Contents
Chapter 3. The Speck in My Eye
Chapter 7. The Piano that Played
Chapter 9. Thieves in the Night
Chapter 10. The Sound of Silence
Chapter 11. Alone with My Fears
Chapter 13. Back to the Beginning
Chapter 15. A Painful Conclusion
Chapter 16. The Struggle Is On
Praise for …And Dignity for All
"When Jim Despain asked me to write a foreword for his book, …And Dignity for All, I was thrilled. Why? I'm a big Jim Despain fan. You're going to love this book. What people want in leaders today, more than ever before, is integrity—walking their talk. …And Dignity for All is all about integrity. This might very well be the best management book you ever read. I know it will help you unleash the power and potential of your human organization. Thanks, Jim."
—KEN BLANCHARD
Co-author, The One Minute Manager
"I highly recommend Jim Despain's book, …And Dignity for All, to anyone who aspires to reach his or her dreams. It is an excellent story that clearly outlines how important it is to take risks, face your fears, and overcome any obstacles to reach success. This book allows readers to reflect on how they can transform their lives into something they never thought could be imaginable.
"Through my personal experience as a former high school teacher and as a leader in the United States Congress, I have learned to recognize the qualities of a great leader. While serving in these capacities, I have come to understand the truth behind the saying, 'leaders aren't born, they are made.' This message is conveyed throughout the book as Jim Despain tells a story about his transformational journey through life that helped him develop into a charismatic and effective leader. It is a story about how he worked his way up the ranks in a high-profile company named Caterpillar, always with steady focus and with fierce determination that allowed him to overcome any challenge that came his way. Furthermore, it shows how Jim Despain inspired his workforce to put aside their differences and trust one another in order to pursue a more efficient, positive working environment.
"It was encouraging to read about Jim growing up in a small mining town in Illinois. He never received a college degree, but still managed to develop into one of the more respected, inspirational leaders and role models within the Caterpillar organization. This book reinforced my belief that each individual is responsible for the outcome of their own future—that success isn't always handed to a person on a silver platter, but rather earned through hard work and determination.
"I am thankful Jim Despain shared his personal story so that others might have the chance to understand what it takes to be a successful leader and, above all, how to make any career aspiration come true."
—J. DENNIS HASTERT
Speaker of the House
"Jim Despain's account of his progression from broom sweeper to top manager at Caterpillar Inc. is a great story—particularly for these times—about the right way to improve your corporate culture and your business success."
—THE HONORABLE BOB MICHEL
Former Minority Leader of the U.S. House of Representatives
"Jim Despain pulls off this business memoir beautifully. It is a rare and honest look at what it was like for a low-level employee to struggle and overcome obstacles in a not-always-friendly corporate environment. Jim's climb up the ladder is inspiring. Start-up employees as well as executives should read this book carefully."
—ROBERT SLATER
Author, Jack Welch and the GE Way
"The cry for corporate integrity is greater today than ever before. …And Dignity for All shows us how to succeed with integrity, not just succeed. It is a compelling case study of a wonderful journey toward individual transition and corporate transition."
—MARSHALL GOLDSMITH
Founding Director of the Financial Times Knowledge Dialogue and the Alliance for Strategic Leadership and author of 14 books, including The Leader of the Future (a BusinessWeek best-seller)
"They say people can't change, but this book will convince you it's not true. I saw the Values Process described in this book change Jim and his team from autocratic managers to real leaders. And I saw their business improve far beyond anyone's expectations. This book proves what we know in our hearts—that trusting and respecting people makes good business sense."
—GERALD L. SHAHEEN
Group President, Caterpillar Inc.
"This is absolutely the most inspiring story about corporate leadership that I have read in the past 15 years! If you want to understand how to turn on employees and turn up profits, Jim Despain's real life journey from floor sweeper to vice president of a $20 billion company is a must read. Every chapter is filled with important insights for transforming any business into a great company. So refreshing. Almost makes life worth living."
—ERIC STEPHAN
BYU, Marriott School of Business and author of Powerful Leadership
"I met Jim and his management team during the deployment stage of their Common Values process. At first, I thought the effort was superficial and a 'program of the day' activity. I was wrong. There is no question this division accomplished an effective, almost unbelievable transformation. Their ability to maintain the gains from our work with them (or their Class A achievement) is clear evidence."
—JIM CORRELL
Chairman, Oliver Wight Americas
"…And Dignity for All is not only a compelling story, it is a blueprint for how to succeed in any business. Using the values process described in this book, we took a similar journey and achieved consistent, extraordinary performance. Whether you are in a product business or in a service business like we are, the job of leaders everywhere is to serve and honor people. When people feel good about themselves, each other, and their place of employment, performance always gets better."
—W. MICHAEL BRYANT
President and CEO, Methodist Health Services
"What an incredible book—a page turner! Jim Despain learned values-based leadership not by idealizing, but rather by experiencing what no longer works in business and inventing and implementing what does work. A must read for anyone attempting to deliver extraordinary results today."
—MICHAEL BASCH
Co-founder of FedEx and author of CustomerCulture
"Mr. Despain's book allows the reader to take himself/herself, the enterprise, far, far, far beyond the 'talk.' It allows the reader, should he/she have the moxie and the energy, to inculcate a system of organizational behavior that will (in actuality, not in theory) produce nothing less than outstanding organizational results.
"Beware: the practical application of the concepts contained in this book is not for the faint of heart. I dare say it will constitute the most challenging action you will have ever taken and, should you succeed, produce the greatest reward you have ever achieved."
—P. JOSEPH O'NEILL
President, G&D Transportation
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Foreword
When Jim Despain asked me to write a foreword for his book, …And Dignity for All, I was thrilled. Why? I'm a big Jim Despain fan. I really got to know Jim in 1995 when he came to present at the annual client conference that the Blanchard Companies hold every year. At this conference, Bob Logue, one of our sales consultants, and Don Carew, one of our founding consulting partners, invited Jim to share his learnings from the incredible culture change effort he was leading as vice president and general manager of one of the largest manufacturing facilities of Caterpillar Inc.—the Track-Type Tractors Division headquartered in East Peoria, Illinois.
Jim mesmerized the crowd not only with the magnitude of the changes they were attempting but also with his life story—the journey that brought him to the "right place at the right time." …And Dignity for All is an outgrowth of that speech and the follow-up talk Jim did by popular demand the next year at our 1996 client conference.
In many ways, …And Dignity for All is two books in one. First, it is a story of Jim Despain, an unlikely candidate for a senior executive position at one of the world's leading companies. He began his career as an hourly worker and ended it as corporate vice president. His determination, will to succeed, and openness to learning catapulted him into a situation that needed an enlightened leader. And what a journey it was. It was a journey from a command-and-control, self-serving leader to a supportive cheerleader who led by example, serving the vision and values of the human organization. It is a story about changing a corporate culture and, in the process, not only creating a very successful and profitable organization, but also changing people's lives. Let me set the context.
In the early 1990s, times were tough for the Track-Type Tractors Division, which Jim headed at Caterpillar. In spite of plant modernization, reengineering, reorganization, total quality management, and the list goes on, the company was suffering heavy losses. Employees were bitter and uneasy, returning to work without a contract from an eight-month strike. As Caterpillar's original plant, the Track-Type Tractors Division had the crustiest of cultures. Consistent with many human organizations, both inside and outside Caterpillar, people were not working together—purposely. Management was unknowingly teaching supervisors how not to work with hourly people, and union leadership was unknowingly teaching hourly employees how not to work with management.
Caterpillar was at a crossroads. Its markets were mature; the economy was slow; and its competitors were improving their quality while lowering their costs and their prices. Caterpillar had to change—the market, the competition, and the expectations of the customer demanded it.
Jim looked into the mirror and realized that he was as much a part of the problem as the solution. Jim's background had been one of command and control. The style he had been taught was to talk more than listen, provide answers rather than involve people in decision making, and be more concerned with who was right than with what was right. Yet he had a few role models over the years who suggested there was a different way. Those learnings bubbled to the surface as he realized that the missing link to improving the way things were done was in how people treated each other.
If the division was going to survive, it would have to establish a set of common values—shared beliefs with standards for behavior in the workplace—that would guide the way the company's employees interacted with each other. The first step was for Jim, together with his division's seven department managers, to establish a core set of operating values that could overcome all the obstacles they felt were undermining their performance as a division. With trust and mutual respect as the foundation, they established nine core values and the behaviors that reflected them.
That's when Don Carew and a team of consulting partners from the Blanchard Companies got involved and I was introduced to Jim. Jim knew that if values were to mean anything, the company's leaders would have to demonstrate and model those values in the way they worked with their people. This is where he saw our team fitting in—improving people first.
You're going to love this book. What people want in leaders today, more than ever before, is integrity—walking their talk. …And Dignity for All is all about integrity. It begins with the integrity journey of a man and ends with the integrity of an organization—one where people not only feel good about themselves, but produce good results. This might very well be the best management book you ever read. I know it will help you unleash the power and potential of your human organization.
Thanks, Jim.
—KEN BLANCHARD
Coauthor, The One Minute Manager and Leadership by the Book
Acknowledgments
Caterpillar Track-Type Tractors Division
- To Bob Gordon and my department managers— for the genesis of the values idea and for working together to transform themselves and our business
- To the men and women in our plants and offices—who accepted and managed change and who now keep the values alive and strong as new challenges emerge and leaders come and go
Caterpillar Inc.
- To the executive office— for empowering their divisions and trusting us to deploy this new idea, one that some first thought was "soft" with low potential
- To our dealers and customers—who encouraged us and who have fostered the spread of values far beyond our walls
Converse Marketing
- To the talented people—who delivered communication plans and materials that facilitated change at Track-Type Tractors and who supported our work on this book
DespainConverse
- To our consulting team—who help other organizations create cultures of achievement where people find the dignity they seek, the information they need, and the freedom to make a difference
- To our clients—who take the values journey and discover that by giving dignity to all, they get bottom-line results
Introduction
I am not your typical senior executive. I don't have an MBA. I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. No, this is the story of someone with an unlikely resume for success. I was married when I was 16. I didn't go to college. What I learned, I learned on the job. I watched and I listened. I read and I asked. I tried and I failed. I learned and tried again.
This book is the story of a lifetime of experiences and the lessons I learned that enabled me to become a true leader of people. I began my career as a sweeper in a factory that makes the largest earthmoving equipment in the world. I ended it at the same company—a vice president of a $20 billion corporation. This story includes how we transformed a factory and an entire division into highly profitable leaders in our corporation and industry. It tells you how to do the same in whatever business you find yourself.
In the end, through my own experiences, achievements, and struggles, I discovered that values, defined as shared beliefs with standards for behavior in the workplace, are the key to succeeding in changing and challenging times. These values aren't a moralistic code based on personal or company ethics, although ethics are integral. Instead, they are a blueprint for creating a work environment that drives success because they provide people a context for their decisions, broad boundaries for their ideas, and more freedom to make a difference.
And what a difference people with values can make. The Track-Type Tractors Division of Caterpillar Inc. saw unprecedented improvement—improvement in everything from profit to employee satisfaction. And we did this without extraordinary capital investment, forced "right-sizing," product replacements or additions, new marketing strategies, or any other traditional idea. By establishing workplace values, we caused employees to feel an investment in the organization. We inspired rather than constrained and, in the process, created a high-performance organization.
This book is the story of the transformation of a man and the transformation of a business. Its purpose is to enable you to become a more effective leader and to shorten your journey by telling you what took me a lifetime to learn—that true leadership is very different from management. Leadership is about others and not about self. It is about trust and not about power. It is about producing results by creating cultures where people know it's okay to be unique and different, so they willingly take off their masks, express themselves, and do great things. Their clash of opposing ideas generates sparks that light the path to progress. My hope is that this book and my story will help unlock greatness for you.
—JIM DESPAIN
Chapter 1. Death of the Dog
The measure of a man is what he does with power.
—PITTACUS
I was born in Greenview, a coal mining town in central Illinois, near the end of the Great Depression. Like the other children of my community, I grew up understanding the values of Abraham Lincoln, who had made his home 20 miles away in the state capital of Springfield and rode the circuit through Greenview as an attorney. I also grew up understanding the importance of the company in my family's life. Just like the genes that determined the color of my eyes and the squareness of my jaw, the coal mining company influenced how I felt about the world.
As a young person, my observations of my father in his work and at home left lifelong impressions and influenced how I, much later, approached my own work. My father and his father before him worked the mines—dirty, backbreaking work that required a man to put his shoulder to the job and his faith in the Almighty. The life and livelihood of a miner depended on his ability to pry as much of the soft, black material out of the walls as quickly as he could. He couldn't chip out chunks too small—they would fall through the screening grid and be lost as part of his income. The chips couldn't be too large, or the company would be angry. One industrious young man decided to chip out a block of coal the size of the pit car. When the pit car was tipped on the scales, the large chunk broke the scales' springs. The weigher fired the miner on the spot. There was no room for creativity in the mines.
Persistence, commitment, and strength were essential to a miner's success. Tons of coal determined how well a company did in the marketplace. Slackers, whiners, and weaklings could keep the mine from making its quota. That meant less pay for the miners or the possibility of the company bringing in immigrant workers to replace them. There was no room for questioning the authority of the mine superintendent or the company. The men in Greenview knew how the miners of Godley and Carbon Hill had been fired upon for their insolence. They heard the story of the state militia searching the homes of miners in Braidwood. They feared the horrors of blacklisting, lockouts, and "scab" workers.
The mines themselves were dark, damp, dirty, and dangerous. The mules that pulled the cars were often stabled in the mine, adding animal stench to the coal dust that filled the air. The height of the shafts often was too short for a grown man to stand upright, so miners worked in stooped positions to chip out the coal. It was disagreeable work.
At the same time, the miner had to be keenly aware of what was going on around him. The mine was an unpredictable place. The possibility of collapsing or flooding shafts, fires, methanol explosions, or the silent seepage of poisonous gases into the mine made the miner keep his eyes and ears open, always listening and looking for any sign of danger. Every day the miners entered the shaft, they remembered the lessons of the Diamond Mine disaster, where melting snow poured into the shaft, drowning 74 workers. They never forgot the horror of the more recent Cherry Coal Mine disaster, where 259 men and boys died nearly 500 feet below ground because somebody carelessly bumped into the open flame of an oil lamp while moving a bale of hay to the mules' stable. It wasn't their own deaths the miners feared, but the thought of leaving their wives and children alone and unsupported. How would their families survive without the paycheck the company provided? Where would they live if not in a company house?
The lessons men learned from the mines were simple: Break the rules and you pay; make the most of your work time; be careful, be cautious, be alert; keep busy to keep alive; carefully respect authority. Mixed with these lessons were the basic values that were the heritage of the people of central Illinois: dedication and commitment to the ideal; appreciation of the realities of your life; honesty and trustworthiness. These lessons were the forces that molded the character of my father and grandfather. These were the principles that my father applied to me as I grew up. Ultimately, these values provided the lens through which I would see people and organizations for most of my life.
I saw these principles manifested in the expectations and actions of my father. His parenting approach was a combination of the obsession to honesty of Abe Lincoln and the demanding obedience to authority of the mines. Early on I learned the consequences of testing his boundaries. Like many parents of the times, my father believed in the proverb, spare the rod and spoil the child. The original meaning of the saying instructed parents to set direction and boundaries for children, much the same way a shepherd used his rod or staff to guide his sheep. Most parents of the time, however, believed the adage meant that physical punishment was in the child's best interest. My father was no different. His rules were simple and direct. Don't lie. Respect your elders. Do what you're told. Trouble in school means double trouble at home. Push the limits and the consequences will be severe. Breaking the rules resulted in swift and painful punishment, a beating on the backside with my father's leather belt or a switch cut from the cherry tree. He didn't worry about how much the whipping hurt or marked my backside; he did what was necessary to help me learn not to break the rules.
Enforcement of the rules was black and white. There were no gray areas. There were no negotiations, philosophical discussions, or instructive lectures. My father taught by simple and sometimes severe example. He once had a Dalmatian, a dog he loved. He trained it to be tenacious, aggressive, protective—a one-man dog. It often accompanied him to the local tavern, where it sat quietly and didn't move until my father was ready to leave. The two were inseparable. At home, he kept the animal chained up outside. In spite of being told not to go near him, one of my favorite daredevil pastimes was to tease the dog by running just beyond the length of its chain. Angered by the intrusion into his territory, he would lunge toward me only to be jerked back by the constraints of his chain. One day during summer vacation, a friend from school and I were playing the game. We ran past the dog over and over again, convulsing with laughter each time the chain snapped the animal back. But one time, my friend became a bit too confident and ran too close. With a menacing growl, the dog lunged again and just barely caught the side of her cheek. The bite wasn't deep, but it scared the daylights out of us. My mom was furious, but she was not the disciplinarian of the house. She sent me to my room, giving me time to contemplate the punishment I would receive from my father later.
But when my father came home that day, there was neither switch nor belt. Instead, he entered my room, grabbed me by the shirt collar, and dragged me to the doghouse. With shotgun in hand, he led the dog and me to the coal mine. There he told the dog to sit. As I watched, he took 20 paces, turned, and shot the dog in the head. I was horrified that my actions had caused this terrible death. The obvious lesson was clear: Break the rules, pay the price. The other, less obvious message was to protect and defend your family from harm, no matter what the sacrifice. My father and I never discussed the incident or the fatal punishment again, but the image would never leave my memory.
Like all children, I sought recognition from my parents, particularly from my father. As I grew older, I began to understand authority better. When orders were given, I learned to obey them—quickly, energetically, and completely. Unwavering obedience pleased my parents. I constantly sought ways to exceed their expectations. One summer night, as I lay in bed, I heard my father complaining about cleaning up the "windfall" pears that had been rotting on the ground. "I wish someone would just chop down that damn tree," I clearly heard my father say. Aha! This was something I could do. I knew where the hatchet was. I knew how to notch the trunk to fell the tree. I was a Boy Scout, and I had learned how to do these things. I was so excited by this opportunity to please my father, I could hardly sleep.
The next morning, I jumped out of bed as soon as I heard my father leave. Although surprised by my initiative, my mother never thought to question why I was up so early and why I wanted a big breakfast. But I knew—I had men's work to do today. I was going to impress my father by clearing away a nagging problem. With expert precision, I notched the trunk of the tree. Then I swung the ax over and over again until the tree leaned, trembled, and fell right where I wanted it. The impact of the tree hitting the ground rumbled through the air. Pleased and proud of my work, I savored a few moments of accomplishment, then set out to reduce the tree to a pile of firewood. As I raised the ax overhead to begin disassembling the tree, I was stopped by my mother's scream. Too horrified to explain her anger, she sent me to my room for the rest of the day. I was confused by her actions. Why was she sending me to my room? Why wasn't she proud of me? She had heard my father last night wishing the tree was gone. I granted that wish. Why wasn't my initiative rewarded? Perhaps my father would feel differently.
But my father did not feel differently. The pear tree provided a source of food for our family. The loss of the tree was like a loss of income. My initiative was foolish and had cost our family dearly. Instead of congratulations, I received a beating from my father I would never forget. But the pain of the switch was nothing compared to the pain I felt later when I realized what my decision had cost my family. I had literally taken food out of our mouths. I learned that decision-making and initiative could be risky and painful. I learned that orders needed to be direct, not inferred. I learned that good intentions were not enough. Decisions had to be right, and to be right they had to be exactly what the boss, in this case my father, wanted.
