My apologies
To the bug
That flew unwittingly
into my mouth.
It turned out poorly
For both of us,
But worse, I fear,
For you.

In memoriam, 4/15

Little shoots of green – crocuses or tulips, perhaps – push up through the thawing ground.

The birds go mad. Tweeting, chirping, singing, calling. They haven’t seen so much food in months.

The streets run clear with the water of melted snow banks.

There is trash everywhere.

The roads and walkways bleed dust and stone from the deep gashes winter left behind.

It might snow this weekend.

But today it is warm. Today that taste of change is in the air – the deep breath of spring before the lazy days of summer.

I saw someone grilling outside.

As if anything is possible.

The wet spot on my patio is the last vestige of a man-size snow pile. It is gone now, leaving only happy moss behind.

The world wakes up.  Finding new life and energy. As if anything is possible.

It is spring.

The Terminator franchise does some really interesting things with time.

Seriously.

Every storyline centers around time travel. Around events being changed, or perhaps not changed, as a result of time travel.

(The fourth movie is an exception to this, but I think we can all agree that movie was just terrible.)

I’m particularly intrigued by the Terminator movies as an argument for – or perhaps against – predestination.

At its heart, the struggle against the robot uprising and ensuing apocalypse is really an exploration of the questions can the future be changed? Is our fate already written?

On it’s face, the Terminator seems to argue against predestination.

In the eponymous 1984 movie Kyle Reese famously – yeah, that’s what I’m going with here – argues, “the future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.”

That phrase is repeated in various incarnations by human heroes throughout the franchise. It gives them the strength and determination to keep fighting.

There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

But while our characters want to believe in their free will, while they need to believe in their ability to effect change, the actual events of the story don’t necessarily support that view.

The very words that Kyle says were told to him by John Connor – the man who sent Kyle back in time. The man who only exists because Kyle fathered him in the past.

Kyle Reese, who so strongly believes there is no fate, was apparently fated to travel back in time to father the son who would later send him back in time.

And if that wasn’t enough, there is every indication that Skynet, our nefarious robot consciousness, can also trace it’s origins to 1984.

Terminator 2 argues that Skynet exists in the future only because the technology was reverse-engineered from the robot which it sent to the past.

Skynet is its own grandpa.

If the Terminator hadn’t gone back in time, if Kyle Reese hadn’t gone back in time, neither Skynet nor John Connor would ever exist.

Yet our characters cling to the notion that there is no fate.

Of course, this sort of temporal paradox isn’t enough to resign ourselves to predestination. A paradox is a paradox…it doesn’t mean that everything is meant to be.

And yet, the most important point in human history seems to be fixed.

Judgement Day, as it’s called. When the machines rise up against man and the world as we know it is destroyed.

There is no fate but what we make for ourselves, the humans say.

Judgment Day is inevitable, reply the machines.

The date may change. The details may change. But the end always comes. Fight against it as they will, it certainly seems our heroes are helpless. It certainly seems as though, indeed, Judgement Day is inevitable.

And if that fate is sealed, the details hardly matter. Perhaps we have a sort of nominal free-will; perhaps we can make a choice, but not over anything that matters.

And yet, despite this seemingly inevitable impending doom, despite the fact that evidence seems to point to significant events being preordained, the humans keep soldiering on. Keep fighting the good fight, desperate to change the outcome and convinced that there is no fate.

And perhaps there is cause for this hope. After all, while humanity fights to alter the timeline, Skynet is altering the timeline as well. Judgement Day may not be inevitable, but rather just the most probable outcome in this temporal tug-of-war. Perhaps the future can be whatever humanity can make of it.

Or, perhaps, it is fate. Perhaps whatever we do – Judgement Day is inevitable.

Among the many important life lessons my father taught me was to never piss off the stage hands – or really anyone on crew. Lights. Sound. You don’t want to mess with any of that.

This is common advice in the theater, where over-privileged actors have a tendency to incite the ire of the people who actually get stuff done.

That is, some actors make the mistake of thinking the show is all about them. Confident of their right to do whatever they want, they abuse those around them – most notably those at the bottom of the totem poll. The stage hands.

My father had a whole host of stories about actors who were upstaged by slighted stage crew.

My favorite was about an actor playing Martin Luther. When his character received an edict from the Pope condemning his actions, he was supposed to defiantly post the (actually blank) scroll to his church’s door. This all went as planned until, stirred by the actor’s continual mistreatment of the crew…there began to be problems with his props.

One night, as he was about to reveal the typically blank scroll to the audience, the actor was surprised to find himself instead confronted by a simple message:

“F*** you. – The Pope.”

Well, it was written somewhat more colorfully than I’ve put it here.

The actor was able to recover with some dignity – tearing the scroll to shreds rather than revealing it to the audience. But let that be a lesson to you: Never mess with the stage hands.

Of course, the power of vindictiveness ought not to be the thing that keeps you in check.

It is true that you shouldn’t mess with the stage hands because they can mess with you better, but the real lesson was deeper than that.

Actors get all the credit. They get the fame and the glory. But the crew – they’re the ones who deserve the real respect.

They don’t get rich and they don’t get famous, but they get everything done.

No matter who you think you are, you shouldn’t disrespect that.

So, there’s this thought experiment that drives me crazy.

There’s a train plummeting towards certain doom. Luckily, there’s a track switch you can throw to save the seemingly ill-fated passengers. But just as you’re thinking about doing that, you realize – there is a sole person tied-up, unable to move, on the track you’d be switching the train to.

