Interning at Samsung

I interned at Samsung America the summer after my freshman year.  It was my first experience with a real corporation, so I showed up dressed in college-kid slacks and tie,  excited about having this super important official job.

Now this super important official job was located in Samsung America’s headquarters in La Mirada, off the 5 freeway.  From the freeway, the building looked so tall!  It had to have been at least 10 to 15 stories.  It was with pride that I pulled into the parking lot.

Super excited about this super important official job I was there to do, I walked in and promptly discovered that the facade was literally that, an optical illusion.  The actual building was only two stories high, but achieved the look of verticality from glass panes that were stacked in ten rows atop each other, 3-5 panes per floor.

This was in the early 2000s, when Samsung’s primary products were televisions, printers, video players, CD-R’s, etc., before a single phone.  It was a prestigious company back then, but not at the level of the past 10 years.  And I became very intimately acquainted with all these primary products over my time there, not because I helped market them or do analysis on them, but because I spent most of my time there in the storage closet, which was a repository of old hardware.

My immediate supervisor was a short, bespectacled senior manager whose eyes were blurry behind his frames, and whose own ambivalence about his role in the company caused my summer to be a pretty unproductive, although amusing one.

Let’s just call him Mr. Lee, because I have a 20% chance of being right anyway.  Mr. Lee was well-meaning and honest, but maybe too honest.

After a two-day period of being introduced to people around the office, and being feted with lunches, I asked for work to do, to which he responded that there was nothing to do.

Dumbfounded, I asked what he meant.  I’m here on an internship, I said.

So, he said.  We have people to do everything already, he replied, casting a hand around the office.  You’re here to learn.

And what I discovered the learning was, was life lessons imparted in 3-hour lecture form, in Korean, by this man on an overseas posting.  They usually took place after lunch, in the storage closet.  More on the significance of this storage closet later.

I came into work three days a week.  In the mornings I was unsupervised and free.  One day I walked into another intern’s office (a guy from Harvard), and discovered him watching footage of a Korean pop star’s sex tape scandal with his own immediate supervisor, a man likely in his 30s.  His supervisor excitedly asked him to make a copy for him.

Sometimes I tried to do work.  This consisted of organizing files, and going out to get coffee.  When I asked for real work, I was waved off by everyone in the office, as if instructed by an invisible set of orders on high.

They can do it better than you, Mr. Lee said to me.

His lectures to me usually started right after lunch and sometimes lasted until 3 or 4pm.  And I’m embarrassed to admit, I remember almost nothing about them.  My Korean wasn’t as good as it is now, so even at the time, I understood maybe ~30%.  Add the effect of heavy lunch-induced food comas, so that the most distinct thing I remember is repeatedly dozing off right in front of Mr. Lee’s face and feeling bad about it, but as I blinked my eyes wide open with superhuman effort, him not even pausing, missing a beat, or commenting on my slumber, and instead continuing in his rapid, undulating, quite dramatic exhortations about working hard and being an immigrant and being loyal.

At home, I looked up ways to stay awake through food comas, and came across such tactics as biting your tongue and pinching yourself hard.  Neither worked for me.  I was too tired to summon the effort.

Mr. Lee himself had been sent by HQ on this overseas posting, and while he wasn’t the head of the office, he was a powerful #2.  Not so powerful that he could do anything he wanted, but still – three hour storage closet breaks can only be administered by someone with some clout.

The #1, boss of bosses, was an even older gentleman who was also bespectacled, and who Mr. Lee tried to avoid at all costs using various tactics and techniques.  If, in the parking lot, Mr. Lee spotted the Boss, he would instruct me and other underlings to duck inside the car so that we were not visible.  He himself would recline the seat back all the way so as to avoid detection.  More than once as we made our way up to the executive floor (the second floor of the 2-story building), he instructed me to crouch under the cubicles and commando-style, move towards the back while keeping out of the Boss’ line of sight.  This was way easier for him, because he didn’t have much crouching to do.  Our destination during these crawls was the storage closet, where the Boss never seemed to think to check.

The other staff in the office saw us and knew exactly what we were doing, but never said anything.  After all, Mr. Lee was the #2.

During our lectures, Mr. Lee became more animated and passionate than I ever saw him.  It’s like he could finally be the person he wanted to be, through his words.  By the way, I am not exaggerating about the duration of his lectures.  Directly after lunch, I knew I would be tied up until it was time to leave.

