On Upward
Mobility, Meritocracy, and the Fulfillment of Fairytales,
Like many
of my peers, these past few years have been a smorgasbord of weddings: an
ongoing opportunity to see the myriad of ways young couples choose to express
and display their love for each other with friends and family. I am always
honored to attend these events and intrigued by the many ways they are all
similar and yet each is unique. Recently, my best friend Kia’s sister Parisa got
married. The lavish, fairytale feel of the event led to a number of remarkable
experiences and musings. On the way home, via 5 friends - old and new and a
BART ride, I found myself exhausted, satisfied and particularly reflective
about what the event meant to me.
A Long Engagement:
This wedding was a long-time
coming, and when it finally arrived it seemed something out of a fairytale. I
heard about the engagement many years ago. More than once, I had assumed it had
come and gone simply because so much time had passed since I had last been
promised an invite. Looking back now, the long Engagement doesn’t surprise me.
It’s a reflection of Parisa’s style and self-control, as well as those same
qualities in her husband.
When I first met Parisa, she seemed
almost to be an ideal or a force of nature. Kia was one of the first new
friends I made in high school and he quickly became my closest. We were both
academically ambitious, pushing ourselves to do as well in school as possible.
Each of us had several reasons for
that quest, but the one I heard most from Kia was: “I want to do well in school
and be like Parisa.” So long before I met her, I saw the inspiring impact that
she had on my best friend – a force that motivated him to climb higher.
Speaking of climbing higher… Kia
and I eventually found another shared passion beyond academics: our love for
outdoor adventure. This explained why I was both a legend and something of a
persona non-grata in Kia’s extended family: “You were the one that got him into
climbing?!? Aaaaa… why did you do that?!?” As a reply, I can only grin like a
rapscallion because… really… how else
could I respond?
I could say that one of my habits
(maybe a talent – it’s part of what makes me a good teacher) is a desire to
share my passions with others, in the hope that sometimes those passions will
ignite their own. In the case of Kia and climbing, that spark burned far
brighter, larger and longer than I ever could have hoped. Kia’s adventurous
expeditions have become legend – his mountaineering and extreme sport accomplishments
are far beyond what I ever hope to achieve in those fields.
When we were teenagers however, we
were just having fun. We would sometimes drive around without guidebooks, or
even a very developed idea of what we were doing, and say: ‘Hey! Rocks! Let’s
go climb them.’ The legendary climber Dean Potter was one of our heroes; we
even wrote a parody song of Simon and Garfunkle’s “I am a rock” honoring his exploits
on one long, triumphant car ride home from an early climb. Kevin Jorgeson was
another inspiration, though at the time he was just the local kid who was the
best climber but we all thought we had a prayer of catching up with in terms of
skills.
(Spoiler Alert: he is still a bit ahead.
But I digress. This note is about
Parisa, who I did eventually meet her in person. While I found her gracious,
nice, and kind, the most striking thing I remember about her was that she was
always studying. Seriously, always carefully reviewing frightening large books.
Now, Kia and myself studied a lot too. We were in the most advanced classes at
school, no strangers to reading large texts, and we both took our education
seriously. So to say that Parisa’s study materials seemed daunting is an
impressive statement.
We kept improving our academic
game, but we were also distracted occasionally; rock-climbing, parties, new
sports, romances, etc. Meanwhile, Parisa, at least from my perspective, kept
right on studying, ascending the mountain of educational excellence. UC
Berkeley, Dartmouth, St. Louis Medical School. The fact that this wedding was
touted as the union of the ‘Doctors Jordan’ was a testament to just how far
the betrothed had climbed. So it makes sense that the wedding was delayed for a
while, they were both busy walking the long road to academic excellence.
Fortunately, I am convinced that all the wedding guests felt that it was worth
the wait.
That’s the thing about uphill
climbs that take a while; when you finally get to the top, it is an incredible
view.