* * *
I attended the community schools of Greenview. I didn't study much, but I had a good memory that allowed me to "get by." School athletics gave me a chance to garner the recognition and glory I craved. They also gave me an outlet for my energy. Coal mining towns were rugged places. Greenview had as many bars as it did churches. Miners sat in the bars, drinking cold beers both in celebration that they had made it through another day and as an anesthetic to numb the reality that tomorrow they'd descend into the shaft all over again. Drink led to talk, and talk led to arguments. Arguments led to fights. The fights were not all that serious, more of an outlet for the miners to release tension. The boys of Greenview Community High School mimicked their fathers. Fights were just part of the recreational venue.
But I didn't like to fight. I ran from many. In spite of my size—I was well on my way to my eventual 6-foot 4-inch frame—I avoided conflict. I preferred sports as my release instead. I felt my best when I was wearing the black and red of the Greenview Bulldogs. I relished the opportunity to compete. The world of sports provided me with the recognition I craved and a deep appreciation of winning. Sports demonstrated the principles my father had taught me. The rules of engagement were pretty well defined. You knew when you had scored; you paid the consequences for breaking the rules. You defended your team like you did your family. You did your best to make your team successful. And you could easily tell whether your efforts delivered what the "authorities" (the coach and fans) wanted. You either won or you lost. Pretty clear-cut. I played baseball and basketball and ran track. I was good enough to be scouted by major colleges, but decided to get married instead. While young marriages were not unusual in that day and age, especially in our small coal mining town, my marriage was younger than most. I was 16 years old, and my wife, Gloria, was 15. I had nearly two years of high school to complete before graduation. And Gloria was pregnant with our first child.
Our first home as a married couple was a small trailer on Gloria's parents' property. It didn't even have a bathroom. We went to school, worked in the evenings and summers, and cared for our baby boy, Michael. It wasn't easy for either of us to finish high school, but we did. Following graduation, I joined the Air National Guard, then decided to seek employment at the great manufacturing plants of Peoria.
* * *
As I left high school, I carried with me the beliefs I had learned from the coal miners of Menard County and my family. I knew by now that life and work could be hard, even harsh. I expected fear and danger in the workplace, and I knew it was my job to prepare for it. I understood that I had to compete with others; and to compete well, I needed to give my best at all times. I knew my employer would be willing to replace me if I wasn't productive. Above all, I recognized my absolute responsibility to my young family and their well-being. I knew their comfort, security, and safety depended on my ability to succeed at work. I would not let them down.
Chapter 2. Pitchin' Pennies
We work to become, not to acquire.
—ELBERT HUBBARD
America in the years following World War II was a country of hubris. "Stormy, husky, brawling…coarse and strong and cunning"—Carl Sandburg's words described not only the city of Chicago, but also the attitudes of the thousands of men running postwar American industries. Most of the bosses in the manufacturing plants had lived through the war. Whether they fought on the beaches of Normandy, built the airstrips of Guadalcanal, or stayed stateside to ensure the supply lines to the fronts, these men understood the power and responsibility of command. They knew as leaders they had to have a certain toughness, a bravery, an arrogance that made those they commanded fear the consequences of not obeying more than they feared the task itself. Without such blind obedience, men got hurt, even killed, and objectives were not achieved.
It was this military model, steel-cold and certain, that became the foundation of leadership for the CEO and the vice president, the supervisor and the foreman. They were in charge, and together—applying the leadership of sheer command—they would meet the pent-up demand of America and the world in the 1950s. Sandburg's poetry captures the souls of men like these: "Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is a pulse, and under his ribs, the heart of the people." These men knew they controlled more than their factories—they controlled the very lifeblood and fortunes of the men inside. Their authority remained unchallenged and their chain of command unbroken. The power of this command, after all, had just been demonstrated in America's dominance in the world over the last decade. And to question such authority was a sin, a breach of conduct, and terribly un-American. Even the great Douglas MacArthur was not immune from the propriety of command and control. His open disagreement with authority cost him his command and, many people thought, cost America a victory in Korea. No, breaking ranks, challenging command, and insubordination simply were not the right way to go in the 1950s. Everybody knew and accepted that.
The warhorses of industry had little trouble enforcing their command. After all, a great percentage of the men working under them also had military experience. When these workers had been soldiers, they learned the life-and-death importance of following orders. They understood and respected the position of leadership and comprehended the consequences of ignoring it. Those who were too young to have fought in World War II or Korea still were imprinted with the unspoken etiquette of the military. They knew that to get ahead you had to tow the line. Sure, there were strikes and work stoppages, but even then the workers deferred to the authority of the union leaders.
Company boss man or union boss man—it didn't matter: You knew the pecking order and you respected it. And the pecking order was clear and undisputed. The college boys, the sons and nephews of the company leaders, and the tough and seasoned company managers were the men who comprised industry's gentry. They wore gray flannel and blue pinstriped suits, starched white shirts, and ties bearing the colors of their alma maters. The company men were self-assured, confident that the workers below them feared their position and their power. To reinforce this mystique of position, company men did what many good military commanders had done in the war: intimidate, bully, and humiliate the troops into obedience and subservience. It was true, the workers did fear and respect the power of these men. But secretly in the privacy of their minds and hearts, the workers plotted ways to even up the score. They knew who controlled the machines, the rapidity of production, the speed of delivery, the firmness of deadlines. By manipulating any of these, the workers could intimidate, bully, and humiliate the company men back. Sure, there might be repercussions, like a lost raise or a day off without pay, but it was worth it to see a white-shirt get his comeuppance.
But the pecking order didn't stop with the chain of command. There was a pecking order among the workers themselves. There were the old-timers who knew the ropes and knew how to get away with stuff. There were the brown-nosers who had "friends in high places" and used this buddy system to get ahead. There were the streetwise city boys who had savvy and style, who could knock back the beers, flirt with the women, and make everybody feel like their pals. There were the country rubes, boys from the farms with Sunday school innocence that made them favorite targets for both practical jokes and misplaced blame when something went wrong. And there was another group of men who almost didn't count at all. These were the men with dark skins, who somehow had managed to get hired. It didn't matter that in 1954 the Supreme Court said segregation was illegal. Despite what the government said, white America still carried its old habits and thoughts about African Americans. In the factory, they still had not reached a status on par with their white counterparts. Finally, there were the women who worked in offices, cafeterias, and dispensaries. Even though they manufactured planes, artillery, boats, and all kinds of heavy equipment during the great war, now that the men were back, these women needed to take up their appropriate places in the world, return to duties associated with home, health, and charity. It was time for the girls to let the men get back to doing men's work. It was time, as Eisenhower said, "to get back to the business of business."
It was into this world that I came of my own free will. I came because I remembered how badly my father always wanted to work for Caterpillar, the big manufacturing company to the north, but couldn't because he had only a grade-school education. I came because my friends' fathers made good money at the company. I came because I was married with a young family to support. Yes, Caterpillar offered me lots of benefits besides good pay. It offered me a place to forge my future.
Perhaps, too, I could find something more at the company. I was still looking for evidence of my own self-worth. It seemed to be lacking, and my self-confidence was low. My feelings of insecurity were complex. Some of it had to do with my fear of authority, perhaps coming from my father's example. Some of it had to do with being born on the "wrong side of the tracks." The well-to-do people of Greenview lived on the south side. I was raised on the north side. And some of it had to do with choices I made that didn't necessarily fit with the conformity and conservatism of the 1950s. Certainly my marriage at a very early age opened me up to criticism.
I often felt out of place. My wife came from one of the "better" families of Greenview. My early capture of her heart and hand did not do much to endear me to my in-laws. I felt self-conscious with them. They treated me kindly—they were too Christian not to—but I interpreted their kindness as charity, a sort of noblesse oblige they conferred on me because I was a child of perhaps a lesser god, and by virtue of my marriage to their daughter, I was family. But I never felt I was like them. My speech was rough and unpolished. My grammar was inelegant and homespun. In spite of my hulking physique and towering frame, I felt small and insignificant around people like my in-laws. They were people of knowledge and position, who had a sophisticated and learned understanding of the world. How I longed to overcome my deficiencies. How I ached to become someone special. Someday, I vowed, I will speak like a parson, have the poise of a politician, and command the language like a professor. But that day was not today. Today I had to knuckle down and get back to basics. Today I had to start work on the shop floor. Today I would take a first step out of the chaos of my youth and begin to order my life as a man. Filled with anticipation and full-fledged fear, I went to a job interview at Caterpillar. "If only I could earn $100 a week," I thought to myself, "I would be able to buy everything I need."
* * *
In spite of my fears, I, like many others, wanted to work for Caterpillar. It had a great future. During the war, the manufacturing giant met every challenge thrown at it by the United States government, even though as many as 6,000 of its men were on military leave and women were staffing the machines. The company knew how to make great equipment. In fact, General Patton once commented that given the choice between tanks and the bulldozers Caterpillar made, he'd take bulldozers any day. With an endorsement like that and the pent-up demand for new machines and replacement parts that had been deferred during the war, the company had to build and expand just to keep up with all the work coming its way. And still there were more and more opportunities. The company's machines would be the equipment of choice for the St. Lawrence Seaway projects, building the great interstate highway system, and connecting the wilderness of Alaska to the other continental states. Business was so good, the company stock split two for one.
Although eager to make a good impression at this awesome manufacturer, I was bothered by self-doubt. As I sat across the desk from the interviewer, I felt my anxiety rising. This nervousness was not new. When I joined the Air National Guard after high school, I was sent to Lackland Air Force Base in Texas for three months of basic training. During the induction process, I was verbally abused by the drill sergeant to the extent that I broke out in hives. I felt as if my worst fears were being realized. My self-worth was completely destroyed. My upper body was so swollen from the allergic reaction that my shirt had to be cut off before my circulation was completely strangled. "Please," I thought to myself, "please don't let that happen now."
The personnel representative was nice enough. He kept asking me why I was so nervous. He encouraged me to relax. Even so, I could feel my pulse quicken and my muscles tense with each question. I wondered if he could see that I was sweating. I wondered if he noticed my hands were shaking. I wondered if I could make it though this interview. I even felt like running.
"When can you start, young man?" the personnel representative asked.
The words shattered through my anxiety. "Start, sir?" I stammered.
"Yeah, start work. That's what we're talking about, isn't it? You wanted a job here, didn't you?"
"Yes, yes, I can start right away," I answered.
"Great. Report for work Monday, third shift. Take this paperwork to my secretary. She'll get you all set."
That was it. I was hired. I was so relieved I didn't even think to ask what I was going to do. I had a job. That was something. And I had a job at one of America's best companies. That was something better. I was on my way. I was going to be somebody. I was an employee of the great earthmoving company.
By the time Monday rolled around, my excitement had turned to apprehension. I was scared to death. What if I messed up? What if I couldn't do the job? What if my supervisor didn't like me? As I thought about these questions on my hour-long drive to the company, I realized I was expendable. This giant company could replace me in the blink of an eye. I could be fired on the spot and nobody in the company would even notice. As this thought filtered through my mind, I came to the conclusion that I needed to understand the rules right away and never, never break them. I knew if you broke the rules, you paid the price. I had learned that lesson at a very early age. I couldn't afford that kind of consequence now. I would find a way always to fulfill the company's expectations and to mind my Ps and Qs with my boss.
* * *
Third shift—the graveyard shift, they called it. Work started at 11:18 P.M. and continued through dawn. The shop was cooler than during the day, but third-shifters had to fight the natural inclination to sleep. All through the night, steelworkers and fabricators transformed blocks and rods of metal and steel into equipment that could shape nature's hills, plains, and shores to meet man's needs. My job was not so significant as those who operated the drill presses and the lathes. My job was simple—sweep the floors, keep them clean of the gritty gray iron chips that sometimes flew and always trickled from the machinery. My tools were basic: two brooms. One was a push broom for big jobs. The other was a hand broom for corners and crevices. Even though my work was simple, I didn't mind the brooms. They gave me something to hang onto as I listened to the sounds of the shop. First, there was the constant grinding and humming of the machines. And frequently, the machines' rhythm was accented with harsh words and threats from the supervisors:
"You stupid SOB, why did you run that scrap?"
"If I catch you loafin' on the job one more time, your ass is out of here."
"What kind of a moron would let that machine malfunction? You'll pay for this one!"
The broom was a barrier when stuff like this was going on. It forced me to keep my eyes on the ground and avoid the "What are you looking at, boy? Get back to work" comments from supervisors. I heard these comments often.
And it wasn't just the supervisors who broke the rhythm. Among the workers themselves there seemed to be an underground war between those who stood together as a group to keep the company in line and those who wanted to help the company succeed.
"Hey, you brown-nose, don't push that machine beyond what we told you or you won't be walkin' for weeks."
"We don't cozy up to the company man around here. A guy could get hurt doing that."
"You better listen up, boy, or you might just find that cute little house you're renting in need of some major repairs, if you know what I mean."
"Hey, keep up that pace and we'll be losing jobs around here. You want that to happen? You want to put your buddies out of work?"
I found myself balancing lots of different voices. My father always told me to do the best I could. The people I worked with told me to toe the line and not do too much. The supervisor told me I'd better do what I was told. I had only been on the job a short while and already I had discovered the values and beliefs of my family, my friends, and my church weren't necessarily the rules of the world. The shop floor obviously wasn't Sunday school, and if you thought it was, you could get eaten alive. Still, something in my gut told me my mother's and father's words had to mean something. One thing I did know was that I would take care of my family. That meant I had to make a living. If that meant I had to make some adjustments in my thinking, so be it for now.
The supervisor soon rewarded me for my hard work and respectful attitude. I edged up the working ranks by becoming a wash tank operator. The work was dirty. My job was to take the oily, dusty parts, wash them in the tank, and blow them dry. I used an air hose to clear tapped-out holes in the parts. It wasn't the most glamorous job in the shop. Still, it was better than being a sweeper, and it was evidence that my approach to the company was the right way to go. Please the supervisor, that was the key to getting ahead. I worked hard and did a good job. Once again I was rewarded. This time, the supervisor offered me a real promotion—to a radial drill operator position.
In my observation, drill operators were people who exhibited real skills. That appealed to me. The operators' performance was measured on how much time it took to complete every movement needed to operate the machine. A perfect performance was 96.2 percent with a 3.8 percent allowance for lunch—a total of 100 percent. The measure re-ignited my competitive athletic spirit. It was like a track record that was meant to be broken. After a few weeks, I realized the 96.2 percent measure was easy to achieve. The time and motion studies that made up the basis for the measure somehow were inaccurate. If I operated at a perfect performance level (100 percent), I found I had time to loaf around, hide in the restroom, or just drink more coffee. When I asked the guys why they didn't do more, the answers were very clear, "Don't screw with the system. Increase production and you're giving in to the company. You're taking away jobs from other men. You're taking away overtime. A guy could get hurt doing that. A guy's family could get hurt too." So for a while I was content to follow the pack. Still, I heard my father's admonition: "If you're going to do a job, do it right." And there was that number, that 96.2 percent thing. It just stood out there like a long-jump record waiting to be challenged and broken.
It didn't take too long before that number started preying on my mind. I was better than that number, and I knew it. My father was right—why slack off? What was the satisfaction in that? It just wasn't right. After all, were we not taught in Sunday school to use our skills and abilities to the fullest? Wasn't that the point of the parable of the talents? It just wasn't right, no sir, it wasn't right to do less than your God-given abilities allowed. The conflict haunted me so much I contemplated quitting my job. But I thought of my foreman, who was a good and decent man. I didn't want to let him down or put him in a bind. Even with everyone working at "full capacity," there still was a production bottleneck on my machine line.
So I decided to test myself and the machine. I knew there were men in the plant who had threatened to break my legs if I did. I knew there were men who said they'd beat me senseless. I knew there were men who were watching to see if I crossed the line, ready to make me pay the price. But I couldn't help myself. There was that number and my abilities. There was my foreman, who had been so good to me. There were the lessons my mother and father taught me. And there also was my competitive spirit to push my own limitations.
Once I made the decision, I had no second thoughts. Something familiar started to happen to me. It was as if I was heading to just another athletic challenge. It wasn't a matter of overcoming the fear of physical harm from the radicals in the shop. Now it was time to put on my game face. Now it was time to focus on the task at hand. Now it was time to give my best effort. The competition didn't include those loudmouths in the shop. It was simply an event between me and what I could do. If victorious, I would prove something to myself. If I faltered, I would know I wasn't ready or worthy. The tenseness I felt that day was not fear of getting beat up—it was fear of not making my goal and the anticipation of shattering that production number to pieces. It was time to get going and get honest.
I checked the production requirements for the machine. I adjusted the tools. And then I pushed the machine. I made it perform. I broke 96.2 percent. I exceeded 100 percent. I'd done it. I'd worked to full capacity. I hadn't cheated myself or the company. Relieved at my accomplishment, my mind turned to more immediate matters. If I turned in the actual number, I was sure to upset some of my coworkers, maybe even the union steward or higher. That wouldn't be good for me or my young family. There was an easy way out, though, I decided. "I'll just turn in what everyone else does and run all I can. No one but me will ever know."
For a while, the ploy worked. But my boss knew something was going on and so did the rest of the guys. My foreman praised me for my performance. But my coworkers had the opposite reaction. They continued to threaten me and tried to coerce me into following the crowd. But it was too late. I knew what I could do and to do less wouldn't be honest, and I couldn't bring myself to be dishonest. Ultimately, my coworkers decided it wasn't worth their efforts to pummel my "lost soul." They didn't like what I was doing, but sometimes it paid off. I was always willing to apply my overage to the shortfalls of other guys. This live-and-let-live arrangement led to a quiet detante between the others and me. I could live with my work level, and my buddies could live with my occasional help. Both of us were quite satisfied with the situation.
Because of my performance, I was soon recommended for a promotion. This time I was working on engine blocks. Unlike my last position, this job required me to work with a team of men. We worked together, laughed together, and felt a sense of accomplishment in what we did. I liked the reinforcement I got from the other guys. It was a pretty good job except for one thing. Our group never did more than it had to. We never overshot production goals. We never hurried back to the job. We never pushed any records. It didn't matter how fast I worked. The next man in the process decided whether my pace continued or just gave him more time to do nothing. He never moved the block through any faster than usual.
Once again I struggled with the inner conflict. I wanted to excel like I did in the other job, but my performance was based on the efforts of the team. And this was a team that was interested in doing just enough to get by. As an athlete, this was a totally foreign experience for me. I'd never played for a team that didn't want to win. All the teams I played on wanted to win it all. In fact, in high school, my teammates and I were annoyed with a coach who just didn't have that fire in his belly. The coach was an okay guy, but he just couldn't execute. He didn't know how to use the talent of our team to win. I found this disgusting. If I hadn't loved the game so much, I would have quit. Even so, I never forgave the coach for not helping our team do what we were able. Now I was faced with the same situation. I resigned myself to the fact that my production would be the same as everyone else's. I hated that feeling.
Sometimes the guys would leave the machines and pitch pennies. With nothing else to do, I often joined them. One night, the foreman showed up. I was in a panic. I was certain I would be fired. But my buddies remained calm and continued pitching the pennies. When I finally looked up, I saw the foreman laughing. Even the boss didn't care much how our team performed as long as minimum production was achieved. I never reconciled myself to this attitude. Soon my chagrin turned to simple boredom. Doing six hours of work over an eight-hour period was absurd.
