“I ain’t as good as I’m gonna get, but I’m better than I used to be.”
Sammy Kershaw. “Better Than I Used to Be”. Better Than I Used to Be, Big Hit Records, 2010.
Better than I used to be. Better. That’s a powerful word. Better. Not many words can be used as a noun, a verb, an adjective AND an adverb. Merriam Webster Dictionary uses terms like “advantage, victory, superior”, “to make more complete or perfect”, “more advantageous or effective”, and “to a higher or greater degree”. Lofty words (see what I did there?).
That line is from one of my favorite songs of all time. “Better Than I Used to Be” by Sammy Kershaw. It speaks of being someone who you no longer want to be, who no longer represents your motives or ideals. Someone you want to leave in the past. So you can change. So you can be better. And then it speaks of doing that. See, wanting to be better isn’t enough. You must actually be better.
But why do we strive for better? Why do we struggle for change? Why do we want more? Is it so that we can leave the world a better place for our children? So that we can feel like we have earned a heightened place in society? To be of more value to others? To make someone important to you proud of you? I want to be better for those reasons, and many more.
I let a lot of people down. I was the oldest child. I was the one who excelled. I was captain of Academic Decathlon, on Student Council, Chairman of Students Against Drunk Driving, sang in our church choir, led Bible study. All the things that you do if you are going to be the first person in your family to earn a college degree, to make something of your life. To be better. Until I wasn’t. Until I dropped out of college after one semester. Until I got fired for lying about attending a family members funeral (who was still alive, but I just wanted three days off work). Until I was homeless. Until I went to prison.
It took a long time for me to realize that I was literally at the bottom. The bottom of the well. With unclimbable walls all around me. With nothing to do but look up. Looking back, Sammy Kershaw helped me get through that. I went to work. And I worked hard, taking any job I could get. I worked from sunup to sundown, because now I had a record, and that limited me to generally low-paying, menial jobs. I couldn’t get a car since I couldn’t get a driving license, so I got up hours early to take buses. I lived with family, and then co-workers. I got very good at saving money, because I never had any. All so that I could change. I could be better.
I began to change who I am. I read, a lot. I sang, a lot (big karaoke buff). I went to church. I made new friends. I kept trying for better jobs. More money, more stability. I went from day labor jobs to waiting tables. Then to retail, eventually becoming part of the management team at the store I worked at. I did whatever I had to do, without complaint, because my struggles were my fault. I did it. And it took realizing that to understand why I needed to change. It couldn’t just happen to me. I couldn’t just want it. I had to be the one to make the sacrifice. I was still working two jobs and had a side gig of hosting karaoke a few nights a week. And that’s what led to the biggest change of all.
I met my wife. Standing on the stage of a little dive bar in Austin, TX. The previous host was training me and introducing me to some of his regulars. “And this is Jennifer.” I knew, in my heart, that I would end up dating her. See, I had dated 3 other Jennifers prior to her, one of whom used to be married to another guy named Jeremy. I guess some things don’t change.
I’m a country boy from West Texas. I grew up on a farm outside of San Angelo, raising cows, chickens, corn and asparagus. But we mostly grew dirt. And after my stint in prison, I needed a change. So, I moved to Austin, which is about as different from West Texas as you can get, and still be in Texas. She had moved there from New Orleans and was the definition of a “city girl”. She loved 80s music and Broadway. She wore long dresses and flats. She sold computers. She acted in local theater. Things that I didn’t really know or understand. But somehow, that didn’t seem to matter. I would sing Garth Brooks and Toby Keith, and she would sing Barbra Streisand and Etta James. And for the record, she asked me out.
I mean, obviously, meeting the person you are going to marry is a big change, but it was more than that. My life didn’t just change. My circumstances didn’t just change. My Facebook status didn’t just change. I changed. I got better. I met types of people that I had never met. I learned things that I didn’t have any exposure to. I saw things beyond the rigid black and white binary that had been drilled into me in Texas. “Wait, you’re telling me that homosexual people aren’t possessed by demons? That people of color weren’t all lazy? That women were just as capable as I was? That people knew who and what they were better than I could know them?”
Those sound like extreme beliefs, and that’s because they are. But it’s what I was taught growing up. I was a Conservative, Evangelical, traditional bigot. And that’s no way to live. I had to change. I had to be better. We all know the quote, “I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better.” Wise words, though often misquoted. It’s a call to action. A call for forgiveness of our past selves. A call for change. There’s another song I love, called “Some People Change” by Montgomery Gentry. It’s the story of two people overcoming how they were raised. One was a white supremacist. The other was an alcoholic. Both of them had to realize that they couldn’t stagnate. They couldn’t stay that way any longer. They had to be better. It also reminds us that change is possible. That you can earn a second chance if you turn your thoughts around. I had to recognize the bigotry I was raised in and leave it behind.