Incredible View Indeed
Marshmallow Interest:
There’s a
funny experiment on human behavior that has become something of a legend. The
methodology was simple: a diverse sample group of 4 year olds were gathered.
Each was brought into a room, and an adult presented them with a marshmallow.
“Don’t eat the marshmallow,” the adult intoned, “I will leave the room for five
minutes, and if the marshmallow is still here when I get back, you will get two
marshmallows.” Then the adult left and the autonomous child was left to decide
for themselves what to do. Tricky choice. I mean there is a marshmallow just
sitting there. They know they can eat it before anyone stops them, and they
know it will be delicious. Do they go for the assured immediate gratification,
or do they wait, adhere to the instructions of the adult stranger and hope they
will be rewarded with greater fluffy culinary riches later on. Some children
have the self-control and faith to hold out for marshmallow interest. Others
don’t. These test subject were monitored intermittingly for decades afterwards
and the researchers were stunned to see a direct causation between the length
of time the child could resist the sweet siren calls and the future success of
the adult they became.
This
wedding was the most exuberant display of marshmallow interest I have yet seen.
All the guests experienced an evening of awesome opulence that wowed us one way
after another. I have no doubt that the Great Gatsby himself would have
approved this wedding.
Sleek SUV
busses arrived at 4:30 in front of each of the three hotels. Your name had to
be on the guest list to get on the busses. We got on the bus with a feeling of
rising excitement. The obvious question on everyone’s mind was: “Where are we
going?” The invitations hadn’t listed an address or venue: merely a mysterious:
“Private Estate.”
This
private estate turned out to be a luxurious mansion on one of the largest
privately-owned piece of property on the San Diego Coast line. A large private
gate swung smoothly open and as we drove down the cobblestoned road, lush
tropical plants lined the road. Strange sights were visible; here a menagerie
of exotic birds, there two score young men in bright red matching boy choir
uniforms.
The Venue
When we
stopped in front of the intricate front gate to the actual home, it too swung
open invitingly. Four impeccably dressed servers were there, each holding a
tray with a set of different drinks. I choose the Lavender Hurricane – an
homage to the groom’s home state and the color the bride had chose to be a
running theme in the wedding.
We
descended steps into a large courtyard, complete with burbling fountain, an
eclectic assortment of large statues from around the world and a large mahogany
table upon which were arrayed a shrine of exquisitely-framed paintings and
artful guest books paying homage to the photogenic glory of the betrothed
couple. Step from the atrium into the home itself and you find yourself in a
large welcome room, neatly dividing the home into two vast halves. The next
bowing butler (we had encountered at least 8 by this point) encouraged us to
look around if we like, and to be sure to come back at 6:45 for a personal tour
of the home’s art collection, which included not only a Picasso and
Michelangelo, but a collection of art pieces from indigenous cultures around
the world.
The house
was of course classy, but it was not where we were expected to dwell. The
wedding party itself was in the backyard. The backyard boasted a large swimming
pool, surrounded by numerous tables and chairs, and a variety of bars and snack
stations. The two large families and their guests mingled briefly before
descending to the lawn. To reach it you past through a carefully maintained
forest, with each gorgeously pruned tree and shrub labeled, identifying both
its scientific classification and its botanical lineage. Here in the lawn was
where the ceremony itself would take place.
The day was
gorgeous, the afternoon sun transforming the Pacific Ocean below the bluffs
into acres of diamonds, glimpsed between the muscular palm trees, arced over by
hang-gliders. I was hanging with a platoon of Kia’s friends; the flying people
caught our attention, and several of our compatriots remarked that on any other
weekend they would be up there tilting horizons and navigating thermals rather
than being bedazzled by luxury.
