1

Every Interaction Matters

I’m coaching a sixth grade basketball team. We have eight solid players — great athletes and coachable kids.  It will be a fun year. Tonight, we were struggling to make lay-ups. We were running, playing solid defense, and shooting pretty well from the outside.  But for a burst of about three minutes in the second quarter, we missed several gimmes. I sat on the bench with total composure. Sixth graders don’t need to be admonished for missing lay-ups. They are trying to make the shots; they know that they missed.

In the huddle, at half-time, I mentioned the lay-ups and our need for concentration, and as I said it, I looked at one of the players who had missed a couple of the close-up shots. Just that look — that little look — was a leadership failure. This particular kid is a great competitor, but his confidence is shaky. He walks around acting kind of tough, but he’s hiding something underneath. I know this. I know that what he needs is confidence. And yet even my little look his way as I mentioned the lay-ups works against everything he needs.

It was a failure. I am reflecting right now — reflecting on getting it right the next time.

Leadership isn’t about what we need. It’s about what others need. And if we really want to lead with impact, we chart that course of servanthood down to every single interaction.That’s the leadership education that I am still giving myself…every single day.

Next time — no look.

5

My Nephew Fattay

My mom will find the good in anyone. She has a special knack for shining her flashlight of mercy into the cavernous depths of even the most downtrodden of souls — illuminating a tiny speck of positivity hiding in the corner . With her flashlight blazing an incandescent glory, she’ll proclaim: “James has been out of jail for two straight months. Isn’t that wonderful?” or “Tommy got fired from Dairy Queen for stealing Oreo Blizzards, but immediately found another job at Safeway. He’s really doing well stocking shelves. He’s such a nice man.”

So when Mom, for years and years, would tell me that my nephew Anthony was a “genius on the computer,” I figured it was the flashlight talking. Kenny — one of my other nephews — he could run two miles in right around ten minutes. When he got bored with that, he quit the track team and picked up soccer during his senior year in high school. He made varsity, started several games, and played a key role on a team that came in second in state. Ken has about 4% body fat, dates super models, and recently graduated from the University of Washington. Mom didn’t need her flashlight to find the good in Ken. He’s literally Barbie’s companion (blonde hair and all) — just four or five inches shorter. The other day, I think I saw him on a large poster in a window at Abercrombie and Fitch.

Anthony on the other hand — his existence has not been as glorious.  He never really played any sports. His family life hasn’t always been that uplifiting, and he didn’t even bother to apply to college. I left for West Point just a few months after he was born, and I’ve probably only seen him a couple of times per year since. Once — on Christmas about five years ago — he came to our family gathering dressed entirely in green Fubu gear. I remember thinking that he looked like the Wheedle on the Needle (the over-sized mascot of the former Seattle Sonics). Anthony apparently has a talent for rapping and has released a couple of full-length records under the mic name “Fattay.”  But Grandma doesn’t take her flashlight there because of the explicit lyrics. So Mom’s reports have always been about his technical acumen. I heard it at least three times a year. “That Anthony…he’s something on the computer.”

I started to believe my Mom’s hype last summer when a web hosting firm in Houston offered Anthony a job for upwards of $40,000 per year. I figured that if the kid could bring in that kind of money just weeks out from his high school graduation, that maybe he really did possess some sort of web-based genius. Anthony flew to Houston, looked around, missed home, and got back on the plane. By mid-August, he was sitting in Yakima, Washington with no job and no prospects. Meanwhile, I was a month in to my short tour as an Operations Manager at an Amazon.com customer service center about an hour away from Yakima. Our particular location housed a large team that worked exclusively on Amazon digital products: mp3 downloads, video on demand, and the Amazon Kindle. We were bringing on a large pool of seasonal hires heading into the holiday season, and my mind connected the dots: genius nephew = potential employee.

The selfish side of me wanted to dismiss the notion. Even though he was my nephew, I didn’t know Anthony all that well. What if he came to Amazon and got in some sort of trouble? Or what if he didn’t like this job either and ditched after a few weeks? Worse than that, what if we didn’t hire him? My mom wasn’t necessarily the most objective employment reference.

