Stop Comparing me to Animals

“If you were an animal, what animal would you be?” said the interviewer.

I first heard this question in grade school. The teacher worked her way through the class and as various animals were selected by other students, I tried to think of one not chosen.

“A tiger,” I said.

“Ah,” said the teacher. “Powerful, brave, and king of the jungle. Is this why you chose a tiger?”

“Yes,” I said preferring her answer to my attraction to the orange stripes.

So, I’m surprised to find this question in an interview considering the myriad of ways any choice can be interpreted. Surely we can figure out how to interview without getting cute with our questions. I was once asked in an interview to name someone I admired. This free-wheeling interview took place in a bar where I and the other finalist took turns answering questions apparently written at the bottom of their whiskey glasses. I can’t imagine what they may infer from my choice of a public figure.

As my rival answered, I thought about the question and decided to use a fictitious individual. I told them of a friend’s dad. When asked why I chose this person, I answered with characteristics I admired in leadership. They never had a chance to make any interpretation other than the one I presented.

The animal question posed a similar but more difficult challenge. Making up animals might not be appropriate. Perhaps some dinosaur would work. No, they might wonder why I wanted to be extinct.

“A duck-billed platypus,” I said to questioned looks.

“An odd choice; why?” she said obviously wanting lions, tigers and bears. It is a rare person who knows anything about the behavior of a duck-billed platypus, myself included, so the door is wide open.

“Well,” I started, “let me tell you . . .”

Same ole?

I didn’t even see him, just heard, “Same ole?”

I spotted the smiling round face behind the row of coffee urns at the Second Cup I now frequent calling out in his accented English if I want the same drink as usual. It amazes me how fast he learned my rather average drink (large dark coffee), though my frequency and bright orange jacket may be a factor.

Getting to Second Cup from where I currently work involves passing the temptation of two other places that serve coffee. One sells coffee in support of their food selection and never has a line up, which having tried the coffee is perfectly understandable. The old, glass carraffs sitting on hot plates remind me of the old days. Could be the same coffee, too.

The other is Tim Hortons. I used to like Tim’s coffee. Tim Horton was my favorite hockey player. Whenever I would play sports where I received a number, I always wanted #7.

“Why do you want that number,” I was asked. “Lucky 7?”

“No,” I replied. “It’s the number Tim Horton wore when he played for Toronto.”

“Who?”

“Tim Horton. The hockey player,” I said to a blank stare. “Never mind, just give me the number.” I fear Tim will be remembered more for “Tim Bits” than his stellar defensive work and participating in Toronto’s last Stanley Cup. Alas, it won’t be for the coffee.

As I pass Tim’s I watch a long line of customers slowly move towards three servers, each with a sense of urgency written on their face. No recognition. No acknowledgement. They take the order and the customer moves to the side to pick up their food and drink from someone else as “next” is shouted. It all seems so automated; a human imitation of a vending machine. And that’s how the coffee tastes to me – mechanical. The image of the service is reflected in my perception of the taste. Tim’s is a place you stop on your way somewhere else; it’s not a destination any more. Not to me.

Both Tim’s and Second Cup are successful in their chosen models; they know who they are. As I continue along the tunnel to satisfy my new habit, it makes me ponder about what I want to be. I reflect on how I have unleashed more creativity and expression than in the past, particularly when teaching or facilitating. I enjoy seeing the “light go on” in others. I think about disruptive innovation as I hear, “Same Ole.”

The irony of satisfying a habit while thinking about breaking out of them is not lost on me.

“Yes,” I say.

Reflection

The year will end in 7 hours. Not the world, mind you – we’ve already been through that Mayan craze. So as we work our way up to the New Year, I thought a little self-reflection is in order. While the answer may not be at the bottom of the beer glass, as the photo might imply, it is a good time to take stock. Though being sober when you do it may be a better, and more easily remembered, exercise.

New Year resolutions. Everyone makes them, even if they don’t tell anyone. They often revolve around trying to fix something.

“I’ve made a list for you,” he said.

“A list?” I said. “What’s it for?”

“It’s your New Year’s Resolutions. I listed out all the things you need to work on. Actually, I kept it to one page. Not sure you could handle much more than that in one year. Not sure you were making one.”