Bedazzling
it was; each new aspect of the wedding setting a gold standard that wedding planners
across Southern California would croon over. Here was the intricate wrought
gate, standing along, rather unnecessarily alone in the field. Just beyond the
gate was the raised white carpet aisle, stretching its long causeway length
over the grass. The intricacies of the gate design dimmed in comparison to the
design on the aisle, etched in rose petals, made all the more beautiful by its
temporary nature. For surely, this meticulously designed petal work would be
trod, disrupted and scattered as soon as the pathway was used. A metaphor for
human lives; for the temporary nature of the works we build. Just as my
thoughts were beginning to descend into the philosophical depths, the brass
band struck up, swelling notes from an eclectic mix of instruments heralding
the arrival of the wedding party.
I always
find the pairings in wedding parties fascinating. A betrothed couple tends to
find some commonalities before they make their way to the alter, but this is
not always true for their family. Watching the best friend of one fiancé walk
arm in arm with the sibling of another can frequently make for some fascinating
juxtapose. The most different people will all play nice with each other out of
respect for the lovebirds.
The
families at this wedding were beautiful counter-balances: vastly different at
the surface but surprisingly similar on the lower, deeper frequencies.
Parisa’s family is Persian, a large extended
family who fled to American after the fall of the Iranian Shah 35 years ago.
Their relatives span the spectrum in terms of Americanization, some spoke
primarily Farsi, others fully immersed in the entrepreneurial, English-speaking
American hustle culture. They were, everyone of them, exquisitely dressed:
meticulously adjusted hair and flawless grooming on the man, and elegant furs
on the women.
Bilal’s family was a large African
American family from Baton Rouge Louisiana. They were gracious and excited,
some had never been to California. While the groom’s family also displayed a
range of success, it was clear the immediate family was up and coming, doing
quite well for themselves. Achieving
upward mobility anywhere in the world is a challenge; accomplishing that while
contending with the institutionalized racial biases of the American south is
especially impressive. Besides his family, the groom had about a dozen of his
employees in attendance as well. All spoke of Bilal with a deep loyalty and
admiration that bordered on reverence. Here was a soft spoken, self-controlled,
ferociously hard-working and fiercely intelligent young man who had pulled his
whole family up through his remarkable capacity. He ran the insurance company
his mother had worked in for the many years of his childhood, and ran it
remarkably effectively. He had graduated medical school, and was debating
whether to take a pay cut to become a doctor. Most likely, he would just
practice medicine on the side, as a hobby, another way to give back to the
community.
For both families this was a
special moment; the union of their best and the brightest with someone very
different but very clearly special to another large, diverse, equally talented
family.
Kia! The flowers!
Watching the pairs of the wedding
party walk through the gate arm-in-arm and scatter the rose petals as they
progressed towards the alter, I was struck by this remarkable alliance. It
seemed to symbolize the beautiful promise of America and its maddening
contradictions. Much has been said of the discriminations and prejudices that
black people and middle-easterners have faced in America. In spite of these
persistent injustices, the ideal still beckons, flickers, taunts; this idea
that anyone can succeed, anyone with enough talent and discipline can live like
royalty. They can have as many marshmallows as they want.
Finally, Parisa emerged from the
foliage, flanked by her mother and uncle. Every bit the beautiful bride, she
was the glorious climax to the magnificent procession of the wedding
party. The minister had been chosen by
the groom’s family and spent a while reminding them that they were now bound by
Christ and owned by each other. Parisa and Bilal each took the proper Christian
vows.
Either the
secular Zoroastrian bride had undergone a religious conversion at some point in
the pass decade or she had simply deemed the catechism worth repeating to
appease her groom’s family. The Persian Brothers ahead of me grumbled at the
repeated fixation on Jesus. I grumbled because I had downed a quartet of the
luscious Lavender Hurricanes and had not located the bathroom before the
ceremony began. I pondered the rapidly increasing urgency of my bladder while
the minister expounded on the significance of Ecclesticies and I thought: “This
must be a common dilemma for regular church-goers.” I pondered sneaking off to
try to provide some additional hydration to one of the exotic trees in the
yard, but didn’t like my odds at avoiding the throngs of roving butlers. So I
stayed in my seat. The thorough expose on what the bible thought of this union
was the longest part of the ceremony and I half expected a Jesus actor would
swoop by on a speed wing, strike the buddy pose he favored in the movie Dogma and announce: “I’m the son of god,
and I approve this union.”