But the big heart I have on my good days wouldn’t let the selfish, risk-averse me get in the way. Anthony was my sister’s son. The only brightness in his life was the glow of the flat screen in his living room. I was struggling with my own identity while working out my new role at Amazon, but maybe God had put me in this place to give Anthony a chance. I decided that I would send him an e-mail telling him about the open positions we had on the “tech team.” I reminded him that it was only seasonal work, but indicated that some temporary hires — those who performed well — would be kept on permanently.

Anthony replied and thanked me for the suggestion. But not wanting a job an hour away, he decided to pursue some other opportunities in Yakima. Part of me was relieved. I’d reached out and done my good deed — mission complete. Anthony got a bite as a security guard at a hospital, but turned the offer down when he found out he would have to just walk around the building for hours. Judgmental me told my mom that the kid should just take a job. A few weeks later, running out of options in Yakima, he wrote and asked if Amazon was still interviewing. We were, but no longer for the tech role. Anthony didn’t care. He just needed a job. I was kind of nervous; the worst-case scenarios were scampering around in my head. But I gritted my teeth and told Anthony to come interview on the following Thursday.

I have a distaste for nepotism and favoritism that comes from a youth sports experience. My dad — the most fair man to ever walk this earth — once cut my best friend from our select soccer team. That same year, I failed to make a basketball team because the coach picked every son whose dad sat on the Boys’ Club executive board. I struggled. I didn’t want to interfere with the interview process, but should I at least set Anthony up for success? In the end, I did. I talked to one of my friends and told her that he was my nephew. I suggested that if he didn’t make the cut, she shouldn’t hire him. I wasn’t asking for any favors. But I guess if I wasn’t asking for favors, I never would have told her in the first place. Truth is, my big heart got the best of me. I knew that my nephew needed this job — and not for the money.

We hired Anthony in September of last year. In October he went to work as a regular customer service associate. By November, he had earned himself a job on the digital team — the “Army of Techness.” On Christmas Day 2008, I stood in front of all of our family — in that same house where Anthony once showed up as the Wheedle — and announced that he was one of twelve employees (out of well over one hundred seasonal hires) to have earned a regular role with the company. Our family cried. Anthony beamed. Kenny hugged him. It was his moment.

By February, Anthony — whose quality and efficiency ratings made him the #1 person on the entire team several weeks running — became a permanent member of the Army of Techness, making a good salary and enjoying his work.  From October through March, he stopped by my office nearly every day. Sometimes he got in the way; I had other things to do. But I took the time to talk to him. During those six months, I got to know the nephew I had once dismissed. We talked about his family situation, and his friends, and occasionally he would complain to me about the guy who sat next to him. It was great to have him there, because every day I was reminded that my nephew was in the building. I wanted the leaders who led him — the leaders I led — to take care of him. To invest in his future. To care about his passions. To pat him on the back when he was down and praise him when his stats showed he was a rock star. I wanted that for Anthony, and I wanted that for everyone in that building.

I left Amazon on April 1st. Last week, management promoted Anthony to seasonal lead.  He’s been working there less than a year; he just turned 19 years old. He is now a leader, and I am incredibly proud of him.

Anthony, I love you. And Mom was right, you are a genius.

10

“No way…” (Scotty Smiley’s First Day)

(The topic of today’s Blue Rudder blog was going to be “Why people follow…” Hope you don’t mind. I thought this was more important.)

When Tiffany Smiley asked her husband how his first day teaching leadership at West Point turned out, Scotty Smiley was typically non-descript.  “it went,” he said — just another day at the office. But Scotty Smiley could not see the reaction of the West Point cadet sitting in the right corner of his leadership classroom during C Hour in Thayer Hall.  From 0935  to 0949, cadets shuffled into the room, engaged in small talk, and pretty much ignored the officer standing at the front .  At 0950, Captain Smiley called the class to attention, received the attendance report from the section marcher, and told the cadets to “take seats.”

