Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 79

Charlie and his harmonica

Charlie asks for a harmonica in the Alcatraz gift shop. My initial response is no. He plays trumpet and guitar already, but more importantly, he likes to make noise whenever possible.

The harmonica would only afford him a new means to annoy us.

But Charlie is also a remarkable independent learner. This summer, entirely on his own, he taught himself how to solve a Rubik’s cube by watching YouTube videos and memorizing a multitude of algorithms that speedcubers use to solve the thing.

He now solves it with ease and is working on getting faster. His current personal best is 53 seconds.

So I thought that if he liked the harmonica, he might turn himself into a real harmonica player before long. Admittedly, he owned a harmonica when he was little that he called an ahack-mahka, but he’s a much more focused, serious boy today.

So I bought him the harmonica, hoping I wouldn’t regret it.

About seven minutes later, he’s sitting beside Clara on a bench outside the cell house, playing the harmonica. He can’t really play, of course, but he knows enough about music to sound surprisingly good. He’s playing with deliberation and thought. Finishing off chords and ending bits in surprisingly satisfying ways.

Still, he’s owned the thing for less than ten minutes.

Then a family of three approaches. The parents ask if he’ll continue playing. Their son wants to hear more, as do they.

So he plays, and this family listens with rapt attention, thinking they are listening to someone who knows how to play the harmonica instead of someone who has been playing it for about 420 seconds and is simply improvising.

They love it. They thank him when he finishes before moving on.

Had Charlie placed his hat at his feet, they probably would’ve given him a couple of bucks.

It’s a lesson for us all. It’s one that I speak about a lot when coaching folks in business:

Everyone is improvising all the time. We’re all making it up as we go along. There is no playbook for how to live life a life. No correct way to run a business or invest. No proper way to parent a child. No gold standard for marriage. No Platonic ideal for building a life.

As a friend just said to me while standing over a golf ball, “In golf, there are eight different ways to get that ball on the green. That’s the beauty of the game.”

But he was only partially correct. He could see eight different ways to hit that ball onto the green, but there were many, many more that neither he nor I could ever see.

And all of them were correct.

Knowing this truth – that everyone is making up everything as they move through life – and truly believing it can be enormously liberating. No longer should you worry if what you are doing conforms to the expectations of others. If you do it well, you will become the gold standard. You can become the expectation of others. People will see you as the expert, the professional, and the guru, even if your choices and methods are entirely different than the rest of the world.

When Charlie was asked to play his harmonica for that family, his response was not, “I don’t really play,” or “I just bought this seven minutes ago,” or “I’m not any good.” He didn’t tell them to lower their expectations or that he would try his best.

He played.

He recognized that the people in front of him thought he was a harmonica player based on what they had already heard, so he allowed that assumption to stand and began playing.

He made it up as he went. He wasn’t worried about the right or proper way to play. He wasn’t concerned about what the family might think after listening for a minute or two. He wasn’t worried about being perceived as a fraud or a failure.

He improvised, as we are all doing every day of our lives. We are all just making it up as we move along. The best leaders and the most successful people know this truth and accept it sooner than others. They don’t allow convention, conformity, expectation, and history to dictate their path or stop them from moving forward in the improvised, invented, and novel way.

They are constantly making everything up, too, but are simply doing so with more confidence and a lot less fear. They embrace their inventiveness. Relish in improvisation. Look for better and easier and more profitable ways of doing business. They blaze new trails with excitement. Step out of line with glee.

The next time I find myself wondering if I’m doing something the right way, I’m going to think of Chalie on that bench outside a federal prison-turned-tourist attraction, playing harmonica for people who thought he knew what he was doing.

Because he did.

He knew that as long as he kept making it up as he went along, boldly, confidently, and assertively, everything would work out well.

He was right.

Grammarly seems a little too kind to me

If you use Grammarly, you receive a weekly analysis of your writing statistics listing your productivity, mastery, and vocabulary.

Below is a portion of my results.

I don’t post mine here as a means of bragging but instead as a serious question:

Is Grammarly simply offering me exceedingly positive statistics each week to make me feel good? Stroking my ego?

Is it really possible that I am using more unique words than 99% of all Grammarly users? Could I really be 99% more productive than all Grammarly users every single week? Is my accuracy really 96% better than all Grammarly users?

I don’t think so.

I suspect everyone is getting inflated scores to keep them happy.

If you use Grammarly, please let me know.

In case the world wasn’t scary enough already

Woman is mowing her lawn in the 102-degree Texas heat. Riding a lawnmower.

A four-foot venomous snake falls from the sky, lands on her arm, and wraps around it.

The more she struggles to pull the snake off her arm, the tighter it holds on.

A hawk appears from the sky, grabs the snake with its talons, and takes off. The hawk is so powerful that the woman’s arm is jerked into the air as the hawk attempts to take flight.