It was almost as if Mr. Lee didn’t want me to work.  A lot of it was defined by the fact that he resented the corporate hierarchy and his place in it, but looking back on it now, I wonder if in some way he was looking out for me.

It’s your job to learn, he had said.  To be a student.  Not to engage in the mindless drudgery that his staff was buried in.  The subtext: not so fast.

And you can’t give 3 hour lectures imparting the entirety of your life experience to someone you don’t like.  Probably the opposite.

I realize in retrospect that in many ways, without explicitly meaning to be, he was quite kind.

What Gary Taught Me

I never thought I was going to write a second post with Gary in it.  But he was killed two weeks ago in a tragic boat accident, aged 64.  When I went to his funeral yesterday, I saw that the latest entry in the guest book was, ‘so young!’  Overwhelmed, I didn’t know what to write after that, so I didn’t.

I also didn’t stay for the celebration of life part, where everyone gets together and talks about the recently deceased.  I just didn’t know what to say.  But now I think I do.

I met Gary during what was probably the roughest time during the last 20 years of his life.  He was going through an acrimonious divorce and everyone who worked with him, the 9 of us, stuffed in that two bedroom apartment off Manhattan Beach Blvd, knew it.

Sometimes his soon-to-be-ex-wife would drive up, shower us with abuses, and drive off.  One time we had a counterintelligence expert show up and do a thorough sweep of the apartment for bugs.  For whatever reason, this ‘expert’ thought I was working with the enemy, and kept turning away from me when I tried to listen.

They tried to sabotage each other, they maligned each other, they were each lawyered up to the gills, and part of my unofficial job description was to sort through his bank statements and files from the last decade in an effort to make the lawyers’ lives easier, because they were high-priced idiots who couldn’t see the outlines of the case.  I just remember the attorneys sitting there in the conference room, clearly exposing their ignorance about basic details, as the paralegals chimed in with what the paid-by-the-hour idiots should have known.  I don’t remember the firm’s name, but they were based out of Torrance.

Anyway.  Throughout this, Gary worked like a fiend.  I joined in 2010; in 2008 and 2009 he saw his net worth get destroyed by half, and the combination of this and the divorce made him feel like he was up against a wall.

Every morning he did 5 am yoga.  Then at noon he went out again for a spin class.  Then sometimes he did another yoga session in the evening, calling all the rest of us lazy wusses[not this exactly but something similar] for not being able – or unwilling – to keep up with him, who was twice our age.

He was working with a manic, crazy energy.  You could sometimes see his eyes go vapid from the exhaustion and anxiety.  Files were strewn all over his room as if TNT had exploded in it, but he knew where every single thing was.  Sometimes while he was talking, he would drift off, his mind wanting to be somewhere else.

Gary was my single ‘professional’ mentor.  Actually, he was more of a life mentor.  During that time, Gary was going through a period of intense reflection.  Mixed in with a simmering bitterness about the divorce, and intense anxiety about…everything, he rambled on about events in his life, thinking out loud about what had happened, and the majority of it revolved around the theme of Not Trusting the System.

He railed against everything – his ex-wife, against bankers, against people who spent too much on their cars and houses, against all the people in Manhattan Beach trying to be big fish in small ponds, against county assessors, against dishonorable clients who didn’t pay, against people who had full time jobs they didn’t enjoy.  The IRS.  The federal government.  Lawyers.  Accountants (he was formerly one).  Mostly against people who he thought spent too much on anything, and people who ‘bought’ into the system, the (former) American Dream, who tried to be like other people.  Son of a mailman, a boy from Hawthorne, Gary had a huge chip on his shoulder even while from the outside, you would see him as a millionaire and as part of the establishment.

Of course, a lot of it went too far.  Walking into hotel lobbies to enjoy their free continental breakfasts.  Withholding our checks while trying to convince us it was better for tax purposes.  Driving thirty minutes out of the way because gas was cheaper somewhere else.  Not wanting to go to lunch anywhere unless it had a lunch special that was at least a double-digit percentage cheaper than regular price.  Taking his son to LA Kings games but arriving purposely late, and then ‘teaching’ him about the bargaining advantage against scalpers when one arrives after the game has started.  Spending more time trying to rack up miles than on the details of his divorce (which we had to handle).

And the combination of his own personality and his circumstances made him bitter.  He did spend a lot of time badmouthing his ex-wife.  This spilled over into a judgmental attitude about other people too.  His neighbors who tried to keep up appearances.  County assessors and their work ethic.  And his relationship with his brother was not the greatest either.