“Holy ****. No way.” I guess that until he saw Scotty fumble for the keyboard, he hadn’t taken his instructor seriously. The blind thing — he thought it was a joke.

And then he followed up with a bit of trivia about himself: “I’m Captain Smiley, and there’s one interesting thing you should know about me: I’m blind. I can’t see anything at all.” Scotty didn’t say why he was blind. He just followed up the statement with the deftness of humor that is sure to make him one of West Point’s most revered teachers (ever). “So because I can’t see, well, raising your hand in this class is pretty much a waste of time.” Everyone laughed — genuinely — and knowing cadets as I do, I’m pretty sure half of them were thinking: alright, this guy is going to be pretty cool. Not because he’s blind, but because he’s Scotty, and he treated the cadets with respect and authenticity — almost like he was one of them, but with a few more life experiences to share.

After the laughter ebbed, Scotty turned to his left and stepped toward the computer cabinet to advance the next slide. He moved his right foot, and then his left, and then stretched both hands out in front of himself to feel for the Dell Desktop. And that’s when the cadet in the right corner turned to his buddy and mouthed: “Holy ****. No way.” I guess that until he saw Scotty fumble for the keyboard, he hadn’t taken his instructor seriously. The blind thing — he thought it was a joke.

And it almost is. It’s almost laughable that four and a half years ago Scotty Smiley lost his eyesight and now he is teaching leadership at the #1 school in the country and the best leadership development institution in the world (forgive my admitted bias…just trust Forbes Magazine).  You know what it took for Scotty to get here? Sure, it took two years earning a Duke MBA, some help from friends, and much love from God. But it also took hours upon hours trying to figure out how to send an e-mail to his classes. He had to tear every single piece of paper out of the West Point leadership course guide and place them — one by one — on a scanner. Then he had to listen to those pieces of paper — via a talking computer program — multiple times in order to absorb the course concepts. After memorizing all of the shortcuts for Power Point 2003 during his time at Duke, Scotty landed at West Point and instantly had to do battle with the 2007 version of the program. The switch from Office 2003 to 2007 reduced my own work productivity by at least 50%. By the way –I can see.

People at West Point — understandably — wanted to see today as just another day. The guy lost his eyes. He’s in the Army. He’s teaching now. No big deal. Scotty — he too wants to see it as just another day. But it wasn’t. This was not just another day. Scotty could have thrown in the towel on life when his days became about learning computer keyboard shortcuts. His best friends are commanding infantry companies — one in Hawaii and the other deployed to Afghanistan. Scotty wanted to do that too. I’d understand a bit of self pity.  Instead, Captain Smiley stood in front of sixteen future Army officers and showed them leadership. As he fumbled for the computer, he joked aloud: “Come here computer, come here…” as if he was calling a kitty cat.

Scotty accidentally sent four e-mails to one of his sections in a technologically-challenged effort to introduce himself; he couldn’t get Dave Matthews playing on www.pandora.com before his first hour of class. At one point, he flipped a slide too far and a cadet had to help him recover.

Scotty Smiley climbed Mt. Rainier. That’s pretty amazing. But it’s not nearly as amazing as everything he’s done — every teeny, tiny obstacle he’s navigated — to get to where he stood today. I am lucky to know him. These cadets are lucky to share in the shining story that is his life. If the best college in the world was going to pick one person to teach leadership, it would be this guy. I taught it — for five years — and I taught it well. I loved it, still keep in touch with many of my students, and consider the place part of who I am. My impact will never come close to that of Scotty Smiley.

With apologies to all teachers everywhere and to any teacher at West Point — today was not just any other day. I bumped into Brigadier General Finnegan — the Dean — in the hallway after Scotty’s first class. “I saw a cadet come out of Scotty’s room,” the Dean said, “and I asked him how class went.”

First class. First day. First impression.

“Sir,” the cadet responded, “it was awesome.”

And it was.

For more on Scotty, check out the “I Can” fan page on Facebook.

