A review of Pardon My French

Here's a nice review of Pardon My French by my undergraduate alma mater:

Review of Pardon My French

Astute Businesspeople Know the Difference between Policy and Mission

This is the tale of two business approaches: business as policy and business as mission.

First tale

            I was conducting a week-long training event in Atlanta. When I arrived at the front desk of my hotel, I asked the night clerk if the hotel had a workout room.

            “Yes, we do,” the twenty-something clerk said.

            “Wonderful. I need to start my workout at six in the morning.”

            The clerk regarded me with a prune-like face. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, we don’t open until seven.”

            “But I have to work out at six.”

            “I’m sorry, sir, that’s our policy.”

            Not willing to cave, I leaned over the counter. “Well, my policy is to be treated reasonably. Why don’t you just give me the key in the morning, and I’ll let myself in.”

            “I can’t do that. That’s not our policy.”

            “Right.”

Second tale

            I had just watched the 1987 film Wall Street, starring Michael Douglas. In that movie Douglas removes his very expensive suit jacket and reveals a pair of navy suspenders with white polka dots. Classy, I thought. Before the age of online shopping, I decided to telephone the buyer for men’s accessories at Nordstrom’s. His name was Higgins.

            “I know exactly what you’re talking about,” Higgins said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have those braces in stock. However, I’m going to Singapore next week, and I will look for them there. Would that be satisfactory?”

            “That would be most satisfactory,” I said, trying to fend off an English accent.

            Two weeks later, Higgins called me. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Johnson. I could not find the braces in Singapore. But I’m going to London next week. Perhaps I can find the material there, in which case we will happily make your braces.”

            “Well, you don’t have to go to London,” I said, a little embarrassed and tinged with a deep-seated fear that the final cost would be the price of a round-trip first-class ticket to Katmandu.

            “It is not a problem, sir. And I should mention that the cost will be exactly what we charge for our in-store items. So, please don’t worry. I just hope the delay is not inconvenient.”

            “Not at all, sir,” I said with relief--definitely sounding English at this point.

            Two weeks later, Higgins called a second time. “I’m delighted to say that I have found the material,” he said with a happy ring in his voice. “I have sent the material to Trafalgar, who makes our braces. We should have them in two weeks.”

            True to his word, I received the treasured suspenders in a fortnight.

            Here is my point: Many businesspeople do not understand the difference between

policies and mission.

            Policies are written for the convenience of the company. They are designed to make life easier for the business owners, and they are sacrosanct. They are a listing of all the employees’ duties and privileges—when they must be at work, when they can take a break, and when they can go home. Policies have little to do with serving the customer. The Atlanta hotel clerk was abiding by company policies, and his boss likely praised him for his strict allegiance to the corporate code. In fact, I would give you ten-to-one odds that neither the clerk nor the clerk’s boss could recite their company’s mission.

            A mission is a higher-order mantra, and it is always customer-centered. This is Nordstrom’s mission: "At Nordstrom, our goal is to provide outstanding service every day, one customer at a time." My buyer at Nordstrom’s understood the mission. (I thought of Higgins now as my buyer the way I thought of my ham sandwich or my boxer shorts, as personal and intimate.) Higgins did not have a fuzzy notion of the company’s mission; it was not limited to a slogan on a coffee mug; it was in his blood and as rich as English ale.

            The Atlanta hotel clerk could take a lesson from Hilton. They have a policy, too, but their policy is mission driven. Here it is: Whenever a request is asked of a Hilton employee, that employee—from the janitor to the president—owns the request.

            I remember once asking a Hilton janitor where I might find the men’s room.

            “Oh, let me show you,” he said.

            “You don’t have to show me,” I said meekly. “Just point.”

            “Oh, no, sir. Please follow me.”

            The amiable janitor led me to the bathroom door.

            “I think I can take it from here,” I said with a wary smile.

            Now that is a mission-driven enterprise.

            Some argue, “Sure, Nordstrom’s or the Hilton can afford to offer great service, but a struggling company cannot.”

