Being Curious about Tribes Can Change the World

 

It’s the first hour of a new day. I’m riding my recumbent tricycle on a familiar bike path, waving and smiling at the oncoming cyclists. Each rider smiles and waves back. The exchange feels good; we are all members of the same tribe. I happily soak up the spirit of brotherhood like a dry bar mop.

            Then at an intersection, a wizened, leather-clad rider on a Harley cruiser rolls to a stop, and I think, “He and I are members of another tribe. We are both in the autumn of our lives and yet precariously balanced over wheels. He is my brother.”  So I snap him a sharp salute. And he glares at me, not in honor of our kinship, but with pinched, scowling eyebrows, as if I had just called his mother a soulless “lady of the night.” Perhaps he was disenchanted by my six-foot high hot-pink and periwinkle blue flag swishing behind me like a rainbow trout in the shallows. Whatever the source of his discontent, his message was clear: I was not his brother.

            It’s a funny thing about tribes: Their number is equal to every passion on earth. There are church, military, language, and ethnic tribes. There are even tribal devotees to tiddlywinks and didgeridoo. All of which is pretty cool.

            There are two ways to react to tribes. The first is with curiosity. The second is with suspicion or even contempt. I’m an advocate of the former.

            In my lifetime I have eaten pig ears, frog legs, and duck brains in France. I have danced the Kalamatianos on the streets of Greece, shouting “Opa” in celebration. I have sat cross-legged on a Berber hilltop in Algeria and listened to the local musicians play their tambourines, drums, and flutes, while the women trilled their high-pitched ululations.

            Not everyone understands my sense of curiosity. Frankly, some are surprised or even offended that I would leave my ancestral tribe, if only for an hour.

            A year ago, a friend and I were traveling through Georgia. It was Sunday and, faithful to our custom, we sought a black church—usually Southern Baptist—to soak in the wonderment of gospel music. As we crisscrossed the streets, we came upon an all-white Baptist church. Two of the church members were greeting the parishioners at the door. Surely they would know where we would find the local black church.

            I parked the car, scrambled up the church steps, and looked into the eyes of one of the greeters. “Excuse me,” I said, “could you tell me where we could find the black Baptist church?”

            All at once, the greeter stared at me with eyes narrowing into gashes of reproach. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked.

            “Because we love the music,” I replied truthfully.

            “We have beautiful music here.”

            “I’m sure you do, but it’s not often that we have a chance to experience authentic black gospel music. I hope you understand.”

            “I’m not sure I do,” the greeter said, “but I can tell you where to find those people.”

            True to his word, he directed us to those people.

            When we arrived, we basked in the tradition of the most soulful church I have ever attended. The organist improvised a score that made the minister’s words soar, while the choir answered his every call.

            “They shall mount up with wings as eagles,” the preacher heralded.

            “Wings as eagles,” the choir answered.

            The pure joy of the congregation surged like an ocean wave over my body. You do not have to be a believer to feel the honest purity of that kind of celebration.

            When the minister asked the parishioners to greet each other, a round radiant grandmother in a broad flowered hat wrapped her arms around me and said, “I be so happy you come visit our church. I got a blessin’ wid yo name on it.” And then she hugged me again as if I were her long-lost son.

            I truly loved that black Baptist tribe, and for two hours of worship, I was one of its spirited members.

            Why must we see other tribes with suspicion or, worse, enmity?

            Not all tribes are as loving as the Georgian Baptist congregation. And, yes, a fraction of all the tribes on earth are malicious. But disregard the deluded extremists for a moment. What would happen if we explored—if only for an hour—the ninety-nine percent of all the good-hearted tribes that are foreign to us? What if we sought to understand and respect (with no obligation to accept) an unfamiliar theology? A strange flavor? A new dance? An exotic music?

            What if the leather-bound Harley rider had smiled and acknowledged that we are all members of the largest tribe of all: humanity, with well over seven billion cousins? What if the white Georgian greeter had said of the black disciples, “You will love their service, they are good people”?