One night, my foreman and a maintenance foreman approached me. I never liked authority figures hanging around. I still wasn't comfortable with them, even though I was winning their praise and respect.
"Jim, you ever given any thought to what you want to do here?" my boss asked.
Taken aback by such a question, I looked up at the boss somewhat confused. "What?"
"Well, you know, ever thought about your future here, where you want to be in five years or so? You know, have you ever thought about your career?"
Lord knows I had plenty of time to think about my job and my future while I waited for work to come to my station. But this question came out of the blue. "Well, I haven't really thought about it all that much," I said. "But whatever job I get, I just want to do it well."
The two foremen chuckled. "That's good, Jim. We know you take pride in your work. But we think you got the makings of a good supervisor. We see how you work with the guys, how you take such an interest in gettin' the work out. We think you should sign up for the apprentice program. You know you need that to get into management," they explained.
Management! The word crashed into my mind. I wasn't sure I wanted that position. I wasn't sure I could be the authority figure. I wasn't sure I wanted to jeopardize my relationship with my buddies in this work group. Management. That was like crossing over to the enemy lines. But I didn't want to let on to my fears. "Well, I don't know much about the apprentice program," I finally answered, "but I do know I wouldn't be making the money I'm making now. You guys know I got a wife and two kids to support. And I'm not sure I can afford the eight bucks a month the company takes out of the check for tools and the toolbox. That's a lot of money for me right now."
"Hell, Jim, what you gonna do, work with these guys the rest of your life? C'mon, Jim, you know you're not happy here. Take a chance. Sure, it'll be tight for a while with your family, but think of where you can go. You know you ain't moving anywhere fast here. At least think about it, Jim, for chrissakes."
"Okay, okay, I'll talk to some of the other guys and let you know soon. I mean it, I will," I said. I couldn't believe I was saying those words. Why on God's green earth would I take a pay cut? My family was living hand to mouth right now. We couldn't afford this kind of change.
But before I knew it, I had signed up for the apprentice program. I had an uneasy feeling about my decision. I knew the real reason I made the choice was because I didn't want to let those foremen down. It was that authority thing again. I was afraid to fly in the face of those who had power over me. I couldn't disappoint them, so I couldn't say no.
The night after I made this decision, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed, quietly thinking about what this all meant. I remembered the conflict on the shop floor. I remembered the distrust between boss and worker. I contemplated the lack of motivation of the workforce. I analyzed the attitudes of the boss men. I never really figured out the guys on the floor. They had a different view of work and accomplishment than I had. Maybe they had been there so long there wasn't any reason to push ahead. Maybe the daily threats and berating made them dull and apathetic toward achievement. Maybe they never felt the pride I felt when I blasted a home run, hit a free throw, or cleared the hurdles ahead of everyone else. Even though I didn't understand the shop guys, I still felt akin to them. I wasn't sure I wanted to separate myself from this group.
Then there were the bosses. They had the power. They had the authority. They were important. The idea of being someone significant appealed to me. I let the word management roll off my tongue over and over again, as if I were trying to make it part of my vocabulary. Maybe management could be like being the captain of my basketball team. I allowed myself to imagine the perfect team. In my mind's eye I saw a group of people who worked together, who knew their positions and delivered peak performance effortlessly. I visualized a team of comers who were hungry for success and knew exactly what it meant. I allowed myself to indulge in that elusive feeling of being part of a team that's connected and energized, the kind of team that won't be denied. "This is what it would have felt like to be on a championship team," I mused. "Maybe I can do that. Maybe I can put together a team that feels that way." It didn't matter that in my reverie I confused athletic teams with work teams. In my mind, it was all the same.
As I drifted closer to sleep, I could see the faces of my old work buddies with me as their supervisor. But they weren't like the stern men on the shop floor. They were more like my mates on my old basketball team—proud, excited, and ready to do their part to make the team and the company successful. They were wearing dungarees and workshirts that matched, not because the company made them, but because they shared such a strong commitment to each other. "It could happen," I thought as I finally drifted off to sleep.
* * *
A compelling desire to work together on common goals, and the conflict it caused inside me when I didn't see it happening, made me begin to think about a better world and a better way. Why should workers and the company be at cross-purposes? I knew that something was wrong. Very wrong. The dissident seed was planted that would grow and emerge decades later when such conflict finally became crises. But for now, I was on top of the game and rewarded with a new opportunity. I was joining the company's apprentice program—the first and last advanced education I would ever receive.
Chapter 3. The Speck in My Eye
Failure is success if we learn from it.
—MALCOLM FORBES*
* Permission to use this quote granted from The Forbes Book of Business Quotations, Ted Goodman, editor, Black Dog and Leventhal Publishers, 1997, New York, NY.
The opportunity to enter the apprentice program was a kind of second chance for me—another chance to pursue a higher level of education. "Not many people get a second chance in life," I thought. In fact, when I considered the people of my hometown and the harsh realities of life there, I wasn't sure many people got much of a chance at all. And even if they had a chance to do something better, make a change in their lives, reduce the hardships that faced them, I realized most people faltered because they didn't have the courage. It wasn't that the people I knew were weak-willed. After all, they put their lives on the line every time they entered the coal mine. But the coal mine offered at least the security of what was known and familiar. The future wasn't like that. Nor was a change in a career. These things created a different kind of anxiety. Where the coal mine's threat was real and physical, these other threats—the threat of change and the threat of the future—were slippery. You didn't feel these threats in your muscles. You felt them in the pit of your stomach. These pressures caused you to look at your abilities in a very different way. Do I know enough to succeed? Will I fit in a role and world different from the one I know? How do I deal with my competitors? What's to become of me if I fail? What will people think? How will I face my family if I don't succeed? These questions had to do with my sense of self-worth and were much more haunting to ponder.
I keenly felt the discomfort the questions provoked. I knew how to handle questions that challenged my physical strength and stamina in the work world. My large frame and my long association with sports had secured my confidence in factory work. But now I was being asked to do something different. I was being asked to lead and train people in the plant. In spite of my outward strength, for the first time I wrestled with the challenges of a major change in my life and future. I no longer was a worker who could rely on my physical prowess when all else failed. Now I had to be a thinking man, a planning man, a strategic man. I wondered why I had not paid more attention in school. I wished I had learned from the great generals—Julius Caesar, Hannibal, Napoleon, George Washington, Robert E. Lee, and Douglas MacArthur. I wished I knew their secrets for inspiring others. And I worried about my math skills. Supervisors dealt with budgets and figures and production ratios. Why hadn't I spent more time with my algebra book instead of my baseball glove? And then there was this whole human communication thing. My speech patterns and country grammar set me apart from the city boys and the college kids. Why hadn't someone impressed upon me the power of speech in leading people? Why hadn't I paid more attention to the eloquence of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address or Emily Dickinson's poetry?
Although it would have been easier and perhaps more self-satisfying to blame my town, or my teachers, or my parents for my deficits, I alone had made the choices that kept me out of college and left me far short of my potential. Now the company had given me a second chance. This time, I would stay focused. This time, I would apply the same discipline and rigor I had to my athletic training. In spite of my fears and anxieties, I decided to take the first great risk of my career. And oddly enough, the risk associated with my decision gave me a strange feeling of satisfaction and strength. I felt good about taking this risk. Maybe it was because the courage to decide set me apart from a lot of people. Maybe it was because my experience in athletics had taught me success was sweeter when the challenge was tougher. Maybe it was because the fear of failure in such a risk forced an unusual discipline and diligence on me. Simple decisions allowed a certain amount of slop in life. But tough decisions limited the margin for error, dared you not to lose concentration or become distracted. And in spite of my fear of authority and making mistakes, I liked making hard decisions. I liked taking risks. I liked going for broke.
And so I accepted my apprenticeship for management with an enthusiasm I had not felt since my high-school sports days. I recognized the opportunity for what it was—a chance to redeem my mistakes of hubris in high school. This time I was ready. No matter how boring the topics might be, I was determined to get something out of them. No matter how irrelevant the subject matter seemed to my own life, I vowed to find a way to relate it to my future. This time I accepted my role as student. I was privileged to receive this kind of instruction, and I accepted that privilege with both humility and purpose.
Oddly, once I had made my mind up about getting the most from my training, I found the material surprisingly interesting. The math was still the same math. The logic was still the same logic. But somehow since high school, the materials seemed to have grown and matured. Somehow this "stuff" teachers had to shove down my throat six years ago seemed strangely important. Somehow knowing this information made me stand just a little taller and speak with a little more confidence. The subject matter hadn't changed—I had. I started making connections between who I was, what I needed to know, and how that linked to achievement and worth. I now understood that not knowing wasn't a crime, but not being motivated to find out was lazy and stupid.
I learned the importance of intellectual challenge, of creating the connection between what others had discovered and the tasks I had to complete. I saw myself for the first time as part of a universe of knowledge and experience, science and humanity, intellect and emotion. And it finally dawned on me that the more I absorbed from the outside, the better I would be inside. From this singular apprenticeship experience grew an insatiable hunger to set priorities, to test hypotheses, to make things happen, to achieve more than what had been achieved before. I started to see that physical prowess was best when tempered with mental acuity and understanding of human nature. As I contemplated being a supervisor, I thought about how I would view my old coworkers. Would I see myself as separate and better than they were? Would I assume that becoming a manager had conferred upon me some special virtue? How would I get these people to follow me? How could I overcome the barriers that kept people from reaching their full potential, that kept them forever "pitchin' pennies"? Although I had subtly experienced the connection between human emotion and human achievement in athletics, the responsibility of being a coach and a leader started to clarify for me the wholeness of the individual. Physique, prowess, and strength were not the only things to look for in leaders. Attitude, character, enthusiasm, respect—these things too seemed to matter in achieving results.
From this point on, I started noticing more than just the outward physical attributes of people—how tall they were, the color of their skin, the loudness of their voice, the strength of their handshake. I looked for other things as well—enthusiasm, kindness, the desire to learn and grow. In a very small way, I began to discover that who people are deep inside affects a lot of what they choose to do in the workplace.
Although I was unaware of it at the time, my realization that people are distinctly human with their own thoughts, ideas, passions, and fears would later shape my solution to the most difficult business problem I would ever face. Even though the challenge was years away, a tiny seed of recognition had been planted. Over time, this seed would grow and wither and grow again as I experienced career transitions. But the seed was planted and would forever frame the conflicts I would encounter during my march to leadership. And no matter how hard I would try to ignore this concept of humanity in work, it would never leave me alone, sometimes waking me up in the middle of the night, sometimes interrupting my work during the day.
I enjoyed the classwork and the practical skills I was learning in the shop. My enthusiasm often brought good-humored derision from my fellow apprentices.
"Hey, Jimbo, you stayin' after school to clap teacher's erasers?"
"Hey, didn't they tell you that you don't get a grade for brown-nosing?"
"Slow down, buddy, you're makin' us look bad."
The taunts didn't much bother me. I volunteered to learn every machine on the shop floor. I questioned my instructor about any little thing that bothered me.
"Duggan," I would ask, "what happens if the calibration is off by, say, a tenth of a point?"
"Duggan, how does this look? Is the machining right? How could I do this better?"
"Duggan, how do you know when it's the guy and not the machine that's causing scrap?"
Duggan patiently answered all my questions, corrected my machining, and encouraged me. The old guys in the factory watched me as I rotated through the shop floor, learning machine after machine. Sometimes they would issue idle threats at us apprentices for working so hard. But usually, they didn't take the time to intimidate me or the others for pushing the equipment to capacity. They knew we were judged by our results. They let us rookies be, knowing some day we pups might be worn down by the organization too. The rough and eager enthusiasm we displayed in the shop would be tooled down to a smooth complacency over the next several years, they thought. Yes, the old guys understood the grinding forces of factory work and how sooner or later you just woke up one day and found your drive honed down to a simple resignation of routine in the shop and a severe stubbornness in your temperament not to let the company take anything more away from you, whether it was your money, your benefits, or the way you did your job. The seasoned workers watched and nodded. "Sooner or later," they thought, "one of these guys will be the 'boss man.' Then we'll have some lessons to teach him. Then he'll learn a thing or two about who runs this job." But for now they let us go about our business.
I watched my Ps and Qs pretty closely. I didn't want to fail. I made few mistakes. I lived for recognition and "atta boys" from my instructors. But one day, near the end of my shift, I was working on a mill cutter that broke without warning. A large piece of it broke the lens of my safety glasses, and much of the glass was imbedded in my eye. The glasses did their job—they saved my eye. But the incident, although it wasn't totally my fault, worried me more than the damage to my eye. "Darn," I thought, "things were going so well. I was making progress and now this. Duggan is going to be upset."
To my surprise, Duggan was truly concerned.
"What happened to you, Jim?" Duggan asked when he met me in first aid. The nurse was carefully picking pieces of my safety glasses out of my eye. The process was painfully slow and by the time she was done, I had missed my ride home to Greenview. The nurse taped a gauze patch over my eye and gave me final instructions in a stern, motherly voice. "You better take care of that eye, Jim, or you're gonna lose it. Don't take that patch off before the doctor says it's okay. And I want to see you back here every day until it's healed."
I assured the nurse I would comply.
"Gosh, Jim, you look a little bit like a pirate with that eye patch. Kind of a scary look, if you know what I mean," Duggan said, slapping me on the back.
Somehow I managed a weak smile.
"Don't worry about it, Jim," Duggan went on. "It could have been a lot worse. You could have lost the eye, maybe even your life. Yessir, I think you should consider yourself lucky. Jeez, look at the time. Why don't you come home with me for breakfast? My wife will make us some terrific bacon and eggs."
I was surprised at Duggan's offer. Based on my experiences on the shop floor so far, his behavior seemed way out of the ordinary. But I agreed and Duggan took me to his home. Mrs. Duggan treated me just as if I was family. She made a huge breakfast, kept our coffee cups steaming, and showed genuine concern about my accident. She knew about those machines and how dangerous they could be. She and Duggan knew several others who were hurt a lot worse than I. Some went on disability. "That could have been just terrible for you and your young family," she said. "It could have ruined your future. Thank God your injury is only what it is. Do you want more strawberry jam for your toast? My sister across the river makes it, and everyone swears it's just the closest thing to heaven."
"Don't you ride in a carpool, Jim?" Duggan asked after the coffee cups were emptied and the dishes cleared. "I know you missed your ride. I'm sure your wife's been wondering what happened to you. Your kids are probably worried too. Grab your coat and I'll take you home."
I was surprised by all this kindness. "Thank you, sir," I said humbly. "I know it's a long way. I insist on paying for gas."
Duggan laughed. "I don't want your money, Jim. Besides, if I keep you here, you'll eat me out of house and home."
I couldn't believe it. To Greenview and back was a 100-mile round trip that required close to three hours. Throughout the ride I contemplated Duggan's kindness. I hadn't seen this type of behavior since I started on the shop floor, and Duggan's charity touched me deeply. He never belittled or berated me for the accident. In fact, he and his wife had gone out of their way to minimize the incident and make me feel better. I kept trying to understand how this all fit together with what I had experienced at the company. It was unusual enough to puzzle me. I considered Duggan's kindness one of the most important lessons he had taught me. I made special mental note of his benevolence and how it made me want to achieve even more for him. This unusual enthusiasm was somewhat new for me. I spent some time thinking about why Duggan's concern had made me want to work harder and achieve more. "Why was this experience so different?" I asked myself. "And why is it making such a difference to me?"
As I contemplated what had happened, I realized that Duggan's kindness demonstrated his belief that I had some importance to the company. Duggan had shown me through his actions that I wasn't just an expendable piece of equipment that could be replaced when damaged. He valued me and what I did for the company. The realization that I had worth imprinted itself on my mind. At first, I didn't like this feeling. It was kind of squishy, goody-two-shoes, something my wife might like, but not me. But then I thought more about it. "Why do I now want to achieve more for this man Duggan?" And then I answered my own question. "Because he values what I do. He thinks I'm worth the extra effort." I tucked this thought away in the corner of my mind.
"This is the right way to be," I said to myself. "I will never forget Duggan."
* * *
Things went on as usual after my injury. Some days went well, some didn't. I lived for the days of perfect runs, when Duggan would tell me what a great job I had done. Each compliment I received reminded me of my contribution to the company. I liked having impact. I liked knowing I was making things better. Most of all, I liked knowing my skills and attitude made me a valuable person to the organization. I liked having worth among my peers.
Some days I ran scrap. I hated to run scrap and always wanted to know what I had done wrong. Duggan was always there, sometimes coaching and encouraging me, sometimes letting me have it for my mistakes. Most of the time, I made good runs. But at the company, your record was only as good as your last mistake. It didn't matter if you went months without running scrap—as soon as you did, you were back to square one and management's eyes were on you. Running scrap could ruin a guy's career if it happened at one of those times when management was scrutinizing the work on the floor or when the supervisor was in a bad mood. Every day I came to work, I thought to myself, "I want this to be a good day. I want to do well. I do not want my boss to be upset with me."
Overall, things were going pretty well for me and the rest of the apprentices. I felt good about my work, even though I had heard the company was slowing production. Orders had dropped off significantly. There were many comments about pent-up demand being met and the company facing an adjustment to work schedules. I had an inkling about what this meant, but business cycles were the things management worried about and workers didn't understand. My job was to run this machine and run it well. I continued to stretch my ability and the capacity of the machine.
One day I was assigned to an automatic turning machine in the shop and given the responsibility of running a high-priority job with a severe deadline. One of the company's suppliers had made an extraordinary effort to deliver a special run of iron. My job was to cut that raw iron into gear blanks. The finished parts made from these forgings were needed for products that were shut down in the field. Customers were waiting for these parts, and the company had promised them quick delivery. Here, I thought, was my big chance to show just how valuable I could be to the company. I set up the machine in record time and ran every single part in the lot. By anyone's standards, this was a major accomplishment, one that normally would have taken two or three shifts to complete. I was proud and pleased with what I had done and was sure my stellar performance would receive accolades from my instructor—perhaps even shop management—the next day. I went home that night excited. I could hardly sleep. In my mind's eye I could see Duggan and the shop managers congratulating me for the job I had done. I might even be considered an example for others. I was proud to be an apprentice.
I was really anxious to get to work the next day. I knew this was going to be a very good one. Trying to conceal my excitement, I forced myself to walk, not run, to my workstation. But as I approached my machine, panic overwhelmed me. There on the load of parts I had run the night before was the symbol of absolute shame for an apprentice—a scrap tag. My hands quivered as I read the tag. My work was .025 of an inch undersize, well below the finish grind dimension after heat treat. I knew I was in trouble. My haste to make a good impression had caused a terrible mistake in calibration. I had misread the micrometers used to measure the part. I felt small and worthless. I felt sick. And then things really went bad.
It wasn't Duggan or any of the other instructors who came to talk to me that day. It was the top manager of the building, the factory manager. My chest tightened as I saw him approach. My mouth was dry. My hands were almost dripping with sweat.
"Are you the stupid apprentice who ran this machine yesterday?"
Somehow I mumbled, "Yes sir, I am."
"Well, hotshot, your stupid mistake is going to lose this company customers. They were waiting on those gears and now it's gonna take weeks to replace them. And why? Because some punk—you—wants to run this machine like you're racin' in the Indy 500. What were you thinking, boy? Who in the hell were you trying to impress? I'll tell you what, son, you got us all into a mess it's going to be hard to climb out of. And I don't like being in that situation. You'll pay for this. I won't soon forget who screwed this up. From here on you'd better watch yourself, buddy, cause I'm going to be watching you—like a hawk. One more mistake and…."
