Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 128

Why TEDxCornell was so successful

On Saturday, I spoke at TEDxCornell.

It was the ninth TEDx Talk that I’ve delivered and one of the best TEDx conference I’ve ever attended.

There were lots of reasons for this. The team of Cornell students were some of the most professional, organized, and competent people with whom I have ever worked. They demanded excellence, meeting with me every other week for months, helping me to shape and hone my talk. The sound and tech teams were superb. The support that I received on the day of my talk was constant and encouraging.

When I took the stage on Saturday, I was as prepared as I’ve ever been to perform.

Here’s the impressive thing:

Everyone on that TEDx team was at least 25 years younger than me. One of the people helping me shape my talk was just 18 years old. Yet they never deferred to me, never stopped pressing me to be better, and never hesitated to offer me feedback.

They were faced with a professional public speaker, a TEDx veteran, a 55-time Moth StorySLAM and 7-time GrandSLAM champion who routinely gets paid to speak around the world, yet they treated me just like any other speaker in the conference.

I loved that.

It was their confidence that was most impressive. Their ability to assume an equal footing with me. The way in which we interacted as equals, regardless of our age difference.

It was so refreshing.

I’ve met many people over the course of my life who feel like age has bearing on status.

“Respect your elders” is a phrase we often hear.

When I was 17 years old – still in high school – I was promoted to manager at the McDonald’s where I was working. Some of the employees – men and women twice my age and more – had a hard time being managed by a teenager. Despite my ability to run a shift well and the general manager’s confidence in me, they balked at the thought of someone my age dictating their work day.

I’ve heard similar things said by teachers when their principal is a decade or two younger than them. I’ve heard it said by clients who criticize a supervisor for their age rather than their incompetence, assuming the two are somehow linked. I’ve heard it from friends when they discover that their doctor is younger than them.

It’s a belief that is both counterintuitive and stupid. It’s a belief that automatically confers status, prestige, and value to people who have been alive longer while assuming that younger people have less to offer.

It’s always annoyed me. It’s also unfounded.

I’ve learned more about teaching, for example, from my students than anyone else. Once per month, I request written feedback from my students relative to my performance. I ask them to comment on things I’m doing well and things I could be doing better. I ask them to make recommendations about how the school day should be run. Their feedback is always specific, pointed, unfiltered, occasionally heartwarming, and always helpful.

Last year I met with my students, one-on-one, to discuss race and social justice. I asked them to talk about how I was doing in terms of understanding and supporting them and what mistakes I may have made. My black students told me what I was doing well and when I had failed them. My Vietnamese students taught me things about their lives and culture that I had failed to see. A Puerto Rican student told me about a how I ‘d missed a chance to learn more about her culture and how it still bothered her. My white students talked about the uncertainty and powerlessness they sometimes feel when wanting to support their black and brown friends but weren’t sure how to do it properly.

All of that and much, much more.

I learned more during those conversations than I have learned from 24 years of professional development from grown-ass adults who claim expertise but often haven’t taught students in years.

Kids taught me how to be a better teacher and a better person.

On Saturday, I was given the opportunity to be successful because people half my age did not see my age or experience or expertise as relevant to the process. They saw me as a person with an idea to share and helped me craft and hone that idea over the course of several months. They helped me find the places where I needed to kill my darlings. They offered me much needed transitions between sections of the talk. They helped me make choices about stories and examples to include within the talk. They assisted me in assembling slides that would support the talk well. They offered feedback after every rehearsal.

To their credit, they also leaned on my experience, too. During the rehearsal of another speaker, for example, a member of their team asked me questions about the way the speaker was moving around the stage. I talked to him about how the speaker needed to utilize the front of the stage more, how purposeful pauses would land important points more effectively, and how to relax the speaker before their talk.

That feedback eventually made its way to the speaker, and their performance improved considerably.

I spent the weekend amongst a collection of college students decades younger than me, but I felt like one of them, and they embraced me like one of their own. We shared equal footing in the process, and as a result, I did well. I took the stage as confident as I have ever been. Prepared and practiced and relaxed. Supported and encouraged by a team of people who I had come to trust and value.