            My answer to that is “bunk.” I suggest that they are struggling because they forgot their mission—or worse never learned it. It doesn’t take money to serve the customer; it only takes an attitude of servant leadership—something that is good for both customers and employees. There is pride in serving and gratitude for being served. I know: Nearly thirty years later I still think of my buyer, Higgins, when I proudly don my navy-with-white polka dot suspenders.   

Celebrate Life Until the Last Flicker of Light

           I’m losing my mind. Some may joke, “Well, Allen, we’ve noticed that for a good long time. Can you tell us something we don’t know?”

            So, never one to let a good question go unanswered, here’s what you don’t know.

            Three years ago, I photographed a wedding north of Spokane. At the end of the day, I drove home exhausted, but pleased with the work I had done.

            As soon as I arrived home, I collapsed into my favorite overstuffed chair with a cup of hot tea at my side. That’s when it happened. When I reached for my eight-ounce mug of sweet and spicy black tea, I realized I couldn’t lift the mug with my right hand. It was as though my arm no longer belonged to me.

            Feeling a little lightheaded, I managed to walk to the bathroom at the opposite corner of the house where my wife happened to be. I had one word emblazoned on my mind: Bayer. The word was scuttling helter-skelter like a cast of tiny sand crabs behind my eyes. BAYER. I knew the word, but it took me a full minute to blurt it out. Then another word came to my mind: aphasia—the inability to use words.

            My wife quickly drove me to the emergency room where we were immediately admitted. What ensued then was a battery of tests. Two days later—after having been poked, probed, scoured, and scanned—my doctor spoke to me in solemn, hushed tones.

            “You’ve had a stroke,” she said. “In fact, we have discovered that over the years you have had numerous strokes.”

            Now, I’m here to tell you that “numerous” and “strokes” are two words you never want to hear in the same sentence.

            Besides, how could that be happening to me? I eat a healthy Mediterranean diet. I have not spread a pat of butter on a dinner roll for fifty years. I’ve exercised every day of my life. The bathroom scale hovers within a single kilo of my ideal weight of 162 pounds. I’ve never smoked, and my alcohol consumption is limited to half a glass of wine once a month at the most.

            So why me? No one had answers—not the neurologist, cardiologist, astrologist, no one. After all the examinations and enough tubes to transform my body into a human bagpipe, they were all stymied. My arteries were clean, and my heart was ticking like a jeweled Rolex. The only possible culprit was sleep apnea—pauses in breathing while sleeping. (Additional tests showed that I was indeed a candidate, so I was introduced to a CPAP machine, which I have used ever since. Now I sleep through the night without a sputter.)

            The news got worse. I asked the doctor what kind of damage had been done to my brain.

            “There are three regions of damage: those that control balance, language, and personality,” she said, as if checking off the ingredients for a cob salad.

            Today, I can feel the ravages of a brain on too little oxygen. I now have to be careful about slipping into a pair of pants without a wall nearby for backup. I speak more slowly as my brain strains to find the precise word. (That’s particularly annoying to me. I agree with Mark Twain, who once said, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”) As far as personality goes, I have always been a borderline (my wife would say “enflamed”) perfectionist, but now I seem to want everyone  to be perfect—and right now, thank you very much.

            But here lies the real anguish: According to Dr. David Holzman of the Medical School at Washington University in St. Louis, “sixty-four percent of persons with a stroke have some degree of cognitive impairment, and up to a third have dementia.” If that were not bad enough, Dr. Rudy Tanzi, professor of neurology at Harvard University, reported that there is a link between strokes (had it), sleep apnea (had it), and Alzheimer’s disease (may get it).

            In the popular vernacular, I’m screwed.

            But not quite yet.

            For the time being I can still put my pants on, write a coherent sentence, and carry on a decent conversation without jumping down the throat of the listener—most of the time.

            So I work like a Spartan. I’ve published two books in the last two years, and I’ve just finished the second draft of a new novel. Yes, I feel a sense of urgency, so every day I spend about three hours chinking away at my computer.

            As long as my brain will allow, I will aim to make a modest contribution. That’s the way it has to be. For me to check out before my time, before my brain completely abandons me, would be an unjust, even a profane, swipe at life.

            As long as I am able, I will champion young talent, celebrate the arts, advocate for the oppressed, praise reason, promote peace, and revere the seasons of life.

