Allen Johnson's Blog

On January 18 the New England Patriots routed the Indianapolis Colts in the 2015 AFC championship game. Then the news broke that 11 of the 12 Patriots’ footballs were underinflated to ensure a better grip—a clear violation of NFL rules.

Of course, this is not the first time that a sport has been tainted by cheaters. You know the names: Lance Armstrong (cycling), Alex Rodriguez (baseball), Ben Johnson (track), Nancy Kerrigan (skating)—to name a few.

And we certainly know that cheating has no class boundaries. There are the womanizers: John F. Kennedy, Bill Clinton, Martin Luther King. There are the giant corporation tax cheats: News Corp, Boeing, Pfizer. And, of course, there are our high school and university student cheaters. (In a November 1999 cover story, U.S. News and World Report noted that “80 percent of ‘high-achieving’ high students admit to cheating, 75 percent of college students admitted cheating, and almost 85% of college students said cheating was necessary to get ahead.”)

Whether the offense is deflating a football, stepping out on a wife, or pilfering the answer to a tough exam question from an erudite neighbor, cheating is nearly a national pastime.

Why?

Cheating is what happens when desire—for survival, love, freedom, power, and fun—usurp one’s mission. We all have desires; it is a good part of being human. But being human is both carnal and spiritual. The carnal side of us is just trying to get enough food, sex, freedom, power, and fun to enjoy life. Sometimes we obsess about one of those desires: teens obsess about freedom, despots obsess about power, and thrill seekers obsess about fun. Frequently a cocktail of desires are simultaneously activated. We may find that the deflated footballs had to do with the freedom to break the rules, the fun of winning, but mostly the power of money, influence, and recognition.

Our spiritual side is different. It is not driven by desire, but my mission. Try this. Sit quietly in a darkened room for ten minutes (it doesn’t take long) and ask yourself, “What is my personal mission?” Then write like crazy for five minutes. I predict you will compose something like this:

“My personal mission is to be loving, honest, and transparent. I live a life of absolute integrity. I care deeply about others. People can count on me to do the right thing.”

Beautiful, isn’t it? We can’t argue with it. Indeed, that is the kind of person we would all like to be. But is it possible to live such a virtuous life?

It is for some. When India was seeking its independence from the United Kingdom, Mahatma Gandhi made a two-hour presentation to England’s parliament—all without a single note. At the end of his impassioned speech, all members of the chamber gave the Indian leader an effusive standing ovation. A journalist could not reach Gandhi, but he could reach his secretary.

“Sir, tell me, how is it possible that Gandhi can speak for so long and with so much passion without the benefit of a single note.”

“It is simple,” Gandhi’s secretary said. “What Gandhi feels, things, says, and does are all one. He believes that ‘man cannot do right in one department of life whilst he is occupied in doing wrong in any other department. Life is one indivisible whole.’ And that is why he does not need notes—all is congruent.”

What an incredible mission—a beautiful definition of integrity really—and one that lends understanding of humankind’s penchant for wrong doing.

I believe that the men and women that I mentioned at the opening of this essay were able—through some mental and spiritual gymnastics—to separate their desires from their mission. Marriage vows were broken. Contracts were severed. And eleven footballs were deflated because someone’s personal mission—if he ever owned it—was shutdown and shutout.

Now, before anyone accuses me of sanctimonious piety, let me quickly say that I am no Gandhi—I am too often seduced by my carnal desires—but I am capable of self-examination. I can sit alone in a darkened room and ask myself, “What is my mission. And given my mission, what is the right thing to do in this situation?” When I abide by the voice of wisdom that resonates in my head, I discover that I am invariably a better man—at least for that brief moment in time.

Do I live a life of integrity? Let’s just say that I make a lot of scrambling trips to that darkened room and leave it at that.

For additional blogs visit www.booksbyallen.blogspot.com.

WARNING: This essay is not about your children or grandchildren. (I’m sure they are all adorable with their rosy cheeks and perfect manners.) This is about someone else’s children—youngsters who belong to your neighbor or your congressional representative or the toothless bag lady on First Street. So should you read this through and find yourself feeling offended and ready to reshuffle my face, take a deep breath and say to yourself, “This is not about my children.”

Our nation has a surfeit of sacred cows—religion, democracy, and especially children—and the list is getting longer with every generation. These hallowed domains are outside the boundaries of scrutiny, regardless of how judiciously our concerns are framed, so to quote Betty Davis, “Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”

Several years ago I taught a full load of communication courses at Washington State University, Tri-Cities. At Christmas my wife and I decided to invite 50 of my students to our home for a holiday celebration. We decorated the house, baked the cookies, made the punch, and carefully tailored the entertainment for the evening.

When the night of the party arrived, I was giddy with excitement. “This is going to be fun,” I chirped.

