Wisdom Is More Important Than Smarts

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This week Cam offers some insight to new college graduates on some basic workplace skills that will make them effective in their workplace. He’s advised his clients for over twenty years on these things, maybe he should have something worthwhile to say.

—–

My daughter graduated from college in May. After 20+ years advising companies and 7+ years interviewing workplace leaders on my What’s Working with Cam Marston radio show and podcast, I realized I should have some useful advice for her—and others—stepping into the next chapter. This is lesson number one called Wisdom is more important than Smarts. You can follow the upcoming lesson on my Linkedin page.

Last week, after giving a speech in Atlanta, a young man approached me with a familiar question: “How do I deal with my Gen Z employee who’s been here a year and now wants a leadership role—or else he’s leaving?”

I’ve heard this one for about ten years. First, it was Millennials asking this of Gen X leaders. Now, it’s Gen Z asking it of Millennials.

So, what’s changed?

We raised our kids in a culture of constant praise and reward. We applauded nearly everything. They didn’t ask for it—we gave it to them, believing it was the right thing to do. But it created expectations: follow the rules, don’t mess up, and a reward will come.

And while that may work in classrooms and sports, the workplace plays by different rules. Competence may get you in the game, but leadership requires wisdom.

Wisdom isn’t knowing how to do the job. It’s knowing when, where, why, and with whom. It’s built over time—by watching people, seeing how decisions ripple through teams, and understanding the bigger picture.

Can wisdom be accelerated? Maybe—but only through pain and loss. A job falling apart. A serious illness. Hard-earned experience. And nobody wants that path.

Wisdom teaches restraint:

• What not to say
• What not to email
• What not to escalate
• What attention not to attract

Wisdom also teaches self-awareness:

• What do I do well?
• What energizes me?
• Where am I weak?
• What kind of feedback helps me improve?

Even the smartest new hire with the highest GPA won’t have those answers yet. Because wisdom requires time. There is no shortcut. No cheat code.

In fact, the moment someone says, “I’ve been here a year; I’m ready to lead,” they reveal the very lack of wisdom that disqualifies them.

So, for my daughter—and others in her shoes—here’s what I’d say:

1. Focus on what you’re learning.
Beyond task lists, study people and power dynamics.

• What makes leaders effective and likable?
• Who persuades without authority—and how?
• Who’s trusted? Who’s not? Why?
• What subtle behaviors win or lose influence?

2. Build relationships.
Meet people inside and outside your org. Listen deeply. Ask “why” a lot. And speak less—questions build more respect than fast answers.

And finally: stop counting the days.

Keep your head up. Watch closely. Learn quickly. Adjust often. Wisdom sneaks in when you least expect it—and that’s what turns a worker into a leader.

I’m Cam Marston an I’m just trying to keep it real.

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Blaine Got The Call

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, lots of people celebrated last week. Cam was one of them. It was a case of determination unwavering belief that was finally rewarded.

—–

So, after six years, Blaine finally got the call.

I remember during the pandemic my wife and I rode our children’s bikes down the center of the street late one evening to our friend’s house for a cocktail. It was strange to have no traffic at that hour. At their house we sat outside and chatted for a while. Blaine was home and he and his sister stood in the back yard playing an improvised game hitting ping pong balls with a dowel across the yard. They’d toss it and smack it. I marveled at how hard it must be to hit such a tiny ball with a tinier bat but they both did, repeatedly. Having fun with each other while they were sent home from school, waiting for the pandemic to ease so they could return to their worlds. I hoped they wouldn’t ask me to take a swing. I would never have made contact.

Blaine was a solid player in high school. Then an even better player in college. Then he stood out in single a, then double a, and now in triple a. At each level, he figured out how to succeed, winning awards along the way. And whenever he was at home visiting his parents and friends, he was a nice guy. We like him. Everyone does. That was clear at his wedding. He has a deep support system. And Blaine finally got the call.

Along the way, Blaine had developed an army of supporters. Coaches, teachers, parents, pastors, friends, neighbors, church congregations. We’d each invested a small piece of our hearts along the way, and each of us harbored a silent hope that that this young man’s determination would pay off. He never wavered. We saw something enviable in him. It wasn’t only his remarkable baseball talent. It was his belief in himself.

Thursday, a cancelled flight stranded my wife and me in Colorado. We tried to make the best of it. Today is a great day, my wife said, because the experts say that just saying that can change your attitude. So, we sat with a drink, determined that it was a great day. I heard her gasp as she looked into her phone. Blaine’s mom and dad had checked out of their beach hotel in Florida after just a few hours and were driving home to catch a flight. Blaine was playing that night in Arlington and then on Tuesday in Boston. They would be there. No questions, because Blaine finally got the call.