            Don’t you think the world would have been a better place? But what if such instances were multiplied by seven billion times a day—one moment for every resident on earth? Can you imagine the rumbling surge of charity, rising up from under our feet, lifting us up “with wings as eagles”?

            Amen, brothers and sisters.

The Pinch Theory Offers a Reasoned Approach to Managing Conflict

It happened at an executive staff meeting. I was presenting a new organizational development program, and it seemed to be going well. At least the staff of twelve was attentive, occasionally nodding in approval.

            When I had finished, the CEO said, “This could make a big difference in our company,” he said.

            “I think you’re absolutely right,” I said offhandedly.

            Then—curiously, unexpectedly—the CEO turned to me and said, “I don’t give a shit what you think.”

            That snapped my head back. What could he be thinking? Why would he berate one of his employees before his executive staff?

            I tried to relieve the tension. “Are we going to have a donnybrook right here and now?” I asked with a befuddled smile.

            The CEO glared at me with snake eyes and said in a husky whisper, “Don’t even try.”

            What would you do next?

            I’ll tell you what I did, but not before introducing a model for dealing with organizational conflict—conflict of any kind really.

            It’s called the “Pinch Theory” and was first developed by John J. Sherwood, John C. Glidewell, and later extended by John Scherer.

           

On the road to pinches

            Whenever individuals enter an organization, they invariably spin through a cycle of optimism and disappointments. It begins when the employee and the manager—or co-workers for that matter—meet for the first time. At that first encounter, they are “getting to know each other.” During this honeymoon stage, they both want the relationship to work, so they are on their best behavior. If something doesn’t feel right, they simply ignore it.

            In those early meetings strong managers establish their expectations. Consequently, the new employees “know their places” and “feel good” about it.

            But that happy feeling is generally short-lived. After a time, the first “pinch” is felt—especially in organizations where expectations are unclear. 

            A pinch is the unsettling feeling that something is wrong, that expectations have been violated. We might say to ourselves, “Hey, what was that all about? I thought we were on the same side.”

            A pinch may come in a word or a look: a snide remark, a subtle put down, or even a sideways glance.

            What do we do with a pinch? Typically, we “bite the bullet.” We say to ourselves, Wow, that smarted, but I’m an adult. I can handle it. We remind ourselves of the early days, when we knew our place and felt like a valued team member. In other words, we sweep the pinch under the rug, until an expensive consultant trips over the corrugated carpet, takes a peak, and watches in horror as all the bats from hell whoosh out with gleaming fangs.

            A pinch does not vanish when it is disregarded. It shows up later in uglier ways, taking us on a harried “emotion coaster.” Those emotions include ambiguity (What did the boss mean by that?), guilt (Gee, I must be doing something wrong), blame (It’s not my fault the boss is an idiot), and anxiety (I’m having a helluva time sleeping these days).

            This is not a happy time for employees. It’s a debilitating roller coaster ride that ends in a “crunch”—when the mounting pinches are unbearable.

Irresponsible responses to a crunch point

            Those who have been repeatedly pinched will often resort to “get-my-way tactics.” Some will turn to depression, believing that their depression releases them from responsibility. Others may choose anger by deriding the management team or even sabotaging the company’s mission. Still others will self-medicate—turning to alcohol, drugs, or comfort foods for relief.

            These are all get-my-way tactics. The victims hope their depression, anger, or addictions will magically stop the pinches. They won’t.

            Others may emotional check out, stalking about like “zombies.” They are human, but just barely. Don’t ask them to do anything, because it will be done badly, or not at all.

            The hardiest of the lot channel “John Wayne”: “That really hurt, pilgrim, but I’m gettin’ back on my horse and doin’ it again.” Recalling their satisfaction in “knowing their place,” they try to recreate it. Unfortunately, when pinches are ignored, the wounded employee will return even faster to another crunch point.