            When I am no longer able, just pat me on the head and say, “You were a good man, Allen. You walked in the light as the light was revealed to you”—and that will suffice.

            And when the candle burns out altogether, know that I was grateful to be a minuscule and ephemeral flicker in the immense ocean of the stars.

          

Giving praise has the power to change lives

            I’m worried. The world of technology is on fire. It has seeped into every facet of our lives—some for good, some for ill. One of my greatest concerns is the loss of valued communication conventions. Today, many technology enthusiasts would rather text than talk, rather send an emoji than write a respectable sentence.

            Okay, I get it; it’s a new world, I have to adapt. And I admit that high technology for me is a ten-foot spring cord attached to the yellow princess telephone hanging on the kitchen wall. But there are some things that I refuse to give up. One is the powerful art of offering praise that is elegantly written or spoken.

            I once reported to a manager who was stingy with praise. I had the sense that affirming someone’s performance was, for him, as repugnant as kissing a goat on the lips. Here’s an email exchange that he and I had at the end of my first year with the company.

Allen: After a year on the job, are you satisfied with my work?

Manager: [No email response.]

Allen: Are you intentionally dodging my question?

Manager: No, I just missed it by not scrolling down. I’m satisfied.

Allen: You made me laugh. You embarrassed me with your extravagant praise. Why so wordy? You could have trimmed your analysis down to “Satisfied” or, better yet, “Uh-huh.”

Manager: Uh-huh J

           

            Everyone has a personal comfort zone. Who knows, my manager may have felt that the smiley face on his last entry was tantamount to a declaration of eternal love (although I doubt it). The point is I was not sure how he felt. That’s the problem with cryptic messages: they’re ambiguous, leaving you unsure about where you stand.

            “Gee, am I doing all right? Or do I need to change course? I just don’t know.”

            In contrast, an elegantly written or spoken affirmation can be a mighty motivator. Unfortunately, managers (as well as parents and teachers), may not know how to pen or articulate a full-fledged acknowledgment. In 1979, Xerox Learning Systems published an easy four-step affirmation model that does the job beautifully. Do you have an employee, student, or family member who merits a word of praise? Here’s how to do it in a way that will thrill the recipient.

1.    Make a general reference to the behavior or performance being praised.

2.    Give specific examples.

3.    Mention the personal qualities that contributed.

4.    Highlight the benefits to the company, school, or home.

           

            When I was in college, I played Shylock in a production of Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice. A few days after the final show I found a hand-written card in my student mailbox from the director of the music department. That was 50 years ago, and I still have that letter. I’d like to share it with you, not because I want to revisit my fifteen minutes of fame, but because it is such a beautiful example of a perfectly composed affirmation. The bracketed words are mine—a nod to the four-step Xerox model.

Allen

[General reference.] It was a delight to be in the audience for the final showing of The Merchant of Venice—a production made memorable by your performance.

[Specific examples.] I was impressed with your facility with Elizabethan language, which can be daunting. Your voice was powerful and your diction precise. More importantly, you were able to portray a myriad of nuanced emotions, which underscored your mastery as a young actor.

[Personal qualities that contributed.] It is clear that you are a diligent student of your craft. You had the personal resolve to make the performance come to life.

[Benefits to the organization.] Performances like yours herald the high standards of artistry for our college and, specifically, for our division of performing arts. Bravo.

            Those one hundred and eleven words of praise were pivotal in my decision to become a committed thespian. In the years that followed, I acted and directed on all levels—high school, college, community, and professional—a lifetime of theatrical bliss.

            What a small price to pay—just fifteen to thirty minutes to compose a thoughtful affirmation—when the payoff can kindle heartfelt gratitude, a revitalized commitment to excellence, or even a new vocational path. That’s a bargain I’ll take anytime. Uh-huh. J

          

American immigration is a saga of the human spirit

            My father was the bastard son of a whore. I could say it more politely, but it would not make it any less true.

            Don’t misunderstand me. I am not ashamed. What I will say about my parents is not meant to be judgmental or scandalous. Just the opposite. Given their harsh and even profane beginnings (an ancestry that I share), my words are a tribute—no, a celebration of their tireless resolve. Here then are their stories.