But despite it all, he walked the walk.  He was frugal to a fault, even though he had become a millionaire many times over.  He said what he thought.  And I absorbed it all.  Because in most ways, he was right.  And for that, I was always grateful.

And that’s what I thought I knew about Gary.  Based on his cynicism and sometimes-pettiness, I didn’t expect to see the entire hall-full of people come to pay their respects.  I saw how much he was loved by his children.  I even saw his ex-wife sitting in the first row, and who read a poem about forgiveness, which had layers upon layers of meaning on it, since the boat accident was another’s fault.

One of his friends gave a moving speech full of fondness and affection.  More than once I heard him described as fun-loving, generous, big-hearted, friendly.

And then it got me thinking, as I stood there in the back of the room.  I thought I had known Gary.  But it seemed like actually, there was another side to him that I had never known.

Perhaps, just maybe, who I had seen was a man at his worst.

And that man at his worst, had still never raised his voice, was ready to greet us with a smile, and lived every day through that dark period with desperate, almost superhuman energy.  And come to think of it, I hadn’t made much of it at the time, but I do remember he had talked incessantly about his kids – about their nature, about their accomplishments, even when I hadn’t thought they were so great – with exceeding pride and love.  That man at his worst, was still better than many people at their best.

Rest in peace Gary.

8th Wonder of the World

Once I hit my mid-thirties, I started losing track of my age.  Sometimes I have to pause and think, and calculate the number of my rotations around the sun.  Time passes by deceptively quickly.  The months and days blend in with each other, and sporadically I have these startling realizations where I feel like I’ve been asleep and just woken up.

Like when, after spending 4 years abroad, I start reading the news and every article’s headline looks like it could be from the Onion.  I swear to you, my Feedly at some point started looking like April Fools’ Day, every day.

Or when you start not being able to comprehend pop culture or music.  And when the music you grew up listening to, becomes ‘old school’.  Sigh.

Or like when I go to the gym, and everyone is younger than me.  And I end up wrestling with high school kids.

Or when people who I think are not that younger than me, keep calling me sir.  That happens, by the way, when you’re in your mid-to-late twenties.  When it first happened, I was pleasantly surprised.  Now I’m more disgruntled.

Or when you lose touch with some friends for a few years, and that new job or project they were working on whose name no one knew, ends up being on the headlines of major newspapers.  And they become startup founders with huge exits, fund managers with billions under management, managing directors, directors, and start becoming the grizzled old guard.  This is astounding and inspiring at the same time.

Einstein called the power of compounding the 8th wonder of the world, and it truly is.  When you’re in school, everyone is kind of equal.  You have standouts and geniuses, but you drink together, study together, sleep together.  Shortly after graduating, you start seeing peoples’ paths diverge.  Ten to fifteen years out, and you see people on opposite ends of the spectrum.

People who haven’t taken care of themselves end up with serious health problems.  Some end up in jail.  Others make fortunes.  Others have almost fully grown kids.  Still others completely turn their lives around from drug addicts or violent juveniles to successful businesspeople.  It takes time, but the tiniest bit of compounding plays out.

I don’t know if it’s universal, but in my twenties I couldn’t even imagine being thirty.  Now I’m in my late thirties but I definitely can imagine 40, 50.  I wish when I was younger, I had fully appreciated this power of compounding.  And believed in it.  I would have made plans in 5- to 10-year increments.  Because although they might have taken nearly a decade, the things that my friends and colleagues said they would become, they truly became.

What’s your next 5 to 10 years look like?  It goes by in a flash.

What I Learned From: My Grandfather

I don’t remember much about him, but what I do remember: a booming voice that carried across a room, an unafraid voice, a voice from a generation unaccustomed to the idea of phones.  Whenever he picked one up, he yelled into it, unsure if the other person could hear him.  He spoke Korean with a northern, Pyongyang-tinged dialect, a lilting one, rendered harsh by Siberian winters.

He was an expansive man, moving in abundance and generosity.  Some of my favorite memories of him were when he came to visit, asked us if we “needed” anything from Toys R Us, and proceeded to order my father to drive us there.

He was born in 1923, at the height of Japan’s colonization of Korea.  He was fluent in Japanese, studied at Keio University, then returned to Pyongyang to work with his family of industrialists, capitalists, and landowners.

