Lotto Dreams

 

The Powerball lottery game recently reached a jackpot close to $2 billion. Those jackpots spur people who don’t normally buy lotto tickets to shell out for a big win, and I am guilty of being one of those people.

Compared to some of my family and friends, my investment in lotto tickets is pretty low. With that weak justification, I forgive myself for this vice. I am not sure what else $2 will buy you today, and sometimes a hopeless dream can get you through the day.

The odds of winning the lottery are massively stacked against us. Still, I have a go-to lotto buy that I repeat to the tired clerks at my local drug store:

“Two Powerball, two Mega Millions, please.”

They have raised the price on some lottery games recently, so this minor vice is now more expensive. I buy two kinds of lottery tickets because it increases my chances of winning by a minuscule amount and I can pat myself on the back with the illusion of being a smart tactician, when I am really a hopeless dreamer like everybody else.

The news cycle surges around big lotto jackpots have been going on for as long as I can remember. Lotto was ubiquitous growing up in the New York City area in the 1980s, and my parents played it semi-regularly. I remember buying a lotto ticket soon after I turned 18 as a rite of passage, similar to registering to vote or getting your draft card.

When I moved to Georgia in the early 1990s, there was a statewide referendum on the ballot over the question of whether there would be a lottery. I couldn’t believe the lottery didn’t exist in Georgia. What was wrong with these people that they didn’t have lotto? It was a mark of civilization in my mind.

It was actually a close vote; the lottery ballot initiative passed, but barely. Churches and religious organizations had organized against the lottery, and people were divided over the issue.

In retrospect, the church groups and religious activists who oppose lotto raise good points: Lotto preys upon the poor; it exacerbates gambling problems and gets the bulk of its cash from those who can least afford to give it. It promotes a ‘get rich quick’ ethos and encourages the illusion of wealth without work.

My daughters will ask me to promise them things if I win a big jackpot. I have promised them a home where they can each have their own bedroom, a trip to Paris and other travel adventures, and adopting a dog to live in our new house. I won’t make a big announcement, but if you see me wearing a cowboy hat and a fur coat like Dusty Rhodes, I’ve won.

I would spend my days writing and playing music, traveling, and sitting on a lawn to feel my own grass under my feet. I would have time to read all the books I want, see all the movies my friends talk about, take my friends to lunch, and plan my next trip with my daughters.

Lotto is not a viable path to changing our lives, but it’s a chance to dream aloud with the ones we love, and in that it serves a purpose.

Wish me luck.

Lessons of strength from September 11

 

For New Yorkers who were out of town on September 11, 2001, the horrors of that day were accompanied by a feeling of horrific impotence. I was at a conference for work in California, and I was awake in time to watch the North Tower collapse on live television. I could do little but make phone calls to make sure some of my family who lived and worked in lower Manhattan were still alive (they were).

There is no way to fathom the extent of the loss the world suffered that day; our city and country (and world) have never been the same. But there are positive lessons we can take from that day that give us strength in the face of lingering darkness:

New York City will be here forever, and our Gotham can survive anything. In my lifetime alone, New York City has survived bankruptcy, riots, the worst-ever terrorist attack on U.S. soil, an East Coast blackout, and a deadly global pandemic. “Tough” doesn’t begin to describe New York. New Yorkers are both tormented and inspired by our city every day, but we love it and will defend it to the death.

Americans will rise to the occasion, no matter how dire or dangerous the mission. The heroism of the passengers of Flight 93 and the sacrifices of the first responders and others who helped people to safety during the attacks is an enduring legacy that gives us hope in dark times. The blood of revolutionaries and pioneers still courses through our veins. At times of our worst traumas come opportunities for greater good, and the mettle America showed in the wake of the attacks is alive and well.

Everyone has a role to play, and life is too important to sit on the sidelines. The heroes of the September 11 attacks include not only the first responders and the Flight 93 passengers, but the train and ferry operators who got people to safety, doctors and nurses who tended to the wounded, and even everyday people who did whatever they could. Those kinds of opportunities to be a part of making our city, country and world better are still present. Don’t be a spectator.

Take a moment to remember those that we have lost. Remember, too, the resilience and character of our city and country—qualities that carried us through and continue to endure.

Embracing the Cringe

Children who call their parents "cringe" today will thank them later.

My daughters often seek to remind me that I am “cringe.” I may get the occasional compliments for buying the right kind of veggie nuggets or for doing a better-than-expected job with dinner nachos, but unless I win the lottery and can afford Taylor Swift tickets, I’m officially “cringe” for the foreseeable future.

But one thing I have learned about being a good parent, or at least a good father, is to embrace the cringe.

Just as Machiavelli said it is better as a ruler to be feared (respected), than loved, so as a parent it is better to be cringe than cool.

“Cool Dads” are cool only in their own minds; their children exploit their parents’ insecurities while quietly resenting the acquiescing of authority. Children need parents that exhibit mental and emotional strength: calm in their authority and stoic in the face of conflict.

I am older than the average Dad in my children’s grade school, actually older than most of the teachers and administrators there also. I went to a school Halloween party dressed as Groucho Marx and I was crestfallen that no one—not even any of the other parents—knew who Groucho Marx was (I vow to make my children watch Marx Brothers films when they are a bit older). But this awkward incongruity is a secret source of strength.

When you are young, anyone from previous generations just looks “older” or “old.” If you were born in a year that starts with the numbers ‘1’ and ‘9,’ you will never qualify as young in the eyes of my children; sorry. But not to fear, being older has its place, and maturity is a quality that is much-needed in the lives of youth.

Because we are not of these times and do not bend to these times, we are a bulwark against uncertainty. My children were born with many good privileges, but they are growing up in a time of great volatility and fear, and children need their parents to be beacons of soundness amidst chaos. I can be that beacon. I can note that the chaos of our times has been here before and our world has seen much worse.

One of the benefits of parenthood is that your place in the order of this universe is set. You are the parent. By the sheer massive need of responsibility, you know your role. You have to provide, you have to protect, you have to pass on knowledge.

While it won’t be fashionable to acknowledge this for several decades, children are grateful for parents that are uncool and provide stability and wisdom to growing minds. They will benefit from getting the right answer and the right amount of discipline, even if they stay too cool to say, ‘thank you.’

I have not always been the stoic my children have needed. I can be quick to anger when they do something they know better not to do, or show outrageous insolence in vital times. I remind them that I love them often but I do not pretend to be their buddy or their friend. I’m their father and while I listen to respectful arguments, my word is final. They begrudgingly obey, and they’ll thank me later.