Raising success

Part of the American narrative is the story of the self-made person. Work hard, we believe, and success will follow. Some chosen few are natural geniuses and they will rise to the top effortlessly in our level, meritocratic playing field.

We know the truth is not that simple. Accidents of birth and circumstance play a large role in how a life unfolds. It is these accidental circumstances that Malcom Gladwell explores in his book Outliers: The Story of Success. His thesis is that our family, cultural, and social environments provide ever-shifting opportunities for success in a given field. These, of course, are post hoc patterns that he discerns, but his case is compelling:

  • most of the best Canadian hockey players are born in early months of the year, because they are the oldest children in the yearly selection class with a Jan. 1 cutoff;

  • many Silicon Valley titans were born in the mid-1950s, young enough to be part of the computer revolution but not old enough to miss it;

  • the perfect birth date for becoming a successful New York Jewish lawyer is 1930, because one would have belonged to a demographic trough that meant smaller class sizes, one would have had enough time excluded from the prestigious law firms to hone legal skills and grow a professional reputation in a sub-field that would become important in the 1970s, and one would have been able to observe, growing up, one’s immigrant family do meaningful work where assertiveness and extra effort were rewarded

…and so on. Natural talent and hard work matter, of course, but what is also needed are the right sets of opportunities to appear and the initiative or luck to be able to seize them.

The book would make an interesting a child-rearing manual of sorts. Not that it is particularly prescriptive, but Gladwell does identify some common traits of success: putting in enough time to become an expert in something (10,000 hours seems to be the pattern across various fields); cultivating social as well as analytic intelligence; exemplifying for one’s children meaningful work, where the reward increases in relation to the effort put forth; noting how much of the education discrepancy among social classes is due to the availability of learning opportunities in the vacation months.

I recommend this easy but thought-provoking read.

Endora!

I remember watching Bewitched as a kid. I was really into things magical and mind-bending, and I liked seeing the Stephens’ mishaps be caused and solved by a little pinch of magic. Last night, I started watching the series from episode one on Hulu. This was a much awaited treat, as I never had seen the original black-and-white seasons. (It was also interesting thinking about what the transition to color TV must have been like, now that we’re transitioning from analog to digital broadcast.)

The premise of the show, as you may recall, is that Samantha, a witch, agrees to mortal newlywed Darrin’s request that she stop using her magical powers. She does, for the most part, though of course she slips here or there, or has to user her powers to fix the trouble caused by her supernatural relatives. Her goal is to lead “the normal life of a normal housewife,” doing all the chores manually that she could do magically. Indeed, fitting in and being “normal” is the central idea of the show, lest the neighbors, colleagues, or other mortals find out about Samantha’s magical lineage. And all for what? So that Darrin can maintain the dominant power position in the marriage.

Goodness gracious, the show is all about conformity! It’s not just submissive gender conformity in the Leave it to Beaver sense, though there’s plenty of that: women on the show are either witches, housewives, secretaries, or vixens. It’s conformity as a plot device: Sam actually aspires to be a perfect housewife and she strives to act like a mortal so as to not aggravate her husband!

Sam enters into this agreement with Darrin of her own free will, and it is not my place to second-guess private marital arrangements. I do, however, wonder what was going on in the writers’ 1960s minds. As Wikipedia notes, “some storylines take a backdoor approach to such topics as racism”—and indeed, in early episodes one finds statements that witches are people too, that what counts is on the inside, and that people are uncomfortable with “mixed marriages.” How quaint it seems now that these messages of self-worth were presented in the context of a show based on self-denial!

A gay-lib reading is even more jaw-dropping. Sam is a closet case who desperately wants to hide who she is and be the “normal” that is expected of her, yet she can’t help tapping her fabulous powers to right things. In all of this, there is one voice of reason and self-respect warning Sam that she won’t be happy if she denies her nature and urging her to embrace her birthright. Who is this? It is Endora, the meddling mother-in-law who is often the cause of aggravation, the anatagonist who we are set up to hope is proven wrong!

How delightful to look back with older eyes on childhood fixtures and better understand their complexities! Who would have guessed that the villain in this show would turn out to be the character that most intrigues me now? Who would have guessed that my judgement about the compromises in this fictional marriage is checked by an appreciation of the give-give that makes relationships work?

Facebook

Over the winter holidays, I finally gave in and signed up for Facebook. I’d been resisting, since I figured I didn’t need another time suck in my life. But then I got to thinking about all my dear Boston friends that I hardly keep in touch with anymore, and how when you re-initiate contact you’re catching people up with the same basics every time before you get to the interesting parts (“I’m coming over!”) and so…I took the plunge.

My first impression: the interface was really bad! There’s no help that I could find, and no one bothers to define what the difference is between a profile and a “wall,” nor why your home page is not your own wall. There are things called “applications” that come with dire disclaimers that they access your personal data. The whole wall metaphor itself is weird—it makes me feel like I’m doing graffiti when I write my friends. And the metaphor breaks down when a one-on-one public conversation is called, not a tête-à-tête, but rather a “wall-to-wall.” Huh?

About those friends. It is fascinating and addictive to dig through your past and find people you knew once, long ago, and see how they’re doing now. Some look just like they did, many look older; some are doing what you would have guessed, some are off the beaten path. My personal chuckle is that I got back in touch with my best friend from the fifth grade, whom I hadn’t been in touch with since the fifth grade. Fun!

But who is a friend? People seem to be wrestling with this more lately, as talk of un-friending becomes more prevalent. People I can’t place at all? Not my friends. People I was friends with and we lost touch? Definitely friends. People I knew but wasn’t friends with and still appear to have nothing in common with? That’s the hard one. In the interest of fostering community, building bridges, and getting myself out of my comfort zone, I tend to err on the side of accepting these folks as friends. (Incidentally, these conundra get far worse on LinkedIn, where the assumption is that you know people profesionally. How do you respond to those with whom you’ve had little, if any, work interaction? How professional can you keep your network there when other people are looser in their standards?)

I like how the various social networks seek to appeal to users by emphasizing their interoperability with social apps (though not with direct competitors: I don’t see LinkedIn or MySpace on Facebook). I’ve set up Facebook to automatically pick up my Google Reader shared items and my Picasa pictures—and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make me feel more responsible for putting up good content more regularly. I’ve also tried to make Facebook pick up my blog entries, but it seems to suck the content in and manage comments locally, whereas I’d like there to be a link to my blog entry instead.

After my initial infatuation, I am now falling into the pattern where I’ll check Facebook roughly daily. The home page, which is supposed to have a feed of all my friends’ activities, remains confusing: things are not quite in chronological order, and there are more entries than can be easily navigated. Luckily, by setting up automatic emails and an RSS feed, I can more easily scan my network. As for putting out information about myself, Facebook revives my old internal debate as to where to draw the lines between public and private lives. In the end, I post enough to convey a taste of what my life is like, but not enough so I feel like I’m on a talk show airing my dirty laundry.

On that note, now that I’ve reached the end of this blog entry, excuse me while I go update my status.