The factory manager never finished his threat. He didn't have to. I knew what would come next. After the incident, I could hardly concentrate. My confidence was shot. My focus was blurred. I doubted every move I made. No one, not even Duggan, talked to me that day. I was like a leper. No one wanted to catch the disease called incompetence. Over time, I was able to resume my normal work attitude. But the conversation with the factory manager never left me. Even when I was feeling most confident on the job, the echo of his threats pulled me back. Maybe Duggan had been wrong. Maybe I wasn't so valuable to the company. Maybe I was truly expendable.
Soon rumors started circulating around the shop.
"Production's going in the toilet. Management's worried. Guys are going to be laid off. That's a fact; some people are going to have to be let go or we won't be profitable. I wonder who it'll be? I heard they were shutting down the apprentice program. Nah, they're cutting down the workforce in Building P. East Peoria's going to be hit and it's going to be hit hard. It doesn't make any sense, if you ask me. Why can't we just sell more equipment? People are building houses and roads all over the place."
Workers tiptoed around the plant like kids in a fun house, worried about what lurked around the next corner, but strangely happy to be inside. Still, I felt confident. I had done a good job and worked hard. Surely the company valued that in me. Maybe they would forget about the scrap. Other guys ran scrap. And besides, it would be silly to end the apprentice program now. We had only a few months left. Our measly salaries couldn't impact the company much. Although anxious, I let these thoughts bolster me each day as I entered the plant.
"Jim," Duggan called to me one day. "Gotta talk to you. Man to man."
Duggan pulled no punches. "Jim, we're laying people off and you're one of them. I tried to protect you from layoff by moving you to the weekly payroll. But the factory manager reminded me of that scrap you ran several weeks ago and he will not support you. I've gotta be honest with you, Jim. Some other apprentices will be moved to the weekly payroll. Sorry, pal. I know this is rough."
In my mind, I wanted to argue, "But I'm good at what I do. I haven't run as much scrap as the other guys in the apprentice program. I've got a family. I want to work here. I want this job." But my overwhelming fear of authority only made me stammer, "Thanks for being straight with me, Duggan. Any chance I'll be called back? How soon?"
"Sure, Jim, there's always that chance, but when? Your guess is as good as mine. I've seen these things before. Sometimes a couple of weeks, sometimes, well, a lot longer. Never know. But you're a good guy, Jim. You'll find something. Maybe even something closer to home. Maybe even something you'll like better. Now pack up your things and pick up your check. I really hope everything goes well for you, Jim." And with that, Duggan was gone.
"What happened to me?" I asked myself. "Why is the company treating me like this? I worked hard. I was interested. I did good work. One mistake and I'm done? What does this mean? Why does this happen?"
And then I heard my father's voice in my head, "Break the rules, son, and you pay the price."
* * *
I thought about the dog I had teased into breaking the rules and how my father had permanently punished the animal. I thought about the fruit tree I had cut down and how the guilt and pain lived with me through that first winter and then every winter thereafter. I thought about all the times I was punished in school for being late or having the wrong answer or not doing my homework. These reminders made my muscles tense and my confidence flinch as if I was about to receive a blow. One small mistake. One day of scrap. Break the rules. Pay the price. "I just forgot and now I'm paying for it. But I won't forget ever again," I said as I cleaned out my locker. And I would not.
Chapter 4. Benched
The hardest work is to go idle.
—JEWISH PROVERB
I had a hard time fathoming the feeling that came from being released from my job, but I knew I had seen it somewhere before. I couldn't place it, and I was quite certain I had never experienced this peculiar emotion myself. Yet I knew I was acquainted with it. It seemed vaguely familiar. I searched my memory to find the link.
Laid off…out of work…pulled off the team. Benched…benched…benched! That's what it was like…being benched! I thought back to my basketball days. I remembered the guys who got benched—starters pulled out of the game. Asked to sit down. I remembered how players yanked from the line-up for poor performance looked as they headed for the sidelines—heads down, shoulders sagging, steps slow and deliberate. And I remembered how the rest of us still on the court watched as the poor performers walked off. We tried to make our gazes nonchalant, but in reality, we stared at the back of their jerseys, watching intently as they were exiled from the team. We were torn between happiness at not being the ones singled out for poor performance and guilt that we put the game before our friendship with the outcast players. And then, just as the banished players caught their towels to wipe both the sweat and the humiliation off their faces, we would turn away, averting our eyes from theirs, knowing they would look up. We didn't want to catch their eyes. We didn't want to see their disappointment. We didn't want to look failure in the face. And we didn't want to give in to feeling sorry for them. After all, it wasn't our choice these players got sat down. They just weren't in the game this time. There would be other games. They might play then. But for now, those of us left on the court had to take care of business. We couldn't dwell on their misfortune.
My discovery startled me. "My God, I never knew they felt this way," I thought. "I never knew what it was like to be pulled away from something you want to be part of, to win at, to achieve." I felt my stomach tighten and a dull pain start at the back of my neck and then fully encompass my whole head. Physically, I was sick. Absolutely ill that I had been "benched" from the company program. The small shred of hope that I might get back on the team made it worse. When you were cut, you knew you were done. You were out. You could get on with your life. You had closure. But this layoff thing was weird and in lots of ways worse than being gone for good. It filled you with a longing for what you couldn't have. It crept into your thoughts when you were trying to do something else. It banged and rattled and echoed inside your head until you couldn't stand it anymore. You found yourself taking out your frustration on people not remotely connected with the company—the proverbial kicking-the-dog syndrome. I found myself cranky and short-tempered with my family and friends. I found myself uninterested and annoyed by the mundane tasks that filled my days. My family tiptoed around me; friends were cautious in talking with me; others just wanted to avoid me when I was down on my luck. My opinion of myself began to wane, and as my spirits sagged, worry spread throughout my family.
The needs of my young family, though, ultimately forced me out of my funk. The complex emotions associated with losing my job, even if it was "temporary," soon were replaced with a more basic urge—simple survival. I couldn't find work that would use the skills I had developed at the company. Besides, those skills were just painful reminders of my unwelcome hiatus. So I tried my hand at sales. Lots of young men were making a decent living selling insurance. It wasn't as physically challenging, and it left time for me to be a father and husband. And really, when I thought about it, insurance sales was the exact opposite of what I had been doing—a welcome and refreshing canyon between blue-collar and white-collar work. I hoped my new job would not only bring in the money my family needed, but also give me a new sense of myself. I hoped this different job would renew my spirit.
I started out my new career with high hopes, believing I could conquer this challenge with the same speed and decisiveness that had made me a star in high-school sports and had allowed me to move quickly up the rungs of the shop career ladder. But selling insurance was not like the other things I had done. It was more like chess than basketball. You had to constantly think of new approaches to the never-ending objections of the buyer. You had to be absolutely convincing to sell a product that brought no immediate gratification, couldn't be touched, couldn't be felt, and was useful only when things were terrible in life—car crashes, house fires, deaths. And I missed the sense of urgency of the shop, where there were always deadlines to be met, production quotas to reach, bottlenecks of work to overcome. An insurance career was not a good fit for me. The process was too slow and didn't allow me to do the one thing in work I really enjoyed—making quick decisions with some risk attached to them. The more I tried, the more annoyed I became. And the more annoyed I became, the harder it was to face my wife and kids—human reminders of my inability to make a living. My distress seeped into the household. Gloria told the kids to play outside or coaxed them to bed early to avoid my agitated state. In spite of my endless efforts, I wasn't able to meet the immediate needs of my family. Insurance sales commissions were based on a percent of premium paid. And during the start-up time, when an agent "builds his book," income was erratic and paltry. This job did not ease my worries. I didn't like quitting anything, but I had to put food on the table and pay the bills.
Finally I found a job in a construction equipment dealership in Springfield, 25 miles from home. It paid enough to keep my family just ahead of the bill collectors. I operated a welding machine that rebuilt rollers and idlers for track-type tractors. The job didn't offer me the variety or opportunity to learn like my apprenticeship had and wasn't financially and mentally as rewarding, but it served its purpose. It kept my family afloat, allowed me to keep up the mechanical skills I had learned on the shop floor, and most importantly kept me tuned in to what was going on with the industry. Although far from idyllic, the job made me feel in some control of my work life. And as my frustration eased at work, I found the tensions at home also relaxed. I thought it was simply the money and feeling secure that my family was safe. I somehow stood taller. My eyes were clearer, and although I was by no means jovial, I felt at least at peace. These things I hardly noticed. But Gloria and the rest of my family did indeed.
* * *
Months stretched on into a year. Finally, the recall came. I was going to be able to finish my apprenticeship and my life seemed back on track. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I'd be back in familiar surroundings and wouldn't live every week in panic that my family would have do without. To me, the recall was more than just a "back to work" invitation. It was a reaffirmation of my worth to the company. It was a sign that I had a future. It felt good to be called back into the fold. As I went back to the company that first day, my mood was festive, almost exuberant. It was hard to believe that more than a year had passed.
Work went well that day. I got back into the apprenticeship program and could feel the old rhythm of work returning. I met my usual group of buddies for the trip home and climbed in the driver's seat for the hour-and-a-half ride. We were particularly jovial—lots of back-slapping and horseplay as we left the plant. Our attitude was reminiscent of a group of 10-year-olds, scrambling in the fields, playing kick-the-can, dirty and sweaty from a hard day, full of life and full of laughter. Jokes and stories were the fare of the first part of the drive, always punctuated by deep, hearty laughter. But it had been a long, hard night at work. We were tired. By the time we reached the Salt Creek bridge, just a few miles north of Greenview, everyone in the car but me was sleeping. But then, just as the car crossed the bridge, I too fell asleep, sideswiping the bridge and damaging the right side of the car. Everyone was immediately jolted awake. I got the car stopped and my buddies pushed their way out, calling back to each other, "You all right?" There were minor bruises, but everyone was generally in good shape considering the accident's potential. "Whew, that was close," someone finally said. The rest of us nodded our heads and mumbled agreement. We were able to drive the car home that morning, and we all assured our families and friends that everything was okay. But I decided then and there I wouldn't be making that long drive much longer. I had just gotten back to work. Injury, illness, and tardiness couldn't be tolerated. The open road between the plant and Greenview created too large a margin for error. No, this time I was leaving nothing to chance. I would control what I could. And that meant I wasn't going to let remote highways that became impassable in winter, treacherous in rain, and hard to negotiate at night cheat me out of my career. That was it. We were moving to the city.
Gloria and I and our three children packed up our belongings and found a small bungalow in a community near the plant. It wasn't really the big city, but it was one of those suburbs that was the model of housing efficiency. Houses were close together, and many were identical, built to accommodate the booming growth of the American family in the 1950s and 1960s. They were lined up on the street, one right after another, like the little green houses on the streets of a Monopoly board. Small sidewalks, accented with a sapling here and there, tied the neighborhood together. It was pleasant enough, but it wasn't Greenview.
The move created more than just convenience for our family. Unexpectedly, the change from country living to city living upset a sense of identity and security we had unconsciously enjoyed all our lives. People who'd never lived in a small town couldn't understand why we seemed a bit distant and shy, why we didn't enthusiastically partake in block parties and coffee klatches. How could I explain to these people that my wife and children missed hearing the long and soulful sound of the whistles of the freight trains as they neared the crossing? That sound, stretching out early in the morning as you wiped your eyes to begin the day and at night when you pulled cool, crisp sheets up to your chin, let you know the world was at peace. You strained your ears to hear the perfect rhythm of the freight cars passing over the crossing. The chukka-chukka, chukka-chukka sound the cars made when they passed over the crossing was somehow a sign that nature and industry were all right with each other. Falling asleep counting boxcars was a simple pleasure city people would never understand. There were dozens, no, hundreds of sounds that my family missed—sounds that provided direction in life.
And then there were the smells—things city people just didn't understand. The pungent and sweet smell of clover fields, the rich and earthy odor of cattle and manure, the scent of spring mud filled with a world of expectation—these smells signaled a balance in the world. There were the home smells—the yeasty smell of rising bread, the succulent aroma of fowl roasting in the oven when the boys had a good day hunting, and the fragrance of your mother's own sweat that you savored when you hugged her because you knew it was the result of her toil for those she loved. These common odors meant life was being lived, and lived right. They marked continuity and connection for the people of Greenview. And when they weren't there, I felt a certain insecurity, like being out of sync.
But most of all, my family and I missed the people of Greenview. People like Old Man Barnett, who ran the general store in town and had for as long as I could remember. Barnett never seemed to age, but he never seemed to have been young, either. He knew how your family was doing, knew when he could extend a little credit, and knew when sneaking a piece of penny candy to you was appropriate because last week you did a great job reciting your memory work in Sunday school. And then there were the farmers and the coal miners. Big tough men whose nicknames told their stories—my dad Dusty, Crank the mechanic, Swede the tall blond dairy farmer, and Chunk the miner who could lift huge pieces of coal and toss them effortlessly in the bins. Finally, there were the moms, dressed in calico house frocks and sporting worn but starched aprons, the pockets dusty with flour. These things made life predictable, simple, and secure. I never noticed these things as I went about daily life in Greenview, but when we left them behind it didn't take long to suffer pangs of withdrawal from the elements of Greenview that made life life. No one at work could understand why I was out of sorts from time to time. No one knew how the upheaval of leaving the only home I'd ever known affected my concentration and attitude. And in reality, no one really cared.
* * *
No matter how hard I tried to separate them, my personal life and professional life were inextricably linked. Trauma at work impacted my ability to care for and relate to my family. The reverse was also true. Our move to Peoria away from our hometown and familiar surroundings and the other pressures Gloria and I were feeling as young parents came silently to work with me each day. "I'll remember this when I am a supervisor," I said to myself. "I'll know more than just the names of people here. I'll care about them too."
Chapter 5. Unjust Rewards
How my achievements mock me!
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE*
* Permission to use this quote granted from The Forbes Book of Business Quotations, Ted Goodman, editor, Black Dog and Leventhal Publishers, 1997, New York, NY.
In spite of my homesickness, I was happy to be back at Caterpillar. I finished the apprenticeship without incident and positioned myself to fill a supervisory position when one opened. But my first job after finishing the program was not in management. Instead, I was assigned as a machine operator in a new area, manufacturing automatic transmissions. My job was to learn all the machines and then teach others how to operate them efficiently. Although it wasn't a supervisory job per se, I found the opportunity acceptable. I was acting as sort of a teacher and coach. I enjoyed showing others how to run the equipment. I also felt satisfaction when one of my "pupils" did well. This was a new feeling for me. All my work life, my feelings of gratification came from what I accomplished, not what others did. I dismissed this feeling for others as just another measure of what I did individually. "If I wasn't a good teacher," I told myself, "they wouldn't have done so well." I could attribute my gratification only to the fact that my trainees' accomplishments reflected well on me. The connection between teachers, coaches, and leaders and the success of the people they mentor would not become important to me for many years.
After training the group, I fully expected to be promoted to management. But it didn't happen. I got put on a finish-turning machine instead. Granted, it was a complicated machine, but I still wasn't supervising others. It felt like going through all the conditioning and practice for playing baseball and then waiting and waiting and waiting because of inclement weather to play a game. I knew it wasn't a matter of if I would get to supervise, but when. And I was growing impatient with the waiting. In the meantime, I might as well show the company what I was made of. I might as well demonstrate that I was a "company man," willing to take a risk to make the company better.
So I spent my time studying the machine inside and out. I memorized every idiosyncrasy of the beast as if I were studying my basketball playbook. Finally, I felt comfortable that I had mastered the settings. One day a man I recognized as the union rep stopped by.
"Pretty damned impressive piece of equipment," he said.
"Sure is," I mumbled. Even though this guy wasn't management, he was a union official and had unusual power and influence. I still trembled inwardly at authority.
"You know this machine pretty well, huh? Seen you studying it all the time. That's good, wouldn't want you gettin' hurt or anything."
I just nodded.
"Thing about this machine," the rep continued, "is that even with all its bells and whistles, it still only runs 44 pieces per shift."
I wasn't following the man's logic. "Well," I said, "that's not exactly true. This thing can run twelve-and-a-half pieces per hour. At 100 percent capacity, that means 100 pieces per shift." I was confident of my math.
"You're not following me, buddy," the union man said. "And I ain't impressed with your math. It's wrong. This thing can only run 44 pieces per shift. Period. Ain't never run any more. Sometimes less, but never any more."
I must have looked a bit confused.
"Listen, stupid, let me spell it out for you in plain language. If you're thinkin' of crankin' this thing up, think again. Doesn't run more than 44 pieces per shift. A guy runnin' a machine beyond that speed could get hurt, if you know what I mean. I ain't talkin' so much about here in the shop. But you know, strange things happen to guys who don't listen to what I say. The boys don't like being pushed, and if they are, they might feel inclined to push back a little. A man could get beaten up pretty bad if he's not careful. Now let me tell you again, this machine runs 44 pieces per shift. No more. Understand this. I won't tell you about this again. I'm warnin' you not to piss off the boys, or you'll regret it. Get my picture?"
I nodded. The rep said, "That's a smart fella," turned around, and left.
I continued to run the machine at 44 pieces per shift. But at that rate a huge bottleneck developed. I didn't like being the cause of inefficiency. I didn't like not working up to my potential. I knew the machine could run more; in fact, I was certain of it. And besides, I had run equipment over what the shop workers said before and nothing had happened. Still, this wasn't just my coworkers in the shop talking trash. This was a tough union rep. He had the power to bring the blows down. But every day that I looked at the stacked-up parts and read the reports on past-due orders, I felt more and more compelled to take action. If I was going to be a supervisor some day, I was going to have to stand up to hard-asses like him. Now was as good a time as any to see what I could do.
Once again, I prepared. I studied the machine intently and devised a checklist to make sure everything was in order before I ran it. If I was going to take this risk, I wanted everything to be perfect. I remembered when my enthusiasm for speed and efficiency generated a heap of scrap and cost me a year layoff. Not this time. This attempt would be perfect.
On Monday afternoon, I came in to the shop ready to roll. I went through my checklist, not once, but three times, just to make sure. Then I let loose. I let the machine roll through the iron, finishing piece after piece. I watched carefully, making sure there was no scrap. My concentration was strict—I did not notice the other workers watching me coax my machine to do more and more. I wasn't aware of the whispers, and the curses, and the fists raised against me. I just kept running the machine. At the end of the shift I had completed not 100 pieces, but 144, almost one-and-a-half times what I thought the capacity of the machine was. Satisfied and exhausted, I noted my achievement in the production book.
The next day when I came to work, I found my machine surrounded by rough-looking workers, including the union rep. "Jim, that's your name, right? I think you made a mistake in that book," the union rep said. "No way that machine can run more than 44 pieces a shift."
I shifted my eyes away from the rep. "No mistake. I ran 144 pieces. I'm not going to lie about it."
"Not going to lie about it? You sure you ran 144 pieces, buddy? Are you absolutely sure? No way you could be wrong?"
"No, sir. I ran 144 pieces." I felt beads of sweat running down the back of my neck.
"Well then, Mr. Johnny-on-the-spot, I guess you and me and the boys need to have a little talk in the parking lot after shift. Maybe then your memory will be a little sharper."