My wife and Blaine’s mom spoke. Her eyes got wet. Blaine’s mom and dad were busting it down I-10, vacation abandoned. After hundreds and hundreds of games and countless more practices and dues paying, Blaine finally got the call. He had never wavered. He was headed to the majors. My wife and I toasted Blaine and his family, now both of our eyes wet, on this great day. Because Blaine finally got the call. And in a way, we all did.

Good luck, Blaine. Win or lose, we got your back. All of us. Count on it.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

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Practitioner

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam wonders if we have what it takes any more. If the thumbs up button is as far as we’ll go or as much as we’ll do.

—–

David Brooks wrote a column in the New York Times last week calling for a, quote “comprehensive national civic uprising.” There are well over four thousand comments with most being something along the lines of “Yes. It’s about time. Someone should do something.” Brooks’ says the Trump administration has gone too far, that we are indeed in a constitutional crisis, and it’s time to act.

But, I wonder, do we have what it takes to act? Or have we gotten used to saying “yeah, that’s a problem but it’s someone else’s problem, not mine” and maybe hit the thumbs up button.

I’m going to change the subject. I’ve had some tense conversations with my Christian friends when I tell them that it’s much easier to worship than to be a practitioner of their faith. Worshipping Jesus is easy. We go to church. We pray before meals. We ask for blessings in his name. Maybe wear a crucifix. That’s worshipping. It’s public. Visible. And, frankly, easy compared to what he actually asked us to do. “Don’t bother with worshiping me,” he essentially said. “Follow me.” Do what I do. Behave the way I behave. Luke, Chapter Six, “Why do you call me Lord, Lord and not do what I tell you?” There many similar versus throughout the New Testament. 

But do any of us have what it takes to do what he told us? Few. Very few. Because that’s hard and, today, puts us at odds with what’s happening in our nation. “I’m good with the Lord. I went to Church on Easter.” Well how about that guy who was sent mistakenly to prison in El Salvador?  We say, “Yea. That’s awful. He shouldn’t have been caught up in whatever he was caught up with. I’ll pray for him.” And that’s it.

But if we were truly practitioners, not simply worshippers, what would we do to help he imprisoned, he poor, the neglected?  We’d do something active with our feet, not simply bring our hands together and mention the poor guy over grace before dinner. Does this nation today, supposedly packed with Christians, have what it takes to act Christ-like anymore? Or are we all so fat and content that we let abuses fly and we’ll simply click the thumbs-up and offer our BS thoughts and prayers?

I’m disgusted by what’s happening out there. I’m disgusted by the way so many of the Universities and law firms, supposedly bastions established to spread open thinking and to uphold democracy, are rolling over like puppies on the teat. There are protesters, but I’m disgusted by how many of us – me included – are watching and not practicing our faith.

We were once a proud nation who pitied the banana republics run by bullies with no character and integrity. We would act to protect the weak, the poor, the vulnerable. Whether you agreed with or not, we knew this country would act. Now, we don’t even act on it inside our own borders.

We are a nation supposedly full of Christians who, despite what our Christ asked of us, feel contented to only worship and not practice our faith. Prove me wrong. Please!

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Prom

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On this week’s Keepin’ It Real, Cam tells us that based on a series of recent events, he has two people he’d like offer up as potentially superb spies.

—–

My twins are high school juniors, and prom was last Saturday night. The event went something like this:

For my son: He brought his Joseph Banks suit downstairs about noon. It looked like it had been in a pile on the floor since he last wore it in March. There was a button-down shirt with it. My wife took the clothes and began steaming the wrinkles out. She asked “What flowers did you get your date.” A blank look. “Go to Publix and get some flowers. We’ll make something.” He returned with one hydrangea. My wife quietly returned to Publix and came home with an assortment of flowers and began making a bouquet. My son borrowed my dress shoes.

For my daughter: She called her older sister earlier in the week and asked if she could return from college and help her with her hair for prom. Saturday, early afternoon, for about an hour, the two sat in front of a mirror and pre-prepped her hair. My prom-bound daughter left the house, hair in giant rollers, for the next stop in her pre-prom prep tour at someone’s house. There she would follow her sister’s instructions on getting the hair to the next step. Her dress was hermetically sealed in a bag to be opened only when put on. Walking to her car she carried an assortment of bags including make-up, clothes, hair dryers, and miscellaneous things I couldn’t ID. And a Stanley cup in her hand, of course.

My son and his buddies stood together for pictures in a yard where they collected before prom. Parents quickly snapped photos before the boys wandered off. They looked disinterested and annoyed by the photos.