My father’s story

            Born in Finland in 1891, my dad’s mother, Hilja, was never very fond of school and, to make things worse, felt trapped by the cold, bleak landscape of her country. So when she was twenty-one years old, she decided to follow her two older sisters to the promised land, the United States of America.

            It did not go well for Hilja. At first she stayed with her oldest sister in Danbury, Connecticut. But when her sister discovered that Hilja was stealing from her, she summarily threw her out.

            Hilja made her way to Harlem, but she could not find work—at least not respectable work. At first she turned to trafficking bootleg liquor—mixing the brew in her claw-foot bathtub. Whatever she made from her enterprise must have been meager, because her last known residence was a bare, one-room cold-water flat. So, out of necessity—or determination if you advocate for the destitute—she turned to prostitution.

            In 1924, my father, Thurston, was born in Harlem. At the time, Hilja was living with one of her clients, a man who quickly abandoned the family. (That man, John Johnson, was not my grandfather, but I did inherit his family name.)

            When my father was six years old, a concerned neighbor reported that a barefoot boy was running wild in the streets. It was true. Thurston did not go to school; he was a moonshine delivery boy.

            When my dad was brought before the court, the judge determined that the youngster would be a ward of Brooklyn’s Kallman Home for Orphaned Children. The judge also decreed that the mother, who at the time was being treated for alcoholism at Manhattan’s Bellevue Hospital, had the right to take custody of her son whenever she chose. That never happened; my father never saw his mother again.

My mother’s story

            The story of my mother, Helen, is no less dramatic. She was also an illegitimate child, the daughter of a Greek merchant marine who jumped ship in New York City. His name was Tony Marco. He stole his best friend’s wife, Katherine, my grandmother, and eventually married her.

            Helen was five years old when her parents divorced. Katherine secretly slipped away in the night with her child, finding an apartment in the heart of Brooklyn. Katherine labored twelve hours a day, six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year as a seamstress in a Manhattan sweat shop. While her mother worked, Helen stayed at a low-rent Greek boarding house. For the next fifteen years, Tony lost sight of his daughter.

            Katherine was a fragile woman (eventually she would die in a mental institution). Working and raising a child without respite was more than she could endure. Her strength ebbing, she decided to place her daughter in the Kallman Home when the child was six, the same orphanage that sheltered my father.

            My parents celebrated twelve Christmases together in that Brooklyn orphanage. Each year the children would prepare a holiday concert. When the last note was sung, the young carolers giggled with anticipation, for they all knew the tradition to follow. The angelic women with broad hats and red lips from the local aid society would offer a single present to each child—a baseball or harmonica or doll, all fantastic gifts that made the orphans’ eyes shine with joy.     

            When my parents turned eighteen, they were both excited and saddened. They were required to leave the only home they knew, their beloved Brooklyn orphanage, with no more than a small suitcase and an eighth-grade education. Three years later, they were married—a marriage that lasted sixty-three years, until my mother’s death in 2008.

An American legacy

            Thurston and Helen Johnson raised two sons. I was the first, born with a questioning mind and a love for the arts. My brother, sixteen months younger than I, was always athletic, tender-hearted, strong-willed, and passionate about family.

            Today, my brother has three children, nine grandchildren, and two great grandchildren. My wife and I chose not to have children. However, we have done our best to contribute to society as lifelong educators.

            I don’t think our family story is particularly unique. But I do think it is uniquely American. It is a history of people who wanted a better life for themselves and would do almost anything to survive. Those strangers to a new land did not have it easy. In fact, their lives read more like a novel by Charles Dickens—scrambling, scavengering to survive. But their children had it better, and their grandchildren had it best of all.

            However the American drama is portrayed, it is surely a story of the auspicious dreams that immigrants held for themselves and, especially, for their children. Given that American heritage, can we be compassionate and gracious hosts—we the children of immigrants—when the weary, the desperate, the hopeful stand trembling, eyes scanning our shimmering shores of liberty?