Also, they were Christians, which basically meant that there were at least four reasons the Communists wanted them dead.

Kim Il Sung’s goons came for him once, but he hid himself in the wardrobe – my grandmother standing at the door, chills running up her spine, her voice shaking as she remembered identifying the dead bodies of her cousins at the police station.  He wasn’t home, she said.

She sold it well – they went away.

Things got worse, and the war broke out.  He carried my oldest aunt, 7 at the time, on his back the whole way from Pyongyang to Busan.  They rode trains, took boats across rivers, and mostly walked.  The flood of refugees was so chaotic and compressed that sometimes babies were mistaken for luggage and thrown off the tops of trains.

They bundled all the money they had around themselves, but after carrying it thousands of miles, discovered that everything besides the gold was worthless paper.

In Busan, they became food stall peddlers.  Then they sold leather, coming home every night reeking of hides and dye.

Some of my most vivid memories are of my grandparents counting money.  They would take a wad of bills, fold it in half, lick their thumb, and rapidly flick the wad like human money counters.  They were in their golden years so I always associated it with prosperity, but I realize now that it was probably from their days as merchants.

They moved frequently.  A few years after the war, looking for startup capital, he wandered the city for a week.  My grandmother said the only time she saw him cry was when he was turned down by some people for loans.  These were “friends” who owed him the money to begin with.

I always try to measure myself against him.

When he was 30, the Korean War was on the verge of ending.  Having lost everything, he was just scraping by.

And then – for two decades, he just worked.  At one point, he saved enough to sublet space in a shoe factory near Daejeon.

This was his big break.  Before the war, his family were a clan of manufacturers.  And though they had to abandon all their property, including factories, my grandfather did have one thing left: knowledge of the precise method to make rubber.  In the desolate post-war landscape, not many other people had the knowledge.

And being sublet in the shoe factory had its advantages, because they had a ready customer for rubber soles.

By the 1970s, when my grandfather would have been 50 or so, he had completely reestablished his family’s business, with a factory churning out rubber soles for all sorts of uses.  He was on a council of a hundred businessmen personally advising Park Chung-Hee, the strongarm dictator of the decade.

They were prosperous enough that they were able to hire drivers, with a Ford Mustang and Jeep in the stable.  This was to the enormous chagrin of my father and younger aunt, who begged to be dropped off a block away from school.

And from his 50s until he passed away, just before the age of 70, my grandfather became the picture of a prosperous businessman.

Those are the outlines of his life, and that is all I know.  He died when I was 10, before I had a chance to ask him anything about life or business.  I’ve wanted to ask him so many questions.  What was the war like?  How did you go from having nothing to a KOSPI-listed company?  What did you tell himself, day after day, while struggling for decades?  What advice would you give?  What guidance?

I wish I knew more, but over the years, I’ve come to accept that maybe, he’s taught me what I need to know.

He was generous with his wealth, boisterous, loud.  He was playful, always shadowboxing with me, a big fan of “pro” wrestling, and outspoken and outgoing to a fault.  I remember him going up to complete strangers at Six Flags or Disneyland, striking up conversations in barking English monosyllables and gestures, and asking random people – usually blondes – to take pictures with him.

He came from a world where business was mostly conducted in person, and on the back of envelopes.  He carried around a little black address book, and lots of pens.  Decisive and quick, but sometimes wrong.

This made him not so good in other areas, such as principles of managerial succession, and those of finance.  With lots of debt, and no competent middle- or even senior managers at the company, it was made quick work of during the Asian financial crisis.  At some point, it was delisted.  And a few years after the AFC, it was completely liquidated.

He wasn’t alive at the time it happened.

My last memory of him was in 1992, when I held his warm, dying hand and looked into his eyes before they pulled the cord on his life support.  Only 10 at the time, I didn’t know what was happening.  I didn’t realize he was dying.  Surely after a few treatments, he would get better.  Because that’s how medical care works, right?

As a kid, no one tells you anything, especially in Korean families.  So I thought I was just there to say hi, and when my uncle told me later that he had passed away, my first reaction was disbelief and denial.

What I saw in his eyes?  They recognized me.  His grasp was light but warm.  His eyes were still very much alive.

It is a matter of family legend that his company had faced a credit crunch right before I was born.  It was an issue, again, of a loan.  After I was born, whatever the issue was, it resolved itself, and so it was the reason my grandfather prized me so much, his only grandson, because I was a good omen.  Or so it goes.