No such
luck.
Instead we got a brief set of songs
from the brass band, another set from the Boy’s choir and the spectacle of 2
dozen white doves released into the air at the moment the newlyweds was kissed.
The wedding party departed the way they came and the rose petals completed
their conversion from order to chaos. The instant the last of them left the
platform, I bolted for the bathroom.
Everyone was mesmerized except for one kid.
Wandering
in the post ceremonial reception, we placed guesses about who the estate
belonged to. We asked one of the wait staff who owned it, and they shrugged:
“Not sure. I heard he was some lawyer.” Tracy and I chortled. “What kind?”
We’re both in the legal field and are reminded every month that … well… we have
both proven clearly demonstrated that we didn’t choose this career path for the
pay. Some types of lawyers make a lot more money of course, but it;’s usually
expressed by buying a new BMW or an elegant condo. This mansion was a whole
other level, whoever owned this was tossing around 7 figure sums without
blinking. It had to be inherited wealth was the consensus, some loaded heir,
possibly a new generation of an old money family who was trying to make their
empire work for them by renting an ostentatious domicile out as the setting for
big parties with big budgets.
Spending an afternoon in such
opulence can be a dizzying experience. I’ve never expected life to be easy. I
aspire to be versatile and disciplined enough to try and endure whatever
hardship comes my way. My adventures over the last few years has certainly
taken me to lavish events a few times before, so I was able to mesh with my
surroundings easily enough. Even so, the artistic perfection of the entire
event was striking, like an afternoon spent in another world, where you are
torn between just relaxing and enjoying, or darting around trying to take in as
much as possible.
It’s one thing to see a fairytale
wedding handed to someone. That would be obnoxious and off-putting. It is entirely different to see a couple
build a fantasy from the ground up. This wedding spared no expense. Neither
bride nor groom was born rich, but they had reached a point where they didn’t
have to spare any expense. That was the most
incredible part about the wedding, the realization that it was constructed
entirely from marshmallow interest.
Bookshelf Ladders
While wandering through the garden,
enjoying the variety of plants, including some familiar strands Chris K had
brought with him, we suddenly remembered the art tour. “C’mon guys” I cried suddenly,
we need to go see Michelangelo.” We walked into the gallery a few minutes into
the art talk. A white-haired man of around 60 was introducing a variety of
pieces and discussing the impact that African artists had on Picasso. It was a
fascinating point, reflective of the surprising interconnections of the world,
but I am rarely one to stick to the guided tour, especially when in a room with
so many curiosity flashpoints. I kept one ear on the speaker as I wandered
through the display marveling at the variety of pieces and stunning diversity
of geographic origins. The room was a cross-section of the vastness and eclectic
nature of the African continent, displayed in microcosm within a single room.
There were multiple walls like this.
Primarily
African, but not exclusively. I particularly marveled at a trophy made of an
enemies’ skull by an indigenous Papua New Guinean warrior. I would have been fascinated by the stories
behind to objects in this room even if I hadn’t fine-tuned my aesthetic appreciation
antennae with sensimilla. Soon though, I found myself drawn to another room –
the library. I’m always curious about the book collection in any new home I
enter. It’s how I get a better sense of the mind of a new acquaintance. Over
the years, I have found myself lose interest or fall harder for a woman based
on the contents of her bookcase or lack therein.
So I was
tremendously interested in seeing the corresponding bookshelf that went along
with the art collection. I was not disappointed. The room was about an 18 foot
cube. One side was filled with large windows. The other three walls were
absolutely filled with bookshelves. Like an old school library, the walls of
books had ladders.
I inhaled
the ambiance and smiled. Classy.
I looked
closer, studying the titles of the shelves on the tomes. The sheer number of
books made it seem clear that I this was either something collected over
generations or a show library. Gradually though, I noticed there were a lot of
recent books, and that there were specific subjects of interest: presidential
power, the Holocaust, Financial markets.