            Why do I champion immigrants? Because my own lineage is draped in tainted struggle? Yes. Because turning my back would be curiously hypocritical? Absolutely. Because it is the American way? No question. But, more than anything else, I stand for the dispossessed because if I did not, I would be ashamed.

Allen Johnson is a columnist for the Tri-City Herald and the author of Pardon My French and The Awakening. His column, “Mindfulness,” appears on the first Sunday of every month.

            

The promise of unity and self-sacrifice turns the discontented into true believers

Eric Hoffer was an American social philosopher and winner of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.  In 1951, he published his classic treatise, The True Believer, which sought to make sense of the horror of World War II. Although the book is less than 200 pages in length, it is not a particularly breezy read. But it is an important treatise, especially in our day of global terrorism, including the most recent attacks in Paris. His words have never been more relevant. Although the following interview is imaginary, the responses are pure Eric Hoffer.

What do you mean by “mass movements”? There are three types: religious, political, and revolutionary. All three share the same understanding, that no movement can be propelled by tapping into discontent. The leaders must ignite in the followers a sense of extravagant hope—the hope of a heavenly kingdom or heaven on earth or world dominion.

What kind of people are good candidates for such a movement? Not the destitute; they are too busy trying to survive. And not the conservatives; they are content with the way things are. The best candidates are those who are frustrated and discontented with the status quo: the misfits, outcasts, minorities, youth, and, finally, the sinners, because a guilty conscience can be dramatically eased by dedication to an irresistible cause.

And the object of their devotion? The candidates must be convinced that some astounding leader or compelling doctrine will give them a sense of power and salvation. They must believe that their future will be indescribably beautiful.

What is required of a true believer? They must want to discard their self. They must be ready to dedicate themselves to a cause—to be unified with that cause—and to be willing to sacrifice everything, even their own lives. Having lost faith in themselves, they crave a kind of new life, as driven by a holy plan. The act of becoming selfless has enormous appeal and is a real boost to self-esteem.

You write that true believers are “prone to make-believe.” I’m really talking about the theater of ritual, ceremony, and dramatic performance. Hitler dressed eighty million Germans in costumes and staged a kind of tragic opera. At the same time Churchill cast the people of London as heroes when bombs were falling from the sky. For them both, the audience for this spectacle was posterity. Their followers were reminded that their ancestors were watching them. When faith is waning, the spectacle—the make-believe—will linger on.

Why would true believers uphold a doctrine that is illogical? What you must understand is that for the true believer it is not the logical meaning of doctrine that counts; it is its certitude. The doctrine is not judged by its profundity, but by how well the individual is separated from his own autonomy. Listen to the proclamation of Martin Luther: “So tenaciously should we cling to the world revealed by the Gospel, that were I to see all the Angels of Heaven coming down to me to tell me something different, not only would I not be tempted to doubt a single syllable, but I would shut my eyes and stop my ears, for they would not deserve to be either seen or heard.” 

Only the heretics rely on reason? Exactly. The followers are always taught to believe with their hearts, not their minds. This is a critical injunction for all true believers—whether political or religious. In 1934, Rudolph Hess swore in the entire Nazi party. His emphasis on faith was clear: “Do not seek Adolph Hitler with your brains; all of you will find him with the strength of your hearts.” The Nazi agenda was to strip all individuals of their moral independence; only then could the masses be molded to suit the needs of the movement.

Are the believers turned into puppets? I don’t use that word. I will say this: Every radical mass movement—church, nation, or party—seeks to vilify the helpless and sinful self. When that is accomplished, salvation is found in the doctrine of the holy corporate body.

What are the true believers being saved from? From two things really. First, the followers are saved from the emptiness of their lives, but, secondly, from the devil or, if you prefer, the enemy. Every mass movement needs an enemy, especially a foreign enemy, to galvanize the troops. Hitler was once asked if the Jew needed to be destroyed. He responded, “No, we should have then to invent him. It is essential to have a tangible enemy, not merely an abstract one.”  The more tangible the devil, the more powerful the movement.

Currently there is a horrific maelstrom of violence in the Middle East with deadly tentacles creeping around the world. Could Eric Hoffer’s counsel from the preface of The True Believer be any more germane?  He wrote, “The true believer is everywhere on the march, and both by converting and antagonizing he is shaping the world in his own image. And whether we are to line up with him or against him, it is well that we should know all we can concerning his nature and potentialities.”