But I like to think it’s more than that.  Maybe it’s because he recognized something in me.  Maybe he wanted to pass something down to me.  Or, maybe it’s that I recognize something in him.  Maybe something he wanted me to have.

I saw a picture of my grandfather as a young man once.  He must have been in his late 20s, early 30s.  It must have been taken shortly before or after the Korean War.  It was his whole clan, his five brothers and a sister.  He was the fifth brother, and he stood at far right, the shortest one, a gaunt, almost hollow face above a wiry frame, in complete contrast to the thick, booming man that I had known.

It was a revelation about what those years between 30 and 50 must have been like.

Because his face was intense and his eyes were burning with hunger.

What I’ve Learned From: Raising a Daughter (so far)

About halfway through my hedge fund job, I lost my Xiaomi phone with the first six months of my daughter’s life in photos.

Six months old is a time when you can leave your child in the morning, and come back in the evening to perceive that she’s changed in all sorts of subtle ways – mannerisms, appearance, skills.

Like a fool, I hadn’t backed up any of the pictures, and it literally felt like I had no accounting of the last six months of my life – and hers.  This was still when I was working two jobs, so admittedly, I hadn’t been spending much time with her besides in the evenings.  I felt deprived and hollow.

This wasn’t the only reason, but it was a catalyst in a series of events that led me, a few months later, to quit my budding finance career.  I became a work-at-home-stay-at-home dad, at least in the afternoons.

And for the last three and a half years, I’ve taken care of her every day, for at least half of every day.  Playgrounds, playrooms, parks, bike rides, reading stories, swimming, etc.

Looking through my journals over the past three years, I’ve been astounded at how little I seem to have “accomplished”.

Because compared to my earlier years, I don’t have many notches.  And it was only after a momentary bit of confusion that I realized all the time had gone into raising a certain little rascal.

In many ways, you feel the presence of time when you have a child.  You hear that children bring you into the present, but you have no idea what that means until you have one.

They have no sense of past or future, everything is in the present.  Everything that is in front of them, including you, is their entire world, their here and now.  They emote with their whole bodies.  Their joy cannot be contained, they cannot help but to jump and shout.  When they’re sad, they curl up into balls.  They grow rigid and tense when fearful.  They droop and wilt, almost like flowers.  They cannot mean one thing and emote or say another.

They’re sheer expressions of energy and emotion, and if you forgot what things like joy, curiosity, excitement, and grateful mean, they’ll remind you.

In order to engage with them, you will bring yourself into the present too.  You can’t console a crying child with your mind on something else.  There is no meditation quite like holding a sleeping baby and peering into her face.  And negotiating meals, baths, and screen time against little machines designed to look for loopholes and the slightest contradiction, is no task for a distracted mind.  So yes, they bring you into the present.

And when you look back at that time spent raising them, you have to use an alternate measuring stick to keep track of your “accomplishments”.  I’m not sure I “accomplished” very much.  But every day, week, month, and year was full of drama, excitement, small terrors, triumphs, and wonderment.  It passed in a flash.  She’s so big, she’s a little miracle.  She’s our joy.  I didn’t accomplish anything, I just – lived.

*******

Parenting is immensely hard.  I know all the cliches about this, but let me explain why parenting is one of the hardest jobs in the world.

I see my peers dread the weekends and look forward to Mondays, the direct opposite of when you’re single.  Why?

The things that comprise job satisfaction in the workplace are well-documented.  It’s not necessarily money.  They’re jobs that give you a sense of autonomy, mastery, flow.  These things give you a sense of progress and growth, and boost morale.  And if you’re far enough into a career, then you have at least one or a combination of them.

In parenting you have none of the above.

Autonomy?  Not when you have a tiny being dependent on you for food and shelter 24 hours every day.  Having even 15 minutes alone is a relief, parents take long showers for this reason.  Parenting is a marathon energy drain by a million cuts.  It’s maintaining a simmering tension and attention on them, 24/7.  When they’re really little, it’s hard to even go to the bathroom by yourself, let alone “go home” at the end of the day.  You can’t sleep to “turn off”, because they’re waking you up every two hours.  And at 5am, they’ll do a wind sprint into your room and ask to play, as energized as you would be after downing a caffeinated pitcher of something.