The TEDxCornell team was confident and competent enough to treat me as an equal, and I was wise enough to do the same.

You can learn a lot when you stop thinking about age and instead focus on collaboration, mutual respect, and the desire for excellence.

Proper and safe time travel uses

Given how dangerous time travel can be, both for my personal wellbeing as well as the integrity of the space-time continuum, if bestowed the power of time travel, I would use it exceptionally carefully, and only for these reasons:

Retrieve the things from the trash that I wasn’t supposed to throw away or regret throwing away.Stop myself from ruining Elysha’s clothing by incorrectly washing and drying it.Go back to the day in 1992 when a deposit of more than $7,000 when missing from a McDonald’s that I was managing on Cape Cod, resulting in my arrest, jailing, eventual homelessness, and trial. I wouldn’t stop the deposit from going missing. That would be far too dangerous in terms of altering my timeline. I’d just like to know where the hell it went.Return to the spring day in 1988 when Glenn Bacon threw a music stand at my head like a spear, hitting and cutting me below the eye. It was an uncommon moment of unnecessary restraint for me. In hindsight, I should’ve beat the hell out of him. I don’t think another fist fight would alter my life’s trajectory, and it would’ve been supremely satisfying.Return to the spring of 2007 to confirm the identities of the cowards who attempted to destroy my teaching career with libelous, widespread, anonymous claims. I know the names of most involved (conspiracies rarely remain secret) but am uncertain about the level of involvement of a couple people. I’d really like to confirm those identities.Return to the spring of 1973, when I stepped out of my bedroom at the age of two with a gash on my forehead that would require several stitches. That wound left a cross-shaped scar on my forehead that was later obliterated when I traveled through a windshield, forehead first, 15 years later, but my parents never knew what I had done to cause the wound. I’d like to know.Return to the fall of that same year, when my stomach was pumped after drinking a bottle of paregoric, an opium-based Schedule III narcotic that could be purchased over the counter prior to 1970 and was used to sooth the gums of teething children. Apparently my parents still owned a bottle in 1973, which I drank in its entirety. I’d like to see how that went down. Did my parents carelessly leave it out? Did I find it myself? How did a two year-old manage to drink a bottle of a Schedule III narcotic?

There are many other mysteries that I would like to solve.

Identify John Kennedy’s assassin with certainty.

Determine if Babe Ruth really called his shot in the 1932 World Series.

Determine the fate of the Roanoke colonists and the voyagers on the Mary Celeste.

But in order to be exceedingly cautious, I would not travel back to a time when I did not exist, nor would I leave the geographic confines of my own life.

I’ve watched enough time travel films to understand the danger.

“Someday Is Today” is DONE. Audibly, at least.

I’ve finished recording the audio version of my new book, “Someday Is Today.”

Available now for preorder wherever you get books. Order now!

May I recommend Indiebound for your online purchases? Or just pop into your favorite, local bookshop. My local favorites include RJ Julia in Madison, CT, An Unlikely Story in Plainville, MA, and Northshire in Manchester Center, VT, amongst many, many others.

Recording the audiobook is an interesting process.

Actually, it’s incredibly difficult. It takes forever and isn’t exactly exciting or entertaining. I recorded “Storyworthy” three years ago in Michigan, and it was hard, but this time may have been even more difficult.

It took multiple sessions over multiple weeks to complete – more than 20 hours in all to record an audiobook that will probably be less than ten hours long. The process made me feel dumb a lot. I wrote sentences that I couldn’t read. I wrote words that I couldn’t say. I would run out of breath mid-sentence and need to start over. My belly would growl, necessitating a redo. I would misread and mispronounce constantly.

As you may know, Elysha wrote the foreword of the book and my friend, Shep, wrote the afterword, so they recorded their parts, too. I’m thrilled to have their voices on the recording. Each of them recorded about half a dozen pages each. They smiled a lot while recording. They enjoyed the process quite a bit. Sounded great. Wrapped up their sections in less than 30 minutes each.

I was so angry with them. So jealous.

