Lessons in Cards, Cynicism, and Hope: My Grandmother’s Quiet Wisdom for a Competitive World

I still remember the sound of cards shuffling on that sticky, laminate table in her tiny trailer. My brother and I sat across from my grandmother, who had one eyebrow raised and a slight smirk on her face. We were deep into a game of penny poker, the stakes couldn’t have been lower—but you wouldn’t know it from the way she was playing.

“Now, boys,” she said, her voice dry as the Maine air, “you think you’re real clever, don’t you?”

My brother and I exchanged nervous glances. She had this way of seeing right through us, especially when we were bluffing. It was as if the cards didn’t matter at all—she could read us like a book.

“You know what your problem is?” she continued, slowly laying down her cards with a triumphant flick. “You’re too busy trying to win. If you’d stop worrying about beating me and start playing the game, you might actually learn something.“

We stared at her hand—four of a kind. She didn’t gloat, didn’t smile any wider than that little smirk. Instead, she scooped up the pennies, leaned back in her chair, and said, “Remember, it’s not about the cards you’re dealt. It’s about how you play them.”

Looking back, I realize she wasn’t just teaching us about poker that day. She was teaching us about life, and she did it with that perfect mix of sharp wit and understated wisdom.

As I grew older, I realized those card games weren’t just about fun; they became the foundation for a lifelong interest in game theory and strategic decision-making. I started to understand that the principles she used—bluffing, reading people, making calculated risks—were central to an entire segment of mathematics. In fact, game theory, which studies how and why people make decisions, became something I pursued academically and professionally.

But, of course, she wasn’t thinking about complex math or strategic models when she laid down those cards. For her, it was about understanding people, recognizing that life isn’t about outwitting others—it’s about making the right choices for the right reasons. In poker and in life, she taught us that sometimes you win by playing the long game, by thinking ahead, by being patient and reading the situation. It was a lesson that carried me far beyond those kitchen table poker games.

She wasn’t one for long lectures or flowery advice. No, my grandmother got her point across in a few sharp words and the occasional penny poker victory. She grew up during the Great Depression in East Millinocket, Maine, where you didn’t have the luxury of tearing others down—you had to pull together as a family, as a community. And that’s exactly what she taught us, whether we were playing cards or navigating life. She saw people not as rivals or stepping stones, but as individuals deserving of respect. In this, she lived out a deep ethical principle that philosophers have explored for centuries. Immanuel Kant, in particular, spoke powerfully about the moral duty to treat others not as means to an end, but as ends in themselves. For Kant, this was a cornerstone of his categorical imperative—the idea that we are morally obligated to act in ways that respect the inherent dignity of each person. My grandmother never studied Kant, but she lived his philosophy every day.

Kant believed that to treat someone as a means was to reduce them to an object—something useful only for achieving our own goals. This is a kind of moral blindness that strips away a person’s humanity. But to treat someone as an end is to recognize their intrinsic worth. It’s to acknowledge that each person has their own goals, dreams, and dignity, and that our actions should reflect that understanding.

My grandmother embodied this Kantian ideal in every interaction. Even when she didn’t say much—and believe me, she wasn’t one for long speeches—she treated people with a quiet, unspoken respect. She never saw others as tools to be used, nor did she approach life with a competitive mindset. Instead, she believed that everyone had their own place, their own value, and that our role is to help others thrive, not just ourselves.

She grew up during the Great Depression in East Millinocket, Maine, where scarcity was a fact of life. And yet, despite the hardships, she didn’t let bitterness or jealousy guide her. She often reminded me, “Jealousy and envy are the worst vices.” For Kant, these vices lead to treating others as mere obstacles in our pursuit of happiness. But my grandmother’s worldview was the opposite—she believed that true happiness came not from hoarding success for yourself but from seeing others succeed.

In her later years, she came into significant wealth, but you would never know it. She lived simply, still enjoying Spam, Vienna sausages, and Burger King, and shopping at Walmart. Wealth never defined her, and it certainly didn’t lead her to look down on others. In fact, she donated a considerable amount of money to her hometown when she had the means, believing deeply in the importance of helping her community. For her, generosity wasn’t about status or recognition; it was simply the right thing to do.

Kant believed that true moral action is done not for recognition or personal gain, but out of a sense of duty—because it’s the right thing to do, regardless of who’s watching or what rewards might come. My grandmother exemplified this. She didn’t give to be praised or remembered. She gave because she believed in the goodness of people and wanted to see her community flourish. It was the same in our family. She didn’t compete with us or pit us against one another. She wanted each of us—my brother, my kids—to thrive, even if that meant we might surpass her.

One of the most profound lessons I learned from her came through something as simple as playing cards. She taught me how to bluff, sure, but more importantly, she taught me how to be a gracious loser—and a gracious winner. This might seem trivial, but in a world where people are more often taught to win at all costs, being gracious is a rare trait. Kant would have called this a form of moral respect—recognizing that even in competition, the other person’s dignity should never be compromised. In her card games, as in life, my grandmother wanted us to succeed, but she also wanted us to respect one another in the process.

This sense of dignity and respect extended to everyone in her life, but it was especially evident in the way she loved her great-grandchildren, Archer and Sienna. Archer’s bright red hair was a source of endless joy for her, a symbol of hope for the future. In her final years, she found so much fulfillment in seeing her family grow, especially in watching the next generation carry forward the values she held dear.

She passed in our home, surrounded by the family she cherished, her last words reflecting her love for those around her. She spoke of Archer and of a young girl she saw in her room, inviting her somewhere beyond. In that moment, I realized that, much like Kant’s belief in the enduring value of the human spirit, she believed in something beyond this life. She believed that the love and respect we show in this life echoes in the next.

We live in a world that feels increasingly cynical, where we’re encouraged to compete rather than connect, to see the worst in others rather than the best. But my grandmother’s life was a testament to something else. She showed me, through her actions, that life isn’t about who wins the most, who accumulates the most wealth, or who climbs the highest. It’s about wanting those around you—especially the next generation—to thrive, even if their victories outshine your own.

In a time when envy and jealousy seem to rule, perhaps the most radical thing we can do is follow her example—and Kant’s. To treat others as ends in themselves, not as mere means to our own success. To celebrate others’ victories, even when they surpass our own. To live simply, but richly, in the love of family and the hope for a better future.

Kant’s moral philosophy tells us that respect for others isn’t just a guideline—it’s an obligation. My grandmother lived by this principle every day, without ever having to speak it aloud. Her life was a lesson in how to see the good in others, to treat people with dignity, and to want more for the next generation. If we can carry forward just a fraction of that wisdom, we’ll be better off—not just as individuals, but as a society.