a real post, for once
In Happier, Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar's self-help book and reading material at Harvard University’s most popular course, he discusses how the relationship between accumulated wealth and happiness does not follow the linear relationship we expect it to. That is, people and societies are not happier when they are wealthier. This is not a surprising conclusion, as it only take a few channel flips to realize the celebrities we idolize are surrounded by drama and scandal, and that their wealth hardly brings them the emotional satisfaction we and they probably expect.
“We no longer accumulate to live; we live to accumulate.”
In 2006, after discovering the joy of online poker, I became obsessed with money. I kept vigilant attention over my bankroll and bank account, enthusiastically celebrating its growth and pitifully lamenting its reduction. As with many card players, my daily emotional state directly related to my success at the tables, leading to wild highs and terrible lows, a roller-coaster I recently abandoned by cashing out every cent. Despite spending thousands of hours on a game I enjoyed and was successful at, the money I was making made me unhappier than many of my more Bohemian friends who barely scraped by.
In Ben-Shahar’s book, his rejection of accumulation goes beyond money. He writes “Academics count number of publications as a key criteria for promotion.” Here, I stopped in my tracks, as it dawned on me that many of my goals in slam were pursuits of accumulation, and not of happiness.
In 2002, after having just won the National Youth Poetry Slam in Ann Arbor, I made a pact with my teammates that we would re-form the team in 2003 and defend our title together. After a stir of drama, two members of my former team decided to slam for another group, leaving me high and dry with an incomplete team to slam with. Lauren Woods and I eventually found two other members, and we spent months preparing for the local and national youth slams. Countless arguments, miscommunications, tete a tete’s, and weary bones later, we went on to win the 2003 local and national championships handily, not losing one bout through either tournament.
After nationals, I distinctly remember standing outside of the auditorium, the trophy in one hand, feeling largely apathetic about the victory. Rather than going to the host hotel to celebrate with my team, I went home with my girlfriend and was asleep before ten o’clock. The next morning, as I was making coffee and watching CNN, I couldn’t help but think, “What now?”
Since I started slamming at the adult level, it’s been my dream to win an individual slam title. The dream has never been far from reach: in four years I’ve made four individual finals in national competition, coming 2nd last year and 4th this year. Though I should be happy with these results -- I should just be happy making indie finals -- coming so close and not winning overshadowed the joy of performing. I became mired by disappointment rather than became lifted by the honor of performing on the big stage, something I take for granted.
In fact, at this year’s indie finals, I didn’t even want to be there. Though I knew I would do well against the mostly inexperienced field, the tension and looming disappointment kept me from performing my best. The three poems I read this year, all of which are dear to me, felt like chores rather than celebrations. That should never be the case. I was confused and angry at myself. I realized that I was far happier making iWPS finals in 2004, back when I was a Beau Sia clone and knew I had no chance of winning, than I was being a favorite at NPS this year. Ah, the vigor of youth and inexperience.
Looking back, if I had won the title, “What Now?” would’ve been unavoidable. Rather than being happy, I would’ve probably wanted to accumulate even more championships. I would’ve compared myself to the two-time champs, Mike, Buddy, and Anis, and looked to break their records by amassing more and more accolades and even then, I wouldn’t have been happy. I would’ve wanted four, or five, or six titles. I would’ve wanted to not only eclipse my peers, but to win so much that no one would be able to chase my resume for decades.
But that would not have made me happy. At all.
Happiness is a scary thing. As humans, we are willing to kill and die for it. An individual’s pursuit of happiness distorts truth, fuels drive-by’s, commits genocide, births insomnia, and inspires suicide bombers. It reaves our already tender hearts, installs poor values, turns us into fanatics, and turns even our most sacred arts to jellyshit. If happiness is indeed the ultimate currency, as Ben-Shahar describes it as, then we are a planet preparing to hurl itself into emotional bankruptcy.
But that doesn’t mean it’s a hopeless cause. Just as activism makes smalls but extremely important changes to society, I believe individual happiness makes a minor but extremely important contribution to society’s happiness. Doesn’t a smiling stranger humming Sinnerman make a walk down a sunny block that much more enjoyable? Doesn’t a canopy of changing leaves make a whole neighborhood into a tunnel of nature’s fireworks for hundreds of people admire? Now mentally magnify these minor joys over a lifetime, and it’s easy to see why the hard work is worth it. (And who knows, you might stumble into a highly alliterative sentence on the way.)