Words that I cannot say include:

Invariably
Similarly
Consigliere
Streamlined

Each chapter of my book begins with a quote, and those proved exceptionally difficult to read. Reading my own sentences was hard enough, but reading someone else’s sentences aloud was somehow twice as challenging.

I also can’t say any collection of three or more words containing a total of seven or more of the letter R. Even after more than two decades in Connecticut, that Boston area accent, once as thick as can be, is still hiding within me, just waiting to come out.

I also can’t say silvery, but I learned that by reading Harry Potter to the kids. JK Rowling loves that damn word.

I took a very strange walk.

Yesterday, I did something that I have never done before.

And perhaps has never been done in all of human history.

I slept-walked on an airplane.

I was flying back from Ohio, where I had performed the night before. Just prior to takeoff, I closed my eyes and went to sleep, as I often do. A quick nap until I can remove my laptop from the bag and get some work done.

When I awoke, I was standing at the rear of the plane, in the space just outside the restroom. A flight attendant, still seated and buckled, was asking if I needed anything. She sounded frustrated.

“Sir, the seatbelt sign is still on. You’re supposed to be in your seat. Is there a problem?”

It took me a moment to figure out where I was and realize what had happened. I sleepwalk often, so I’m accustomed to that moment of confusion when I wake up and find myself someplace other than my bed.

I’m usually seated on my couch, my dining room table, or my desk. Sometimes just standing in the kitchen by the sink or in my closet, oftentimes fully dressed for work. A couple times in my life, I’ve found myself behind the wheel of my car, dressed and ready to go.

And I’ve certainly gone sleepwalking in places other than my home before, but never before on a plane.

So it took a moment for me to get my bearing, but finally, it dawned on me that I had been sleepwalking.

“Sir, are you okay?” the flight attendant asked, sounding more concerned.

“I’m fine,” I told her. Then I leaned in and said, “I think I was just sleepwalking.”

“Seriously?”

I nodded. “I do it a lot.”

“Do you need to use the restroom?” she asked.

I told her I didn’t and returned to my seat. After buckling my seatbelt, I leaned over to my seatmate, who I had been chatting with during boarding, and said, “You’re not going to believe this. I was just sleepwalking.”

He laughed. “I wondered what you were doing. Isn’t that dangerous?”

I explained that even though I was sleepwalking, I wasn’t moving about the world unaware of my surroundings or out of control. When I’m sleepwalking, it’s like a second operating system in my brain turns boots up, very similar to the primary operating system that runs most of my life. It allows me to move through the world much the same way I do when I’m awake. I can get dressed, eat, empty the dishwasher, and even write while sleepwalking. I’m more likely to get stuck somewhere, like behind the wheel of my car or sitting on the couch, staring at a TV that I never turned on, and oftentimes, it’s difficult to discern a person who is awake from a person who is sleepwalking.

In fact, I’ve had many conversations with Elysha while sleepwalking, and more than once, she’s asked me if I’m sleepwalking while we’re talking.

Once, in the middle of the night, I answered a phone call from the veterinarian, who was keeping our dog, Kaleigh, overnight for observation. Something had gone terrible wrong. I awoke Elysha, explained the situation, and together, we decided to approve spinal surgery on Kaleigh, even though the surgery was unlikely to be successful and would cost thousands of dollars.

We were awake for more than half an hour, discussing things before calling the vet back to approve the surgery.

I have no recollection of any of it. I was sleepwalking.

Elysha had no idea.

So no, it wasn’t dangerous to sleepwalk on the plane, except that I was supposed to still be seated. I wasn’t going to try to open an outer door or storm the cockpit just because I was sleepwalking.

Still, it was unnerving.

I decided to remain awake and read my book.

“Yes, but…” is a hell of a lot better than “Yeah, but…”

In my new book, “Someday Is Today,” I talk about the awfulness of the phrase “Yeah, but…”

People who use this expression often are often dismissive of solutions and obsessed with their own petty complaints.

“Yeah, but…” essentially says, “I agree with you, but your point is irrelevant, because I’d rather dither in my cesspool of negativity than acknowledge your idea or solution.”