My daughter and her friends, now fully primped, posed in front of a fountain downtown, while one of their friend’s mothers, a photographer, posed the girls individually, then in pairs, then as a group. Per the photos, the girls appeared happy to comply. The next day, parents were sent a link to a website where we could review and download the photos we liked.

At prom the boys sat on the stage, from what we heard, looking over the sight and largely talking amongst themselves. The girls stood in front of the DJ and danced. There may have been some co-mingled dancing toward the 10pm hour, but those details remain shrouded. The DJ, they said, was good.

From there, my son went to a friend’s house for a late meal cooked by parents, and they slept on sofas and mattresses in a den. He arrived home about noon the next day.

My daughter was treated to a night in a hotel for a friend’s birthday where she shared a room with three friends. They gabbed until late, discussing the particulars of the evening. She arrived home about the same time as my son. Both looked tired.

Dinner Sunday night, my wife and I asked, “How was prom?”

“Good,” they both replied.

“Tell us about it. What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing? Really?”

“Nope. Nothin’. Just prom.”

After all that, we get “Nothin. Just prom.” Tight lipped, no details, close to the vest, tell us nothing. They should work for the CIA. Maybe they do.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

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To AI or Not AI. That Is The Question.

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On today’s Keepin’ it Real, Cam reports on a writer’s conference he attended last weekend where a good part of the conversation was about using AI. All the writers, Cam reports, choose to not use it, preferring to remain “pure.”

—–

I attended a writers’ conference last Saturday. Writers are a curious breed, convinced their unique perspective on describing something as mundane as a sunset is groundbreaking and essential. I love them. But they’re weird.

This year, though, a frequent topic was artificial intelligence – how do writers use it, if at all. Speaker after speaker claimed they don’t use the stuff, choosing instead to remain “pure.”

Huh, I thought. I wonder if mathematicians once dismissed calculators because they weren’t pure. Or cooks refused kitchen blenders because electrified blending wasn’t pure. Or the ancient Chinese dismissed matches because fire made from flint and steel was somehow more pure.

“AI just doesn’t have a soul,” the authors seemed to be saying “It can’t experience love, loss, or regret.” True enough, but then again, neither does my toaster, and it still reliably performs its job every morning without any existential angst. Plus, it doesn’t complain when I burn the toast.

Truth be told, I wanted to agree with the speakers wholeheartedly. Part of me wanted to stand triumphantly on my chair, fist raised high, shouting, “Yes! AI can’t possibly write the way we can! Its unpure.” But as I sat listening, I couldn’t help remembering countless times when I’ve stared helplessly at a blinking cursor on an empty screen, desperately begging for inspiration to appear. More often than not, what I ended up writing was about was mindless junk that I needed to fill a page and make a deadline. Maybe a dash of AI could have given my writer’s block exactly the jump-start it needed.

Yet could an AI authentically capture the awkward silence after a joke falls embarrassingly flat—something I’ve personally experienced far too often—or perfectly describe the unique blend of ego and insecurity that simmered quietly throughout the conference room? Could it mimic the quiet desperation of writers jockeying for the attention and the validation of their peers?

The honest truth is, I don’t know. And frankly, I’m not sure these writers at the conference really knew either. Perhaps they’re right, and artificial intelligence will always lack that elusive “human touch.” But who can say for sure? Maybe someday, an AI will pen a poem so profoundly moving that we’ll all toss our beloved notebooks aside and question every choice we’ve ever made.

STOP. FULL STOP.

Everything you’ve just heard was written this morning by ChatGPT using the following prompt:

Write a 450-word commentary based on my Keepin’ it Real commentaries for Alabama Public Radio, written in my voice. In it, discuss a writer’s conference I attended last week and how many writers felt that AI could never replace the sound of the true creative’s voice. Make it humorous and poke a bit of fun at the writers who said this.

And folks, I can promise you this is the first time I’ve used AI in any of my 300+ commentaries. And I pledge to you going forward, I intend to Keep It Real.

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Get The Joke

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Cam and his wife were at a wedding reception last week. It was beautiful. One conversation, though, has stuck with him.

—–

My wife and I stood with a young man at a wedding Saturday night as he lamented the lack of turkeys to hunt at his camp. There were no gobblers, he said, and he was a bit down in the mouth about it. “Why,” my wife asked.

“In the spring,” he said, “the hens move to a different place where they like the environment for nesting. The gobblers follow. And wherever those hens go, it’s not on our property. I wish there were something about our place that the hens liked but every spring they move away, and the gobblers go with them.”

