I was 15 when a piece of writing by Gary Smith first popped me in the mouth with the force of a straight right. It was an essay in Sports Illustrated about the precocious boxing analyst Max Kellerman, and the brutal murder of his brother, Sam Kellerman. It was about family, antisemitism, grief, ambition, empathy and more, but what stuck with me the most was the depiction of a 1980’s Jewish, New York City household beset by argument in the most wonderful of ways. Max and Sam, two brothers for whom the deepest expression of love was a relentless battle of ideas and logic, on topics ranging from dinner table condiments to the meaning of life itself. Two kids who, through years of practice, had refined the act of debating into nothing less than an art form. The story of the Kellermans made me want to study the world, tease out its truths, and fearlessly articulate them to anyone who would listen.
Around that same time, another piece of writing burrowed its way into my consciousness, where it would wind up living forever: the book Welcome To The Terrordome, by sportswriter Dave Zirin. Set against the backdrop of President Bush, Hurricane Katrina, and the taxpayer-funded refugee camp otherwise known as the New Orleans Superdome, WTTT hurled rock after rock at the glass house of the sports-industrial complex, a thing I didn’t know existed despite the fact that I consumed its programming nearly every day. As an avid sports fan who seemed hellbent on exposing the atrocities, inequities, and indignities of the sporting business at every turn, Zirin taught me an indelible and essential lesson: you can love a thing and be working to change it at the same time. His writing gave me the feeling that intense, searing critique came less often from a place of callousness than it did from a place of care.
The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place with another book, the title of which lives permanently on my left arm: Mountains Beyond Mountains, by Tracy Kidder. It told the story of Dr. Paul Farmer, whose dedication to curing infectious diseases was undergirded by an activist spirit and an insistence on the shared humanity of all people. Kidder wrote plainly about the connection between inequality and health outcomes, both in American cities and around the world. Quoting Farmer, he framed things with the concept of the “great epi divide” (epi being short for epidemiological): one side of humanity with relative wealth, dying in their 70’s and 80’s; and another side of humanity in relative (or abject) poverty, dying 10 to 40 years earlier. Hardly a celebration of status quo white do-goodism, Farmer described “WL’s” (white liberals) as people who “think all the world’s problems can be fixed without any cost to themselves.” He made clear his distaste for American military-backed “nation-building.” The book’s title came from a popular Haitian saying, generally interpreted to be pessimistic. But for me, a white kid from the suburbs of North Carolina, it took on another meaning, no doubt influenced by the indefatigable Farmer: there will always be more to do. Finish climbing one mountain, and another will be waiting.
I bring up these stories because collectively, they showed me something even broader than their individual, highly formative, contents: that words matter, that stories are influential, that ideas are hard to communicate if you don’t take the time to write them down. That sharing your thoughts is generally a good thing, even if the wording isn’t perfect yet (though for writers like Smith and Zirin and Kidder, it usually is).
I also bring up these stories because these days, I am reminded of them more than ever. Recent developments — including an aspiring autocrat, a pandemic, mass unemployment and widespread civil unrest — leave me feeling radicalized for hours or days at a time, until I realize that I am merely being re-radicalized, returning to the same mental and moral space where I once was, when I was younger: more aware of and appalled by injustice, less worried about saying the wrong thing; more assured of the difference between right and wrong, less convinced that a single person, or group of people, can’t change the world.
For the last few years, I’ve let down my Zirin-reading high school self by not leading the charge against the Terrordome while I’ve been playing inside it. Immersed in a startup (and more broadly, business) culture desperately in need of critique, I’ve done less writing than at any previous time in my life. I’ve filled planner margins and my Notes app with thoughts I couldn’t wait to complete… and never come back to them. I’ve gone on text rants to friends that should have been articles (sorry, friends). In a society so dramatically influenced by business, we need more from justice-minded business folk than quick jots in the margin, and occasional tweets and texts — we need fully-formed, unsparingly critical pieces of writing. That’s what this blog is for. Let this piece, and the many subsequent ones that hopefully follow, serve as my commitment to make an over-correction.
My favorite writers from my childhood taught me many things, but one thing most of all: that a single piece of writing from a complete stranger can still live through us a decade after we read it. It would be my greatest joy if anything written here ends up holding even half that much resonance for someone else. I’m doubtful, but I’m not deterred. The only way it’ll ever happen is by putting it out there.
Beyond mountains there are mountains.