12

What it means to lead…

Here’s what it means to lead:

“People follow you.”

Seriously. For the first ever Blue Rudder blog entry, I have decided to define what it means to lead. And that’s it.

“People follow you.”

It’s not influencing to accomplish an objective. It’s not vision. It’s not about creating change. It’s not strategic foresight or moral authority. It’s not providing purpose, direction, and motivation (the Army definition). It’s not. If people follow you, you are leading.

In sixth grade, my parents grounded me from the television for a month. I remember that it was the month of May, because on one particular day I was at Chris Dunn’s birthday party (he was born in May), sitting upstairs while everyone else watched the Smurfs. And why did I have to miss the Smurfs? I missed them — I was grounded — because I didn’t sing in music class. The teacher told my parents that I was a “leader.” Because I didn’t sing, a bunch of other kids didn’t sing.

I told my parents that that stunk. I didn’t want to sing. “You are a leader,” they said, “and you are grounded.” I am not really a leader, I thought. I am just a pain in the butt. I was rebellious enough to not sing, and the other kids — none of whom wanted to sing either — gained the courage of immovable lips when they saw mine standing still. I didn’t protest music to start a revolution of silence. I sat there with my mouth closed because I thought singing was dumb — or at least I thought the songs that we sang in music class were dumb. But my parents were right…I was a leader, because others were following. I didn’t have a grand vision. I hadn’t read any John Maxwell. I would have preferred if the other kids would have just gone ahead and sung so that I wouldn’t get grounded.

Kids in the neighborhood follow my son Timmy. He’s only six. He never took my leadership class at West Point (although he may someday). He’s never read Good to Great. But he’s a leader. Absolutely. His friends will do exactly what he says. I don’t really know why. Sometimes it’s because if they don’t, he’ll take his toy and go home. And they would rather have him there and be Chewbacca to his Han Solo for the sixth day in a row than have him leave. Other times, it’s because he’s simply a 40 inch tube of charisma. Kids like to be around him. It makes them feel good, cool, whatever. So they follow him — literally — across the street. It’s about what they want and what Timmy gives them. He’s a leader.

So forget all of the other definitions. They aren’t about leadership. They are about making the simple complex because the simple got boring. They are value judgments — others trying to tell everyone else what leadership should be. I call balderdash. You don’t even have to know where you are going to be a leader (Moses). If others follow — if they get something tangible or intangible — then you could be running across America randomly, and you would be a leader. Run Forrest. Run.

You know how people picked their leaders for much of history? Cultural anthropologists tell us that it was by height. Their mental model told them that they should follow the tallest person. What did the tall person give them — well, a sense of security if nothing else. To this day, that is why tall people make up a disproportionate amount of Fortune 500 CEOs (see Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink for an interesting look at this). Is it stupid to just make the tallest person your leader? I don’t know. Maybe no more stupid than just picking the person who can orate with the most passion. But it doesn’t really matter. If tall made you a leader, then you were a leader. And if you were short, well then someone telling you to be tall didn’t help a whole lot. Just like how it could be discouraging — if you are kind of a pessimist — to have someone write a book that announces optimism as the key to successful leadership. (It’s not. The key to successful leadership doesn’t exist.)

So given this simple but accurate definition of what it means to lead — I’d say professors and pundits and consultants spend way too much time figuring out what it means to lead and then boxing up just exactly how it is that you should do it. Jesus led even before Power Point. And he did a pretty good job. We’d be much better off figuring out who we are, what we believe, why we believe it, and how who we are and what we (selfish-human, flawed “we”) want impacts the people who follow us. And most importantly, we should be figuring out what it is that those followers want or need and what gets in the way of our own, personal quest to provide it. That’s Blue Rudder. That’s what we explore. We’re about thinking about ourselves, improving our understanding of the world around us, and removing the obstacles that keep others from following us.

How do you know if you are a leader? You are a leader if people follow you.

If you want to lead, you can. You can do it and still be you. You don’t even have to be tall (Timmy’s not).

Next time: Why people follow…