Saving the lives of dozens on the train means taking the life of the one on the tracks.

The purpose of this thought experiment, I suppose, is to make you think about that age-old question: do the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few? Is taking one life justified if it means saving more?

Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I can never get that far in this thought experiment. When challenged with this question all I can think is:

Seriously, have you ever thrown a railroad switch?

I mean, it is hard, man.

To be fair, my experience with trains comes mostly from my childhood – when I spent a great deal of time on a historic 1880s farm – complete with horse-drawn train – thanks to my father’s enthusiasm for trains, history, and building.

I spent a lot of time with trains.

And I’ve switched a lot of track in my day.

Granted, I imagine I’d be somewhat better at it now than as a small child, but let’s be honest – switching tracks is hard work. It takes significant brute force to muscle through the intense, metal-on-rusty-metal action. The gears are always a little worn, a little jammed, a little worse for wear.

There’s no magic switch that just – boom – switches tracks.

You know, the whole drama that led to Casey Jones‘ death was essentially a track-switching problem. It’s a non-trivial issue.

And perhaps philosophy just isn’t a field to be burdened by practicalities. Perhaps the larger thought experiment is more important than the actual details of the problem.

And yet, for a field that struggles to reflect views beyond those of white men, this thought experiment strikes me as indicative of the problem –

The whole question assumes that I have a position of power.

What would I do if I saw a doomed train full of people and a safe track with one lone soul?

Hell, man, it hardly matters – if I can’t muscle the rail switch, I can’t do anything at all.

A friend on mine passed away on Monday, after being diagnosed with a brain tumor. I’d only just learned about the diagnosis last Friday, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.

I knew Linda Borodkin through my work with The Welcome Project. I recently learned that she joined the board around the same time I started volunteering, but it always seemed to me that she’d been on the board forever.

She had a remarkable passion for non-profits and for non-profit leadership. But most of all, she saw each person’s capacity for leadership. She believed in the value each person brought to the work through their ideas, skills, and resources.

After my first year of chairing YUM – The Welcome Project’s annual fundraiser – Linda gave me the biggest, most beautiful bouquet of flowers I have ever seen. They lasted for weeks.

I hadn’t thought I was into that kind of thing, but – the earnestness and genuineness with which she felt compelled to say ‘thank you’ was a remarkable experience for me.

And Linda was big into thank yous. As a fellow member of The Welcome Project’s fundraising committee, Linda personally called almost every donor to thank them for their support.

She said it was wonderfully fulfilling to hear their stories – to learn why they supported The Welcome Project, and to hear them talk about what compelled them to this work.

But most of all, I think, she liked to see the students learn and grow, just as she liked to see the organization learn and grow.

And throughout it all, she was there helping, building, learning, thanking.

So here’s to you, Linda – thank you for everything.

I just got back from a great weekend of gaming at Dreamation, and it got me thinking – just what is it that makes a game fun?

I find this question particularly relevant because, while educational games are on the rise, games designed with the primary intention of transmitting information are notoriously terrible. “Gamification” may be all the rage, but what’s the point of an educational game if the resulting game is neither educational nor enjoyable?

Of course, my biggest qualm with “gamification” is the implied disparagement – wouldn’t it be great if we could use games for something valuable? – the concept seems to say.

But, in fact, games have inherent value. Many games are educational. They can teach skills, values, knowledge. They can ask important questions and help us collectively explore possible answers.

I mean, sure, there are plenty of poorly designed, not particularly valuable games out there – but those games are the exception, not the norm.

But even finding inherent value in games, it can still be fun to ask, how can I build a game that explores a given issue? How can people learn about a given topic from a game?

The two are not mutually exclusive.

I think the challenge of educational games is that they tend to be too focused on the education and too weary of the game. A textbook turned into a game is still inherently a textbook. The gamification may make it less dry…but it’s not really a game.

But a game tackling a topic – now that can be fun.

In one game this weekend, I learned about the lives of hobos in the early 20th century. It wasn’t the primary purpose of the game to teach me, but it was a natural piece of the game’s existence.

In most of the games I played, we explored questions of power and privilege, of gender norms and social justice, of humanity and inhumanity.

These weren’t educational topics dressed up as games, but rather wholly quintessential games placed in a time and context which gave them life, form, and meaning.

There are many types of games and many types of fun, but when it comes to so-called educational games, I guess –

A fun game is one that asks you questions, not one which gives you answers.

Today, I had the pleasure of attending a talk by James Stavridis, Dean of Tufts University’s Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy. Previously, Dean Stavridis, a retired Admiral in the U.S. Navy, served as the Supreme Allied Commander of NATO.

So he’s kind of a big deal.

Dean Stavridis discussed a range of issues, including his book, The Accidental Admiral. As the name implies, the book traces his unexpected life journey.

So much of our lives are accidental, Stavridis mused as he described his rise to “Supreme Allied Commander of NATO” – a title which doesn’t sound like a role a real person would have.

Someone asked him how – before he found himself in a position of such power – he dealt with that sense of individual effort being futile in the face of such great challenges. How did he answer the question, what can I do when I’m just one person?

Stavridis responded with a Russian proverb – it’s better to light a candle than to curse the light.

One person can make a difference, he argued. But for one person to make a difference it takes collaboration. We each have the power to generate change, but to do so effectively, to do so in a good way, we need to work together.