"I'll be there," I said without thinking.
That day, I carefully checked my machine over. People with a grudge sometimes put shims under the fixtures or reset calibrations. If they couldn't get to you directly, they'd set you up for scrap. That way, management did the dirty work. I went through my checklist. Nothing wrong. So I ran the machine and, at the end of the shift, had completed 144 pieces again.
I knew this meant trouble, but it was too late now. I walked to my car resolutely, ready to give back whatever they wanted to dish out. I may have been a quiet man in the shop, but I was still in good shape, and my size was still an advantage. Even though I didn't participate much in scrappin' at the coal mines, I'd seen enough fights to know what to watch for. At 11:30 P.M. I stood my ground in the parking lot, clenching my fists and then opening them again, listening for trouble. Five minutes passed. I looked around. I could see the red tips of cigarettes leading people to their Fords and Chevys. Doors opened and closed, engines turned over, cars rumbled out of the parking lot. Ten minutes were gone and still no action. The lot was almost empty. My heart beat a little faster. "Maybe they're waiting until everyone's gone," I thought. "Maybe they want no witnesses." Two silhouettes approached me in the night. "This is it," I thought, but instead they suddenly turned left and headed for an old beat-up truck. The truck's engine moaned in the night; the headlights burned a soft yellow in the evening dust, and the truck puttered its way out of the lot. Fifteen minutes, then twenty. Nothing going on. Nobody left. Silence.
I closed my eyes for a minute, trying to listen for a hint in the darkness that something was coming. I heard nothing unusual. The chatter of machines on the third shift, the sounds of traffic a couple blocks away, the sharp bark of a dog wanting back in—nothing more. It was midnight and I was alone, absolutely alone. Taut and stretched from my anticipated conflict, my muscles relaxed in my clenched fists, then through the sinews and tendons of my calves and ankles. Finally, I felt my neck loosen and my jaw go limp. I looked around one last time, then looked up to stars in the sky. Without warning or explanation, a roaring peal of laughter came from deep within me. I laughed until I could laugh no more, not knowing exactly what was funny, but understanding I had conquered something that night in the parking lot.
* * *
The next day I walked into the shop with less confidence than I had felt the night before under the stars. Perhaps the union rep was toying with me, playing some kind of mind game. Maybe he was waiting to catch me when I least expected it. Maybe he was going to attack on a different front. I scrutinized my machine, certain that something had to have been tampered with. I went over the calibrations, the moving parts, and the electrical connections again and again. But there was no sign of the thugs. Feeling the tension across my shoulder blades, I ran the machine as usual. One hundred and forty-four pieces. I hit the mark again. This time when I wrote the number in the production book, I waited around to see if anyone would check my entry. But nobody did.
For weeks, then months, I ran the machine at capacity and wrote my production in the book. Every night I checked my car for mischief, and every day I examined my machine carefully. But there was never any trouble. Pretty soon I noticed the guys on the other two shifts were running the machine at 100 pieces. Production was picking up. Deadlines were being met. The shop had turned into a model of efficiency.
As I ran the machine, I thought to myself, "Well, the boss can't help to have noticed this. Look what I've done. Not only am I running this thing at 144 pieces, but the other workers are doing well too. They've gotta be thinkin' about a promotion for me. They gotta know that I'm ripe to be a supervisor." But no one ever talked to me about my promotion or about using what I learned during my apprenticeship to help the company.
At first, I thought I had done something wrong by running the machine so heavy. But my boss repeatedly told me what an asset I was to the shop. "Jimbo," he would say, "you're one hell of a worker. Wish I had a hunnert guys like you." I would mumble my thanks and go about my work.
One night, during a coffee break, I ran into one of my old buddies from Greenview. "John, long time no see," I offered.
"Hey, you old son of a gun, how you doin'? How's Gloria and the kids?"
"Good, John. How 'bout Mary and your family?"
We exchanged pleasantries, remembered with appropriate exaggeration key basketball games and memories of Greenview, and longed for the days when we used to play a game called King of the Mountain. John and I would go over to the cattle lot next door, climb up on top of a small tin building there, and step from it onto the backs of the cows standing nearby. Then we'd ride the cows around the lot, stepping from one cow's back to another's. Whoever could stay up the longest was crowned king. It was amazing we didn't get killed.
"Well, things sure have changed," John said. "But I can't complain. Got a good job, a handsome wife, and four sharp kids. Like my work. That's important, you know, 'specially when we're lookin' at another thirty or so years of it."
"Jeez, John, thirty more years in the shop?" I said incredulously. "Not me, man. I ain't hangin' around toolin' iron for the rest of my life. I'm going somewhere in this company."
"Says who?"
"Says me."
"You ain't going nowhere."
"Says who?" I asked, becoming more than a little annoyed.
"Says me and your boss," John laughed.
"What do you know about my boss?" I growled.
"Isn't your boss Big Stan?"
"Yeah, what of it?"
"Well, Big Stan and my boss eat lunch together every night. Me and my buddies sit within earshot. That way we know what's coming down the pike. The other night, we heard Big Stan braggin' to my boss about what a hell of a worker you are, Jimbo."
"Exactly my point. That's why I'm going somewhere. I proved myself, shown what I got. The boss worships the ground I walk on. He knows he couldn't do without me."
"Bingo, Jim boy. Big Stan knows that you're the one makin' that shop hum. He told my boss he ain't never seen anything like it. A big guy like you who keeps his mouth shut and does his job. Not only does his job but don't take nothin' offa the union. Man, you are a manager's dream. You make him look like God's gift to shop supervision."
"So what's your point?" I asked, this time without patience.
"Well, here's what Big Stan says to my boss. He says, 'Yessir, that Jimbo is one in a million. Makes me look good. Makes my life smooth as silk. I've never seen anybody who runs a machine like Jimbo. If I have anything to say about it, he's going to spend the rest of his life on that machine. Life is good with him in the shop, and I'm not lettin' anybody get him. Already had to block two attempts from other supers trying to steal him. But it ain't gonna happen, not while I'm around. No sirree.' That's what Big Stan said, Jim, I swear to God I heard him say just that. So you and me, buddy, we're bound to be workin' stiffs until it's time for the gold watch."
I wanted to scream curses at my friend. I wanted to grab him by the throat and squeeze the truth out him. I wanted to push him hard against my shoulder, like when we were kids, and tell him to take it back. I thought about wrestling him to the ground and thumping on his chest until he yelled "uncle" and admitted his lies. But I knew none of this was necessary. John and I had been friends for life. He had no reason to lie. He had nothing to gain from telling me about this conspiracy. So instead, I asked meekly, "Are you sure, John, are you sure it was me they were talking about? Are you sure you heard right?"
"Sorry, Jim, but that's what I heard, swear to God, that's just what I heard. Big Stan, well, he thinks as long as he's got you, he's got the gravy train. No man wants to give up the easy life. And face it, Jim, you make his life easy."
"Thanks, John," I said. "It was good talking to you. Say hello to Mary and the kids. We need to have a meal sometime together, huh? Maybe we could drive down home, or maybe you and Mary would like to see our new place."
"That would be great," John said, knowing I was deflated. "We'd like that." And then he walked out of the cafeteria, shaking his head.
I sat at the table, sipping what remained of my lukewarm coffee. I thought I heard laughter. I snapped my head around, expecting to see the union rep and workers who had threatened me the night I ran the machine at full capacity. But no one was there. I got up to go back to my machine. As I stood, I felt as if someone had landed a perfectly aimed blow to my stomach. Instinctively, I clutched my gut and then immediately realized my foolishness. But the pain didn't go away. It spread throughout my whole body, an agonizing and humiliating ache. I felt beaten and bruised by the very people I had wanted to join. I felt betrayed and humiliated and stupid. I felt like a sucker. And against my will, I found myself thinking, "The beating from the union thugs would have been so much easier to take."
* * *
Yes, breaking the rules and paying the price was bad. But not having rules or common understandings was much, much worse. My belief about what was fair and unfair was not shared by Stan and others here. This stunned and saddened me. As imperfect as it was, the black-and-white world of my father seemed a better way. I would remember this years later and help develop common understandings and post them on the walls in our factories and offices. But today, I was thinking only of myself. I felt abandoned and alone.
Chapter 6. A Second Betrayal
Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.
—ARTHUR KOESTLER
I had not heard the legend of Sisyphus, a Greek man who so displeased the gods that Zeus sentenced him to never-ending penance. According to the myth, Sisyphus was forever condemned to push a boulder up the steep side of a mountain. Just as he was about to reach the top of the mountain, the boulder rolled back down. Sisyphus was forced to complete the task over and over. He had no hope of redemption or escape. Zeus had determined his fate, and that was how Sisyphus would spend the rest of his life.
Unlike Sisyphus, I had done nothing wrong. In fact, I had spent every working hour trying to please "the powers that be." While my actions and those of Sisyphus were on opposite ends of the moral spectrum, both of us were condemned to similar fates. No matter how good my work was, no matter how well I performed, no matter how quickly I completed my tasks, I was trapped forever on one side of the mountain. The exhilaration I once felt from a job well done turned into a dull realization that work was nothing more than a means to money. The special skills I had developed now seemed trite and mundane. Anybody could do what I did. I wasn't anything special. I had nothing special to give the company I thought would create a bright future. As the days and weeks and months under this cloud wore on, I found myself restless and cantankerous.
My rancor was made complete by the deeds of men outside the company. The Friendship VII mission took John Glenn to new heights of American achievement when he circled the earth three times. And then Scott Carpenter and Walter Schirra repeated the feat. John Kennedy hung tough and forced the Russians to remove missiles from Cuba. Engineers launched the Telstar communications satellite, the space probe Venus Mariner II, and the moon explorer Ranger IV. Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Don Drysdale, and Maury Willis made baseball history. On the basketball court, Wilt "the Stilt" Chamberlain, Jerry West, Oscar Robertson, and Bill Russell broke records and forever changed the game. Everywhere I looked, I saw men who were free to realize their dreams. Yet here I was, a prisoner in the company I so admired.
For the first time in my life, I felt oppressed. Someone was keeping me from realizing my full potential at the company. Someone had control over me, and I could not get loose. I began to understand how a man held back became resentful. I saw the world through angry and anxious eyes. Anger because I was held back, anxious because I was always on the lookout for an opportunity to escape. I often ran my machinery without thinking, daydreaming about what might have been and who I might have become. I dreamed about myself as a leader—proud, fair, strong. I contemplated the team I would have built—enthusiastic, intelligent, innovative. I thought of the results I would have produced—efficient, effective, excellent. These things were on my mind, day in and day out. It helped pass the time. I was in the middle of one of these reveries when a voice I knew from the past interrupted.
"Hey, Jim, what do you say we get the hell out of here?" my old friend Mike asked.
"It's not even close to shift change. What are you talking about?" I responded.
"Ain't talking about no 15-minute smoke break. I'm talking about for good. What do you think?"
"C'mon, you know better than that. I've got a family to support. I need this job."
"That's where you're wrong, old buddy. You need a job, but not this one. You need to work, but not here. Me and a couple of other guys are going to work in a small shop in East Peoria. We're going to help it grow. You might even be able to invest in it if you want."
"Mike, you know I don't have that kind of scratch. I need this job. I need to feed my family. I have responsibilities. I have to stay here."
"All right, if you aren't interested in making a bushel of money and getting the hell out of this prison…
"What do you mean, getting out of this prison?" My curiosity was piqued.
"I mean getting the hell out of this place," Mike said. "I mean starting our own shop. I mean being our own bosses. I mean not having to check in every time we need to take a whiz or blow our noses. I mean making as much money as we want without any quotas, contracts, and timecards. And if we want to take a day off to go hunting or something, we just have to ask ourselves."
"I told you, Mike, I got no money to invest," I said sadly.
"Well, maybe you would consider workin' for us. You could work in the shop or maybe even manage. Hell, we don't care. We know a good man when we see one, and you're a good one. You're the kind of guy who gets things done. We need that kind of man, Jimbo. Think about it. I'll get back to you at the end of the week."
I felt something inside of me reawakening. It was a strange feeling. Sort of like hope, but different. "Someone thinks I'm worth stealing from this company," I told myself. "Someone wants me to be part of their team. They think I have something to offer. They think I'm good. They think I'll help them succeed." The feeling changed the direction of my thoughts. My mind meandered down all kinds of roads to glory. I'd run the best tool and die shop in the state—no, in the country, hell, in the world. I felt myself standing a little taller, acting a little cockier. Something had changed. It was quite simple. Someone showed me I was appreciated. Someone said I had talent. Someone felt I was a guy who was going places. Someone wanted to take a risk on my abilities. What an incredible feeling! I tasted freedom. I tasted achievement. I felt alive again.
Of course, I had to consider the salary. I might be able to come down some. My family had lived with setbacks before; they could again. But I wanted to be sure I could navigate, or at least help steer, my future. I wanted to know I could advance and grow. I wanted to be my own man, to lead the way I knew how. I wanted to drive achievement. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted "the powers that be" to get off my back and let me do what I was able. I was convinced that would never happen at the company. But maybe in this new place, maybe with people who were like me, who understood who I was and where I came from, it could. Maybe here I would be able to stretch and grow and create, and my coworkers would understand and appreciate what kind of man, what kind of competitor I was. They would have to know—they came from the same place I did. The more I thought about the possibilities, the more excited I became. The new horizon Mike offered me was so appealing I worried it might not be real. What if he changed his mind? What if he couldn't find a place for me? I was a like a man dying of thirst with a glass of water held just beyond my reach. I counted the days, waiting for the week to be over. Finally, it was. I watched for Mike all day. Late in the afternoon, he showed up.
"So, Jimbo," Mike asked, "you ready to move on?"
"What d'ya want me to do and what about the pay?" I tried not to sound too anxious.
"Well, we think we'd hire you in as our tool and die manager at about the salary you're making now. You'd be in charge of three or four other guys, and you'd do some tool and die work yourself. So you in?"
"Hmmm, sounds pretty tempting," I said, trying to keep my poker face. "You mind if Gloria and I talk tonight and I call you in the morning?" Inside my head, I was thinking, "Please don't let him think I'm blowing him off. Please let him believe I'm a good businessman who thinks things through."
"Yeah, sure," Mike said. "It's nice to include the wife in these decisions. Gimme a call tomorrow morning. Here's my number."
Skyrockets went off in my head. My pulse quickened, and my heart started pounding as if I was chugging once more for home plate. I felt alive again. That night I went home and told my family about this new opportunity. I did not talk about the risk of a start-up company or the conflicts inherent in small enterprises. I wanted no objections to the decision I had already made. Instead, I explained why this move made sense for my career, how I could test the skills I'd learned in my apprenticeship, how I would lead the company to success. I wanted no one to foil my plans to escape my current dead-end situation. I wanted no one to find security or purpose in my oppression. I wanted no one to see my boss—a tyrant in my mind—as my protector. I wanted to be free to grow, to change, to excel.
For the past several months, I had had a hard time sleeping. My rest was disturbed by visions of my supervisor—holding me down, keeping me back, blocking me at every escape route. No matter how hard I tried those sleepless nights, I could not find a way out. Tonight, the insomnia returned, but for a different reason. Feelings of liberation and hope sent my mind in a hundred different directions. I could see a myriad of ways I was free. I wanted to sleep. Sleep would make the night pass quickly and the phone call I longed to place come sooner. But I couldn't sleep. My mind was alert with possibilities and pride. I lay in the darkness, eyes wide open, contemplating my future. I listened for the hourly chime, as the hall clock's hands traveled slowly through the night. I stared at the curtains, waiting for the first light of dawn. When the sun was barely up, I rose, ate breakfast alone, and paced until a respectable hour for calling Mike came. I dialed the number carefully and waited for the ring.
After three rings, a male voice answered, "Yeah?"
I got nervous. Maybe I called too early. Too late now. "Mike, that you?" I asked.
"Yeah, it's me, who's this?"
"Jim. It's Jim. Did I wake you up?" I asked cautiously.
"Nah, nah. Sorry, Jim, didn't recognize your voice. So, buddy, did you make a decision? You comin' on board?"
"You bet," I said, trying not to sound overanxious.
"Well, that's just great, Jim, that's great. You know where the shop is? Why don't you meet me there in an hour? We'll get things started."
"I'll be there," I said. "Lookin' forward to it."
"Me too, Jim, me too," Mike said. "See ya later." And with that, Mike hung up.
* * *
I enjoyed working in the small tool and die shop. I was able to use my skills more freely, and finally I had made it to a leadership position. I worked hard and so did my group. I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment, especially since my salary now included a commission for new business. The commission wasn't much, but it was symbolic for me of my success. I worked harder and harder to make sure the bonus would be as significant as possible.
In a few months, Mike and some of the other original managers of the shop left to start their own business. I had no money to invest, so I stayed behind and was immediately promoted to plant manager.
During the weeks and then months of my new responsibility, I cherished the feeling of total accountability. Although not totally prepared, it didn't take long for my leadership ability to surface. The company results improved, and George, the organization's president, rewarded me with both praise and perks. George gave me a company car and a gas allowance.
Sales continued to increase, and my commission continued to grow. Most of the accounts were bread-and-butter work, the stuff that kept the company going. Finally, a chance for a significant piece of work came the company's way. I jumped on the opportunity. I did my homework. I negotiated with the account people. I worked as hard as I ever had.
I felt I was making a significant contribution to the company. George and I held strategy meetings on the development of the account on a regular basis.
"Boy," I said, "I sure hope we get this account. That commission would look great on my paycheck."
"Your paycheck?" George asked. "I don't think so, since I've done most of the work."
I was stunned, but I could see from the look on George's face that he wasn't kidding. I had been guaranteed a percentage of all new business, no matter who placed it. The betrayal was double. Not only was George ignoring all of my hard work, but he was also going back on a promise. I fell silent, knowing now was not the time to argue.
Somehow the scene, played over and over in my thoughts, conjured up a feeling vaguely familiar. It was almost the same feeling I had felt when I was working for Big Stan, the boss who would never promote me. The circumstances were different, but the impact was the same. These bosses were using me. They knew I thrived on praise. They knew I was a dedicated man who never purposely used my size to get what I wanted. They knew my greatest pride was in my work, not in my salary, not in my benefits. I lived on achievement. They knew no matter how they treated me, I wouldn't let them down. They knew I had created my own golden "handcuffs"—my absolute dedication to excellence. Then they preyed on me. But their attacks were more sinister. They never showed open aggression. Instead, they used a sort of guerrilla warfare on me. They passively refused me promotions. They passively ignored delivering on the promises they had made as the stakes increased.
From that moment of epiphany, I looked at myself and my bosses in an entirely different light. I began to believe that bosses, by their very nature, always placed their own self-centered interests above those of the workers. Their success was determined by the culminated efforts of many people. And their success was measured by power, profits, and position. Any time they shared that with the workers, they diminished their sense of worth. Giving up power meant giving up control. How could you be a successful boss without control? If they gave up profits like my commission, their own salaries might be smaller. How could you be successful if your workers' salaries were growing faster than your own? If you gave up position, you gave up territory. Partnerships, stock, partial ownership of the company—all these diminished the size of your turf. How could you be judged a successful boss if you were shrinking your own dominion? These bosses were smart. They promised and teased but only had to deliver when it fit their purposes. This kind of boss–worker relationship was like playing poker with somebody who had all the aces up his sleeve. No matter what, the worker could never win.
