A couple of weeks ago a highly respected and generally brilliant friend emailed me in the wake of one of these postings with a brief message. The note was innocuous enough, but it included a telling observation at the end that went something like this…“and it seems to fit with your whole the country is going to hell in a hand basket theme.”
As someone whose father routinely touted Norman Vincent Peele and championed the power of positive thinking, this razor sharp allegation of a perpetually negative tone was more than a bit tough to hear. However as with most things that accurately strike a nerve, there was more than a little fire behind the smoke. After reflecting on it a bit, it is sadly true that too much of my time is spent lamenting the sense that all the signposts I choose to see suggest the end is indeed near.
Out of deference to my father and with a general understanding in people’s preference for a rosier outlook, I cringe at the notion that I’m perceived as a doomsayer…especially when that assessment comes from someone I admire. It was also troubling considering most of my former jobs demanded the ability to inspire, and that to the degree I thought I had any natural aptitude, the talent to fire folks up was a self-identified strong suit. Even as an assistant high-school defensive coordinator, I often got the pre-game speech nod (then again, I do recall going 0-11 one year).
Deep down, I want to believe things are better than they used to be, and that the myriad of tangible positive improvements that have occurred just over the course of my lifetime far out-weigh all the perceived less desirable changes. I want to trust we’re evolving, however it’s hard to do when it seems like the preponderance of negative evidence is gusting in my face like a catagory 5 hurricane. There are still times when I think we’re moving forward…but those waning moments are usually vanquished when I’m confronted with an experience like the one that took place early this past Sunday morning.
If you’ve ever worked, or volunteered, or perhaps even spent the night in a big inner-city lockup (and I’m not admitting to anything here), you know that the challenges of such an environment are only exacerbated by the craziness that comes with street-life on an urban Saturday night. No time is ideal to be in jail…but the wee hours of a predawn Sunday are special, and all the worst vices of metropolitan life conspire to make any observer feel as though the world is hurling at light-speed toward hades. Inebriation, drug use, violence, promiscuity, vulgarity, and the general consequence of poor judgment, crescendo in such a way that even the most Pollyanna among us can’t help but muster doubts about our chances in the days ahead.
The scene manifests itself in a variety of unpleasant ways, ranging from incoherent profane sentences, poor hygiene, wardrobe plucked from an alley dumpster, and an overflowing display of general depravity. When you witness all these things in the holding area of the precinct slammer it’s bad enough…but when you’re surrounded by all it on an early Sunday morning while sitting in the A Gates of the C Terminal of Las Vegas’s McCarron Airport, well…it’s hard to convince yourself we’re really making progress.
Despite years of subpar education, a low IQ and generally poor writing skills, I don’t have the talent to adequately paint the scene created as bleary-eyed and hung over passengers gathered in the false dawn for a 6:35 a.m. fight to Phoenix. Between the wrinkled camo cargo shorts, blood-shot eyes, mindless conversation, breath that reeked of an alcoholic stew, flip-flop foot-ware, cheap fedora/bowler hats and all the double-fisted morning-after revelers carrying a variety of Strip hotel laundry bags that doubled as carry-on luggage, this conglomeration of miscreants confidently teamed to create an atmosphere that would make any urban drunk tank seem like high tea at the Waldorf Astoria.
I put on my reading glasses in hopes of escaping in the poetic magic of author James Lee Burke, but as the number of degenerates intensified just before boarding…the dismal fate of the country indeed seemed inevitable. Mercifully, the gate agent announced that the flight was about to board, so ever hopeful, I sprinted to the head of the blue preferred status lane in hopes of separating myself from the multitudes of unwashed.
While standing there contemplating what I’d do with the remaining days before the world implodes, I caught the glimpse of several young people that were allowed to pre-board in appreciation for their service to the country. Their clean-cut youthful faces were full of hope, and as they passed in full uniform with an old-school decorum and humility that I’d thought was lost to another era, I couldn’t help but think that maybe everything would be OK. Once on the plane, another younger passenger impressively offered his first class seat to one of the servicemen (I thought of doing that with my upgraded ticket…but as I glanced back to steerage…I just couldn’t muster up the will to spend an entire 60 minutes back there). As I sat and watched many of the young people walk by, I suddenly noticed many seemingly good people that had escaped my attention while focusing only on the bad in the terminal area. Over the course of the following week, several people have coincidently sent along pictures and stories of their highly achieving children that further illustrate things are better than I’ve perceived.
What’s the point of all this? Well, it’s not easy coming up with content early on a Friday morning so I’m not sure there is one. It might just be a desperate stab at conjuring up subject matter, but it may also suggest that my friend’s assessment of my continually negative tone was not only timely, but also dead on. I remember a high-level colleague at my old job telling me I was one of the “most positive persons” he knew. Nobody says that to me anymore.
If my dad were alive, he’d tell me I have a duty to be more optimistic. He always tried to see the bright side, so I’m going to see if I can’t be more positive. Instead of focusing on the perceived bad, I’m going to search for the undeniable good. I’m going to really try…remaining hopeful this new approach takes root over the long haul.
Have a great long weekend. If you are fortunate enough to find yourself out-and-about enjoying the benefits of living in a free country, try to take a minute to reflect on the reason for the extra day off.
As always, sorry for all the misspellings, poor grammar and typos. I apologize too for the goofy timing of the “It’s Friday” emails, as many of them (generated by the blog program) have been going out on Saturday. Not sure how to fix it, but maybe a positive attitude will help.
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