“Yeah, but…” people never solve or fix or correct anything. They simply fill the world with verbal clutter.

I hate “Yeah, but…”

When I catch myself saying it, I hate myself, too. I scold myself.

That said, the Instagram account “Yes, But” is fantastic.

Here are a few of the many examples.

When you’re done posting a photo of your asparagus and artichoke frittata, check it out.

 

Forwarded email from the deceased

One of the chapters in my upcoming book “Someday Is Today” addresses the idea that we must preserve and promote the positivity offered to us by the people in our life.

We need as much food for the soul as we can get.

The good news is that we’re offered words of kindness all the time. Compliments. Expressions of gratitude. Messages of encouragement.

Unfortunately, the human brain – for purposes of self preservation – is designed to remember the negative far more often than the positive. We require at least 6 positive statements in order to counteract one negative statement.

That’s a terrible ratio that we must do everything to counteract if we hope to reach our goals and make our dreams come true.

One of my strategies to maximize the positive feedback we receive is to “snooze” the kind and encouraging words sent to me via email so that the email arrives into my inbox a second time when I least expect it. I simple click the snooze feature in my email, close my eyes, and scroll to a random date in the future.

My email app used to have a “Someday” button which I loved but was removed a couple years ago. I suspect that I was the only one who had found a use for this feature.

But by snoozing kind and inspiring words into the future, we receive those words a second time, and it’s joyous to receive words of kindness from the past. Reminders of how I was once appreciated by a friend, parent of a student, former student, client, and even Elysha and my kids.

Yesterday an email from five years ago arrived in my inbox. Words of kindness written by a friend, but a friend who passed away a year ago.

That hasn’t happened before.

At first, I was confused to see her name in my inbox. Then, when I realized what it was, I was saddened by the reminder of her loss. But then I read the email, and for a few moments, her kind words had returned to me, and I was able to spend a little time with a friend who I can see no more.

I think she would’ve liked to know that even though she is gone, her words are still brightening my day.

It was admittedly bittersweet, but a lot more sweet than bitter.

Emails from the past, arriving in the present:

A good strategy to maximize the positivity in our lives made even better when they are sent from someone no longer with us.

“Everything happens for a reason”

On the podcast Smartless, Jon Hamm explained how he had failed to land eight consecutive pilots and was fired from another when he landed the role on Mad Men.

If any of those pilots had been successful,  it was pointed out, Hamm would’ve missed out on Mad Men, for which he won 15 Emmys.

“Everything happens for a reason,” said host Sean Hayes.

I adore Sean Hayes, but this sentiment fills me with animus.

Tell a child born into poverty and violence in Somalia that everything happens for a reason.

Tell a Ukrainian whose family members have been murdered at the hands of Russian invaders that everything happens for a reason.

Tell the mother of a stillborn child that everything happens for a reason.

Tell that stillborn child that everything happens for a reason.

When you sell your podcast to Amazon for $80 million or star in a successful sitcom for years or marry the man of your dreams, it’s easy and rather convenient to think that everything happens for a reason.

You’re blessed.

You worked hard.

You deserve your good fortune.

God has granted you these gifts.

There is a master plan, and you are fortunate enough to be a part of it.

It’s all nonsense, of course. In truth, a whole lot of success is based solely upon genetics, geography, timing, and a hell of a lot of luck.

I love you Sean Hayes, but when it comes to everything happening for a reason, please shut the hell up.

Three kinds of leaders

There are three kinds of leaders in this world:

Firefighters: These are leaders who charge into the fray regardless of the size and scope of a situation, ready to deploy their skills and strategies to solve problems and make things better. Solving problems makes them feel good and satisfies their egos. It makes them feel necessary and important and relevant. And they are often quite good in this role. They are skilled at putting out fires. They are also some of the more incompetent and lazy leaders in this world. Most leaders fall into this category.
________________________________________________Smoky the Bears: These are leaders who prevent most fires from ever starting through the hard work and tedium of long term planning, relentless forethought, deep thinking, constant research, proactive procedural safeguards, and the development and institution of policies and practices following the occasional fire to prevent the next one.These leaders are much harder to find. A rare breed, indeed. Not a lazy bone in their body. They are the best of the best.
________________________________________________The Firestarters: These are ego driven narcissists who intentionally set fires because they are drawn to drama and the role of the savior. They care not about the feelings or needs of others but only about their sense of importance, relevance, and self perception. They are most comfortable when people are turning to them for help. They desperately need to be the center of every little thing. I worked for one of these leaders once, and it was a disaster. Thankfully, these monsters are few and far between.

