Max Titov

Be Present

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Growing up and personal growth: these concepts have echoed throughout my life; they still do; many have contributed: my parents, managers, friends and loved ones have all had the opportunity to influence and see me change.  Staying true to who you are, belonging and sharing is not an easy task.  The act of opening up to others will run you the risk of getting knocked around; and as unfortunate as it is, more often than not we’re going to get smacked upside our heads.  Hence, the two main questions that I tend to ask myself are:

  1. Should I stand up and be present?
  2. What do I do afterwards?

The first question is a very simple one to answer but very difficult to implement.  Yes, I choose to stand up and be present: I accept myself for the man that I am. I openly share my ideas, fears and desires without reservations [or at least I try to].

The scenarios can range from: how you feel about your ability at work and what you’re worth; to how you feel about that special someone; to simply standing up and making your way to the dance floor when you feel the rhythm of the beat reach your inner being.

Regardless of the act the risk of rejection is far greater when we confront the situation head on and we’re honest about our intentions. Our prize is the knowledge that at the end of the day we get the chance to walk away with our heads held high.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” Theodore Roosevelt

Life is a tricky thing: it’s far too easy to sit back, be quiet and let it go by.  I know, the notion is a tad melodramatic and could be considered as impractical: what does it really cost us to be quiet?

Well, it could actually cost us far more than we truly realize!

The second question is far more challenging to answer: the second question involves those with whom we share ourselves:  those who have the ability to accept us for who we are and simultaneously destroy us.

First of all: I would like to say that connections are possible, that there are people who understand, that there are those who will accept our quirkiness and our individuality.  And in the presence of those few it is very important to honor and acknowledge these rare and wonderful moments.  It’s not common, and it’s not a given!

Secondly: it is equally as important to acknowledge that not everyone will get you.  Understanding is not a default; it is not something that is owed; and it is not something that will come easily.  Very often understanding will require work and more likely most won’t bother with the required effort; and that’s ok.

Really it is!

Stating that rejection is “ok” is not a natural response either.  Not for me!  Acceptance requires effort too.  When the dust is settled I often tend to ask myself: is it really worth my time?  And honestly, sometimes it’s not – and although it’s an unfortunate concept most of the time I find peace in the conclusion.  But that doesn’t mean that I stop trying.

There are those that are worth the time, and there are those that will put in the effort, and there are those who will make life that much more interesting.

So don’t fret, be present, and show up!

Cheers,

Max

Max Titov

Empathy is NOT the default setting

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While going through the works of @BreneBrown I was introduced to the idea that empathizing with another person is not the default reaction that most of us have.

This topic is particularly important to me because I’ve been struggling with the definition, understanding and application of empathy in my daily life.  At one point or another I realized and accepted that I didn’t have a natural sense for empathy – I suppose you could say that I never took the time to learn as I was growing up.

In North American culture a typical male is defined by characteristics of a person who struggles with listening, understanding and relating to others; it is common for males to try and solve a problem at hand [in essence killing the conversation and avoiding any type of vulnerability]. It’s a standard defense mechanism.

I was no exception.  That’s how I was raised and that’s how I understood the world.  Great men before me did this and great men after me will do the same.

I don’t know how or when this came to be the case but I’ve always thought a True Man out to embody the following:

  • Strength
  • Control
  • The ability to take on everything that the world threw at you and keep moving forward: quietly, silently, determined, like some kind of a mechanical being

A True Man must not show qualities that are in essence equivalent to those that are found in our female counterparts.  I strongly believe this is the root cause of this whole mess.

Being vulnerable, being open, being connected with others is understood as a weakness.  We cling together, we find comfort in our organized inability to feel or understand and we lash out – we lash out in most terrible ways possible – we lash out because we can’t help it and we don’t know why.  It’s a terrible cycle.

Here’s what gets me.

If we collectively stop for a second and realize that empathy is not the default reaction; that it’s a skill that requires practice, patience and diligence to master; then suddenly I think we will realize that we are going about this all wrong.

What I often hear is “men don’t listen”; that’s right; it’s a shaming response to a particular behavior.  And what do you think happens when men hear this?  Men retreat further in to our default personalities.

Additionally I believe that the concept that men want to be understood is grossly undervalued.  It’s not a one direction highway.

Any human shares a great desire to be understood and accepted for who they are.  It doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman.

Taking this as a starting point it only seems natural that the work must come from both ends; both men and women must play an active role in improving our culture. Both genders must accept each other and unshackle themselves from our social bindings.

If we don’t we are destined to remain in the dark.

 

I have hope.

I have hope my dear reader.

I have hope that things are changing, that we’re growing, that we as a human species are slowly getting better at understanding each other.  We’re not there yet but we’re making progress.

I hope, I am right.

 

Till next time,

Max

 

Max Titov

Let’s talk about it

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I spend a considerable amount of time putting my thoughts down on paper but the majority of what I write never reaches the open public.

I write to friends. We exchange emails and do so often.

Although I find writing to be comforting I’ve struggled with the idea of getting my thoughts across in to the public domain.  There are many reasons why and it took me some time to figure out the majority of them.