This dismal realization made me understand that to advance my career, I might have to jump from place to place, edging my way up the ladder with each career move. I wasn't certain I could trust any boss, really. They were all sweet talk in the beginning. "Jim, you're the best worker we've ever seen." "Jim, we can't do without you." "Jim, you're the kind of man we've been looking for." But when I proved them right, they withheld the rewards they promised or kept me back. I couldn't fight them on their own turf. The only way I could fight back was to create a void in their organization. It felt callous and hard, but I had learned that flattery for good work was lulling me into a complacency that kept me from what I wanted.
So I quit. George wanted to know why I was leaving. I tried to explain, but he didn't get it. He was angry.
"I made you, Jim. I gave you a leadership position you never had. I let you do things you never did before. I let you sit at the table with the big boys," George argued.
"It's not that, George. It's about trust. It's about doing what you said you'd do. It's about supporting my work and where I want to go," I answered.
"What the hell are you talking about, Jim? I did everything I said I would, didn't I?" I was flabbergasted that George didn't remember the promised commissions.
"George, look, I'm tired of arguing with you. I'm leaving, and that's it. I appreciate what you've done for me, but it's time for me to do more."
"Well, you ungrateful SOB. Go on, get the hell out of here. I'm tired of your whining about commissions. If you wanna know the truth, I'm glad you're getting out. You do good work, Jim, but you know you've been a big pain in the ass. Always wantin' more for your workers. Jeez, Jim, they're just die-makers, you know. They ain't astronauts. You're some kind of supervisor, Jim. Maybe in your next job you'll realize your role is to make money for the boss, not the workers on the line. You're management, for chrissakes, Jim. When are you going to start actin' like it?"
The words slapped me hard. Now, more than ever, I knew I had to leave. I was a good manager. I treated people right. And when I did, they produced wonderful results. But George was telling me that wasn't how it was supposed to be. I knew George was wrong. I couldn't lead like that. I just couldn't. I smiled sadly, shook my head, and left.
* * *
I would take my skills and knowledge elsewhere, with the satisfaction of knowing that when I left, the company would at least suffer a temporary setback as they spent time finding someone to replace me and teaching that person everything I carried in my head. It made me sad to lose my naïve belief in the goodness of the bosses I had trusted. It hurt me on a level I could not explain. But the time had come to look out for myself. The time had come to demand respect for who I was and what I could accomplish. The time had come to take charge of my own destiny. The time had come to make sure the advantage was mine and not the boss's as I plotted my career.
Chapter 7. The Piano that Played
Trust people and they will be true to you. Treat them greatly and they will show themselves great.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Armed with new confidence in my leadership abilities, I called Caterpillar to see if the company would take me back. I reviewed my background: the completed apprenticeship plus two years of outside management experience, including my move to plant manager in the small job shop. The best the company could do for me, however, was an hourly position on third shift. I preferred working for the company, but I didn't want to start completely over again. I refused the offer and accepted a job as a quality technician at the company's local competitor. I felt a little disloyal about taking the position, but the company didn't seem to mind. After the last two encounters with Big Stan and George, I was making sure that I, not someone else, had control of my career and destiny. The competitor was a successful company, and experience within this organization certainly would support my career ambitions. I jokingly let my old shop buddies from the company know I would be working for a competitor and they'd better watch out, because I was going to come after them.
Shortly thereafter, I got a phone call at home from the manager of planning and tooling at the plant.
"Jim, I just heard you're going to work for the local competitor. Is that right?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'm going be working in quality. It's a good job. A little travel, and a real opportunity."
"What are you thinkin', Jim?" the manager asked. "Why didn't you call us? You know we always thought a lot of you and your work."
"Yeah, that's why you offered me an entry-level job," I thought to myself sarcastically, but instead I answered, "Well, I tried to get back in, but all they offered me was hourly third shift. I want to stay in management."
"Okay, so someone in personnel doesn't know your situation. If I can get you a better job than what you got with the competitor, will you come back?"
I had to think. Was this another one of those boss tricks? Maybe, but at least now I was prepared for what might be coming. "Yeah, you know, I think I would," I finally answered. "I've always respected the company, and you could convince me to come back if I can be a supervisor." I was a bit astounded by my own brashness. But I wasn't going to get taken again. If I had to be brash and stubborn to create my own future, so be it.
Later that day the phone rang again. It was the manager.
"Okay, how 'bout this, Jim? I got a job for you as a salaried employee—a desk job, Jim. You can do paperwork and, who knows, maybe another opportunity for supervisor will show up soon."
"It's a deal," I said without thinking. The phone call was significant for me. I'd waited a long time and gone down some unexpected paths, but now I was finally making the change I had contemplated so many, many months ago. I was leaving the world of the company hourly worker at last and was getting closer to the challenging, hard-hitting world of management.
The new job was far from management, though. It was a staff function in material control. Electronic tracking was not yet used, so my tasks were manual. I sat in an area with other salaried people who did the same work. As I learned the job, I was amazed at how quickly I could get through the paperwork. Yet as I looked to my left and right, the more experienced people were taking their time. Soon people began to notice that I was done with my work long before the workday was over.
"Jim," one of my colleagues finally said, "I know you're used to the production deadlines on the shop floor. I know there was always pressure to complete work by a certain time. But Jim, this isn't the shop floor. This is office work. There's no pressure here, man. Take your time, kick back a little. There's no hurry."
I was astounded. Here I was in the office and I was hearing the same slacker talk I had heard on the shop floor. Granted, I wasn't threatened, but I didn't think I was winning any popularity contests with my coworkers, either. Still, I didn't change. I continued to work to my capacity. A few weeks later, my supervisor told me they were going to add another person to my records.
"We're changing our system from a manual to a computer system," he said. "Since you have the list with the lowest part numbers, we're going to test run the change on your records. You continue to do things the way you are, and the new person will run the same system in parallel using the computer."
"You don't need another person," I said. "I can do both."
"No, you can't," the supervisor said.
"Yes, I can. I can do both," I said matter-of-factly.
"All right, Jim, give it a go, but if you mess up, you'll be answering to me."
"Fair enough," I said. I took both assignments, maintained the records on both systems, and by early afternoon my work was done. I had nothing left to do.
"Jeez, Jim, it was bad enough when you were getting your job done ahead of time. Now you're doing two jobs and still finishing ahead of the rest of us. Do you know how that makes us look?" It was the same coworker. I couldn't understand it. Why didn't these people want to speed up the efficiency of the company? Why didn't they care about doing the best work possible? I couldn't figure it out at the time, but it made me uncomfortable. I didn't like feeling guilty for doing what I was able.
I worked in the office for only four months more. Then I was offered a supervisor's job in the plant. I didn't know if I got the job because the company thought I was the best choice or because some coworker with influence wanted me out of the office. It didn't matter. I finally was going to be a supervisor in the company on the shop floor. I didn't care if the company thought I was ready or not. I knew I was. I recounted all the lessons I had learned along the way. I remembered how I respected Duggan and his kindness. I remembered being held back by my supervisor on the floor and taken for granted in the job shop. I remembered the threats I had received for working too hard. I remembered the slacker talk from the workers in the office. I thought hard about these things and how they would influence my leadership style. One thing for sure, I was going to be different. I would find a way to weave Duggan's humanity into my approach and weed out the things in bosses I had come to abhor. I was inventing myself as a leader. I relished the challenge.
But when I found out the area I was going to supervise, I wondered what I had done to deserve such a punishment. I was given the worst line in the building. It was filled with the toughest, meanest union-represented workers in the plant. The chief steward worked there. So did one of the more notorious committeemen. And the son of the union secretary was on the line too. When I walked in the first day, 42 pairs of eyes that looked like steel and concrete fixed on me and then turned away as if to dismiss my very presence.
My boss explained, "The poor bastard before you failed miserably, Jim. We thought it best not to have him train you. The supervisor on the next line over will tell you what you need to know." He motioned the other line supervisor to come over.
"Hi. You must be Jim," the other supervisor said.
"Yeah, I'm the new supervisor here."
"Yeah, right, okay. See that?" he asked, pointing to the beginning of the line. I nodded. "That's the beginning of your line. Down there," he pointed again, "is the end of your line. And next to that is your other line. You're responsible for everything in between. Now if those union bastards give you any trouble you can't handle, gimme a holler. Me and the other supervisors will come and bail you out. Got it?" I nodded again. That was it. That was my introduction to management. The supervisor left, without offering any more help.
I looked over my territory. There was scrap all over the place, stacks of past-due orders, mounds of rework. The line was deplorable. What was worse was that the employees on the line hated me without even knowing me. Because I was management, I was despicable to them. No matter what kind of man I was, what my beliefs were, or what I might offer them, I was hated without reason and without contemplation. The bite of this prejudice stung me—hard. It felt like a cheap shot in a basketball game, an unseen elbow in the back under the net. I wanted to fight back, but I knew such behavior would only make things worse for me.
The first night I was on duty, a small group of employees approached me.
"We're filin' this grievance against you. You gotta answer it."
My stomach tightened. Grievance? Answer? Nobody had told me how to deal with an issue like this. I didn't even know what a grievance was.
"I'm not answerin' this thing tonight," I said, trying to exert some semblance of authority.
"Yes, you are, boss man. It's a grievance, and you gotta answer it."
"Well, I'll tell you what, I'm not answerin' anything until I check it out and understand what I'm supposed to do. So you're just gonna have to wait." I turned my back on the group, trying to disguise my fear. I heard them shuffle away, chuckling and joking among themselves. They were confident they would break me. I could hear it in their laughter.
The grievance came two weeks before the two-week summer shutdown. For those two weeks, I experienced every form of harassment imaginable. Machines were sabotaged. The men treated me with disrespect, calling me hurtful names and purposely misunderstanding my orders. Work was delayed. I was failing. The vision I held about a team of people all working together for the common good of the company, energized and excited about work, seemed like nothing more than a pipe dream. Thankfully, the shutdown came. I went home to think about whether I really wanted to spend the rest of my working career in such a foul environment.
One night during the shutdown, I went outside and sat down on the back step of my home. It was almost ten o'clock, and an infinite number of stars filled the sky. I sat for a long time looking up at the stars, trying to find an answer. As I watched the sky, I was reminded of another time when I had waited alone in the night. It wasn't that long ago when I stood in the gravel parking lot of the plant ready to face the men from the shop floor who had threatened me because I ran my equipment too fast. I remembered the feeling that had come from deep down inside of me when they hadn't shown up. I remembered the relief and exhilaration that extended from my gut to every bone and muscle in my body. I had won a great personal victory that night. The same stars that watched over me then now twinkled the same message. Stand tall, Jim. Don't give up. If you give up now, you'll never conquer your fears. Be a leader. Be strong.
As the horizon drifted from black to gray to bright morning orange and then faded to pink and blue, I knew I would stay a supervisor. But I also knew I couldn't manage those guys by fear and intimidation. I was only 27 years old. I wasn't ready to be a casualty of the war between the beliefs of the company and the union. Instead, I chose diplomacy. I would build their trust. I would gain their respect. I would try to be like Duggan. I would try to make their work lives better. I hoped that by demonstrating respect and trust for them, they would in turn do the same for me.
So I returned to the shop with a new strategy. The first day back, one of the workers came up to me.
"Hey, boss, I just scrapped some pieces. Thought you'd want to know." The sarcasm and challenge in his voice were unmistakable.
"Mistakes happen," I said tentatively. "Is there something I can do to help you avoid that in the future?"
Surprised by my response, he said, "Yeah, I need different tooling for the machine." I knew the tooling had been replaced just a few weeks ago and had been working up until now. I suspected I was being tested.
"Okay, well, if you think different tooling will fix the problem, I'll get it for you." And I did.
The scene was repeated dozens of times over the next several weeks. I got them everything they needed. At the same time, I didn't waiver on job expectations. I didn't let them off the hook for coming in late or taking too many breaks. But I stayed soft on the people issues. I heard through the grapevine that one of my employees had a daughter who wanted a piano. But the man, partially disabled, didn't have the money to buy one. I sold him my wife's piano for $25. I later found out I'd been scammed. He turned around and sold the piano for $50. Although the incident upset me, I stayed true to my course of action. I didn't confront the man, and I didn't discuss it with others. Slowly but surely, things started to turn around on my two lines. Within five months, the past-due orders completely vanished. Rework was virtually nonexistent. The lines had gone from the lowest performers to among the highest.
During this time, I heard that another employee, Everett, was on leave because he was "drying out," or recovering as an alcoholic. I decided to visit him in the hospital and encourage him to get well and come back to work. Hospital rules said I had to be locked in the room with Everett and couldn't leave without permission.
"You know, Everett," I said as we sat together waiting for the door to be unlocked, "you do pretty darn good work. The line isn't the same when you're not there. And the other guys miss you too."
"Really?" Everett said without commitment.
"Yeah, you know, you got such a great sense of humor too. Man, the place isn't the same without your stories and jokes. You know when you're gone, work just isn't as much fun," I said.
"You mean it?" Everett asked.
"Yeah, Everett, I do. I hope you get better real soon. I want you back on the line. So do your buddies."
I could see tears welling up in Everett's eyes. The click of the door unlocking allowed me a graceful exit and gave Everett time to regain his composure. As I left, I called back, "See ya soon, buddy. Get well, we're all rootin' for ya."
The men on the lines couldn't fathom what I was up to. Nobody ever went to see someone when they were "taking the cure." Somehow, though, my employees respected what I did. And when Everett came back, the first thing he did was ask me how many pieces I wanted him to run.
"Everett, I want you to do as much as you can. We're both being paid pretty well by the company. I think we all should give as much effort as we can. Run as much as you can as long as you run it well," I said. In those days, most people ran less than 100 percent. From then on, Everett ran his machine consistently at 125 percent. Of course, it might have been more, because the system could only acknowledge 125 percent production. But I knew Everett was running the machine at the highest level he could.
The efficiency of the line was testament to the impact of my new approach and style of leadership. But there was one employee, the son of the union secretary, who just never produced more than 85 percent. It didn't matter how I treated him. It didn't matter whether I encouraged him. It didn't matter if I challenged him to show what he had. He simply stayed at 85 percent, no more, no less. Then, one night, the plant superintendent caught me by the arm. "Hey, you need to talk to your problem child," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Well, I was walking the line and saw him with an earphone on. He has a portable radio attached to his ear."
"All right, I'll go tell him to put it away," I said. Listening to the radio at work was forbidden. The company required employees to concentrate on their jobs and the machinery they operated. Radios could be distracting and could mask warning sounds made by a machine about to go awry. And they could be a safety problem. I dreaded this discussion, but the rules were clear and made sense.
"Stuart, I hear you been listening to the radio while operating the machines. You know that's a safety hazard. How 'bout puttin' it away and takin' it home?"
"Too late," Stuart said sardonically. "Joe was already down here. He ripped me a new one. Chewed me out. Threatened to fire me if he ever saw me within a foot of a radio."
"He did what?" I asked in disbelief.
"Well, he kicked my ass. He yelled at me. He called me every name in the book."
I could feel my blood pressure rising. I turned and started to walk away from Stuart's machines.
"Where ya goin', Jim?" Stuart asked.
"To see Joe."
I could feel my anger mounting as I marched deliberately toward the superintendent's office. On the way, I ran into my own general foreman—my immediate supervisor.
"Jeez, Jim, what's up with you?" he asked, sensing my ire. "Where you off to in such a huff?"
"To Joe's office," I said curtly.
"What for?" my supervisor asked.
"That's between Joe and me," I barked. I wasn't going to let anyone dissuade me from my mission. I reached Joe's office, banged on the door, and went in before Joe beckoned me.
"Why do I have this?" I said, pointing to a small blue and gold shield attached to my shirt pocket. The shield identified me as a supervisor. "Why do I have this?" I asked again. Joe was dumbfounded. I ripped the shield off my shirt and tossed it on Joe's desk. Joe looked confused.
"I don't need this and you don't need me if you're going to supervise my people. I quit," I said. With that, I turned and walked out of the office.
"Wait a minute, Jim, hold on," Joe said calmly, trying to diffuse the situation. But I just kept on walking. I walked down the hall and past the shop floor. The guys could see me heading out, with Joe trailing me. They could hear Joe imploring me to stop from time to time, but I just kept on walking—past the shop, past the time clock, out the door, into the parking lot.
Finally, Joe caught up with me in the parking lot. "Jim, Jim, no need to get so upset. I was just trying to help you enforce a little discipline, that's all," he said.
"That's my job," I said defiantly. "If you want to manage my people, go ahead. You don't need me and you don't need my ideas. If you want to interfere with what I've got going, fine. You don't need me."
"Shit, Jim, we need you. Look, if I promise to stay out of your hair and let you take care of things, will you come back?"
"I'll come back if you let me handle my people. You got a problem with them, the problem comes to me and I'll handle it. That's my job, not yours."
"Okay, Jim, I won't ever do that kind of thing if you come back."
"Done," I said. Joe extended his hand and I shook it. I accepted his apology, but I wanted him to know this was serious stuff. There was no backslapping or management camaraderie over this incident. I wanted Joe to stay out of my way. I needed him to understand that although I was forgiving him this infraction, a repeat of the incident would be totally unacceptable.
Word of the incident spread through the lines like wildfire. The story was retold in unbelieving whispers. The employees didn't want to give too much credit to a management guy, but they were in awe. I went to bat for them, offered up my job in their defense. No one had ever done that before.
As I came back onto the lines, I didn't notice any change. But the next morning when I looked at the production sheets, Stuart had run 100 percent.
* * *
My success with the renegade line spread throughout the plant. Old-time managers and rookies talked among themselves like kids who had just seen a magician. "How'd he do that?" they wondered. "What tricks does he have that we don't know about?" Like children in the audience, they were amazed at what my "magic" produced. The worst line in the plant running at the highest productivity and efficiency was nothing short of astonishing. While the higher-ups couldn't figure out exactly how I did what I did, they were keenly aware of my significant accomplishment. I was noticed by the people who counted, and although I didn't know it at the time, I had earned something every ambitious person craves—credibility. Credibility among the gatekeepers of power and position was the key I needed to unlock my future. Over time, I would recognize how potent credibility was in advancing in the company. But at this point, I was just happy to know I was on my way. I gratefully accepted the accolades heaped upon me, not knowing how addictive approval and praise would become.
Chapter 8. The Line on Fire
Knowledge may give weight, but accomplishments give luster.
—LORD CHESTERFIELD*
* Permission granted from The Forbes Book of Business Quotations, Ted Goodman, editor, Black Dog and Leventhal Publishers, 1997, New York, NY.
My credibility with management bolstered my confidence and opened up more and more opportunities. I became a roving foreman at the plant, filling in for other foremen when they were absent or on vacation. I liked the variety and the new experiences of working with different people. As I circulated through the plant, I found I was developing a reputation as a "can-do" sort of leader. This newfound respect and admiration had a strange and subtle effect on me. I began to feel "bigger," and with this bigness came a nebulous feeling of power. This feeling fueled new actions for me. I began to "take on" some of the management people who had irritated and intimidated me in the past. I emulated the tone and word choice of the managers I had heard before. I was tougher, meaner, and more aggressive in dealing with complaints and accusations. I gradually became aware of my physical stature. I was a big man, and when I stood tall and tough, my appearance became a giant billboard of the power I now wielded. I used gruff and blustering words to let people know who was boss. At first, I was surprised at how people cowered and cringed with my toughness. But, after a while, I grew to expect that response.