The changing landscape of baby names

Baby names are more unique than ever before.

In 2020 the percentage of babies who got a top-10 most popular name was down to 7 percent. Compare that to the 28 percent of babies who got a name in the top 10 in 1950, or the 32 percent in 1880.

In 1955, half of American babies had one of 78 names. In 2019 half of American babies had one of 520 names.

I like this trend a lot.

I like original names, for a few reasons:

If you’re going to assign a human being a name, I like it when some thoughtfulness, creativity, and rationality is behind the decision.

I’m Matthew John because my mother liked the two names. It probably also had something to do with her being a Christian. Matthew and John are two of the first two books of the New Testament.

It’s a fine choice of a name, but it’s not exactly an inspiring rationale.

Granted, my father wanted me to be named Bartholomew, so perhaps I dodged a bullet with Matthew John.

Also, John?

Can you be any lazier in choosing a name than choosing John?

No offense to all you Johns out there or parents who named their children John. Maybe there was great thought and reason in the choosing of your name. Maybe it’s a family name, or perhaps your parents were fans of the film Die Hard and admired John McClain a whole hell of a lot. Still, some people whose last name is Smith are still naming their sons John.

I can’t believe it. Why? Do people with the last name Doe still name their children John and Jane, too?

Clara Susan’s name comes from a combination of a character in “The Van Gogh Cafe” and my deceased mother’s first name.

Charles Wallace is named after a character in “A Wrinkle in Time.” Also, Elysha and I like the poetry of Hartford’s own Wallace Stevens very much.

Our cat, Tobi, is named after a children’s book of the same name that Elysha adored as a child.

Pluto, our other cat, is named after the cat in Poe’s “The Black Cat.” That cat has its eye gouged out by its owner but goes on to reveal the owner’s murder victim to police, thus having the last laugh.

Elysha’s name was originally going to be Jordan, but a doctor told her parents that Jordan is primarily a boy’s name, and isn’t life difficult enough already?

Little did that doctor know that Elysha’s last name would one day become Dicks.

So tossing aside Jordan, Elysha’s parents invented the spelling of Elysha after three days of hemming and hawing and threats from the hospital that they would fill in her birth certificate with the name Girl. They invented the spelling because they liked the name Alicia but also knew someone named Alicia who they didn’t like, so they created a new version of the name to avoid any reminders of the unsavory Alicia.

See? Now that’s some thought and reason.

I like original names a lot, too, because why not? A new human exists on the planet. Why not a new name?

Also, a brand new name is an excellent means of identifying intolerant jackasses.

Intolerant jackasses typically roll their eyes or act incredulously at the sound of a new or exceptionally rare name, because anything that does not fit into their pantheon of potential baby names and overall world view is deeply unsettling to them.

These are the same kind of people who oppose same sex marriage. Just a hell of a lot less evil.

So when Gwyneth Paltrow and her ex-husband Chris Martin named their daughter Apple, for example, intolerant jackasses around the world complained about the name. Made fun of it. Mocked it like the intolerant jackasses they are.

I actually like the name a lot, but even if I didn’t, she isn’t my kid, so I didn’t say anything negative about it because people can name their baby whatever they want and I’m not an intolerant jackass.

But I like it when identifying terrible people is made easy.

“What? Your name is Jamararella? Seriously?”

See? Intolerant jackass.

Wordle metaphor

My first guess in today’s Wordle was the equivalent of being born as a white, straight American man with no physical disabilities or mental illness.

Lots and lots and lots of unearned privilege.

Failing to solve the puzzle was still possible, but doing so would’ve required some serious buffoonery on my part.

Wordle 294 3/6