Myrtle the Turtle and Content Creators' Mountain of Missed Opportunity
One of the things they don't prepare you for when you become a parent is just how many things they don't prepare you for when you become a parent.
(Read it again. I made sure it makes sense. Which is good, because parenting little kids does not.)
Some parenting things are hard, like how to tell whether their screaming means they're hungry, tired, cold, or just as upset as you are with the umpire in today's game. I mean I know Aaron Judge is 6-feet, 19-inches tall but COME ON, UMP, YOU'RE--oh, shoot, he pooped, gotta go...
Other things are funny, ranging from "funny ha-ha" to "funny oh no." I'm fond of Yogurt Shoulders myself. (That's when you don't realize until the second you log into the webinar to give a talk that wearing a black shirt and feeding your toddler yogurt today was a bad idea.)
Then there's the sort of parenting thing I experienced the other day -- a third category you can't prepare to experience.
Hidden in this particular category of stuff is a lesson we need to learn about a style of story we need to tell to stand out from the noise and put our creative fingerprints on the work.
* * *
The other day, my daughter and I had a rather meaningful encounter with a turtle.
(To be clear, I saw the meaning. She just saw a turtle. But in fairness, how awesome are turtles?)
I remember it was a Wednesday, because every Wednesday, despite the fact that many parents have these annoying little things called "jobs," my daughter's school lets out at 11:40am. (If you're wondering, those annoying little job things usually last for another 5 or 6 hours, which is why I now call Wednesdays "F*** the Parents Day." We celebrate every week.)
(This goes under that first category of parenting things they don't prepare you for. The hard things.)
Anyway, I decided to take the afternoon off and take my daughter to the New England Aquarium in downtown Boston. Along the beautiful harbor sits the building, an odd combination of shapes and colors. Angled metal awnings interrupt a column of sparkling blue glass as you enter through a slab of beige concrete. (They named "brutalist architecture" correctly.) The aquarium looks like a collection of junk my daughter gathers on the beach after a storm.
"Look, Daddy! Treasure!"
Kids are able to see what isn't literally there.
The inside of the aquarium is dark, but you immediately notice a bright tank of water and swirling creatures rising from the center. It extends up from the bottom floor like the chocolate core of a pirouette cookie -- and you get to walk the crumbly part. You twist around the tank, rising ever-higher as you walk, stopping every few steps to look through (that's "smush your face into" in kid-speak) a thick glass window.
The best part is at the top. There, the tank opens up, a glass barrier running around the edges to keep you from falling in.
There's something so exciting about seeing open water in a place supposedly full of the stuff. I think it makes us feel somehow closer to the wildlife inside, like without the barrier between us, we share the space more directly. I'm reminded of a Demetri Martin joke: "My friend asked me if I ever swam with dolphins. I was like, ‘Yeah, of course. What distance are we talking about from the dolphins? Because the last time I was in the ocean, I’m pretty sure I swam with most of them.’"
I've been to the top of that tank a dozen times, but that day with my daughter, something felt different.
Per usual, there was a young staffer standing on a platform extending a few feet over the open water, microphone curling around the side of his face. He was there to share facts about the creatures below and answer questions from tourists, as well as other locals like me who celebrate F*** the Parents Day.
"The tank contains THIS many gallons of water."
"There are THIS many species of wildlife in this tank, including THAT many rays and THIS many turtles."
"That ray over there is called the Snub-Nosed Something or Other." (At this point, my daughter was asking her 28th rapid-fire question directly at my face. I want to cultivate her curiosity, so I try my best to pay attention. Still, it's hard. The first category of parenting stuff applies again.)
"Oh, good question!" the staffer said to me, once I passed along her urgent message. "That turtle at the top is a green turtle. They can live anywhere from 70 to 90 years."
And thus: the turtle.
And then: the meaning.
I found myself wondering, Who is this guy?
Literally.
Who is this person?
Nothing he was doing revealed a single thing about him. In fact, he was doing something that didn't require HIM at all. The aquarium seemed to realize that too. I finally realized what felt different about being up here compared to previous visits: touch screens dotted the ring around the open tank.