            A few will “beat cleats.” They will update their résumés and take the first job that comes along. They leave without resolving the issues. And, not surprisingly, carry their resentments and lack of understanding to the next position.

Doing the right thing

            What is the right thing to do when employees reach the crunch point? The answer is what the graphic calls the “last resort”: talking to the boss. This option requires both consideration and courage: consideration in clarifying our manager’s expectations and courage in describing our own “emotion coaster” ride.

            There are two possible outcomes to such a negotiation. In the first and best outcome, gifted managers will calmly examine mutual expectations—seeking first to understand and then to be understood. They will also create a strategy for addressing future pinches.

            In the second possible outcome—when their expectations are incompatible—the manager and employee will agree to terminate their relationship—to say “so long.” If it comes to that, they leave disappointed, but wiser. Understanding the sticking points will aid the departing employee on the next job.

The truly right stuff

            The smart people—the ones who understand the pinch theory—will do the “right stuff.” They will not wait for the crunch. The first or second time they are pinched, they will seek out the manager (or the employee) and clearly and fairly describes the pinches. Hopefully, the manager will have the wisdom to clarify expectations and own his or her own shortcomings. When that happens, both manager and employee can return to a workplace of trust, where problem-solving is a piece of cake.

When to do the right stuff

            Deciding when to initiate the “right stuff” is not always easy. You must consider both risks and benefits, which requires honest self-evaluation. Here are five crucial questions:

1.      How important is the relationship?

2.      How important is the issue?

3.      What will happen if I do nothing?

4.      How will I feel about myself if I do nothing?

5.      Is the other mature enough to examine expectations?

            If we are talking about your boss, the answer to the first question is “important.” The hours we put into a workday warrants healthy relationships. The second question is pivotal: How important is the issue? If the pinch is trivial—a failure to return a morning greeting, for example—the issue may be innocuous and unimportant. However, if the issue is chronic and acute, doing the “right stuff” is prescribed.

            Employees should also consider the consequences of inaction. Will the pinches continue? Will the irritation fester? Will the success of the company mission be jeopardized? Will the employee feel disrespected, disavowed, or discredited? If the answer is “yes,” it is time to do the “right stuff.”

            The game changer may be the last questions: Is the other mature enough? Even if the relationship and the issue are important, even if the outcome of inaction is toxic, doing the “right stuff” may not be a valid alternative. It may be wiser to simply leave—to “beat cleats”—which essentially means leaving mad and ignorant. It’s not the best alternative, but it may be the best option, given a hostile environment.

The path I took

            I never did the “right stuff” with my CEO. Although the issue was important, I did not think the executive had the maturity to have an honest and respectful discussion. I reasoned—rightly or wrongly—that he was imbued with an intractable ego. (He may have thought the same of me; I’ll never know.)

            So on that very day, I updated my résumé. The hunt was on.

            As it turned out, the CEO left the company shortly after that infamous executive staff meeting. It was no longer an issue. He was gone.

            It was unfortunate that I could not speak to him, nor he to me. He could have learned how he was crossing my expectations. More importantly, I could have learned how I was missing the mark. Consequently, the relationship ended unresolved and marinated in resentment, at least for me, which is never healthy—certainly not the best way to deal with the inevitable and ubiquitous pinches of business life.

A Jewish Funeral Brings Consolation

Recently, I attended a Jewish funeral service in a small cemetery chapel—the men seated on the right, the women on the left. The service began with readings from the Psalms in English and Hebrew:

“You will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.”

            At one point in the rabbi’s eulogy, he gave the mourners a lesson in the Hebrew language. He explained that the word for love was “ahava” and that the root of that word, “ahav,” meant “to give.”

            How beautiful, I thought. Love was not a noun; it was a verb. It was not a person or a thing; it was something we do. Nor was it something that “happens to us.” We do not “fall in love,” as if we were innocent bystanders. We give ourselves to love—to others. In a word, love is a gift.