Our lives belong to the whole community

My wife, Nita, and I are dying. Maybe not immediately, but soon. After all, we are in our seventh decade of life, making us older than ninety-one percent of the American population. That gives one pause.

            With our own mortality in mind, this year we have taken on the challenge of writing our last will and testament, a task that has forced us to consider our history and our legacy.

What is our history?

            My wife’s parents were Quaker missionaries in Guatemala for forty years. Growing up in Central America, Nita always believed that love was color-blind. Her best friend was Gloria, a beautiful brown-skinned little girl. For Nita, her favorite treat was to eat rice, beans, and corn tortillas at Gloria’s modest casita.  (They are still friends to this day.) In just a few years, Nita’s moral compass was set: Love had no borders.

            She began her professional career as a kindergarten teacher and, later, a reading specialist. Finally, for twelve years, she was the director of the migrant program for the Pasco School District. She was a pioneer in advocating reading in a child’s native language, knowing that reading fluency in a mother tongue is a prerequisite to literacy in a second language. She was a champion for many Hispanic students and young professionals, many of whom became teachers and administrators across the state.

            For myself, I have always had a calling for peace, community, and equality. In the 1970s, I registered as a conscientious objector, learned French, and, along with Nita, taught English as a foreign language in a small mountain village in Algeria for two years. Although we were still proud Americans, that experience taught us that the United States was not the center of the universe.

            We were enthralled by our students, many of whom spoke four languages—Berber, Arabic, French, and English. Not unlike young Americans, they had a passion for soccer, music, and the freedom of ideas. I remember one student, Mohammed Abdul, leading me into his bedroom, sliding a striped closet curtain to one side, and showing me six four-foot stacks of French and English novels. “I want to know about the world,” he said proudly. Thirty years later that same student sent me a letter that humbled me. “You were my favorite teacher,” Mohammed wrote, “and I have decided to become like you. I am now a high school English teacher in Tizi Ouzou. I want my students to know that the world is much bigger than we can ever imagine.”

            Those experiences taught me what it meant to become a citizen of the world. In February 2003, that realization was reaffirmed. George W. Bush had been pushing for a preemptive war on the false grounds that Iraq held weapons of mass destruction. Twenty thousand French patriots took to the streets of Montpellier, France. I was among the protestors, all of whom walked slowly, respectfully in funereal silence. I was touched by the French, who told me repeatedly, “We are not marching against Americans—we like Americans—we are marching for peace.”

            Looking back, my professional life was always dedicated to shaping character, building relationships, and creating consensus—even when such notions were occasional discounted as “soft” or “irrelevant” by a few hard-core executives.

            Today, as a semi-retired activist, educator, and writer, I am still an advocate for peace and community. In that respect, nothing much has changed.

What is our legacy?

            The fabric of our legacy echoes our history—in a word, a dedication to community.

            That passion was captured beautifully by the Irish playwright, George Bernard Shaw, who wrote, “I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community, and, as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.”

            Those words resonate in our hearts like a thundering cascade. Indeed, our lives belong to the “whole community.” For that reason, my wife and I will always stand—even in death—for all members of the community. No one is excluded, from those who have not yet taken their first breath to those who are breathing their last—regardless of their social status, race, religion, nationality, sexual orientation, or gender. We have no qualifiers.

            Because we are childless, our last will and testament will reflect our historical affinities. Consequently, our financial legacy is very simple. It will be divided among the institutions that support international peace, social equality, community, and the fine arts (for even an activist is stirred by the human yearning to sing, dance, paint, and act).

            I don’t think I have ever thought more clearly about my mission. Perhaps that comes from my senescent vantage point. Perhaps it is the outcome of listening to the wisdom of my wife for nearly fifty years. Whatever the reason, I am persuaded that knowing my mission is a vital, if not my most important responsibility. It forces me to be deliberate, to align my actions to my purpose. For, as the American patriot, Alexander Hamilton, once cautioned, “Those who stand for nothing fall for anything.”

            As for me, I stand for community—world-wide community.