After a moment of struggle, the hawk releases the snake and returns to the sky.

The snake continues to constrict the woman’s arm so tightly that her hand turns black.

The lawnmower continues to zigzag across the lawn while all of this happens.

The hawk dives and stabs again at its prize, failing again to extract the snake from her arm.

The hawk dives three more times – four in total – and finally wounds the reptile badly enough that it releases the woman’s arm and is carried away by the hawk.

The woman is rushed to the hospital by her husband, where she is treated for claw marks, lacerations, cuts, and punctures. It turns out that the hawk was doing as much damage to her arm as it was to the snake.

Despite the snake’s repeated attempts to bite her, she managed to avoid its venomous fangs.

The world can be a scary place at times. Now we have four-foot snakes plummeting from the sky to worry about, too.

Don’t look up.

The people of Muir Woods

While hiking Muir Woods National Park, a grove of coastal redwood trees, we had the following two encounters:

Seeing Elysha’s New York Yankees cap, a man said, “Oh, you’re from New York?”

“No,” Elysha said. “We live in Connecticut.”

“Oh!” he said. “I grew up in West Hartford, Connecticut.”

So, too, did Elysha. For a time, we lived together in West Hartford. I’ve also been teaching in West Hartford for the last 25 years. Elysha, too, for nearly as long.

The man also lived in Newington for a time, where we’ve been living for the past 14 years.

We spoke for a while about old haunts, familiar hangs, and the like.

Later, a young woman approached me. “Are you the storyteller?” she asked.

“I tell stories,” I said.

She recognized my voice while I was talking to Charlie. Her professor in college had assigned her my book, Storyworthy, and they had spent much of the semester reading the book and watching my stories online, so much so that she could pick my voice out amongst a crowd of people. She was hesitant to approach me at first, but her mother, who was hiking alongside her, insisted she say hello.

We chatted about storytelling, Homework for Life (which she does), and more.

You don’t travel more than 3,000 miles from home and hike into a redwood forest expecting to find someone who grew up about a mile from where you currently teach and where you once lived.

Nor do you expect someone to pick you out of a crowd by the sound of your voice.

It truly is a small, small world.

Victory in the pharmacy

We arrive in San Fransisco to discover that Elysha has left her medication at home. She calls her doctor and arranges for her prescription to be refilled at a local CVS Pharmacy down the road from our Airbnb.

I arrive at the pharmacy the next day to pick up the medication. The CVS employee has difficulty finding Elysha’s name in the system, so after about 15 minutes of hunting and pecking, she turns the screen and keyboard around so I can see. Together, we troubleshoot the problem and finally find her information.

A little odd to involve a customer in the computer search, but I appreciate out-of-the-box thinking.

While this is happening, a drug-seeking customer cuts in front of me, pushing me back to make room, and asks for help from the pharmacist. I don’t realize initially that he is drug-seeking, but I can tell he is not well. He can’t stop pacing and talks incessantly.

Eventually, the man leaves, and we return our attention to the screen.

The prescription, of course, is not yet filled. It also cannot be filled because Elysha’s doctor failed to check a box allowing for the early refill.

“No problem,” the employee says. “The pharmacist can override this.”

She turns to the pharmacist, who tells her, rather unkindly, that he’s on the phone and will be busy for at least 15 minutes.

So I wait. I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair and ponder why CVS chose metallic gray for the color of their store’s carpeting. It looks old, industrial, and awful. It graces the floor of every CVS I’ve ever entered. I once scraped my chin on this carpeting after tripping and falling in a CVS in Hartford.

I hate this carpet so much.

I also slowly begin to die inside, counting the precious minutes of vacation I am spending inside a CVS.

Finally, the pharmacist is available. He motions me to the counter and informs me that he can’t refill the prescription because the doctor hasn’t checked the box allowing for an early refill. “Call the doctor and have him correct this,” he says.

But I can’t allow this to happen. This will undoubtedly result in a 24-hour wait for a medication that Elysha needs.

Even worse, it would require me to return to this CVS again.

I also know that the pharmacist can override this problem if he wants. His colleague has told me.

So I steel myself for verbal combat and begin:

“Listen,” I say. “You have a choice here. You can believe that I am a drug-seeking addict trying to get his hands on his wife’s medication, or you can look at my address in your system, recognize that I am on vacation from 3,000 miles away,  and help me out so that my wife can feel well and we can enjoy our time in California. It’s your decision. You can make a family happy or ruin another day for us.”

“I can’t just override the system,” he says.

“Sure you can,” I say. “All it takes is doing the right thing.”

I use this strategy often. Make the person in charge abundantly clear of the effects of their decision. Make it difficult for them to sleep at night knowing they could’ve made a real difference in the lives of others, but instead, they chose the easy path, the selfish path, or the path of unnecessary rule-following bureaucracy.