If the staffer was occupied, or you just preferred the steely blue light of some glass over the peppy voice of this human, you could get your questions answered from any number of kiosks.
[ THE TANK CONTAINS THIS MANY GALLONS OF WATER. ]
[ THERE ARE THIS MANY SPECIES OF WILDLIFE IN THIS TANK, INCLUDING THAT MANY RAYS AND THIS MANY TURTLES. ]
[ THE MOST COMMON RAY IN THE TANK IS CALLED THE SNUB-NOSED SOMETHING OR OTHER. ]
(I genuinely forgot the name, kinda like I genuinely forget why I walked into a room in my house at least twice a day -- another parenting thing. Is that "funny ha-ha" or "funny oh no"?)
(Don't answer that.)
The kiosks around the tank were new, and they were there to do the very same job as the staffer. I could use the screen or I could ask ... um ... uh ... well, I never did learn his name. Never learned a damn thing about him.
Because he wasn't doing a damn thing that required him or anything that makes him ... him.
Oof.
The iPads may have been bolted down, but they were coming for the staffer. The thing is, the only reason he should be worried is because HE was acting like THEM -- not the other way around.
The problem isn't bots replacing humans. The problem is humans acting like bots.
But there's a simple solution.
* * *
Here's another fact I learned that day:
The oldest turtle in the tank is named Myrtle.
MYRTLE THE TURTLE.
She's 75 years old, her face is faded white, and she naps at the top of the tank most of the day. When new fish get added to the mix, they inevitably swim near this slumbering giant. They start poking and prodding and nipping until--SMACK--they learn to stay off Myrtle's lawn. Err, algae.
Myrtle. Myrtle the Turtle! Are you kidding me? What a missed opportunity for that staffer. The kiosks could help me know something, but the staffer could help me feel something.
You're telling me that during the process of sharing all those basic facts about the tank, he couldn't also help us imagine Myrtle less like a basic green turtle ... and more like a cranky old grandma?!?!
Had she moved to the tank in retirement? Was she sent there by her family? Were they worried about her chain-smoking Marlboro Greens?
Does she love to play pinochle with the periwinkles or rummy with the reef sharks? Does she hate all things rhyming (because Myrtle the Turtle)? Is she just a tiny bit shrimpist? (Hey, she's from a different era. It's not her fault: the ocean was less accepting back then.)
What a miss!
We lament the "sea of sameness" others create, when the real issue is this enormous underwater mountain of missed opportunities we create for ourselves. All around us, tiny little details float (and big grumbly ones slumber), yet how often do we use them? How often do we imbue meaning into the ordinary, instead of merely execute to the letter of the law? So you're writing something mundane, observing something routine, operating in an industry full of the same-old. So what? How do you see it? Convey THAT, so we might feel it.
The staffers at the aquarium stand on a literal platform every day. You stand on a digital one. Several, in fact. Multiple times each week, you step out onto social media, onto your blog or newsletter or podcast or YouTube channel. You're asked to present something, teach something, say something. But do you say something that MATTERS? Can you show others why it does?
On your platforms, you face the same choice as those aquarium staffers. You can share more basic facts and expertise, or you can choose to bring that information TO LIFE.
Kids are able to see what isn't literally there ("Look, Daddy! Treasure!") As adults, we struggle to see what is. We numb ourselves to the tiny details right in front of our faces, from what we observe to what we remember to how it all made us feel. But that's the stuff that separates us from the bots. That is the material that differentiates us and allows us to resonate in a sea of sameness. It's not anything big. We don't have to do or experience anything grand. We don't need something newsworthy. Find what's noteworthy. Better: take that stuff seriously. We see it, we sense it, and use it. That's what storytellers do.
Or you can stand there until your legs become plastic rods and your faces touch screens. Because if you're doing work that doesn't uniquely require you, sooner or later, you might not be required.
Yes, there are tons of things they don't tell you about being a parent, but the most important is this: every damn detail contains meaning.
If only we'd pay attention.