As I looked over the shelves, I felt a slowly dawning incredible realization:
this was a Personal library. I wasn’t sure what exact clues or
general intuition made me realize that fact, but I was suddenly certain of it.
Along with that understanding, two other thoughts occurred to me: 1) the
incredible wealth in this house was not the product of an inheritance, it was a
created by a single mind; and 2) Someone with this level of knowledge and
wealth must have made a mark on the world. I must have heard of him. I whirled
around the room, seized by the sudden revelation of the mystery. Whose house
were we in?
I really, really like books.
I reviewed
the room again, searching for clues. Books focused on financial markets,
Holocaust, Presidential Politics, legal issues. On one counter by the door,
there was a single bobble headed figurine: A middle-aged man with large glasses
and wild, white hair was holding a book piled with what looked like shredded
paper. The box said, “ENRON.” At the base of a figure was the name of the
character: “Bill Leranch.” There were no other figures. Surely this single one
was a memento of an experience. Was this our host? Or a adversary of our host,
mocked in effigy?
I moved
over to the desk. Several letters lay out; one was addressed to Bill. It was.
“Tracy,” I asked, “That guy in the figure there, does he look like a younger
version of the one giving the art tour?” It was. This was our host, the mind
that had devoured the books in this library and assembled all the art pieces
outside. A butler/security guard walked into the room we were in. I looked at
him, and then gave an admiring look at the books around the room. “This is
really something.” I said, “Even to gather all of it together seems like a
Herculean task.” The security guard butler was an older black guy, looking more
like he had lived his life in LA Los Angelas than LA – Louisiana. He had a
competent, contemplative look about him. He nodded, “I actually read a lot
myself, but I’ve never seen anything like this beyond Bill’s house. I tried to
help him organize it all once, and I think I just wound up jumbling stuff more.”
I gave a small laugh of acknowledgement,
for I wouldn’t know where to begin. I gazed again at the height of the
bookshelves. The ladders weren’t for show. Our friend saw my gaze and
continued, “Bill told me once that he put the law books on the very top intentionally.
He said it was a custom developed in ancient Rome, the books of law are
displayed, but they are out of reach. That was done in order to show people
that there are rules, but they are not easy to understand or change. You can’t
just reach up and grab them because you want to. That knowledge isn’t readily
available to anyone. You need to climb.”
I felt a bit of a chill at the
connection, and a deep appreciation of his words. Bill Leranch was clearly an
intriguing individual; he was like Parisa or Bilal, taken to the next level,
decades later. His mind, his capacity to absorb and utilize knowledge has
created this home just as the young couple’s dedication had created this event.
Such wealth
and grandeur, all achieved through climbing bookshelf ladders.
Perils of Ascension:
So that was the general idea, but
what about the specifics. How does someone super smart actually get there: they
mythical realm of the successful?
Different ways of course. Parisa
and Bilal had journeys through medical school, climbers like Dean Potter and
Kevin Jorgenson had mountains that others saw as out of reach.
It wasn’t hard to guess that Mr.
Lerach’s path had reached high enough that his course would be charted out in
the public record. Still in his library, I did a quick Google search on my
phone and found out a bit of his back-story. A working class boy from Pittsburg
who finished up with law school just as a Supreme Court decision opened the
door to a new method for shareholder derivative suits that allowed normal
shareholders to go after high and mighty CEOs. All they needed was a lawyer to
file the suit. Mr. Lerach became the lawyer, again and again, one
multinational, multi-million corporation after another.
Over the years, the targets got
bigger. Bill quickly became one of the most hated and feared people in Silicon
Valley, and on Wall Street. The largest companies had teams of lawyers,
enormous resources, they could outspend and out litigate most anyone who tried
to mess with them. Not him though. The settlements from early victories went
right into the war chest to finance the pursuit of bigger prey. Some called him
a legal hood, others called him Robin Hood.
