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Dear Anonymous,

This morning I received an anonymous e-mail from someone named “Old Friend.” It read, “How can you fathom mentoring leadership when, at your nation’s time of need, you decided to get out of the Army rather than lead troops in combat…sad.”

The following is my reply:

Anonymous,

During my first lesson with each new class of West Point leadership students, I would share a special quote from my time as a platoon leader at Ft. Lewis.  It was something I took from the wall of a Yakima Training Center port-a-potty during the winter of 1997. It read: “LT Crandle is a punk-a** b****.”

The first thing that ran through my mind when I processed the tribute was: “He spelled my name wrong.”  The second thing, “I wonder who wrote that?”

Likewise, this morning, I briefly wondered who sent me the anonymous e-mail. When I was a platoon leader, I had the authors narrowed down to about seventy soldiers. This morning, I figured the e-mail could have come from a thousand different people.  But I am guessing that you are someone who I hurt in the past, and someone who is still serving.  So I have two things to say. 1) I am sorry, and 2) Thank you for your service.

There are many reasons that I am not worthy to “mentor leadership,” the least of which is my decision to leave the Army during a time of war — so it would be silly to address that question directly.  Before going there, I would have to respond to: “How can you mentor leadership when your own sins and failures are so glaring?” or “How can you mentor leadership when you’re not even that good of a follower?” or “How can you mentor leadership when you can’t even control your temper at a sixth grade basketball game?”

No — it’s not the Army that stands in my way.  I was never really meant to be a Soldier. Never loved it. Never had the passion that I see in the face of a guy like Jeff Van Antwerp. Never had the commanding presence of a Chip Daniels, the toughness of a Dave Waldron, or the humility and purity of service of a Neal Mayo.  What the Army gave me — that I miss sometimes — was a chance to take care of people, and I hope I did that well.  But I am not convinced that I would have been a stellar performer in combat.  I would have been homesick — desperately homesick.  I probably would have been scared. I might have cracked under the pressure. (Let me take a second to thank some of those who I know are homesick right now: John Vest, Edward Graham, Jason Affolder, and Mike Sullivan. Let me thank every other man and woman who has boarded a plane headed east — such as my brother-in-law, Brian Johnson. Finally, let me thank some of those who never came home: Jimmy Adamouski, Hans Kurth, Shane Swanberg, Emily Perez, Dan Hyde, and Robert Lothrop.)

I’ve narrowed what I really believe about leadership down to a few things. And I truly believe that to be your best, you must pursue your passion (Jim Collins does a great job summing this up in more eloquent terms).  That’s my advice to anyone — chase what makes your heart pound. Do what you love and do it to make a positive difference in the lives of others.  If you do that, you are leading. I left in a time of war, but I also left seven years short of a 50% retirement. Many have asked how I could let go of that sort of financial security.  Whether the question is about avoiding the hardship or giving up the benefits — the answer is the same. Pursue your passion. Jake Harriman — a Special Ops Marine — left the military at a time of war…so he could start an organization committed to eradicating extreme poverty. Scotty Smiley, lost his eyesight and fought to stay in the Army. Both are heroes in my eyes.

Me, I love to teach; I love to take care of other people; and I love to write. Eighteen months ago, I was face down on my bedroom floor — depressed because I felt purposeless.  Leaving the Army ruptured my identity in a way that I had not anticipated. Since that low point, God has blessed my life immeasurably — to a point where I feel totally unworthy. He took the pathetic nature of my own self-pity and turned it into a chance to write a book (Hope Unseen).  God took my most despicable sin and turned it into a gift — a point of embarkation for relating to the prisoners who are now my students.

You’ll be happy to know — Anonymous — that I haven’t made a cent so far “mentoring leadership.” Blue Rudder has brought forth just a few opportunities — all gratis and all faith-based.  Maybe that’s what God has in store for this venture. In the meantime, I’ll pray that teaching and writing pay the bills.

Back in the Yakima port-a-potty, I obsessed a bit about the graffiti on the wall.  I was unsure of who I was as a leader. When I received your e-mail this morning, I thanked God for an opportunity to write — to reply humbly that I know exactly who I am and where my passions and gifts reside. I have been obedient to the Lord and he has blessed me in return — not financially necessarily, but with contentment and joy. I hope that your service in defense of our Country brings you the same fulfillment.

All the best,

Doug Crandall

Philippians 4:19

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I Choose Grace

I used to think that one of a leader’s foremost responsibilities was to enforce the standard. Four years of West Point leadership lessons and a couple of granite-willed company commanders will do that to you. But lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the fine line between grace and judgment. Between intentional naivete and constructive criticism. Between mercy and justice. My students used to be the future officers of America’s Army. They were talented members of the nation’s preeminent leadership institution. But you wouldn’t have known it by the way we, as faculty, often complained about them. There was a cycle of cynicism and distrust. And we — the leaders — were responsible for it; not the cadets.

