t exist; I had only three channels on a black-and-white TV, drank water from a hose, and my mattress had a ravine in the middle.

I don’t think he believed me.

When another one of my students reported having a bad day, I expressed doubt, knowing that kids often tend to exaggerate things (like the tragedy of the mattress). She explained that her grandmother, who lives in another country, had been attacked by a pack of wild dogs while riding her bike and was hospitalized.

I continue to doubt the veracity of a student’s “bad days” and “terrible weekends,” but I do so with slightly less incredulity now.

One of my students began researching my life and created a document containing every fact she could find about me. Eventually, she started spouting random facts about my life to me, which was deeply unsettling.

“Born in Woonsocket, Rhode Island. Grew up in Blackstone, MA!”

“Suspended for starting a riot upon yourself!”

“Arrested once but picked up by the police at least three times!”

“The first to cook pizza over a campfire in your Boy Scout troop.”

The internet is a powerful force.

I eventually began calling this student “Buffalo,” which is where she was born.

“The armpit of New York,” I told her, based on one trip I made to a Buffalo Bills game years ago.

She referred to me in turn as “Blackstone.” But when she was annoyed with me, she reverted to “Woonsocket,” where I was born. Woonsocket was the armpit of Rhode Island when I was growing up, which she also somehow knew.

I also had an ongoing feud with two students who were inexplicably fans of the Mets. Why these two girls liked such a dreadful team was beyond me, but I had rarely met such rabid fans of that other New York baseball team.

One of my students was a wrestler, and another was a karate student, so we spent much of the year trying to coax them into a battle. Sadly, they refused, so we eventually asked the principal if we could force them to fight to the death.

His response was a simple, “No.”

Every day ended with one student standing by the door, saying, “Goodbye, Mr. Dicks. See you tomorrow. AND HAVE A NICE DAY!”

The last five words were spoken with volume and aggression.

A wonderful way to end my day.

My students also reminded me of the many times I would toss their snacks into the lights, out the windows, and across the room. I am also fond of writing on their bananas and oranges with messages like, “Don’t eat me!” and “Keep away loser!” and “I taste better than you!”

The peel of a fruit makes for an excellent canvas.

My students found these actions outrageous, borderline criminal, but also hilarious.

But that’s the job. My primary goal every day is to make kids love school. Everything flows from that belief that school is a happy, joyous, loving, safe, and entertaining place to be.

I was also blessed this year with a principal and vice principal who are outstanding, highly skilled professionals, but they are tragically undersupported and underresourced.

I suspect that most school-based administrators are.

They never complain and would bristle at the thought of me defending their work and calling for additional resources, but as I watched them work this year, I was consistently appalled by the number of hours required to do the job well and the numerous duties expected of them on a daily basis.

Principals are the hardest-working and most dedicated administrators in any school system, without exception, and they should be compensated, supported, and celebrated to a far greater degree.

School districts would be wise to limit the number of non-school-based employees to an absolute minimum and reallocate those resources where they belong:

Inside the walls of schoolhouses, where students spend their days learning.

If you’re an administrator with an office in some ivory tower and you’re not spending at least a portion of every single day working with kids, you’re not doing your job.

Additionally, why wouldn’t you want to spend at least some of your day with students? Isn’t that why you became an educator in the first place?

Your value and relevance wane enormously as soon as you step outside the schoolhouse door.

It’s why I have never considered — even for a second — leaving the classroom. It’s where an educator belongs.

Every year, I debate whether it’s the year I should retire. I’m blessed with the ability to do other things that I enjoy very much — speaking, writing, consulting, coaching, and producing online content — and they are all far more profitable than teaching. But I continue to teach and will do so next year solely because I love spending my days in the company of kids.

It’s been less than 24 hours since I said goodbye to my class, and I miss them already.

Thank goodness for the joy and peace of warm, long summer days.

They really do make it easier.

Harvey Milk deserves better

The Pentagon — and specifically Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth — plans to rename the USNS Harvey Milk, which is named after the late gay rights leader. He is also reviewing the names of a class of ships that are currently named after Black and Hispanic civil rights leaders and prominent women.