We pressed our pants, donned our Christmas sweaters, and waited with childlike anticipation. And waited…and waited. WE GAVE A PARTY AND NOBODY CAME. Not a soul. Nor was there a single regret spoken, telephoned, or emailed. We turned off the lights, sat in the dark, and breathed a long sorrowful sigh. How much did it hurt? You remember the pain of being turned down for a date in high school? Multiply that by 50.

After the Christmas party that never happened, I started to notice evidence of a curious cultural change. I remember the teenage girl whose telephone answering message bleated, “Leave your message. Maybe I’ll call you back, but only if it’s important to me.” Then there was the youngster who posted on Facebook, “Not everyone can be a princess; someone has to applaud when I walk by,” a sentiment that received 200 “likes” in 24-hours. Then I noticed the young professional athletes—heroes to our kids—who strut like spring chickens and pound their chests with every slam dunk or crushing tackle.

I’m forced to ask myself: What is the source of this spike in narcissism and, equally disturbing, the free fall in empathy? I contend it dates back to the educators and pop psychologists of the 1960’s and 70’s, and on to this day, who preached that a child’s self-esteem was sacrosanct. Parents were counseled to inculcate their children with the mantra that they were special and that they could do whatever they wanted. Because children were then, as they are now, our most fervently treasured sacred cows, we embraced that doctrine like the frenetic fans of American Idol.

Self-esteem is one thing, but we have gone too far. For example, out of the fear of bruising a child’s ego, we have redefined the meaning of excellence. According to the UCLA Higher Education Research Institute, only 18 percent of American high school students earned an “A” average in 1968; by 2004 that percentage had skyrocketed to 48 percent. Meanwhile, SAT scores steadily decreased.

Cross cultural studies offer a good deal of insight into the questionable value of high self-esteem. For example, on the average Asians score lower than Americans on self-report instruments measuring self-esteem and self-confidence. But how do Asians and Americans respond to academic challenges? It seems counterintuitive, but Asians buckle down until they get it right, while Americans tend to give up and select a task that is not so demanding. Jean Twenge, professor of psychology at San Diego State University and the author of Generation Me, put it this way: “True self-confidence comes from honing your talents, not from being told you’re great just because you exist.”

So here is my point (fawning mothers and fathers may want to stop reading at this point). Stop telling your children and grandchildren they are special and that they can do whatever they want. Instead, simply say, “Little darling, you are special, but, by the way, you are no more or no less special than any other person on earth. If you are going to make a difference in the world—or just a difference among the people you love—there is only one thing that will make that happen: Self-discipline. Now get on with it.”

Allen Johnson is a doctor of psychology, community advocate, keynote speaker, and jazz musician. He is also a popular author—his most recent publication entitled The Awakening: A Novel of Intrigue, Seduction, and Redemption. Johnson will be a featured speaker at the Mid-Columbia LitFest in Richland, WA on March 10.

Do I talk too much?

That question has plagued me throughout my adult life because, quite honestly, I am often accused of being annoyingly loquacious. But in my defense, if I am overly chatty, it is for good reason: I have a lot of tantalizing ideas ricocheting in my head.

For my money it all comes down to a question of quality. Imagine a person, let’s call him Wilbur, who has only one good idea in a hundred. With ninety-nine fatuous notions in his arsenal, Wilbur may choose to be silent—that is if he has any semblance of social intelligence. Frankly, he just doesn’t have much to add to the conversation. As a result, we might label poor Wilbur as witless or inarticulate or impassive.

On the other hand, Wilbur may choose to talk about his one good idea, but talk about it incessantly. In that case, our hapless friend quickly becomes monotonous and boring—a “Johnny one note.”

But I’m not Wilbur. At the risk of appearing smug, I have a slight edge over my ponderous fictional friend. On a good day, a light half dozen of my ideas have the potential of becoming noteworthy. What transforms that inchoate commotion into something coherent is time and discipline.

So, what can I tell you? I invariably have a lot to say—or could have a lot to say, if only my audience would give me a chance, which leads us again to the question of social intelligence. In the winter of my life I have discovered that not every idea—even a thoughtful treatise—is appropriate or even prudent to share. In a phrase, I have learned to “know my audience.” That simple awareness has burgeoned into a surfeit of social rules. For example:

• Never talk about the domino effect among a gang of Hell’s Angels whose Harley Hogs are propped side by side in a perfect row outside a bar called “The Devil’s Tavern.”
• Never ever mention to your wife—no matter how dignified and carefully phrased—the benefits of a rigorous daily exercise regimen.
• Never invite a teenager to ponder the joy of unplugging his or her smartphone for a day and actually have a conversation with a real human being with a face.
• Never ask an engineer to consider the abstract poetry of a solution.
• Never ask a poet to exalt the lift, thrust, and stability of a butterfly.
• Never suggest to a covey of middle-aged female English majors that Jane Austen is soporific or, at best, overrated.
• Never extol the virtues of negotiation and compromise to members of the United States Congress; they are unfamiliar with the terms.
• Never propose taking your in-laws to a strip bar—even a classy one with little umbrellas in the cocktails.
• Never talk politics with anyone who thinks that “Fox News” is real journalism.
• Never posit to Republicans that Warren Buffet had it right when he declared that his secretary’s tax rate should not be higher than his own.
• And, for heaven’s sake, never suggest to a credulous yet well-intentioned true believer that Jesus was elevated to the status of God at the First Council of Nicaea, 325 years after the Nazarene’s death.