“Thanks,” I replied, taking the list. “You’re a good friend. Legal sized paper I see.”

This year I thought I would focus on strengths instead of weaknesses. I looked back over a challenging year and thought about what made me feel good and why I felt that way. Wouldn’t I want to do more of that? A lot more fun than spending time with the things I don’t do well.

Of course, I can’t ignore weaknesses that are harmful or interfering with my success, and this year I am going to focus on doing more of what I enjoy. When I reflect on 2012, I see how much my photography has improved, and how much I enjoy the creativity. I discovered teaching and how much I enjoy creating and delivering programs. And I enjoy writing. I’ve kept a journal for the last 18 months and have kept up with two blogs, this one and another on photography.

I hope you will join me in celebrating the New Year by recognizing that we all have strengths and we should endeavour to spend as much time with them as we can.

You need to be more assertive

“You need to be more assertive,” said my manager. I am a salesman having my annual performance review too many years ago. Being told to be more assertive was a common theme early in my career. I was a successful salesman achieving my targets, but for some reason everyone seemed to think being more assertive would be an improvement.

“What do you mean by being more assertive?” I asked.

“You know, more, well, positive or forceful. Yeah, be more forceful. And you have really good things to say, so you should say more,” he answered. He leaned back in his chair, propping an ankle on one knee looking smug, like he had imparted the wisdom of the ages.

“Do you have any questions?” he said, our session obviously over. Yes lots I thought. But since my manager had diagnosed me as deficient, I kept them to myself. Not the time to begin a new behavior of saying more.

I thought about the feedback. To improve myself, I need to say more and do it louder. Which reminded me of my manager. He was projecting on me what worked for him and, despite my success his feedback to me was to be more like him.

I tried it for a while. I bought books and self-study programs on being more assertive. Apparently, all successful people are assertive so I have to be assertive to be successful. Perhaps my manager’s assertive behavior would provide direction. I watched clients lean back in their chair as he leaned into them. Another time I had a female client ask me to sit beside her in a bar after closing a deal so my manager couldn’t continue hitting on her. I’m not sure this brand of assertiveness was going to work for me.

And I practiced being assertive and saying more. I noticed people want you to say more when you agree with them; not so much when you don’t. And I was most confident when I knew the facts, not when I was loud. The more aggressive I got, the less successful I became.

It took some time for the bulb to come on over my head. My opinion and observation is that most managers are ill equipped to handle the job and most learn by trial and error. Feedback is a skill and, in it’s absence we provide none, or project how we would (or use to) do the work. And we focus on improving weakness rather than strengths.

“Here’s how I would do it if I were you,” says the manager. But you’re not me and anything you say from this point on would only help you, not me. Oh, and don’t try this statement on your manager. For some reason the average manager doesn’t take feedback from subordinates with grace. They start to say you are too assertive.

After all, there are many ways to skin a cat. I’m sure the cat is less concerned about how it is skinned than the fact it is being skinned. And I’m sure the cat is thinking I’m being way too assertive.

Power and the orange leash

“Sit Molly.” Molly the Doodle gives me that look that says, “but why?” I say it again and she sits down. She gives me what passes for a dog smirk, knowing she sat when she wanted to.

I hold up her orange leash. “You know, I don’t have to take you for a walk if I don’t want to.” I do. Want to, I mean. Her eyes open wide at the sight of her leash. “Molly, come,” I say and she happily trots over.

Walking, I think about the leash, or what it represents. For Molly, it is both liberating and constraining. It represents the outdoors, new sights and smells, while preventing her from being more than four feet away from me at any time.  For me, it is the power to control, but also a responsibility. She pulls to the side, attracted by some scent. I pull back, feeling both power and control.

At work, I had a lot of power. Some of it, the obvious sources, came from my position in the organization, from the relationships I had established, and the work that I had done.

“People are afraid to come into your office.” My assistant is providing me some unsolicited coaching.

“They’re afraid? Of me? Why?” I ask.

“You look too stern. And you’re a vice president. You should try smiling more.”

“How’s this.” I try what I think is a welcoming smile.