Mastery?  Ask any parent if they feel like they’ve “mastered” being a parent to get a full-throated laugh in your face.  Raising kids is like playing ten games of whack-a-mole simultaneously – you think you’ve gotten the hang of feeding them, they get fussy with their sleep.  You toilet train them, but now they throw tantrums for no reason.  You think they’ve started getting articulate, then they start throwing you attitude and using bad phrases they somehow picked up from hearing one time randomly on the radio.  They get picky with their food, they ask for inordinate amounts of screen time.  They regress, they have no sense of reason or logic, they cannot explain things to you, and their brains are literally exploding with neuron growth every second of every day.  And…there’s no  measuring stick.  No one to tell you or give you feedback about how good of a job you’re doing.  Your boss is the baby, and she doesn’t do evaluations.

Flow?  When you’re interrupted every minute because their sense of time is such that one hour to them is like one week to you?  No.  Your only uninterrupted time will be at 4am before they get up, or near midnight after they’re deep in their REM cycles.  Or after they’re in school.  School = daycare.

The reality is that I’m not sure everyone will think it’s worth it.  For me it is, because what else am I going to do, ha.

In all seriousness, being a parent is a choice.  I’m convinced there’s no right amount of time you need to spend with your kids, nor one right way to do it.

*******

Naval Ravikant says about happiness and diets, that there is no single truth to them, otherwise there wouldn’t be millions of books continuously published on them.  It’s the same thing when it comes to modern parenting.

When you’re a parent, you’re bombarded with hundreds of different ways to, well, do anything: feed them, put them to sleep, talk to and educate them.  These books and methods seem to be written mostly by people whose sole qualification is the fact that they’ve had kids, sometime in the distant past, and have idealized memories of the experience.  There is no barrier to entry in this literature, and anyone can feed on the anxious mind of a first-time parent.

Of all the things that are “supposed” to work but that didn’t work for us, of which there are many, was the genius idea that you’re supposed to lock away an infant in a dark room by herself, let her cry for you, until she learns that you won’t come back.  Only then, are we told, will she learn to sleep through the night.  The same for naps.  And if you don’t do this, supposedly it impacts their ability to become an independently functioning human being later on in life.

This is the “cry-it-out” method, or in languages other than English, “child abuse”.  If it sounds ludicrous to non-parents, it’s because it is, and if you’re a parent you know that this germ of an idea is prevalent in the literature.

We tried it.  For years.  The first clue that it didn’t work, should have been the fact that she didn’t stop crying after 30 to 45 minutes.  Sometimes she would cry for over an hour before falling asleep from pure exhaustion.  She wasn’t tired, you say?  Well, the experts also say that you have to put them to sleep at the same time every night, so there’s that..

It should also have been a clue that as an 18-month old, she developed the ability to climb the steep poles of her crib and fling herself over 3 feet of railing and land on hard tile, unscathed.  Or that at the same age, she learned to climb over the crib, stand atop an air filter, and open a closed door to peer out at us while precariously perched on a level above her standing height.  It could also have been a clue that no matter how hard we tried to “walk her back to her room”, as you’re supposed to do, she would end up asleep in the living room or next to the office, to be as close to us as possible.  And that no matter how many times we walked her back, trying cajolery and punishments, she would wake up terrified and call for us.

It is my embarrassment that we tried this horrifyingly inane “method” for as long as we did, indoctrinated as we were by “experts”: i.e., parents who did this with their own children and are trying to self-justify and absolve themselves by cloaking it in pseudo-psychological nonsense.  I’m sure it works for many people.  But not all people are the same, nor are their kids.

Looking back, this is one of my only regrets about her upbringing.

One economic principle of life is to be aware and cautious of, is the misalignment of incentives.  The modern parenting-industrial complex is one rife with them.

Kids are the ones “consuming” the product of daycare and educational programs, but parents are the ones paying for them.  Self-professed “experts” and psychologists are the ones peddling half-baked ideas about parenting and child psychology, and other families bear the costs to implement them.

There are all sorts of self-promoters out there.  You would think that in the field of parents and children, there would be governmental protections against these kinds of charlatans.  But there aren’t.

In this, as in all aspects of life, the only way forward is to think.  And treat experts as those with just another opinion.  Take their opinions into account, but do what works best for you and your child.

*******

Parenting is a choice, but you could also argue it’s a biological imperative.  I guess.  Something like patriotism, but at the homo sapiens level.

Though if you take this to the next level, in biology there’s also the concept of extinctions – meaning, why would there be any particular reason our species has to keep going?