In spite of my success with this approach, inside my gut I felt something wasn't exactly right. My new management style, although effective, seemed out of kilter with the way I had achieved success with the employees on the worst lines. Yet no matter where I looked, I found the most successful managers were tough birds who allowed no dissention in the ranks. This observation caused me significant anxiety. Had I just been lucky with the line? Was it a fluke that my personal attention and advocacy for the group made them achieve more? Would my efforts with the line erode over time as the workers figured out they could take advantage of me? These doubts nipped at my newfound confidence. I looked around at my peers and knew that the management style I had used with the worst line in the plant was not shared among the supervisors.
"I must have been damn lucky to be successful with that group," I thought to myself. "I might not be so lucky next time." So I watched and learned what the most successful managers did and copied those traits into my own style as best I could.
My success allowed me to progress quickly through the ranks of supervision. My natural competitiveness and ability to learn from those around me further propelled my knowledge and capability. On one assignment, I was asked to supervise a third-shift line that was significantly past due on deadlines and on the brink of shutting down the whole assembly line. As things cleared after the shift change the first night, Jesse, a senior hourly employee, came to me and said, "If you will listen to me, I will tell you how to manage the line."
I answered, "I'm listening."
Jesse told me employee by employee which person should be doing which job. He explained who had what skills and how those skills fit with each part of the manufacturing process. I listened closely and followed Jesse's recommendations. His advice turned out to be absolutely correct. Because of his years in the plant, Jesse had knowledge and experience that were invaluable in making the line run smoothly. I thanked Jesse for his help and wrote a commendation for placement in his personnel record.
By the end of the first week, the bottleneck had vanished. Parts started flowing consistently through the line to the assembly area. Before the regular supervisor had left on vacation, he had scheduled Sunday overtime for the last machine in the process, anticipating a final crunch to get the work through the line. But when the operator came in that night, there was no work to do. Jesse's suggestions had so improved the workflow that the overtime wasn't needed. The company paid the operator four hours of call-in pay at double time and sent him home.
During the last days that I was filling in, I walked the line as usual. One night, I found Jesse listening to the radio—a violation of company policy and a safety hazard. I thought back to the first time I'd run into this problem, with Stuart in the shop. "Why do we have to have radios?" I thought to myself, slightly annoyed. "They always end up causing me trouble!" But in this case, I recognized how much Jesse had helped me. He had been the catalyst for an incredible turnaround in a very short time. I knew that without Jesse's help, I still would be struggling with the assignment. So on the spur of the moment, I decided to walk away without saying anything. I was so indebted to Jesse for his help. But after a few steps, I realized that if I ignored this infraction, I would be selling out not just my credibility as a supervisor but my own integrity.
"Jesse, you know the rules," I said gently, but firmly. "Please take the radio out of your ear and put it in your toolbox until the morning, and then take it home."
"You son-of-a-bitch," Jesse yelled. "I was listening to a replay of the Bradley basketball game. I save your management ass the last couple of weeks, and you won't even let me listen to a basketball game. That's the last time I help anyone like you!"
I held Jesse's gaze. "Jesse, it's wrong. It's against the rules. I'm asking you to respect our rules."
Jesse was furious when I turned to walk away. As I thought about the confrontation, I turned back and faced him. "Jesse, in just two weeks I have gained more respect for you than any employee I've had the privilege to work with in my life. How could you possibly respect me as a supervisor if I walked by something like this without dealing with it?"
Jesse stared at me for a long time. Finally, he dropped his eyes, put his hand out, and said quietly, "You're right, Jim." Years into the future, whenever I returned to Peoria, I would make it a point to go back to the line and spend some time with Jesse. No matter what, he always took a few moments to talk with me. I learned two important lessons that night—be steady and true with your convictions and be consistent in your treatment of all people, regardless of what favors you might owe them.
Soon, I was asked to interview for a position as a general foreman under one of the meanest, toughest superintendents in the company. Howard was known for screaming at workers and could unleash a string of profanities without batting an eye. He was fearless with his invectives. He once was placed on suspension for six months for calling a vice president "stupid." But he had to be good; otherwise, he would have been fired for that remark and many other fits of rage. I personally had never experienced Howard's ire, but I had witnessed it enough to imagine the pain it could inflict. Nonetheless, the job was a great opportunity for me to move ahead in the company, so I agreed to the interview.
"Jim," Howard said, "You know you're pretty damn lucky to get this interview. No one as young as you has ever been considered to be a general foreman on first shift."
"Yes, sir, I know," I answered respectfully.
"Well, do you think you're up to it? I do. I've seen how you handle yourself with the guys, I've seen…
Howard's sentence was interrupted by a meek "Excuse me… from the doorway. It was the man I was supposed to replace as general foreman.
"What the hell do you want, you son of a bitch?" Howard bellowed.
I didn't hear the answer. My mind was racing. "Is this the kind of man I want to work for? Do I want to be treated like this? Can I take this kind of abuse?" I thought of some of the lessons I'd learned. Don't break the rules. Work hard. Be consistent. Maintain your integrity. "If I can just do all these things, I think I can be okay," I told myself. "As long as I don't piss him off, he'll leave me alone, I'm sure."
I took the job, keeping the rules I had learned over the years in mind. Again I went into an area tense with antagonism. The nine supervisors reporting to me were experienced—some of them old enough to be my father—and they resented my youth and inexperience. The hourly people wondered whose apple I'd polished to get such a prime position. But I didn't care. I used the same techniques I had applied in my first supervisory job. I got people the things they needed. I helped out where I could. I provided coaching and annual performance reviews—it was hard to believe some of the supervisors hadn't had performance reviews for years. As a result, the group started working together. The tension eased. Production went up, way up.
One day, Howard caught me by the arm, "Hey, Jim, do you know what I did for you today?" I had no idea. I couldn't tell if this would be good news or bad.
"What?" I asked.
"I put in for a raise for you. They turned me down this time, Jim, because you haven't been here long enough. But I'm going to keep turnin' it in until you get that raise."
"That's great, Howard. I appreciate it." The harsh man's vote of confidence buoyed me. It was like getting an "A" from the hardest teacher in school or being recruited by Vince Lombardi. The attention from a man so hard to please made me want to work even harder.
* * *
It was the mid-1960s, and the company was growing and expanding into a global market. Demand was high, and the plants were stressed to meet deadlines. Slowing down production could mean a missed deadline. And a missed deadline was the greatest infraction a plant could make.
It was one of those days when production schedules seemed absolutely impossible. The engineering work on the tractors during a product update was troublesome. The tractors wouldn't run and couldn't be driven, so they were dragged off the assembly line with a giant overhead crane. The stress of the mammoth tractors on the crane caused it to heat up. My team and I had to watch the crane to make sure it didn't break down under its heavy workload.
This day, there were many tractors to be taken off the assembly line. There were inoperable tractors sitting everywhere. I knew that a production shortfall would have dire consequences—as dire as the time I ran scrap in the apprentice program. One thing was sure, I was not going to make the same mistake twice. I would not embarrass my superintendent with a loss of production. I would not break the rules.
I kept the overhead crane running at a higher than normal pace. Soon the burden of the overload could be detected with the rancid smell of something electrical burning. Thin blue smoke started to waft off the overhead crane.
"Let's shut her down," the operator told me.
"Hell no," I responded. "Keep her goin', we've gotta make the schedule."
"But boss, it looks like she's catchin' fire," the operator pleaded.
"I don't care. Keep her running," I yelled.
Soon small flames erupted from the crane.
"Shut her down now?" the operator demanded.
"No, sir, we keep her going." And with that, I enlisted some workers to help pull the heavy equipment along the crane rail, making sure the assembly line didn't miss a beat.
"Hey, shut her down and shut her down now," a union committeeman said to me.
"I ain't shuttin' her down," I said firmly.
"Then I'm going to Howard. You can't do this. It ain't right. You're gonna set the whole place on fire."
"Do what you have to, but we're not missing this deadline," I yelled back. We continued to push and pull equipment down the rail. The crane continued to smoke and sputter and flame.
All of a sudden, there was an eerie silence in the shop. I looked over my shoulder and saw Howard coming. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up mid-arm, like he was getting ready for a fight. A pipe hung tensely from his mouth, and smoke was coming out of it like an old locomotive climbing a steep hill. All the employees in the area watched my movements—I could feel the eyes of the workers in the shop fixed on me. I knew they were waiting for Howard to unload on me. I knew they were waiting for him to give me a tongue-lashing I'd never forget. The workforce was anxious and tense.
But I kept dragging the machines off the assembly line. Finally, Howard walked up to me and said in a very low voice so no one else would hear, "You think you can keep this son of a bitch running until the end of the shift, Jimbo?" he asked.
I said, "Don't worry. We'll keep it running."
Howard chuckled to himself. I sensed he knew the overhead crane posed no real, immediate danger to employees and that its physical appearance was more of an agitation than anything else. "Jim, you're a chip off the old block," he said as he turned and went back to his office.
* * *
The lesson was clear to everyone there. Make the company look good. Make the deadlines. Make the money. No matter what it takes. No matter how hard. No matter what the risk. Please the boss, please the company. And when you please the boss, you are generously rewarded. My toughness and determination not only got the job done for the company, but also made me a hero with the most unyielding man in the plant. The pride and sense of accomplishment I felt that day were indescribable. As I watched the smoldering crane, I vowed I would keep my own internal fire going, that I would never cease to seek this sense of triumph. I would learn and perfect the attitudes and skills I needed to feed my hunger for the feeling of success I had that day. Sweaty and tired and smelling of smoke, I basked in my achievement. No, I wasn't thinking about the people I might have hurt. I was thinking about me.
Chapter 9. Thieves in the Night
Unless you enter the tiger's den, you cannot take the cubs.
—JAPANESE PROVERB
In 1965, while the nation was beginning to deal with the challenges of the civil rights movement and the Vietnam War, the company was surging ahead. It was just coming off a year with a two-for-one stock split. More than 50,000 people worked for the earthmoving giant. Profits soared by more than 20 percent over the previous year. Across the country—no, the world—the company's distinctive yellow machinery was working. And if the market in one global area diminished, like magic, a new market appeared. The company began equipment production in Japan with one of that country's industrial giants. Bigger, better engines entered the product line. The company's world headquarters was under construction in a small midwestern city previously know for Vaudeville, vice, and Fibber Magee and Molly.
In the midst of all this, the earthmoving colossus acquired a small, family-owned enterprise in one of the more questionable parts of Cleveland. Known for its forklift trucks, this new division of Caterpillar was expected to bring yet another strong product into the company's ever-expanding line of high-quality equipment. The little forklift enterprise had grown up in a neighborhood that had withered with time. Small bungalows and townhouses once inhabited by middle-class folks were abandoned as those who were able fled to the suburbs. Now, people faded with poverty lived near the plant. With poverty came its unfortunate cousins—crime, decay, despair. The people of the plant and the surrounding area had become tough and unforgiving to survive in such a place. But the company wasn't worried. Its will was strong. Its leaders were powerful. Like the scrapers and excavators and dozers it built, the company was confident its employees could change the landscape of the rough enterprise. Under the strict guidance of the giant company, the Ohio plant would perform and succeed.
By now I had molded myself into a hardened company man. Under the tutelage of the tough old cowboy Howard, I had harnessed a rugged sense of power. Employees respected me. I could feel it. They did what I asked them to, and they liked it. My success was cyclical—each success just led to another. My reputation grew, and with it grew my sense of myself.
Howard helped reinforce my changing demeanor. The boss man treated me as a son. Gloria and I became regular dinner guests at Howard's home following his retirement. He often praised me as a man who could deal with the rough-and-tumble union workers. He constantly found ways to recognize and reinforce me. He wanted me to know how much he valued me. In an unconventional and unprecedented move, Howard shared a part of himself with me that he had shared with no one else beyond family—at least not without a price. On several occasions when Gloria and I were guests, Howard took me to his basement and, from special safes, he pulled out magnificent gold and silver coins from his long-held collection. Many of these treasures he gave to me. I was confused and embarrassed at first by this generosity. But he persisted. As time passed, each coin laid gently in my hand by Howard became symbolic of my achievement and Howard's appreciation for my loyalty.
Later, I was invited by the factory manager to play golf at a local country club as a reward for shipping products on schedule for the U.S. military. As our foursome approached the 18th green to finish the round, I saw a man standing on the green in a suit and tie. As we got closer, I recognized the man as Howard.
"What the hell are you doing out here?" I asked.
"Jim, I didn't know you enjoyed golf," Howard said. "And when I found out, I decided to buy you something."
Embarrassed, I asked, "What did you buy?"
"I bought you a membership in this club."
"Howard, I can't accept this," I answered.
"Of course you can. Why wouldn't you?"
"I wouldn't accept it anyway, Howard, but I've just been offered an assignment in Cleveland. I'll be moving out of the area. No one knows this yet, so let's keep it between you and me," I explained.
Howard's expression was mixed, proud that I had been chosen, but sad to see me move on. He put his arm around me and said, "That's great, Jim. I've had a hell of a good time working with you. I'm damn proud of you."
I thanked Howard for his generosity and the lessons of leadership he had taught me.
"You know, Howard," I said. "I've been told I'm the only person you never raised your voice in anger to. That means a lot to me."
Howard smiled. "There's a reason why I didn't. You understand what it was," he said. "I'm going to miss you." Then he turned and walked off the green. That was the last time I ever saw him. Less than a year later, Howard died suddenly from a heart attack.
* * *
Although Cleveland was hours away from home, it had much of the same midwestern feel to it as Peoria. I found the adjustment to the community much easier to make than our family's first move from rural Greenview to the city of Peoria. But I was not prepared for what I saw at the newly acquired facility. Caterpillar's professional standards were clearly not yet evident. The plant was led by friends of the former owners who viewed themselves more as aristocracy than as managers and had let the environment deteriorate into a war zone. The "serfs" of the union looked for any way they could to unburden themselves of the autocratic control of their leaders. The leaders in turn rebuffed these challenges with the disinterested harshness of King Louis XIV and his wife, Marie Antoinette. At Christmas time, for example, the docks were loaded with outrageous presents for the aristocratic managers—shotguns, freezers filled with beef, pianos, and other expensive merchandise. The managers accepted these gifts as tributes from their suppliers. After all, without the noblesse oblige of the company leaders, where would the vendors sell their wares? The underlings of the company witnessed the extravagances with jealousy and anger. The homage paid to uncaring leaders made their oppression more suffocating. Because of this hand of unequal leadership, the plant became constantly confrontational. Like the soldiers of the French Revolution, the line workers engaged in relentless skirmishes with authority, trying to loosen the reign of terror and regain their sense of dignity as human beings.
I had no idea what I was walking into. I expected the Cleveland union people to share the same aggressive, antagonistic demeanor as those I had already encountered. I wasn't worried. My skill and position had helped tame that demeanor in East Peoria. I had no reason to believe that I would not be able to use my sense of persuasion with the Cleveland group.
When I first got to the plant, I did what any good manager would do. I checked the performance of the organization. I was astounded to find that most of the orders were way overdue for shipment to customers. In fact, many of the orders were at least a year past due. I couldn't believe it. As I met the leaders of the small company, I found they harbored a strong resentment of new management. They had done just fine without the big company's influence—thank you very much—and they would continue to be fine without them. But worse than their attitudes toward the new owners was their lack of teamwork. No one could agree on anything except that whatever was wrong with the company, it was someone else's fault.
As our new group tried to calm the explosive situation, things just got worse. As outsiders, we brought a new pressure to the company. The plant began to explode into small wildcat strikes. These strikes perplexed me. I didn't see the sense in them. Nothing was ever resolved, really. But the strikes seemed to act like a pressure valve. When things got too hot in the plant, it would release its tension with one of these strikes. The workers felt a temporary relief from the oppression of their bosses. They, not their managers, had control during these strikes. In an organization built on fear and intimidation, this release seemed to be as natural as the changing of the seasons. What neither group seemed to realize, however, was that with the release of this pressure came the loss of steam that allowed the company to move and speed ahead. But no one seemed to care much about the company's success. They seemed only to focus on what they wanted and what they didn't have.
The rest of the managers and I respected the strikes as best we could. We didn't work the lines. We didn't try to make production schedules. But as managers, we were expected to show up at work, break through the picket lines, put in an honest day's work, and demonstrate the unwavering will of the company. We were expected to safeguard those who did decide to cross the lines to perform their jobs. We were expected to stand firm, maintaining order. But never, never were we expected or permitted to do the work of the union people on the line. To make sure of this, senior managers like me often patrolled the shop at night, looking for whoever might be there.
One night as I walked my patrol in the dim glow of the safety light of the shop, I felt as if I were being watched or followed. My eyes darted left and right, then over my shoulder. Nothing. My stomach tightened, and my mouth became dry and salty. As I turned my head, a figure stepped out from the shadows of a pillar. I saw a gleam of silver, then felt a sinister coldness against my forehead. Without thinking, I ripped the steel away from my face. In my hand I found a .38 pistol. Loaded.
When I looked up to see who was threatening me, I was surprised to see the face of an hourly worker I knew well.
"Dick, what are you thinkin'?" I asked. "You're not a killer. You're not like this. What happened to you?"
Dick said nothing.
"Here, take this damned thing home, Dick." I handed the loaded weapon back. "Don't ever bring it back inside the company again. Go home, Dick, just go home."
The man looked up, startled.
"You ain't firin' me?" he asked.
"No, Dick, not this time, because I know this isn't you. But I don't want to see that thing anywhere near here again," I replied.
"Okay, boss, okay." Dick slipped the .38 into his pocket, turned, and quickly walked to the exit.
"I could have been killed," I thought. "But I wasn't, I wasn't." Without real notice, my confidence grew, and somewhere deep inside me I knew I was becoming one tough bastard. My power and influence were further confirmed the next time I saw Dick and the time after and the time after. Not only was he a human reminder of my courage, but in his gratitude he had become an informant, a fink who kept me up-to-date on every malicious move of the union.
After a while, the strikes became part of the expected routine. Things would settle down, then heat up, then the strike would come. The workers expressed their frustrations with threats—some they followed through on, but most were just trash talk. Like trauma doctors who come to accept horror in their jobs and deal with it in an orderly, routine manner, management became desensitized to the strikes. We knew what to do, when, and how. We anticipated the confrontations and encounters. Each of these strikes eroded the humanity of the people involved. The threats made, the verbal abuse, the shaking fists, the angry eyes dehumanized those who used them. It was easy after a while to look at the faces contorted with rage as irrational humans. And the only way to deal with unreasonable people is with sheer force. So it went. I got used to this rhythm of the organization. I developed my own strengths to navigate this brutal world of work. Living with fear of physical harm became as much a part of my routine as parting my hair.
During one of the strikes, six large articulated forklift trucks were due for delivery. They were unusual pieces of equipment, unique to the industry, that could not be purchased from other suppliers. They were designed to work in narrow aisles. The company that ordered them absolutely needed them by the contracted date for a huge grand opening of a new warehouse. To assure delivery, the company had negotiated a severe financial penalty for every day late. Unfortunately, the purchase agreement made no allowance for a strike. I recognized the situation as something I had learned at an early age. Break the rules, pay the price. In this case, the price was hundreds of dollars for each day of delay. The plant manager called me into his office.
"Jim, we've got to ship those forklifts. If we don't, we're all in deep trouble."
"What? Are you serious? We'll get killed if we go anywhere near those shipping docks," I said.