In addition to being a gay rights leader, Milk was also a Navy veteran and San Francisco politician who was assassinated in 1978.

The Navy referred all comments to the office of Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, which provided only a brief statement.

“Secretary Hegseth is committed to ensuring that the names attached to all DOD installations and assets are reflective of the Commander-in-Chief’s priorities, our nation’s history, and the warrior ethos. Any potential renaming will be announced after internal reviews are complete.”

A President who dodged the draft with a bone spur diagnosis from his father’s rental tenant and a Defense Secretary who has mishandled classified communication repeatedly and placed American pilots in danger has decided that a Navy veteran, civil rights leader, and politician who was assassinated in his San Fransisco office does not represent a “warrior ethos.”

It’s incredible how the smallest, most insecure of men somehow believe that they understand the “warrior ethos.”

Other ships under review include:

USNS Thurgood Marshall, named after the first African American to serve on the Supreme CourtUSNS Ruth Bader Ginsburg, named after the late Supreme Court JusticeUSNS Harriet Tubman, named for the woman who helped enslaved people escape to freedom in the 19th centuryUSNS Dolores Huerta and USNS Cesar Chavez, both Hispanic labor leadersUSNS Lucy Stone, a 19th-century suffragetteUSNS Medgar Evers, the assassinated 1960s civil rights leader

It’s racism and sexism on full and proud display by small, sad men who are easily frightened by the elevation and celebration of women, people of color, and members of the LGBTQ community.

It’s also just stupid and petty and childish. Our government is being run by playground bullies with no decency, competence, or decorum.

History remembers men like George Wallace, Bull Connor, Lester Maddox, and Ross Barnett as ignorant racists from the Civil Rights movement — men whose names will forever live in infamy for their vile, ignorant views.

I suspect that somewhere in the not-so-far future, names like Trump and Hegseth will be added to that list of cowards, racists, and villains.

Harvey Milk, even if his name is removed from USNS Harvey Milk by the idiot Pete Hegseth, will always be remembered as a Civil Rights warrior who served his country and the people of San Francisco with distinction.

When does a kid become an adult?

Jonathan Santo, Professor of Psychology at the University of Nebraska Omaha, answers the question:

When does a kid become an adult? – Avery, age 8, Los Angeles

Santo essentially says that it depends on the person, which is both true and somewhat of a cop-out.

Kids like straight answers.

I felt like an adult at 17 years old — still in high school but also managing a McDonald’s restaurant and essentially paying for everything I needed except for the roof over my head.

That’s almost certainly early compared to most people, but I was also the eldest of three and later five, and I was a leader in Scouting from an early age, so I took on a lot of responsibility early in life.

After graduation, I left home and never returned. Never enjoyed a financial safety net ever again. I suspect that when you don’t have a home to return to or a parent willing to assist in an emergency, you can’t help but feel like an adult.

It’s required, or you’re doomed.

But the differences in when someone feels like an adult, at least according to Jonathan Santo’s research, are astounding.

Psychologist Jeffrey Arnett, for example, coined the term “emerging adults” to describe Americans aged 18-25 who don’t yet feel fully grown.

This may be true in terms of how people truly feel, and it’s biologically accurate in terms of brain development, but it also strikes me as a little silly.

A 25-year-old who doesn’t feel like an adult sounds like a disaster to me. America sends 18-year-old Americans to war to protect our freedom, but a 24-year-old  college graduate can’t find their way to feeling like a grown ass adult?

According to researchers, in some families, it’s expected that children will remain financially dependent on their parents until their mid-to-late twenties as they get a college education or job training.

This sounds lovely.

Also infantilizing and disastrous.

It’s the struggle, setbacks, and uphill climbs that make people strong, resilient, and relentless problem solvers. If you roll out the red carpet for your child into their late twenties, I suspect you’ll be rolling it out again and again for a long time.

Imagine not having to pay a bill or negotiate rent or apply for a loan until you’re approaching your third decade on this planet.