No, some ideas are better left languishing in the dark recesses of our minds.

So, when it comes down to it, both Wilbur and I are not so different. We are both relatively taciturn, but for different reasons. Wilbur has nothing to say. And although I have a lot to say, my tirades are censored by prudence. In other words, Wilbur is silent for lack of inspiration; I am silent for lack of toleration.

Yes, silence may be the best policy—just not today.

Today is my wedding anniversary. Nita and I have been married for 46 years. How can I describe those years? At the beginning—say the first ten years—we felt that we needed to do everything together. Nita through herself into realms that were foreign to her, just to please me. She even tried to water ski—one of my passions—despite her fear of the water and her inability to swim more than three strokes. If one of us needed to pick up something at the grocery store, the other had to tag along. If one of us wanted to take a nap, it was no good unless the other cuddled in for a siesta as well.

Little by little that changed. We slowly came to realize that we were two unique individuals. Nita was not capable of satisfying my passions for music, theatre, and mountain climbing. I would have to find other friends who would fill that void. Likewise she was not going to find a great partner in me for her interests in birding, gardening, or hosting.

Some might call that divergence sad. I don’t see it that way. I think it was healthy for us to recognize that the other could not satisfy every need. In fact, I believe that if I had demanded Nita’s participation in all things, our relationship would have been stripped of its longevity and affection. We both needed our individual interests to flourish on their own.

Today, there are very few passions that Nita and I have in common. What we do have in common is a level of comfort and a high appreciation for the talents and proclivities of the other.

There is something else that I have noticed in later years. We rarely argue. It is as though both of us have recognized that it is not essential to be right—and that our spouse has the absolute right to believe as he or she likes. For example, a couple of days ago I asked Nita this questions: “On a scale of 1 to 10, how assured are you of an afterlife?” She said she was a “10,” that there was no doubt. I’m a “1” on that question, but it doesn’t seem to matter—not to her and not to me. The understanding is simply a point of information, not a point of contention.

I’m a lucky man to have found a woman with so much compassion and understanding. I select well. I’d like to think we both selected well.

A Christmas Concert
A musician friend of mine, Debi Eng, asked me to be the narrator/street musician/comic relief for her middle school and high school Christmas choral concert. The event was held at the Kennewick Washington High School auditorium. We had two performances, and they were both enthusiastically received. The kids performed beautifully. There were 130 students on stage for the entire two-hour show. Amazingly, they were quiet and focused throughout (although I did see one girl braid her hair at one point when her choir was not singing—ugh).

At the end of the show, I told the audience that I wanted to share two photos from my family album.

The first image was a picture of me standing in front of our trail. I was in my bathing suit and as skinny as a rail.

“This was me in 1955. I was nine years old. For you who are doing the math, I’m now 68. The location was the North Richland Trailer Court. Our home was a 24-foot trailer. The bathroom was across the street in the washroom, which made for frigid dashes in the middle of winter nights.

Look at those knobby knees. I look like I was sired by storks.”

At that point someone whistled, so I strutted around on stage and said, “Yep, that mighty physique has not changed much over the years.”

The second photo I shared with the audience was taken on Christmas morning.

“This is the inside of our trailer. What you see was the full width of our home. I’m not sure, but I think the little Christmas tree on the right was a tumbleweed with tinsel. The couch behind me opened into a bed, where my brother and I slept.” I drew an imaginary line. “You cannot cross this line. This line is no-man’s land. You cross this line and I’ll turn you into a grilled ham sandwich.

“I was wearing the full extent of my Christmas—my winter jacket and my blue jeans—which I thought was pretty extravagant. Note that the jeans were turned up eight inches at the cuffs to account for growth. I think I probably blew out my knees before I grew out of those jeans.

“Here’s my point: Look at that smile. I could not have been happier. I had love and that was all I needed to sprout into the magnificent specimen you see before you today.”

At the point the 130 choir members erupted into spontaneous applause, hoots, and whistles, which drowned out the already enthusiastic response from the audience. The kids could not imagine what that expression of affection meant to me—to be recognized, to be loved, to be drawn out of the shadows of invisibility, where old men too often reside. It was the sweetest sound ever. “Oh, cut it out,” I quipped to the kids.