And, no!  I don’t have it all figured out yet.

 

Vulnerability: Writing or any type of creativity requires some back-bone, some trust and the ability to be vulnerable with your audience.  It’s one thing to open up to your trusted friends [those few who’ve been with you through the though times and lived to tell the tale – or perhaps keep it to themselves]; it’s a complete different experience to throw yourself at the mercy of the public.

Everyone has an opinion and everyone has the right to speak their mind.  It does take a certain level of strength to be authentic, to speak your thoughts and to accept associated challenges.

 

You’re not a real writer and what you have to say doesn’t really matter: The dreadful self-ridiculing voice that keeps us at bay.  I try to focus on the positives but in the process I think I miss the opportunity to deal with the root problem.  If I am honest with myself: I think this impacts my struggle with putting my thoughts online.

High school and a single creative writing course in university were the only sources of formal exposure to writing curriculum that I had. The creative writing course was amazing but it wasn’t enough to sufficiently break through a formula/algorithm based discipline of Computer Science.

Public writing always took a back-seat to life.

Now that I realize this: I will try to be more proactive and address my fears directly.  Do the work: write, because you love it, forget the fears and move forward.

 

Who are you writing for? I haven’t fully figured that out yet.  And this might be the biggest road block that prevented me from moving forward.  What is the purpose?  Who will read this?  In this vast digital space who will actually take the time and what value will my words have?

I like to do things for a reason.

A big part of me is an extrovert  so I draw energy from communicating and sharing with others.  As a result: there’s a great fear that all of this is for nothing, that all of this is a waste of time and simply just another “whim” that I took on a spur of the moment.

Conclusion

My dear reader, my unknown confidant: what can I say? I am not quite sure where this will take me, but I’ll give it an honest try.  I’ll write for myself and I’ll write for you; hoping that somehow we can both find some meaning in the process.

 

Your’s truly,

Max

 

 

Max Titov

Cooking: Talapia on a bed of Pan Fried Potatoes

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Ingredients

  • 4 potatoes
  • 1 onion
  • 1 slice of talapia
  • Salt
  • Ground pepper
  • Italian seasoning
  • Sunflower oil

Instructions

  • Cut potatoes in to small pieces
  • Finely dice onion
  • Heat up a pan with generous amount of oil
  • When hot add potatoes & stir frequently
  • Add onions

    When potatoes get a little colour, add onions & continue stirring frequently until done

  • Season

    Roughly at a 3/4 mark of when the potatoes are ready season the contents of the pan

Max Titov

Broken Smile

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There is a large construction site located adjacent to our building. I remember there used to be a playground there. Swings and carrousels, filled with kids and laughter. Now there are piles of gray construction blocks and a mangled wooden fence surrounding the property.

I hear my mother call my name, it is noon, time for us to go on our daily walk. I rush into my room and quickly find a pair of slightly worn out pants. The stains of dirt and torn chunks of dark grey fabric don’t bother me. I am excited about playing outside.

I run through the front door swinging it wide open. The air rushes through my lugs and the sun gently wrinkles my forehead. I feel like I haven’t been outside for so long. The semi-circular street surrounding our apartment building is packed with cars. It’s quiet now, I hear a kindergarten teacher talking to her students. I squeeze my mother’s hand and we continue walking. She has a strong grip. She looks down at me and smiles.

We pass a large shrub of bushes. It’s warm enough for little red fruits to start blooming. I rip one of them and hide it in my front pocket; my mom doesn’t notice. A neighbouring boy runs up to us; it’s Sergey. He is wearing neat black shorts and a plain dark t-shirt. Out of breath, he asks “Can Max play?” I look up with a smile and see my mother nods to me “Go on”.

Sergey runs around the corner and disappears in a large jagged opening of a crackled wooden fence. I follow him without hesitation. On the other side, I feel like I am in a maze. Piles of large cement blocks, some curved, some rectangular are surrounding me. I climb on top of one and see my friends talking in a group. Sergey is there, he invites me in; they want to play a game. I see my mother in the distance, I wave to her, and she waves back.

We start playing hide and seek; it’s my turn to search. I turn around and start counting; I like a challenge so I don’t peek. When I reach a hundred I turn. Quickly scouting the area I start walking forward. I clip my leg on a rusty metal bar and fall. Slowly and in shock, I push my self off the ground. I feel like my face was hit by a hammer, it hurts; it hurts so badly, I scream.

Sergey along with a few other boys appear. They have stunned expressions of horror. Without hesitation, Sergey rushes to the fence in search of my mother. In seconds my mother is here, she is terrified. She grabs me and rushes me to the apartment. Stumbling trying to catch her pace I cry, “It hurts”.

I want to wash my hands and face, mommy runs into the living room to call my father. I grab a clump of cheap soap, look in the mirror and freeze. My mouth is covered in blood. Three pieces of flesh and a broken bone are dangling from the top of my jaw. I scream “What have I done?” Mommy grabs a soft cloth and dabs it in to warm water. She wipes the blood off my hands and face. She tells me everything is going to be ok.

I can’t talk, it hurts.