One of my favorite peers — a guy named Everett Spain — saw things through a different lens. He told me early-on in my teaching career that he’d “never met a bad cadet.”  The feel in Everett’s classrooms reflected his rose-colored glasses.  The cadets were good. They were good because Everett believed they were good — and they followed his lead.

So I did like Everett. I believed that every cadet who walked in to my classroom had good intentions and wanted to do the right thing. At times, I even played stupid to foster this belief in my own mind. And it worked. Every single cadet I encountered brought something positive to our classroom. After I listened to Everett, I never met a bad cadet.

A month ago, I started teaching at a medium security prison. On my first day, I stopped before I opened the door of my car to step into the parking lot, and I asked God to help me see every single student (prisoner) as good. Turning the phrase around, I planned that I would “never meet a bad convict.” A month later, I still haven’t. They are great students and great people. One of them has been so impressive — so engaged and so respectful — that I looked him up on Google last night. I wanted to know what he had done to earn years and years in prison.

He molested two young girls.

There’s a fine line between grace and judgment.

Honestly, I don’t always know if I am doing the right thing at Coyote Ridge.  Is it really my role as a leader to find the best in a child molester? It’s a legitimate question, and one that I will continue to ponder. But removing myself from that specific situation, what I have learned — unequivocally — is that people (whether cadets or convicts) are who you expect them to be. There will be exceptions (one student at Coyote Ridge kept falling asleep and finally dropped the whole associates degree program last week); there will also be people who take advantage of the intentional naivete.

It’s worth the risk. It’s worth the risk to let the liar and the cheater get away with it occasionally in order to build a culture of trust, grace, and belief.

On Monday, one guy in my class asked me why I left the cabinet unlocked — with several DVDs inside — when I left the room. The rest of them nodded in agreement. “No one ever leaves the cabinet unlocked.”

“Well,” I said, “if I lock the cabinet, I communicate to sixteen of you that I don’t trust you. But if I leave the cabinet open, and someone steals my DVDs, well then I’ve lost $30. But honestly, it just never really crossed my mind. I don’t think you are going to steal anything.”  And I am quite certain that because I don’t, they won’t. They are good. As far as I know.

I’m not sure what I should believe about the child molester and the murderer and the extortionist in my classroom. I’m not always sure it’s right that they are having such a good time — five hours per week — while in prison.  But based on some of my own sins, I’m also not sure it’s fair that I am having so much fun teaching them.

I decided from the get-go that I would believe in these guys. And I do. I believe in them. And they have lived up to that belief.

As a leader, I choose grace.  As a failure, I accept it.  It just feels good to be believed in. Even when you don’t deserve it. And that feeling will drive people to results that would never be attained by merely “enforcing the standard.”

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.

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“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.

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Scotty Smiley

“The thing that really mattered was, Scotty cared about his Soldiers. He loved his Soldiers. And they knew it. And they knew it because he gave his time; he invested in them; he shared his feelings with them and they shared their feelings with him.”

– Jeff Van Antwerp

Serve Selflessly. Care Passionately. Pursue Inexorably.

Scotty Smiley, a Ranger and combat-diver qualified infantryman, was the Army’s first active-duty, blind officer. On April 6, 2005, he lost use of both eyes when a suicide car bomber blew himself up thirty meters in front of Scotty’s Stryker vehicle.  Since that day, Scotty Smiley has surfed in Hawaii, skied in Vail, skydived, climbed Mount Rainier, completed a triathlon, and graduated from Duke University’s Fuqua School of Business with his MBA.  The Army Times named Scotty its Soldier of the Year in 2007 and in 2008 he won an ESPY as the world’s Best Outdoor Athlete. Scotty, a recipient of the Bronze Star and Purple Heart, recently taught the core course in leadership at West Point and now commands the Warrior Transition Unit at West Point’s Keller Army Medical Center. Captain Smiley is the Army’s first blind company commander.

Scotty and his wife Tiffany are both from Pasco, Washington where Scotty captained the Pasco High School Bulldogs to a Class 4A State Football Championship.  Tiffany, who played college soccer at Whitworth, is a registered nurse. Scotty Smiley and Tiffany Smiley are the proud parents of Grady Douglas and Graham Elliott.

Contact Blue Rudder to schedule Scotty Smiley for your event.

Scotty with Team USA Basketball from Doug Crandall on Vimeo.