“Sounds a lot like the bars I used to go to in college,” I said. No reaction.

Then my wife joined in. “How about making your place more romantic. Some mood lighting in the woods and you can play Sade and Lou Rawls. That’ll make the hens want to stick around. Make it so romantic they can’t bring themselves to leave.” And she began singing You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine and doing a little shoulder dance. She and I laughed at the idea. It was funny! Both of us were imagining two turkeys doing a sensual dance around each other in the middle of the woods to Lou Rawls or Sade under some soft lights. We were wiping tears from our eyes. It was hysterical and we kept the joke going. It was good stuff!

The young man’s expression was, well…he was either pitying us, worried for us, or worried for himself. He thought none of it was funny. He didn’t get the joke. He looked awkward because he felt awkward. Two people standing in front of him mopping tears from their eyes to something that he knew flew way over his head. Lou Rawls? Sade? Who were they? Should he offer us a nervous, sympathetic laugh? Should he excuse himself and quickly get lost in the crowd? The poor young man stood there uncomfortably, not knowing what to do. We stopped laughing and an awkward silence hung.

It was the age gap. It reared its ugly head and stared all of us in the face. Was the key to getting the joke knowing who Sade and Lou Rawls is? Was the key to getting the joke hearing the song in your head and picturing the turkeys dancing? Was the joke something only old people like and when I was in my twenties would have felt sad for me, too. Does humor, like wine, age and change its complexity? And then, like wine, go bad.

I could chalk the whole incident up to my wife and my shared odd sense of humor. I’m not gonna do that. I could chalk it up to our humor having gone bad. That’s not it. I’m going to chalk it up to kids these days. Imagine two turkeys dancing in the woods to this music and try not to smile. Try I dare you. You can’t not smile. It was funny!

I worry about the future of our nation.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Judges Of The Truth

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It’s been a long week for Cam. He’s going to get paid one hundred dollars for two days of work that he is required by law to perform. He didn’t enjoy it but it wasn’t because of the low pay.

——

In grade school I never wanted to be the one to pick teams. I was afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. It’s ridiculous, I know. I like to get along. I like to see people succeed. I’ve never wanted to be the arbiter of someone’s else’s happiness. That responsibility scares me.

Monday morning, I was selected as a jury member for a federal trial. It was my first time doing this. I was one of eleven others who would decide the fate of the parties in front of me. And I was nervous. The judge told us that while his title was judge, we were being asked to be “judges of the truth.” I know myself and my flaws all too well. Amongst other things, I can be terribly gullible. I’m not sure I’m qualified to be a judge of the truth. However, by nine o’clock Monday morning, my fellow jurors and I were evaluating arguments.

What I saw didn’t help me become less nervous. The solemnity of the proceedings can most closely be related to a religious service. Lots of quiet. Lots of honorifics amongst staff and colleagues. Lots of silence as the parties gathered to whisper, like priests at an altar. Whenever my jury colleagues and I entered or exited the courtroom, everyone stood. It all signaled that this was serious stuff. And as the details of the case became clear, I realized that we, the jury, would render a decision that could eventually lead to the ruin of either of these parties.

Desperation appears in the courtroom. To get a win, both parties will bring up things from each other’s past that are deeply regrettable but clearly documented. Anything a witness had hoped was lost to time is now back, being wagged in front of the jury, attorneys painfully drawing out the story and the explanation. People at their weakest. If the judge felt the content was prudent, it was discussed. If not, he firmly shut it down. Embarrassment and shame were left out of his decision to let the content be aired or not. No one was berated but the questioning was, well, very thorough.

Fortunately for us the decision was an easy one and the jury was of one mind shortly after we began deliberating. Neither plaintiff nor defendant appeared surprised. We were thanked and dismissed. I don’t know what happened after that. Both parties stood as we walked out. No TV like celebrations or hugs and kisses between the victorious attorneys and their client. It was simply over. In a few weeks I’m to receive payment of one hundred dollars for two days of my time and a decision that may well lead to ruin of the losing party.

I did my service. I had to. I would have broken the law had I not. The verdict was easy, thankfully. But I was uncomfortable the whole time. Doing my best to track the arguments and be a “judge of the truth.” I’ve seen a trial now and I can honestly say I hope I never have to be the judge of someone else’s future ever again.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Trying to Keep it Real.

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Meaningless Conversations

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On this week’s Keepin It Real, Cam Marston shares what exhausts him and how a good conversation is hard to find.