That brings me to the next step of change. Of being better. It’s not enough just to stop being a bigot. Just to stop treating people poorly because of who they love, what color their skin is, or what sexual or gender characteristics they have. You must DO better. You must fight for change outside of just yourself. You must stand up and say that no one deserves to be treated that way, that you have seen the error of your ways, and you will now put yourself in between the people being hurt and the people hurting them. To make amends for the harm you did.
And you’re going to get hurt doing that. You will have to cut off people you once respected and admired, because they can’t see their need to change. You will get insulted, and belittled, and attacked. But that’s what being an ally is. If you’re not also getting hit with the stones, then you aren’t standing close enough to the person they’re being thrown at. The only way we can change the world for the better is to do the work, not just on ourselves, but to help others.
Now I have a little girl. She’s all of 9 years old, and she IS going to change the world. Whether that’s asking us to organize street clean ups because she gets upset when she sees litter or wanting to build hygiene bags for the unhoused that she sees when we drive around. Making little friendship bracelets for all the kids at summer camp (especially the ones who seem lonely) or helping organize cans donated at food drives. Standing in the summer heat at our church booth at the Pride Parade to hug people and give them a temporary tattoo or reading stories of Rebel Girls for inspiration. She doesn’t just talk about changing the world, she is actively doing it.
Because change isn’t just words. It’s actions. It’s work. And she’s putting in the work. I love her so much. Nothing turns someone into an activist quite like having a child.
Sometimes it doesn’t work though. Sometimes you still encounter bigotry. Hatred. Anger. And that brings me to what change isn’t. Change isn’t going back to those things. Change isn’t meeting anger with anger. Honestly, that’s the part I struggle with the most. I get so angry when I see injustice to people who don’t deserve it. I want to lash out on their behalf. I want to curse and yell back at those who are cursing and yelling at people I care about. And to be fair, there is a part of me that thinks that if I don’t do that, I’m not using all of my passion for justice. But that’s not the way. I know better. Now I must do better. I’ll probably still fail at that from time to time.
In those moments, I turn to yet another song. I know, surprise, surprise. “The Change” by Garth Brooks is my undisputed favorite song of all time. I have tried for most of my life to live up to these words.
[Chorus]
And I hear them sayin’, you’ll never change things
And no matter what you do it’s still the same thing
But it’s not the world that I am changing
I do this so this world we know never changes me
[Outro]
What I do is so, this world will know, that it will not change me.
Garth Brooks. “The Change”. Fresh Horses, Intersong Records, 1996.
Those are powerful words. They cut deep, in those moments of anger being returned to others. I’m doing the things I’m doing, to help end anger and hatred. I can’t use those tactics anymore. I’m not the man I used to be. And I can’t let someone else drag me back down to that level any longer. I can’t change back. I have to keep moving forward.
So I’m doing it. I help people whenever possible, both small scale and large. I raise money for St Jude Children’s Research Hospital and Movember. I serve at our church Pride booth. I help organize and pass out diapers and wipes here in Granite City. I am running for a seat on the County Board. I went back to school, after having dropped out 24 years ago, to pursue a degree in Social Work. I left Texas, my home all my life, where all my family is, so that my little girl didn’t grow up having to unlearn all the things I learned there. Talk about a big change.
There are times when I still struggle to forgive myself for my past. Times where I still think that I am not worthy of trust, of friendship, of love. Times where all I see is the college drop-out who stole checks and went to prison for it. In those times, I think about my grandfather. My hero, who meant more to me than anyone else (until I met my wife, obviously). I think about the disappointment in his eyes when he saw what I had become. The promise I had broken. The future I gave up. And then, I think about Sammy Kershaw. I think about that song. The song that, years later, I got to play for my grandfather before he began showing signs of the Alzheimer’s that eventually took him from us. And his words were, “Wow. That song is pretty prophetic. I’m glad you are changing.” Knowing that, in the end, he was proud of me again, allows me to be proud of myself.
[Verse 2]
I’ve pinned a lot of demons to the ground
Got a lot of old habits licked
But there’s still one or two I might need you to help me kick
Standin’ in the rain so long has left me with a little rust
But put some faith in me
Some day you’ll see there’s a diamond under all this dust
Sammy Kershaw. “Better Than I Used to Be”. Better Than I Used to Be, Big Hit Records, 2010.
Change is hard. Being better is hard. Standing up for others is hard. Forgiving yourself is hard. Fighting the temptation to return to old habits is hard (ask me sometime about when I quit smoking cigarettes). But if we aren’t changing for the better, then what are we even doing here?
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