It’s a good strategy. It’s worked many times. My principal once accused me of using it to intimidate a school administrator, but when the welfare of children is at stake, perhaps a little intimidation isn’t a bad thing.

The pharmacist was silent momentarily, then his colleague made this sound. It was sort of a “Humph.” It was tiny but perceptible. In that minuscule bit of sound, I think she managed to say, “He’s right. You know you can override the system. He’s obviously a decent guy. Why not help this man?”

I think that tiny sound made the difference. I think that little “Humph” was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Fine,” the pharmacist said, turning away in a huff, not allowing me the opportunity to thank him.

Less than five minutes later, I had the medication in my hand.

This morning I wrote a thank you card to the pharmacist and his colleague. I’ll drop it in the mail later today.

The keys to my success:

Don’t take no for an answer. Everyone, regardless of their position or power, is just a person like me.Make the stakes abundantly clear to the person in charge.Help the person in charge to make the right decision by describing both outcomes with great clarity.Use direct, pointed, specific, but noninflammatory language.Treat people well. By partnering with the pharmacist’s colleague early on and remaining patient with her as she struggled with her computer system, she was on my side when I needed her most.

Also, it didn’t hurt that I was in California at the time. Everyone seems a lot kinder in this state.

It’s a little unsettling.

The unexpected trio of singers on “You Are the Sunshine of my Life”

“You Are the Sunshine of My Life” is a Stevie Wonder song you’ve undoubtedly heard many times. It was Wonder’s third Billboard chart topper and has become a classic still played 50 years after its debut.

But did you know this:

Stevie Wonder does not sing the first four lines of the song.

Jim Gilstrap sings the first two lines. Lani Groves sings the next two. Then Gilstrap, Groves, and Gloria Barley provide backing vocals while Stevie Wonder sings the rest of the song.

Has a song ever been performed in his way before?

Two lines by one singer.
Two lines by a second singer.
The following 19 lines sung by the artist credited for the hit song.

I’ve been listening to that song for my entire life, but it was only during a recent car ride with Elysha that I noticed the first voice I heard was not Stevie Wonder. Even more shocking, my musical-savant wife never noticed either.

I’ve looked for reasons why Wonder chose this unusual lyrical structure, but none seem to exist. The closest I found to an answer is:

“Wonder doesn’t start singing right away on ‘You Are The Sunshine Of My Life.’ For whatever reason, his backup singers, Jim Gilstrap and Lani Groves, handle the first two lines. It’s a strange effect like Wonder needs to rely on his friends to speak for him while he struggles to find his own voice.”

“For whatever reason?”

Not exactly a reason.

If I ever have the honor of meeting Stevie Wonder, my first question will undoubtedly be, “Please explain the decision behind having two different singers perform the first four lines of that song. What were you thinking?”

If you ever meet Stevie Wonder, maybe you could ask on my behalf.

Making the world feel unsafe

I was waiting to board a plane in Charleston, South Carolina. The airline attendant had called for the parents with small children who needed assistance to begin boarding.

A woman with a middle school-aged daughter began moving toward the gate.

The man standing beside me stepped forward, blocking their path. “She said small children who need assistance,” he barked.

The woman was so startled that she didn’t understand what the man had said. “Excuse me?” she said.

“Only small children in need of assistance,” he said.

“Oh,” the woman said, and she and her daughter stepped back.

Given the nature of the world today, I try not to involve myself in situations like this.

Elysha prefers that I avoid these conflicts, too.

But I was in an airport. The man had been scanned for weapons at security. And if he wanted to fight, I knew I could handle him.

Also, I couldn’t help it. Who barks at a mother and daughter trying to board an airplane? Traveling is hard enough. Adding a child of any age to the mix makes it much more difficult. And I can’t stand to watch a man shout at a woman like that, which is probably tragically heteronormative and maybe even sexist, but I can’t help it. The world is hard enough for women already without some stupid, angry man barking orders at the gate.

Also, I admittedly love a little conflict. All those other reasons are absolutely true, but more than half of my desire to engage was born from my love for battle. My heart was only slightly in the right place.

So with all that said, I injected myself into the situation. “Not your job,” I told him.

It was his turn to be surprised. “What?” he asked.

“Not your job,” I said. “No one wants some random man barking orders at them. Let the gate attendant handle it.”

“Rules are rules,” he said.

“Maybe she’s never been on a plane before. Maybe her daughter has a special need we can’t see. Maybe she misheard the announcement. You don’t know. Let the people in charge take care of it.”

“I wasn’t going to let her board before me,” he said.

“It’s not your job,” I repeated. “The people working the gate can handle it. When you do things like that, you make the world feel unsafe. So stop it.”