—–

It was 1,000 one-minute conversations. A collection of people who all were within a degree, maybe a half a degree, of separation. Hardly a meaningful chat and as the event wore on, the meaningfulness of the chats dwindled further. For so little conversation, it was exhausting. I think maybe that conversations that skim along the veneer of content are more taxing than digging into content. I don’t know. But when I left, I was completely spent.

I’m like so many other people claiming that technology has impacted today’s youth’s ability to communicate. I bemoan their addicted behaviors when it comes to their phones. Technology has impacted their ability to talk, I say, or to hold a conversation, or to make eye contact. Today’s technology has made them only interested in what everyone else is doing or saying, unable to engage with what’s happening right here, right now, right in front of them. However, my own behavior at this event wasn’t much different than the complaints I make about them. I can imagine how I looked, flitting from person to person, hardly engaging anyone, only looking for what’s next and who else was there. The event was spectacular. I was the problem.

Not long ago I read about a couple who were invited to a dinner party. They normally decline these invitations because they abhor small talk; it wears them out. The host, however, insisted and the couple begrudgingly showed up, fake smiles pasted on their faces. Once the final guests arrived and all were seated for dinner, the host asked a bombshell question: “How do each of you deal with your marital conflicts?” After a moment of stunned silence, the couples began sharing their stories and their tactics and their lessons learned. There was no small talk to be had. It was an immediate deep dive into meaningful content. The reluctant couple had said to each other they’d stay until it was acceptable to leave. They had their departure excuse rehearsed. However, they ended up staying until well after midnight and left energized by the conversations, not depleted.

I had lunch with a guy a while back. I had shared a book I enjoyed with him weeks before. When he and I sat down, I asked him what he felt his purpose in life were, which was a major element of the book. When his tone changed and he began subtly mocking me thinking I didn’t notice, I realized I had rushed things. It was too soon for that question. Was it too soon in our lunch? Too soon in our friendship? I don’t know. We both hurried the lunch to a close and he’s avoided me ever since. I was searching for meaningful content and assumed he’d join me. He was having none of it and none of me. It’s too bad, too. He’s an interesting guy.

Like most people my age, I’m old enough now that I know a good number of people. I wanted that at one point and, well, here I am. However, at my age, I’m old enough now to realize that I want to know, truly know, many, many fewer.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Happiness

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On today’s Keeping It Real, Cam recounts his birthday week which has some unexpected surges of happiness. 

—–

Happiness is fleeting. It never lasts and I’m not sure it’s supposed to. It’s different than joy and contentment and pleasantness. Happiness bubbles up from an unexpected place and last such a short time. And when it arrives, it sometimes brings tears. Living in constant happiness would render us nearly helpless. It immobilizes you. Living in joy and contentment is great with, hopefully, unexpected surges of happiness from time to time that render us speechless.

For my fifty-sixth birthday earlier this week, the good Lord sent me several surges of happiness. I’m old enough now, and wise enough, to know what they are when I feel them and to do my best to live in them for the moments they’re with me. To document them in my head, to let them imprint on my brain, and to know that they’ll end and to cherish their memories.

The first one came when a small team of which I was a member successfully executed the opening an event. It was better, I think, than what we had expected. I looked over a large crowd who acknowledged our efforts with a celebratory cheer that lasted and lasted as some of the people we had worked to recognize where indeed recognized the way my team and I had hoped. I looked at my teammate and our grins were, well, enormous. Our celebratory hug was spontaneous, genuine, and heartfelt.

Then I watched as one of my children entertained her friends from Oxford who had never seen a Mardi Gras parade or a Mardi Gras ball. They were overwhelmed. My daughter took such great pride in introducing her friends to her traditions and her roots and her friends soaked it all in. They ate it all up. They showed immense gratitude to my daughter in all the experiences they had and all the memories they received. I was happy when I saw my daughter beaming with pride. Her friends had seen and truly appreciated what she was so proud of.

And then there’s the moment that brought the tears. It was a friend of my late mother’s who looked at my daughter and immediately saw her. Saw my mother. She said it was in her face and her joyfulness. I confess I had never seen it. My daughter’s only ever looked like my daughter but when I looked through my mother’s friend’s eyes, I saw it. As I stood with my mother’s friend, she began tearing up at the memory of my mother which had suddenly surged back. When I saw the tears and looked at my daughter through her eyes, I felt a surge of sadness, of ache, and, there in it all, was happiness. Happiness that my mother was so loved. My mother died three years ago on Wednesday. And for my birthday I was reminded that my mother was gone only if I let her be. I was reminded that I can keep her with me. Her memory is one I have access to. One I can control. One I can choose. And rather than feel sadness at her untimely loss, I can choose happiness that I remember her. And I did. And I felt it.

I’m Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.

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