I can’t claim to know Mr. Lerach
well enough to know which title is more accurate. What I do know is that he
fought against entities that usually consider themselves to be untouchable. And
he made them feel fear. That, in of itself… is tremendously refreshing. How
often has someone, anyone presented a true test to the entrenched power system
of our nation?
The progressive left always loses
itself in arguments over who is more self-righteous. The goals are noble and
should be basic: a more equitable system, respect for all, a healthy planet.
Yet the movements often consume themselves long before they create true change.
Occupy Wall Street had so much potential, and then the people get fully
immersed in writing pamphlets and blog postings to each other, arguing over who
has the best understanding of the righteous administration of Marxist
philosophy, the accurate depiction of racial micro-aggressions, and the proper
use of gender neutral pronouns for LGBTQQIP2SA allies to use. This is the
nonsense that fills my facebook feed and passes for social activism issues at a
time when we are dealing with national income disparity and global ecological
devastation on a scale that is unprecedented in history. Meanwhile, the people
with real power who are profiting off this short-sighted system are dispatching
drones to pepper spray dissent in the face and are laughing their way to the
bank. Talk about distraction, talk about taking our eyes off the prize and
dividing ourselves like sheep to be conquered. No team has ever climbed Everest
by debating whose climbing boots were more sustainable. And the world does change
for politically-correct victims.
As an example of alternative path
towards creating change, consider Bill Lerach. He was an ascendant star during
the 1990s, a champion for righteous causes who had a knack for winning major
legal battles. He went after Joe Camel and represented Holocaust victims but
mostly, his bread and butter was the wealthy. And oh how much butter there was.
He was forcing one fortune 500 company after another to disgorge its wealth
back to shareholders, to the tune of $45 billion over his career. He was firing
off litigation discovery orders like machine gun volleys, turning golden
parachute descents into free falls.
He had made them tremble.
And some of the powers that be….
don’t take kindly to that.
Lerach’s prominence grew even more
for his instrumental role in taking down the energy giant Enron. Having crested
that peak, he fixed his target on an even higher summit: Halliburton.
This was when Icarus’s wings
melted.
Governmental investigations turned
on him, and suddenly Bill was the target of the very, very powerful interests
he had threatened. Ultimately, his deal with them was simple: the investigation
ended, he plead guilty to breach of a small technicality, and paid a fine that
hardly made a dent in his fortune. Oh, and he had to give up his bar card. Forever.
Early retirement. Surrounded and outmaneuvered by the superior forces of the
empire, Hannibal is told he can live if he lays down his weapons. So Bill did.
And he picked up art collecting. When considering all the ways it could have
gone, it was not such an awful ending to such a thrilling ascent. He still got
to host some really cool weddings and tell really cool stories.
On our way out of the house,
heading towards the wedding dinner, I thanked him for his work. When he
realized I was talking about his previous career, he nodded his head
thoughtfully and reflected, “The powers that be, the corporate industrial
complex, they don’t want a very intelligent, very determined individual with
tremendous financial and legal resources holding them accountable. They may say
they are okay with that, because it gives them a veneer of respectability, but
they want that show of accountability orchestrated in a very manipulated and
controlled way. They don’t actually want to be at risk.”
Which is the other thing about
making ascents that intimidate others; there is an incredible risk that goes
along with that.
I was reminded of that at Dinner.
Like the rest of the wedding, the dinner was an incredibly elegant affair,
which blew us away with how delicious, decadent and well designed it was. There
were a number of eloquent, thorough and heartfelt tributes to both the bride
and the groom. What struck me most though, was Kia’s tribute to his new brother
in law: “People who know me well know that I visit the hospital occasionally. A
few years ago, I had a really bad one, and they thought I might never use my
wrist again. Bilal went to work in his network, and he was able to connect me
with the top doctor in that specialty.”