Sadly, tragically, depressingly, the man walked away. Stormed off, really. He may have realized that I was gaining steam. Thrilling in the moment. Instead of firing back, he defused the situation by heading toward the gate. I could’ve followed him and continued my verbal assault, but that would’ve meant stepping into the world of lunacy.

I know where to draw the line.

Unfortunately, our entire encounter only lasted a few seconds.

I had been hoping for so much more.

Perhaps I had made the world feel unsafe to him, so he scurried away in fear.

One can hope.

Warren’s gift was the best gift

On the eve of the third and final show of “You’re a Monster, Matthew Dicks,” I was greeted in the theater lobby by an employee named Warren, who had seen the show the previous night.

He offered me some kind words about the show and my performance, and then he said, “I have something for you. It’s something I’ve owned and treasured for a long time, but I want you to have it now.”

Then he handed me this, inscribed with a quote written by novelist Jonathan Swift in the eighteenth century that could’ve also been written about my show:

“May you live every day of your life.”

In some way, these words are the essence of my show.

I tried to reject the gift, feeling it was too much, but Warren insisted. He pressed the gift into my hand, thanked me for my performance, and we hugged.

Two things about that moment, and specifically about that gift:

I can’t imagine a more meaningful gift than giving away something you’ve owned and treasured. Nothing could’ve meant more to me at that moment.I’ve already placed Warren’s gift on my desk, and every time I look at it, I will remember the moment we shared in that lobby. And every time I read Swift’s words, I will remember performing that show on that stage and the joy I felt in pulling it off.

I’ve never been a big gift person. Some of the best gifts I have ever received have been notes and letters written to me by Elysha, former students, the parents of former students, and friends. In fact, I carry a folder in my backpack that contains five letters written to me by students, colleagues, and friends.

They are the five most meaningful things anyone has ever written to me, and thus, five of the best gifts I’ve ever received. I keep them by my side at all times, ready to bolster my spirit if needed.

Warren’s gift won’t live inside my backpack like those letters, but it will live on my desk, where it will be seen and appreciated every day. Best of all, it will remind me of a moment in my life when I did something that once seemed impossible.

It will transport me back to a moment in my life that I will never forget.

It truly is the thought behind the gift that matters most.

Subtitles on Barbie were not fun

One complaint I had about the Barbie movie:

I ended up in a theater where the film was subtitled, presumably for someone in the theater who was deaf or hearing impaired.

While I have no problem with subtitling films for the benefit of the deaf community, I think I should know if that possibility exists before I decide to attend the film.

Subtitles suck. They ruin surprises and punch lines by flashing sentences on the screen ahead of the spoken word. As a result, they steal some of the joy of the movie. I made an effort to ignore the subtitles as best as I could while watching, but there were moments when they were unavoidable and annoying.

Also, I don’t want a portion of my mental bandwidth focused on dodging text on the screen.

Again, it’s fine if a movie is going to be subtitled or is available for subtitling for any patron who wants or needs this feature.

Great, even.

Just tell me. I’ll choose a different showing.

I should at least have the choice before I settle in for a film.

Barbie move happily enrages conservatives

Here’s how you can tell that “Barbie” – which I have seen – is an outstanding film:

Conservative creeps like Ben Shapiro, Ted Cruz, and Elon Musk hate the movie.

It’s so odd, too, because these little men fail to see that their hatred of the film reflects their own insecurity. They can’t see how their opposition to the film makes them look weak, small, and stupid.

It’s also odd how the men who take pride in being big and tough… the ones who love to use violent language, brandish firearms in public, defend patriarchal institutions, reject the existence of systemic racism, and denigrate gay and transgender Americans are also the ones who are utterly terrified of women.

Terrified of women in power. Terrified of women seizing power. Terrified of women dominating the culture. Terrified of women retaining ownership and autonomy over their bodies. Terrified of the economic rise of women. Terrified of the possibility that their status and position in this world may have more to do with their sex, race, and the socioeconomic status of their family than their intelligence, hard work, or talent.

These big, tough, manly men are so incredibly afraid.

Don’t get me wrong:

I have no complaint if you didn’t like “Barbie” for reasons related to actual filmmaking. I loved the film, but it may not be your kind of filmmaking.

A lot of people love Wes Anderson’s work, but I can’t stand it.

To each his own.

But if Barbie’s feminist philosophy or opposition to the patriarchy or illustration of privilege has you spinning, you’re almost certainly a small, frightened little man who can’t bear the thought of women holding power in this world. You can’t stand the possibility that you might be marginalized by women who are more intelligent, kinder, wiser, and grittier than you.

But here’s the thing:

You’d be better off saying nothing because saying something just makes you look small, weak, and sad. It betrays your fear. It shines a light on your insecurity.

It also gives me yet another reason to love the Barbie movie:

It makes a group of conservative creeps upset while on its way to grossing a billion dollars and pleasing hordes of moviegoers.

Huzzah.