            The lessons continued. When it was time to move to the burial site, eight pallbearers lifted the simple wooden casket and stepped slowly out of the chapel while the rabbi chanted a Psalm in Hebrew. The mourners followed.

            After the casket was eased into the ground, the bereaved, both men and women, participated in the ritual by pitching three or more spades of dirt into the grave. The first sounds of warm earth beating against the pine box sounded with a solemn thud, tolling the finality of a precious life.

            The lifetime companion of the deceased asked if I would participate in the burial tradition. “It’s so powerful,” he said.

            Naturally, I complied. And when I had finished, I handed the shovel to a woman, which, as I learned later, was a violation of the venerable ritual. I should have pierced the spade’s blade into the dirt. When I had wrongly handed the shovel to the next mourner, I was symbolically transferring my grief to her.

            At the end of the ceremony, the rabbi instructed us to wash our hands in a small water basin outside the chapel’s entry. We all followed his lead.

            As the people began to disperse, I searched out the rabbi. He was a man in his early fifties with a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a straight back.

            “Would you explain two things?” I asked. “The participative burial ritual and the washing of hands?”

            The rabbi did not look at me. He scanned the sky—perhaps seeking inspiration from heaven—but when he spoke, his voice was fluid, as if repeating a familiar recitation. “We are told in Deuteronomy that God buried Moses. And because we wish to be like God, we do as He has done. It is an act of love. We are offering a gift to the deceased, knowing that she cannot reciprocate. And so our love is pure.”

            “I see. And the washing of hands?”

            “We cherish life over all things. Whenever we are near death, we quickly cleanse ourselves of its pall of grief.”

            I thanked the rabbi as he turned to another who sought his wisdom.

            Standing still for a moment, I traced the evergreen treetops that poked into the sky. As I thought about the rabbi’s answers, the words that came to me were “closure” and “renewal.”

            I have never felt closure more dramatically than when I shoveled three spades of dirt into the open grave. For me it was a definitive and immutable goodbye. But when I washed my hands, there was a sense of renewal, a resurgence and rededication to life—a reminder to cherish whatever days remained.

            I was about to walk to my car, when my friend introduced me to a woman with an effervescent smile. I hesitated to shake her hand. “I just washed my hands,” I said apologetically, fearing my hands would be wet and clammy.

            “And I just washed mine,” the smiling woman said, as she took my hand in both of hers. And at that moment I felt a surge of gratefulness. Both she and I were clean and starting anew.

            I will probably never see that lovely woman again, but she reminded me that being alive merited a glowing, exuberant smile of thanksgiving. When the Psalmist wrote, “You will fill me with joy in your presence,” he was speaking of God. But at that moment in the sunshine—standing in the presence of a warm and gracious woman, her hands sheathing mine—it was she who filled my heart with renewed joy. And for that act of kindness, I am consoled.

Values are personal, principles are universal

So kissing a girl was like this—really kissing her hard on the lips, until my eyes rolled back and my toes clenched in the cavities of my high-top tennis shoes. It was 1960, and I was fourteen years old and quite sure that I had just discovered the meaning of the universe.

            Her name was Cheri, and we met on summer vacation at Newman Lake. In keeping with the rules of summer romances, the sun was hot and the water was a cool embrace of desire. I was in love.

            When the summer was over, Cheri and I kissed for the last time and promised that we would faithfully write to each other. We were true to our word until it happened.

            In Cheri’s last letter she mentioned that she had gone to the movies to see Elvis Presley in G.I. Blues.

            That’s when I dashed off the most scorching, idiotic letter of my life.

            “You call yourself a Christian,” I wrote, “and yet you go to movies. How is that possible?”

            That was the last time I heard from Cheri. I wrote a second and a third letter, both deeply remorseful and apologetic, but it was too late. The damage was done; the romance was over.

            So what happened?

            I did not understand it at the time, but the problem was a case of strong values and weak principles.