As my son would say, I think those people are probably cooked.

I think that 17 is admittedly young to consider oneself an adult, but I also think that if you’re 27 and still not feeling like an adult, you are failing at life.

Santo is probably correct when he says that adulthood depends on the person, but at some point, probably after high school but well before their mid-twenties, people should probably be assuming the responsibilities of adulthood and thinking of themselves as grown-ups.

Answer with a story

“I can swim like a duck.”

Trinculo from Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”

Once performed by the great Esteban Pazmino, a former fifth-grade student and hilarious actor who played the role brilliantly in my 2004 production of “The Tempest.”

That was back when I had a stage in my classroom, complete with curtains, lighting, and sets. I produced a Shakespearean production every year for over two decades, until the stage was removed from my classroom during the pandemic to allow for social distancing.

When the pandemic receded and it was time to return to Shakespeare, an adult or adults deemed a 14-inch elevated platform in a classroom too dangerous, despite two decades of safe existence before then and the existence of elevated platforms in other spaces throughout the district.

Just like that, the stage, curtain, stage lighting, and sets were rendered void, and a legacy of children performing Shakespeare in front of their parents and fellow students was gone.

My former students are outraged, as am I. They often visit — including multiple times this week — and share stories about their time performing Shakespeare, citing it as one of the most memorable aspects of their elementary school careers. Many can still recite lines from their play. Even more say that those performances made them more confident, collaborative, and courageous.

Four years later, and I am still outraged. I am also despondent, heartbroken, and disgusted.

When education is degraded and joy is stolen from a school day, it is always because lazy, uninformed, and uncaring adults in power have chosen to make their lives easier at the expense of children.

All I have now are the memories, including Estaban Pazmino, making an audience roar with laughter while proclaiming, “I can swim like a duck!”

This is Shakespeare’s way of reminding us that if you’re asked if you can swim, you can say “Yes,” or you can say something more specific, artful, amusing, or memorable, like “I can swim like a duck!”

It’s a lesson I teach clients quite often:

When asked a simple question, avoid providing a simple answer whenever possible.

A question is a gift. It’s an invitation to make a positive, impactful, memorable impression. Instead of the simple, expected answer, offer something of yourself. Share a detail. Offer a bit of biography. Be amusing. Say something unexpected. Be vulnerable.

A question is an invitation to speak. Don’t let it go to waste.

The tyrrany of initiative salad

Here’s a clear sign that the leadership in an organization lacks vision and purpose:

They launch initiatives. A lot of them.

Leaders with vision and purpose don’t require initiatives. They already know what is important.

They’ve already identified the direction that their organization is headed.

They know what needs to be done.

They already have a plan.

Initiatives are launched by meandering managers and useless leaders who read a book, listen to a podcast, or watch someone speak and think, “Yes, that’s what we need to be doing! Let’s do that!” or “She has a great vision! I think I’ll make it my own, too, on top of all the other visions I’ve also adopted as my own!”

Years ago, a superintendent in my school district would subject us to a new initiative every year because they had spent the previous summer reading a book or attending a conference and had become enamored with a new idea.

None of these ideas were aligned with one another. None of them, when lined up end to end, created a cohesive philosophy of any kind. They were simply new, shiny objects that got the superintendent excited, so they became organizational necessities, even if they didn’t produce lasting change.

And of course, they came along with the inevitable unpacking of this and workshopping of that. Teachers were subjected to training, meetings, and lectures on initiatives that would usually be forgotten in a year or two.

This isn’t to say the ideas were all bad. Any one of those initiatives could have been productive, but the endless stream of initiatives produced very little in terms of lasting impact or direction because, when combined, they created an initiative salad of nonsense and waste.

A leader either has a well-defined vision and purpose, developed over a career of experience, introspection, and insight, or they latch onto the newest, brightest baubles and serve them up on an endless series of platters, much to the dismay of the people subjected to this awful feast of ideas.

Adopting new ideas is easy.

Vision is hard.

This is why outstanding leadership is so hard to find.