Anyway, all this is to say, when you get the readings for your second daughter, and you see that she has chromosomal abnormalities, meaning that she’ll be developmentally disabled  – you make the choice to keep her.

It’s hard, but she’ll be our joy, and that’s once again, our choice 🙂

What I Learned From: Daniel

Daniel was a straight D student.  His parents were liquor store owners, his older sister was a gangster.  He was the class clown, unafraid to tell us about his family’s problems, unafraid to be vulnerable, unafraid to stand up for himself, sometimes too revealing about his masturbatory habits, and quick on his feet for being five and a half feet and almost three hundred pounds.  Once, he pulled over at the side of a road to fight a neo-Nazi that kept honking at him.  I got my ass kicked, he said.  But at least he fought.

It was a dark and gloomy March in Philadelphia during my sophomore year.  I reached for the phone – we still had landlines back then – and decided not to call him.

This decision not to call is still vivid to me.  I remember justifying it to myself; we had just talked a week earlier and there was nothing to say.  I “knew” what we were going to talk about – he would tell me to hurry and come back home, he would maybe tell me about a new workout routine.

A few hours later, I woke up in a muffled state after an insanely real dream of riding a bicycle through a snow-white field, smashing into something, getting pitched over the handlebars, and landing in cottony-white, soft snow with an audible grunt as something hit my chest.  In that dream Daniel was in it, riding next to me.

The dream put me in a weird mood, and just a few minutes after waking up I got a call from Sandy.  Daniel’s car had slammed into a light pole, swerved around it, and landed squarely under it.

They had to extract him with pliers and airlift him to the hospital.  His reported cause of death was internal damage.

He was in my dream again last night.  We were meeting at a restaurant.  I rounded some seats, all the while seeing some familiar faces, until I saw him again, assessing me wryly through his glasses, under his spiked hair.  He looked exactly the same.

We were 19 when he died.  Now I’m almost double that age, and he remains the same to me.

When I was traveling the world in my 20s, I used to marvel at the places I found myself in and the people I met, and imagine telling Daniel about them.  I would always think, what would Daniel think of this?  What would I say?  He thought he would die tragically as an LAPD cop.  I thought I would never see 30.  I always imagined saying something like, Daniel, we made it.  Look where we are now.

He was my most honest friend.  And that, I now realize, is one of the only definitions of a friend.

He single-handedly cured me of my habit of saying stupid things as filler, just to fill the silence.  One time he looked me in the eye after one particularly inane comment, ‘Won, you’re smart, you’re good looking, you know why you don’t have a girlfriend?  Because you say stupid shit like that.’  I burst out laughing because it was completely true.

And because he was honest, you knew exactly who he was and where he stood.  That’s why I can see him in dreams and know that he would be the same person now as he was then, except with a few more white hairs.

And it’s kept me honest too.  They say that death grounds you.  When I read that a long time ago, I always wondered what it meant.  Now, I’ve come closer to understanding what it means.  At least for me.

Because Daniel – during this second lifetime I’ve lived without you in it, I’ve never wanted to become someone that you didn’t recognize.

And you were fearless.  So should I be.

The Ways You Are Rich

Young people, you want to be rich, but you already are beyond your imagination.

You measure wealth in currencies, cryptocurrencies, investments and things that are interchangeable into such currencies: stock, timberland, bonds, real estate, art, cars, etc.  This is what people typically default to when they think about wealth.

But money is a currency, which is something that can purchase or exchange other stuff.  And there are a lot of things that the older you get, the more money you would spend to exchange into: while young people have these things in abundance.

Time:

The younger you are, the richer in time you are.  And the phrase “time is money” is literally true, as people willingly pay to free up time, whether in the form of time-saving devices, freelancers, gig economy workers, etc.

This is such a trite phrase that I hesitate to start with it, but when you consider that people like billionaire Nike founder Phil Knight, in the closing pages of his autobiography states that he would give everything up to do it over again, or when Warren Buffett, speaking to students, says, “you want to be me, I want to be you,” then you begin to realize to a very rich old man, a young person’s life could be valued in the billions of dollars.

As you grow older, the price you’re willing to pay for time increases exponentially.  Although I’m not as rich as the aforementioned gentlemen, what I would give to go back 10 years.  Even 5 years.  Probably in the tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Out of all the “alternative” sources of wealth I’m about to list in this post, time is the only thing that can’t be purchased or created.  It can only be utilized where it exists, or exchanged into, by money or financial instruments – i.e., spending money to use time that you already have, but are burning every second.  Maybe this makes it the most precious.