            Let me explain. Our values are personal and ingrained by the inculcations of our social system, especially from our parents. They are repetitive lessons of how we should behave: in my case, how I should pray, read the Bible, go to church, and, for goodness sakes, never go to the movies or dally with anyone who did.

            Values are subjective and morally debatable. For some it’s about money: “Make as much as you can without concern for all the other schmucks.” For others it’s about nationalism: “My country is always right, no matter what.” Still others base their values on religion (or distortions of religion): “Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers.”

            Principles, on the other hand, are objective and unchangeable natural laws. They are always true and always enrich our relationships.

            Some children are born into principle-centered families. They are the lucky ones for most youngsters are encumbered by a flawed value system of prejudices.

            Here’s a snapshot of some of the differences between values and principles.

Values Transient and arguable social norms	Principles Timeless and self-evident natural laws
Discrimination and judgment	Tolerance and understanding
Rules and regimentation	Exploration and discovery
Narcissism	Empathy

            The mission of values is to determine who is right. The mission of principles is to determine what is right. Value-based systems are divisive—shrinking our world; principle-based systems are enriching—expanding our world. A person who is solely value-centered will crush relationships, just as I crushed Cheri and the remembrance of our summer romance.

            Growing up requires the arduous task of evolving from a subjective code of values to an objective code of principles. Many people never arrive—being so entrenched in their own value system that they cannot see the immutable truth of principles.

A lesson in current events

            If you listen carefully to today’s presidential candidates, you can get a sense of who is more value-centered and who is more principle-centered.

            Listen to the words of Donald Trump: “The point is you can never be too greedy.” “My IQ is one of the highest — and you all know it! Please don't feel so stupid or insecure; it's not your fault.” “I think the only difference between me and the other candidates is that I’m more honest and my women are more beautiful.”

            Now, consider the words of Bernie Sanders: “I am who I am, and what I believe in and what my spirituality is all about is that we’re all in this together.”

            Donald Trump’s words imply an allegiance to the values of greed, arrogance, and sexism—just as immature and shortsighted as my attack on Cheri’s virtue. The difference is I was fourteen at the time; Donald Trump is sixty-nine.

            You know when a person is acting out of prejudicial values. Their behavior will disquiet, divide, and anger people. Sound familiar?

            I think that Bernie Sanders is a much more principle-centered candidate. When he says “we’re all in this together,” he is speaking of community and solidarity. These are principles. Creating a family, pulling together for a better, more peaceful world is a principle. Standing up for equal rights is humane, compassionate, empathic—all qualities of a principle-centered life.

            A politician’s position on current issues will also reveal his or her loyalty to values or principles.  For example, attacks on social security, labor unions, Medicare, and affordable education are value-centered. Support for lobby cartels that wrangle for the vainglory and self-interests of Wall Street is also value-centered. Such platforms are designed to feather the nests of the one percent and have nothing to do with principles.

Answering the inevitable question

            Some will argue, “Not so fast, Allen, don’t you think such values as judgment and self-interests are natural?”

            Yes, they are. But so is pooping in our pants. When we are a child we succumb to whatever is most natural. We do what we want, take what we want, and are indifferent to the needs of others. But if we are blessed with a mature social system and a discerning mind, we eventually become more sympathetic, more compassionate—more principle-centered. In other words, we grow up.

            I wonder who Cheri is kissing now. Not because I wish it were I (to quote Elvis, I’m not exactly “a hunk, a hunk of burning love” these days), but because I hope that she found a sweetheart who is spiritually evolved, one who would not judge her moral code, and certainly not one who would condemn her for watching the King swivel his hips. I hope she has found a mature, principle-centered soul mate.

            If I ever met Cheri again, I would recommend another movie: Pleasantville. One of my all-time favorite films, it beautifully illustrates the danger of black and white thinking—the very value that destroyed our romance. Then I would say, “I’m so sorry for being such a colossal, sanctimonious dope.”

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.