The message was simple. Had it not
been for Bilal’s diligent effort, Kia might have been deprived of the use of
his hand, and thus been deprived of many future adventures. There is a bigger
lesson in that simple story. The community we keep, our strongest allies, can
help us offset some of the risk we incur in our assent.
Perhaps that is one of the things I
enjoy most about weddings. We are all here on this planet for only a brief
time, a few short seasons in a vast expanse of space and time. Plagued by inner
demons, taunted by existential dilemmas, we know all too well that the
accomplishments we build will soon crumble to dust. Yet, we persist. We forge
bonds that will resonate and perhaps last beyond our own lives. We love all the
stronger in spite of our mortality. We laugh in the face of eternity.
No friend or beloved one can remove
or protect against all the risks inherent in life, but perhaps they can get our
back whenever possible. Perhaps they can enliven our own lives and the lives of
those we care about. Perhaps they can help to make the risk worth it. “Welcome
to my family” says Parisa to Bilal and vice versa, and scores of new
friendships are made.
Human connections are a type of
artwork, and we were painting beautifully that night. Dinner gave way to
dancing, music provided by the original Iranian band the Black Cats. We twirled
for hours, in defiance of dawn. Drinks flowed and mountains of succulent hors
d’oeuvres and desserts kept up the energy. When we emerged for a breath of air
on the balcony, the dark San Diego night stretched around us, warm and
comforting. From somewhere, a light was projected onto the distant lawn,
etching the couple’s initials in glowing artful script. It was beautiful; we
didn’t want it to stop. When our bodies and bellies surpassed their last limit,
we caught the last shuttle back to the hotel.
All nights end, but the best ones
in my opinion are those so epic that they make the subsequent dawn seem like
the start of a new age.
And so it was.
We awoke physically exhausted, but
feeling fresh and energetic. I went and met up with Kia and the rest of the
boys, and we went out for breakfast. While waiting and over food, we excitedly
discussed the incredible night before, and planned future adventures. Then one man
eagerly said, “Guys, you’ve got to check out this video. They’ve actually made
working jet-packs.” We leaned in with excitement, and watched a ten minute
long, artfully shot video of two pilots testing out prototype jet packs over
the skies of Dubai. Most of that group were adventure athletes, some were
aeronautical engineers. They were watching and commenting not as spectators of
the supernatural, but as scientists. How did it work? How could it be emulated?
Improved upon? When do we try it?
The mood was obvious; after the
wedding last night, anything is possible. The future is wide open and primed
for the fulfillment of fairytales. We are limited only by our imagination.
Weddings of the future?
Except of course, that is not
entirely true.
On the car ride north, I checked
the news. While we had been reveling at the wedding, legendary climber and
adventurer Dean Potter had died. This man had done dozens of things no one else
thought was possible, lived his life with a kind of reckless freedom that
inspired and slightly intimidated us. Now, due to a minute miscalculation, or
perhaps an anomalous variation in atmospheric pressure, there had been a
Wingsuit accident, and a sudden end to his story, as well as his partner. A somber juxtapose to the seemingly
invulnerable enthusiasm that had filled us hours earlier.
The legal and economic system
turned on Bill Lerach but spared him a death-blow. Gravity and granite turned
on Dean Potter and had no such mercy. Who knows exactly what waits in the
future for any of us? While I wish Parisa and Bilal all the best in the years
ahead, I know they will face their own challenges, threats and adversity just
as we all do. No happily ever after is really the ‘ever’ part and no fairytale
would fully entrance us half as much if it didn’t have its share of danger. However
skilled, however talented, however self-controlled we are, there is no way to
fully avoid the perils of ascent. Be they mountain peaks, bookshelf ladders, or
the long path to success that is the American dream, any journey up brings its
share of danger. That’s why few climb to such elevation, and that’s why we give
such deserved applause to those who do.
Ultimately, these are some of the
most central questions we can wonder about our lives: How high will we rise?
What amount of passion and effort are we willing to put in to reach those
ambitions? And when and how will we finally be brought down.