One day, I’m sure I’ll fall in love with slam again. One day, I might even make finals again. Maybe I’ll become national champion. I just hope that if and when it all happens, it’s not because I hunted down glory with an exercised arm and a well-thrown spear. But rather, it should fall into my lap like a happy accident, like a winning scratch-off lottery ticket, forgotten for years, shaken out of my favorite book.
“We no longer accumulate to live; we live to accumulate.”
In 2006, after discovering the joy of online poker, I became obsessed with money. I kept vigilant attention over my bankroll and bank account, enthusiastically celebrating its growth and pitifully lamenting its reduction. As with many card players, my daily emotional state directly related to my success at the tables, leading to wild highs and terrible lows, a roller-coaster I recently abandoned by cashing out every cent. Despite spending thousands of hours on a game I enjoyed and was successful at, the money I was making made me unhappier than many of my more Bohemian friends who barely scraped by.
In Ben-Shahar’s book, his rejection of accumulation goes beyond money. He writes “Academics count number of publications as a key criteria for promotion.” Here, I stopped in my tracks, as it dawned on me that many of my goals in slam were pursuits of accumulation, and not of happiness.
In 2002, after having just won the National Youth Poetry Slam in Ann Arbor, I made a pact with my teammates that we would re-form the team in 2003 and defend our title together. After a stir of drama, two members of my former team decided to slam for another group, leaving me high and dry with an incomplete team to slam with. Lauren Woods and I eventually found two other members, and we spent months preparing for the local and national youth slams. Countless arguments, miscommunications, tete a tete’s, and weary bones later, we went on to win the 2003 local and national championships handily, not losing one bout through either tournament.
After nationals, I distinctly remember standing outside of the auditorium, the trophy in one hand, feeling largely apathetic about the victory. Rather than going to the host hotel to celebrate with my team, I went home with my girlfriend and was asleep before ten o’clock. The next morning, as I was making coffee and watching CNN, I couldn’t help but think, “What now?”
Since I started slamming at the adult level, it’s been my dream to win an individual slam title. The dream has never been far from reach: in four years I’ve made four individual finals in national competition, coming 2nd last year and 4th this year. Though I should be happy with these results -- I should just be happy making indie finals -- coming so close and not winning overshadowed the joy of performing. I became mired by disappointment rather than became lifted by the honor of performing on the big stage, something I take for granted.
In fact, at this year’s indie finals, I didn’t even want to be there. Though I knew I would do well against the mostly inexperienced field, the tension and looming disappointment kept me from performing my best. The three poems I read this year, all of which are dear to me, felt like chores rather than celebrations. That should never be the case. I was confused and angry at myself. I realized that I was far happier making iWPS finals in 2004, back when I was a Beau Sia clone and knew I had no chance of winning, than I was being a favorite at NPS this year. Ah, the vigor of youth and inexperience.
Looking back, if I had won the title, “What Now?” would’ve been unavoidable. Rather than being happy, I would’ve probably wanted to accumulate even more championships. I would’ve compared myself to the two-time champs, Mike, Buddy, and Anis, and looked to break their records by amassing more and more accolades and even then, I wouldn’t have been happy. I would’ve wanted four, or five, or six titles. I would’ve wanted to not only eclipse my peers, but to win so much that no one would be able to chase my resume for decades.
But that would not have made me happy. At all.
Happiness is a scary thing. As humans, we are willing to kill and die for it. An individual’s pursuit of happiness distorts truth, fuels drive-by’s, commits genocide, births insomnia, and inspires suicide bombers. It reaves our already tender hearts, installs poor values, turns us into fanatics, and turns even our most sacred arts to jellyshit. If happiness is indeed the ultimate currency, as Ben-Shahar describes it as, then we are a planet preparing to hurl itself into emotional bankruptcy.
But that doesn’t mean it’s a hopeless cause. Just as activism makes smalls but extremely important changes to society, I believe individual happiness makes a minor but extremely important contribution to society’s happiness. Doesn’t a smiling stranger humming Sinnerman make a walk down a sunny block that much more enjoyable? Doesn’t a canopy of changing leaves make a whole neighborhood into a tunnel of nature’s fireworks for hundreds of people admire? Now mentally magnify these minor joys over a lifetime, and it’s easy to see why the hard work is worth it. (And who knows, you might stumble into a highly alliterative sentence on the way.)
One day, I’m sure I’ll fall in love with slam again. One day, I might even make finals again. Maybe I’ll become national champion. I just hope that if and when it all happens, it’s not because I hunted down glory with an exercised arm and a well-thrown spear. But rather, it should fall into my lap like a happy accident, like a winning scratch-off lottery ticket, forgotten for years, shaken out of my favorite book.