Time also has the characteristic that by default, adding time to money causes money to grow.  This is why when you’re young you might hear the phrase “time is on your side”.  Well, it really is.  Someone who’s 27 literally has 10 more years for their investments to compound and grow than I do.

Options:

This is a source of wealth that is often overlooked, because it is really hard to measure, unlike money or time.

Options, or opportunities, are a form of wealth that work in the background, and do not manifest themselves until they’re exercised.  And young people have an almost infinite array of Options at their disposal, as a function of having more time, energy, boldness, less responsibilities/lifestyle drag, than older people.

This is hard to explain, but when I say they do not manifest themselves until they’re exercised, it’s because it’s hard to know how they will create value to you until you actually use them.

But, consider that us older people – well, all people, spend a lot of money to travel, read, learn languages, move to different cities, obtain knowledge, attend educational institutes, physically train, etc. etc., all of which create Options, which at the opportune time or place, can create money or jobs, or be exchanged for time and other higher-level forms of wealth, like relationships, wisdom, love, happiness, and so on.

The younger you are, the easier you can pick up these invisible options.  You can learn things quicker when you’re young.  You have less opportunity costs and responsibilities.  You have more energy.  You likely have a larger social network than someone whose been working for, say 20 years in the same industry and town.  

Many people who appear lucky, are in fact just awash in the wealth of invisible options.  This is not a great example, but say someone buys 80% of the lottery tickets, and wins.  Was he lucky?  Or did he buy a lot of options?  This is kind of a bad example because the cost of buying that much will likely be higher than the payout, but I hope you get the idea.

More thoughts on why options are really hard to quantify and measure, but are still there in the background.  When people say “right place at the right time”, they are ignoring the fact that you can engineer this kind of ‘luck’ by picking up a whole bunch of invisible options.

Two college graduates with the same intelligence level and achievements: one job is in a stable, blue-chip company, the other in a fast-growing startup.  The first job is located in an old, industrial city.  The second is in a coastal, high-priced one.  The two jobs pay the same.

Right now, I would bet that the competition for the second job is higher, despite it being more expensive to live in the coastal city.  I would even wager that possibly, college graduates would accept a slightly lower salary to take the second one.

This is because the value of the myriad options embedded in the second job is enormous, hard to quantify, but still intuitively there.  As you get older, the cost of those options becomes so astronomical that it is hard to justify their potential value.  I would like to think I could take an opportunity like that, given the same scenario.  But I might not.  Ten years ago, I definitely would have.

Energy:

This is the raw stuff from which both options and money/financial instruments are created.  Energy is costly to obtain and generate, but as with all of the aforementioned, way more abundant when you’re young.

Without energy, one cannot create or have created, money or financial instruments.  Even in the case of generational wealth, someone in the distant past had to have exerted such energies to create a fortune.

Energy diminishes over time, both within a lifetime as well as within the span of a day.  But similarly to time and options, its value increases as a person ages.  Younger people are awash in it.  In the case of my young daughter and others her age (4), it is perpetually pumping through their veins, requires no warm-up, and is converted without any entropic loss into sheer joy and full speed runs at the crack of dawn.  Again, what I would give to have that kind of energy again: tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Look at the number of ultra wealthy people buying blood transplants or other fountain of youth-type stuff.  Energy is undoubtedly a form of wealth, and young people are awash in it.

Summary:

The thing about these forms of wealth, is that they are all interchangeable with each other.  When money is exchangeable into time, options, and energy, then the obsession that people have with accumulating only money at the expense of energy, time, and options is probably a little misguided.

You can cultivate energy and knowledge to create other forms of wealth.  You can use money to purchase options in the form of more options, energy, knowledge, to create other forms of wealth. 

And above all, time must be utilized wisely as this is the only thing that can’t be created or purchased.  

In this way are young people bestowed with wealth beyond their measurement or imagination.  And lacking knowledge or wisdom, so are they also dismissive of them.

Of course, there are higher-levels of wealth that cannot be strictly exchanged into or purchased using money, time, options, or energy.  The previous sources of wealth are necessary, but not sufficient to gain things like relationships, love, wisdom, happiness.  But I’m concentrating only on those sources of wealth that act almost as interchangeable currencies with each other.

At the end of it, I would wager that both Warren Buffett and Phil Knight would consider me a young(er) man.  And that’s why I’m writing this down, so as not to forget..