“Now you just look goofy. Or scary. Don’t smile, I’ll just tell everyone you are really a nice guy.

And that’s how it is with Molly the Doodle. While I have power as symbolized by the leash, she walks without pulling. Molly wants her walk and is willingly gives up control. A dog will let you know pretty quick that a relationship built on fear does not work. If you’ve ever walked a dog that constantly pulls on the leash, you will know that, while you are in control, it is tiring and not much fun for either of you.

Perhaps we should put dogs in organizations the same way we put canaries in mines that let the miners know the air quality is deteriorating. In this case, dogs would tell us the culture is deteriorating to one based on fear. Unlike people, dogs are not prone to passive aggressive behavior; it’s one or the other. Leaders who rely on their position for power and control create a fear-based culture. They are constantly pulling on their orange leash.

We reach the park and I let Molly loose. I toss a ball and watch her chase it, then take the long way back to me, checking each tree for squirrels. “Molly, come.” She runs back and drops the ball at my feet. Molly runs with reckless abandon, constantly checking where I am. I don’t direct how Molly has fun or what she chases; our objective is exercise and I let her decide how to get it.

Real power, what I think of as leadership, comes from within. Unlike positional power, it empowers and strengthens people; it doesn’t leaving them weak or feeling a lack of control. It focuses on what needs to be done, not how. It helps people learn and grow.

Molly takes a sharp right and slides sideways through the mud, making me laugh out loud. She is a lot less white now than when we left.

“Molly,” I say, “looks like I am going to have to give you a bath when we get back.” I re-attach her leash and we head back home. When I first lost my job, I missed the positional power until I realized I never really used it. My strengths, my character, my skills, my experience and my values all came with me when I left. I still had all my sources of power.

We all have an orange leash at work. Strong leaders rarely have to tug on it, while others see it as the only way to get things done. Unfortunately, many of us are at the receiving end of the leash.

“Remember Molly,” I say as I hang her leash on a hook. “Don’t let anyone take your soul.”

I think the answer is 4

I’m starting to think the world is broken into fours. At least the business world, though astrological signs are grouped into four elements, so there must be some validity to it, right? I am in my Organizational Development Masters class and every new organizational model paraded out in front of us is conveniently broken into four quadrants.

“This is the Four Room Apartment Model of change,” says the instructor. We dutifully start in the upper left corner and work our way clockwise until we reach the upper right corner. Ah, the upper right corner; that’s where I want to be.

I remember my introduction to a four-quadrant model. It was called Social Styles. Everyone wanted to be in the upper right hand corner not because “Driver” sounded like the best of the mix (and it does), but because we are conditioned to think of the upper right as the most desired.  Turns out I am in the upper left, an Analytical, but felt much better when my sub-category was driver.

“I’m an Analytical DRIVER.” I tell people, putting the emphasis on the word driver. I am mere inches away from the coveted upper right quadrant. Perhaps some minor tweaks in my personality will get me across that line . . .

I think my desire to be in the upper right corner comes from high school math where I first learned about Cartesian graphs. The upper right corner was always a positive-positive. Seemed like the right place to be. Why would I want to be a positive-negative or, heaven help me, a negative-negative.

It makes me think about the biases we hold, how we make judgments without even thinking about it. I am predisposed to assume that upper right is good and lower left is, if not bad, then a lot less desirable. The lesson from Social Styles, though wasn’t what quadrant I was in, but the need to be aware of, and adjust to the styles of others. And that all styles were needed, equally.

Molly the Doodle places her head on my wrist as I am typing. For the fourth time. If I had to guess, I would say she is an Amiable. That would make her a double negative in a Cartesian graph, that undesirable lower left quadrant, but a double positive in my world.

The trumpet and the sitar

“That was Puccini,” puffed Kyle, catching his breath after playing an aria. On the trumpet. At the dinner table. My mother always told me not to do anything other than eat my food at the dinner table; obviously Kyle had a different childhood than I had.

I am at a neighbor’s place for dinner. It’s that kind of street where people will drop into each other’s house even when they don’t need a cup of anything. Knock once, grab the doorknob and enter calling out, “Hello?” It has taught me to wear pants at all times.