I wrapped it up with, “May your Christmas be a joyful celebration of hope, peace, and thanksgiving—but mostly a celebrations of love.”

That was Debi’s cue to launch into a rousing, gospel-like version of the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

The fight against injustices must be as indefatigable as the pursuit for national character. The effort must extend beyond a lifespan; it must be multigenerational. A quick review of history underscores my point. The end of slavery, the abolishment of child labor, the victories of suffragists and civil rights advocates: These outcomes did not come overnight, but through generations, even centuries of tenacious and deliberate hard work, the next generation building on the small victories of their progenitors.

Many of these social advances are still inchoate. Children are still enslaved in underdeveloped countries, fettered by despotic corporate greed. Women may have earned the right to vote, but their brain power is still underutilized and their efforts underpaid across the landscape of commercial and governmental agencies. And social injustices are still blamed on the victims of poverty rather than on the heavy hand of plutocracy.

How easily we are duped: To allow our brains to be anesthetized by the unctuous diatribe of special interests, all of whom are driven by one overriding motivation, financial gain. Partisan politicians and news entertainers (I will not call them journalists) have opted to keep us sedated and diverted from the real issues.

Do not be deceived. The world is not as tidy as they would have us believe. There is still a panoply of social issues yet to be denounced and challenged. One of the greatest is economic inequity. The Pew Research Center reports that 41 percent of the global wealth is now in the hands of less than 0.7 percent of the population. That means that 99.3 of the earth’s inhabitants must make due with 59% percent of the pie.

I am outraged and frightened by these numbers. If the gap continues to widen—and I see no reason why it should not—I foresee a global revolution. Some believe it is already happening.

I implore all of us to be guided by our historical champions for social justice—the Quaker abolitionists of the 17th and 18th centuries, the suffragists of the 19th and 20th centuries, and all of today’s advocates for social and economic equity. Stand up and allow your voice to be heard. Are you appalled by the rising tide of poverty in our country (15.1% according to the 2010 US Census)? Are you dispirited that women account for only 18.7 percent of the 113th U.S. Congress? Are you mad as hell that the income for the bottom 90 percent of the American population has remained flat since 1980, while the income for the top 10 percent has skyrocketed?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, standup and be heard, not just for today, but through the end of your days, and on to the next brave generation, and the generations beyond. For if we are paralyzed by apathy, if we do not voice our outrage, the world will not become stagnant (stagnancy would be a blessing). If we are ruled by apathy, the world will fall into moral decay and crumble under the horrific burden of greed.

We enter the world as robust learning machines. Our eyes are constantly flitting about, picking up minute cues to make sense of our new, expansive environment. We are exclusively influenced by our surroundings—the sights and sounds of our parents, our siblings, our neighbors, and, later, our childhood friends and teachers. All this is very subjective and has nothing to do with maturity. We are simply collecting data, until, through endless days of inculcation, we adopt the family’s value system.

Most of us believe that our values are virtuous. We believe that our family’s religion is the only true faith. Or—depending on the family—that violence or bigotry or greed is the answer. In other words, because our minds are so malleable, so credulous, we are easily duped. We would like to believe that we chose our life paradigms, but we do not. They are handed to us. We have been indoctrinated—sometimes silently, sometimes vociferously—but always inevitably. If that were not true, women in Texas would be wearing burkas, while their Persian counterparts donned frayed cutoff jeans and cowboy boots.

A value system is based on our experience; as a result they are subjective. Principles, on the other hand, are based on natural laws; they are objective, self-evident, and immutable. When our actions separate ourselves from others, when they create resentment, those actions are probably value-driven. When our actions enrich and diversify relationships, they are likely based on principles.

If we are born into an intellectually and spiritually mature family, our values (how we are raised) and our principles (natural truths) may be one. But that is rare.

Maturity is the process of moving from a system of values to a system of principles, as witnessed in evolved societies and individuals.

Consider how the American society has matured over the last 300 years. We have gained ground in discarding such egregious values as slavery, religious intolerance, child labor, sexist language, and the bashing of gays and lesbians. Of course, greater maturity is needed; there is still a lot of work to be done. And we have only scratched the surface in prison reform, environmental protection, xenophobia, and jingoism.

We quickly recognize principle-centered maturity in individuals. We are attracted to them. They are humble, tolerant, understanding, peace-loving, and equanimous.

But the supremely mature individual has something more. That person has surrendered the last value stronghold: The belief that every man and woman is immortal. That value—held from the dawn of civilization—is derived from sheer existential cowardice. Immature, value-centered humans cannot bare the angst of their mortality.

Regardless, imagine a world disabused of this last vestige of value-centered hubris. We would finally realize that the only life we have is here on earth, and that if we are going to make our terrestrial heaven, we had better roll up our selves and get to work.

Value-centered dogma separates one from another; principles bring people together. It’s self-evident.