“Bravo,” we cheer with enthusiastic smiles and applause in the manner of the best opera houses. Kyle is a jazz musician from Italy and a guest of my neighbor. Not to be confused with the other Chris who owns the auto shop, or nurse Chris, or the new neighbor Chris. This is Chris the sitar player. We should re-name the street Chris Avenue.

After another Puccini aria, Kyle and Chris treat us to a duet of trumpet and sitar. I never would have imagined this particular combination. Jazz sitar. All improvised. Again we are all delighted. The instruments put away, coffee and dessert on the table, Kyle shares how an American ended up living in Italy as a jazz musician. A jazz musician that plays opera.

“I always loved music,” he starts. Kyle is almost shy talking about himself. I instantly like him. Especially after he cooked the most amazing pasta (I like the theory of inviting guests to your house for dinner and then having them cook for you). “I grew up in the mid-west, learned to play the trumpet and fell in love with jazz music,” he continued.

I glance at his trumpet as he continues. I had expected to see something shiny and, well, brassy. It is dull, worn; almost patchy. Loved I think. I can only imagine the beautiful music played through its valves. Then I remember what else Kyle emptied out of the valves and return to the conversation.

Kyle became a music teacher. He spent a year in Italy and loved the place, returning to a teacher’s job in Pennsylvania. One day it dawned on him. He loved to play music even more than teach it. And he had fallen in love with Italy. He took a huge risk to follow his heart and he and his American wife packed their bags and moved to Verona, Italy. Eleven years and two bilingual children later, they still love it.

As we leave for the evening, I think about my own situation. And others I have met along the way. Following your heart can take a lot of nerve. It can be scary and rewarding. Kyle didn’t even know it at first and could have ended up in a long teaching career.

I’m sure he is a great teacher, but I think he is an even better musician.

How being strong can leave you weak

She entered the classroom as if walking into a stiff wind, barely making progress against the resistance. Arriving at a desk near the front of the room, she first dropped her bag on the table, then her head. She occasionally raised her head during the class only to lower it a few seconds later to the pillow she had made of her hands.

I’m subbing for a leadership class at a college. And while I am comfortable in front of large crowds, I haven’t been in front of 70-odd mostly teenagers for some time. Actually, never. I’m a big fan of strengths-based leadership and have delivered a number of programs to adults. Now I find myself assisting in a training class for these future leaders, most of whom display more interest in the ceiling tiles or the inside of their eyelids.

I can empathize with them. They look like I must have looked at my Abnormal Psychology class – in Engineering you had to take a non-technical elective course. I was physically present, but my mind was elsewhere. Perhaps real world examples will help.

“Let me tell you about a situation at work where we applied strengths-based leadership to team development.” I said way too loudly. Blank stares. They’ve learned how to sleep with their eyes open. I finish my short monologue quickly and move on to the individual value of understanding your strengths. Yes, let’s personalize it.

“There is a difference between doing something well that leaves you feeling strong and doing something well that leaves you feeling weak. What leaves you feeling strong is something you like doing and what leaves you feeling weak is something you have learned to do well, but do not enjoy doing. Don’t get trapped into work that leaves you feeling weak.” I explain. A couple more heads find their hands on the desks. I turn the class over to the instructor and sheepishly shrink into my chair in the corner.

My eyes drift to the woman with her head on her hands and think how ironic it is that she doesn’t have the strength to keep her head up. Not everyone understands strengths-based leadership. I think it is especially hard for anyone with little work experience as the discussion becomes theoretical. Probably why the students couldn’t relate to it – they haven’t spent 10-years, 20-years or a lifetime in a job or series of jobs that leave them less than satisfied. Even hate.

These students are getting an advantage many of us in the working world never had. They are starting their careers at least understanding what their strengths are, even if they haven’t yet had a chance to develop them. I often encourage people to make a list of what they think their strengths are. Then I have them identify the strengths they like to do and ones they do not like to do. Finally, they add things they would like to get good at if they only had the chance. This is the first step to finding a career that leaves you feeling strong and understanding what work leaves you feeling weak.

After all, it is so easy to get good at what leaves us weak.