"They've got to ship, Jim."
"Those guys are armed with guns, bats, crowbars, grenades…you name it. It ain't safe."
"I don't care, Jim. They have to ship."
"How do you expect us to do that?" I asked.
"Don't care, Jim. Just get it done."
I opened my mouth to plead with the boss. Before I could speak, he cut me off. "No argument, Jim. Just get it done. Now get the hell out of my office."
I spent the next couple of days trying to figure out how to ship the forklifts. Diplomacy wouldn't work. If the strikers knew how important the shipment was, they would never let up. In fact, they'd make matters worse. I knew I couldn't depend on the union for understanding. In fact, I couldn't depend on any union to help in any way whatsoever. The Teamsters, who would be needed to drive the rigs to deliver the products, would stand behind the striking laborers as well. I realized if we managed to ship the forklifts, it would be one of the most embarrassing and demoralizing blows to the union ever. If we got caught, there was no escape. I had never fought in a war for my country, but with this assignment, I knew I had become a soldier of the company. So I decided to "steal" the forklifts.
I enlisted the help of two daring supervisors—tough guys, fearless men. As I explained the challenge, the men realized the risk and difficulty of pulling it off. We worked on our plan like generals planning the invasion of Normandy. Conditions had to be right. Timing had to be perfect. Stealth and surprise were paramount. No mistakes, no mistakes, or the consequences would be severe.
The three of us convinced a nonunion trucking company to participate in the plan—for a very high premium, of course.
The plant was a large, rectangular building located on a corner and at the bottom of a hill on 152nd Street. On the south side was the employee entrance. The front door, plant offices, and gate to the shipping dock all were located around the corner on the east side of the building.
For several nights, we watched the rhythm of the picket line. The line did not patrol the south and east sides at the same time. Instead, the picketers walked the entire south side, turned left, and then walked the entire east side. Next, they would turn and follow the same path back to the far west corner of the south side. The building was a huge structure. It took the picketers several minutes to walk the distance of the south side, turn, and then walk back. We realized there was enough time to get the on-highway trucks inside plant property to the docks without being seen or heard.
We rehearsed the plan in our minds over and over again. Finally, we were ready. Late one night, the on-highway trucks perched at the top of the hill—lights out, motors silent. We sat in my car, watching in the shadows for the pickets to take their southern walk. The time came. I started the engine, put the car into gear, and rolled to the east side entrance. One of the other supervisors jumped out, quietly unlocked the gate, and I drove through. The gate closed behind us.
I drove the car, lights out, down the backside of the building and parked in the shadows. I walked back to the gate to watch the picketers. When they were out of sight, I flashed the lights three times. The on-highway trucks silently rolled down the hill, through the gate to the docks. When both trucks were inside, the gate was locked. As the picketers returned to the front of the building, we were already hidden in darkness behind the building.
Now we waited. We would not move again until the picket line moved to the south side. This stop-and-start activity reminded me of scenes I had seen in a movie—Stalag 17. The prisoners could only escape outside the glare of the strong searchlights. But instead of one bright light scrutinizing the area, we faced detection by dozens of pairs of eyes. I secretly wondered which was worse—a bright searchlight like they had to dodge in the stalag or the hateful stares of the union workers' eyes. Ultimately, it didn't matter. Be caught in either and your life was in peril.
When the picketers were away, we opened the doors on the dock. There the special forklift trucks stood silent, eerie shadows in a dim room lit only by the yellow glow of an aisle safety light. We reached for the crowbars. We would not drive the forklifts onto the on-highway trucks. We were too close to the picketers on the south side, and the sound of engines starting would give us away. So each of us took a crowbar, wedged it under a back tire, and put our shoulders into it. The tie bar pinched the tire forward. Slowly, carefully, silently, we inched the forklifts forward from the factory to the dock onto the trucks.
I noticed something strange as I worked. I couldn't say I wasn't afraid—I was. But my fear was something that drove me onward, drove me toward success. In my mind's eye, I could picture the anxiety a successful mission would create for the union. I could see how this would be an incredible blow for them. I reveled in the thought that they would have to admit a kind of defeat. They would be outmaneuvered—by management. This picture was so strong and powerful that I coveted it with all my life. There was no way I would fail.
Push and pinch. Push and pinch. The forklifts edged onto the waiting on-highway trucks. The first one was loaded. Five to go. Push and pinch. Now wait. The picketers are coming. Hold your breath. Don't sneeze. Don't cough. You are soldiers of the company. Complete your mission. Quiet now. The picketers' steps are fading. Strain your ears. Anyone around? No. Good. Go again. Push and pinch. Push and pinch.
The routine went on until six forklifts were loaded and the doors were quietly shut. All attention now was focused on the picketers. When they were farthest away from the docks, the on-highway trucks started their engines and groaned up the hill and out of the plant onto 152nd Street. There, they turned left to avoid detection.
Once they were over the hill, the trucks stopped along the road and waited for me and the two other supervisors. When we were reassembled, the caravan drove several blocks, then parked along the street. We got into the trucks again and nailed wedges in front and behind the forklifts' wheels to hold them in position during the journey. Once this was done, the trucks left to deliver the products to the customer.
During the remainder of the strike, no mention was made by anyone about the disappearance of the forklifts. The plant manager, however, was obviously pleased. "There was no question in my mind, Jim, that you would get it done." I knew exactly what "it" was. I remembered how exuberant I felt as the trucks rumbled up the hill and onto 152nd Street. I remembered the sweet taste of victory as I watched the tail lights of those trucks fade in the distance, carrying the company cargo "stolen" from behind "enemy lines." But the manager's comment, succinct as it was, made me feel like I had been awarded a special decoration or medal for going above and beyond the call of duty, for distinguished service, for uncommon valor. I savored this feeling throughout the remainder of the strike.
* * *
Months later, when the strike was over, the union president approached me. "There were six forklifts shipped during the strike," he said. "I don't know how it was done. I don't know how it could have been done, but I do know you must have had something to do with it." I said nothing. I didn't blink. I walked away. The feeling of victory and accomplishment that I had savored through the strike was even more amplified by the deference of the union president. My emotions were unbelievable. For the first time, I experienced the heady sense of triumph the victor feels as he looks back toward the vanquished. Indeed, for a small moment I was the company's conquering hero. I felt pride and redemption that our side had won.
Today, I remember this "glorious" incident with sadness. I see "our side" and "their side" references as grim reminders of an unproductive period. Yes, it was a conflict, a hideous internal conflict. Only when it ended, years later, did we reach our full potential.
Chapter 10. The Sound of Silence
'Tis easier to know how to speak than how to be silent.
—THOMAS FULLER
As time wore on for me as a manager, I found the confrontations and challenges made by the workforce only seemed to make me stronger. One time I was followed on a highway going home from work by a car full of strangers. I watched them intently in my rearview mirror, trying to lose them in traffic. When I could not, I found myself annoyed, not intimidated. It was late at night, with very little traffic, so I stopped my car in the middle of the highway, got out, and walked back to the strangers' car. "You want a piece of me?" I yelled. Immediately, they drove their car around mine, never laying a single finger on me. Then there was the time I attended the funeral of one of my African-American workers' mothers. The church was in an area of town where outsiders were not welcome. I walked into the church to pay my respects and found it packed—and there was not a single other white face among the people. Suddenly, the entire congregation went quiet. I walked down the aisle, expressed my condolences to the employee and his family, and walked back out. Safe and unmolested, I made my way home. As I climbed into bed that night, I realized how lucky I was to have been able to do this without harm. Interestingly, I had asked several others in the company to accompany me, and all had refused.
In my heart I appreciated the human spirit and cared about people, all people. But I was often afraid to show my compassionate side. I thought those I reported to would view it as a sign of weakness. They used their management positions to subjugate people, to make them bend to the will of the company. So when I was under pressure to produce and to achieve, I modeled their ways. No one told me to do this. My learning was indirect, reinforced by my superiors and my success. I was management, dammit, and determined that everyone around me knew who was boss. I was becoming like those who led me.
As the 1960s clipped violently into the 1970s, I was astounded by the absurdity of what was happening in the government, on college campuses, and in the country. Instead of firm leaders keeping the country and the student protestors in check, wishy-washy academics, soft politicians, and feel-good psychologists seemed to be undermining the very order of things. By this time, I had forgotten the feeling of oppression I had experienced when I worked for Big Stan, the man who would never promote me. I'd mentally shelved Duggan's kindness as an anomaly of management. Even though I was uncomfortable at times in a "tough guy" role, I believed others expected me to lead this way. And, after all was said and done, did I not achieve remarkable results?
In the early 1970s, my view of myself was reaffirmed. The company selected me to work with its joint venture in Japan. I realized the significance of this appointment. At age 37 I was one of the youngest men ever asked to take such a position. Even more significant was that overseas work was usually reserved for the best and brightest of the college boys. I had never received a college degree, and yet I was among the chosen few. My position, power, and ability could not have been reinforced more by the company. I knew it, and I was proud of it.
After the move to Ohio, my family and I were beginning to forget our roots to small-town Greenview. The move to Japan was just another adventure for us. We took up residence in a high-rise apartment building, located in the midst of Japanese tradition and international ambition. One block away was Prince Akihito's palace, and the Canadian Embassy was located just behind our home. We often ate at the close-by Tokyo-American Club. Predictably, the Russian Embassy faced the Club. From this vantage, the Russians were suspected of monitoring the hundreds of patrons of one of the world's largest social organizations. From the balcony window of our apartment, when the smog and clouds cleared, we could see the top of Mount Fuji. Within this decidedly Japanese world mixed with cosmopolitan interests, we made our home.
I enjoyed the cuisine of Japan. I was not afraid to eat raw fish, bird brain, a small eel delicacy called dojo, whole sparrow, raw chicken, and raw eggs. On less adventurous days, I would grab some sushi at a little shop across from the apartment. I was amazed at the integrity and discipline of the Japanese—there was virtually no crime. Once I left a camera on a fence post in the middle of a large park. Five hours later I returned to the park to find the camera unmoved.
Because of my position in the company, I had a driver and a car to use to and from work. None of the Americans at the plant drove to work. Most of the others went by special bus. As I became acclimated to Japan, I discovered the country had a powerful sense of social order. The Japanese language itself forced a person to make a decision to speak to another either as a superior or a subordinate. There seemed to be no allowance for peers. Respect was genuine and expected among different social and age groups. Aside from the natural pecking order of Japanese society, my size and features further distinguished me among the populace. My six-foot-four frame automatically set me apart from other men. And my wife, at five-foot-nine, towered over Japanese women. But the blonde hair of our second son drew the most attention. As we strolled through the busy streets of Tokyo, the Japanese often reached out to touch my son's hair.
The distinction of being an American in Tokyo who worked for a joint venture between two of the world's greatest industrial giants—and the trappings that accompanied this position—were not lost on me. I no longer was a farm rube, but an international businessman, a reasonably heavy-hitter, someone who could not be taken lightly. I savored this new role and craved even more from the company and the world. I had started to learn the Japanese language in Ohio before leaving. In doing so, I was reminded of how my own English was still homespun. This would not do for a man of the world who rubbed elbows with the elite internationals at the Tokyo-American Club and the Yokohama Country Club. So I hired a teacher from the international high school to perfect and sharpen my English speech and writing skills. The young man worked with me in the evenings. Sometimes I would recite what had happened during the day; other times I would put it down in writing. Then the teacher would simplify and strengthen my stories, adding structure and sophistication to my speech and writing patterns. We also worked on vocabulary. For the first time in my life, I was freeing myself of the down-home diction that separated me from others in my position. The last evidence of my difference was being erased. I truly was becoming a respectable company man.
With finely honed confidence—some might say arrogance—I was ready to create the same excitement in Japan I had at home. I had no doubt I would capture the attention of these hard-working, respectful people.
* * *
Post World War II Japan was a manufacturing disaster. Plants had been shelled, the workforce demoralized, and the quality of Japanese workmanship questioned. The small, densely populated country lacked ample land and natural resources to be self-sufficient. As a result, the Japanese understood their survival rested with their ability to import and to export to other countries. Concerned with these problems, the Union of Japanese Scientists and Engineers invited a U.S. quality control expert to their country to help them secure a dominant place in the world economy.
At first largely ignored in his own country, W. Edwards Deming, the statistical genius, brought just the right tools into the culture of Japan. Deming called for a new version of leadership where quality was measured statistically in terms of defects. He challenged management to understand the "variation" in worker performance as either a lack of training or truly a matter of diverse skills and abilities. He saw managers as helpers, people who understood the statistical implications of performance and could help individuals and the company manage fluctuations in organizational performance. Although Deming had 14 key concepts of management, the most visible at the joint-venture plant was Deming's constancy of purpose.
I recognized early on that the Japanese universally understood their need to be exceptional participants in the global economy. This recognition was a natural extension of the Japanese iron will that had won so many battles in the last World War. At the plant level, this unified purpose was expressed by the Japanese in their obsession with quality. I witnessed highly emotional interactions between workers and managers, which looked remotely like discussions I had seen in Ohio and Illinois between labor and management. The difference in Japan, however, was that workers and managers did not see each other as the adversary, but rather their outside competitors. Their animated discussions had only one outcome in mind—improving the quality of Japanese manufacturing.
I had heard that Japanese companies managed by consensus. Intellectually, I found this notion close to absurd. I'd been at the Ohio plant for years and never had management and labor been in total agreement. I was surprised, however, when I saw how the Japanese worked together. Consensus was not necessarily expected for a singular way to accomplish work. But it was expected for the outcome of work. So when groups of Japanese got together to plan strategies or solve problems, they automatically had a common sense of purpose. This constancy of purpose, as well as all the statistical tools and techniques, was a special gift from the American Deming. Other Japanese, like Kaoru Ishikawa, Noriaki Kano, and Masaaki Imai, would springboard from Deming's work to create a nation unified in its pursuit of quality.
Implicit within the Japanese order was the concept of respect. This ancient tradition complemented Deming's notion of "pride in workmanship." As part of this respect, the Japanese acknowledged the abilities and expertise of people at all levels of the plant. This respect in turn supported yet another tenet of Deming's—fear has no place in the organization. Deming realized fear was an enemy of quality improvement. Fearful workers tell the boss what he wants to hear, not what is real. Deming and the Japanese understood that without the honest observations of the front-line people who know and do the job, industrial progress was stilted at best. I observed these traits in the Japanese plant with heightened curiosity. The deference of respect was oddly balanced with a constancy of purpose that allowed—no, compelled—the Japanese, regardless of position, to participate actively in the success of the organization. This balance was foreign to me in more ways than one.
I was surprised to find that American influence was minimal at the shared plant. Each of the 21 Americans was assigned to a Japanese counterpart at the factory. In spite of this connection, I found myself restless for the first six months of my stay. I had no influence. The Japanese were polite and respectful, but I was not really included in the daily operations of the company. Neither was the rest of my American staff. The Americans, it seemed, were needed only to make the transfer of technology smoother. This limited leadership role annoyed me. As always, I wanted to be a catalyst for achievement. I wanted to have impact. But the Japanese looked at me as a benign annoyance that had to be warmly welcomed to ensure progress. I was perplexed. I shared the same insistence on accomplishment the Japanese did and was sure I could help. But the Japanese wouldn't let me into their protected world.
Although weekend trips with my family provided some diversion, I lived a professional life that bounced between irritation and boredom. The Americans reporting to me often complained about conditions at the plant. These complaints had little to do with the work, but more with the attitude of the Japanese themselves. I began keeping lists of their complaints and found mine were remarkably similar: (1) the Japanese never have time to talk to me; (2) we don't know what we are expected to do functionally; (3) we don't get invited to all meetings; (4) we don't have much to do around here; and so on. The complaints were accented by the fact that there was absolutely no trace in the plant of the American side of the joint venture. The caps and shirts of the workers were emblazoned with the logo and name of the Japanese partner, as were other reminders throughout the organization.
I found myself going stir-crazy. To keep my sanity, I often strolled through the plant. Although the workers bore little resemblance to the employees in Ohio, the product was being made in a similar way. This familiarity gave me some comfort. But as I observed the dedication of the Japanese workers and managers to principles of quality, I realized that although America contributed the product and technology, it was the Japanese and their obsession to quality and continuous improvement, to kaizen, that made the product better. With this realization, I felt discouragement overtaking me. I recognized I wasn't really making things happen. This absence from achievement threatened my confidence. As time wore on without an opportunity to participate in the operations of the plant, I felt depression slipping over me like the fog that sometimes drifted down the sides of Mt. Fuji toward the coast.
One day, as I sat quietly in my office reading reports over and over again to pass the time, I heard someone clear his throat. I looked up from my paperwork and saw an elderly Japanese man named Tanaka-san. Tanaka-san was part of management and had been with the company for quite some time. Wiry silver strands shimmered among his thick black crop of hair. Tanaka-san's soft face showed solemn lines of experience.
"I'm sorry," I said immediately. "I didn't see you." I wanted Tanaka-san to know I meant no disrespect by not acknowledging him. "What do you need?"
The deep brown eyes faltered in their gaze. "I need help."
"With what?" I asked.
"I am responsible for acquiring the imported material for the assembly line. There is some kind of delay stateside," Tanaka-san explained. "I cannot get what I need. I will cause the assembly line to go down."
The man didn't have to go on. I knew shutting down the line would be a great loss of face for Tanaka-san, a shame that would be difficult for him to overcome. Although I didn't realize it at the time, Tanaka-san's plea was an act of desperation.
"Okay," I said. "I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you," Tanaka-san said, bowed respectfully, and left.
I finally felt like I could contribute. I was less concerned with Tanaka-san's problem than I was excited by the possibility that I could actually do something for the plant. Ignoring the time difference, I called my buddies in the States. "I don't care what magic you have to perform," I demanded, "just get the iron to Japan as fast as you can."
My connections in the States came through. The iron was shipped in plenty of time. Tanaka-san did not cause the line to go down. Soon, other Japanese managers were coming to me with problems. I concluded Tanaka-san must have shared the story of his success with his peers. The sharing of problem solving with the Japanese invigorated me. I felt the fog lifting.
Tanaka-san showed up at my door one more time, much later. Happy to see him, I asked, "How can I help you, Tanaka-san?"
"I have a gift for you."
"What?" I asked.
"I have a gift for you," Tanaka-san repeated. From behind his back, he produced a small, rectangular box. I took the box carefully and opened it. Inside I found an old Japanese fan. The silk between the spines was tattered and stained. Confused, I said nothing, but looked up at Tanaka-san.
"This fan is my wife's. She used it many years ago when she was a young dancing lady. We want you to have it, Despain-san," Tanaka-san said.
"Oh, no, Tanaka-san," I said. "This has too much meaning for you and your okusan. I can't accept it." I felt embarrassed to receive such an intimate and priceless present. I had only done my job and to be rewarded with such a gift overwhelmed me.
"No, Despain-san, you have to take it," Tanaka-san insisted. "My okusan and I want you to have it."
I didn't know what to say. "Thank you, Tanaka-san, I shall treasure it." I replaced the fan carefully in the box. Tanaka-san bowed and turned to leave. At the door, Tanaka-san seemed to have forgotten something.
"Despain-san," Tanaka-san said, "I was in the war."
"Tanaka-san, that war is over and behind us. Let's not worry about it."
Tanaka-san then said, "I wanted you to know I fought the Russians, not the Americans." I reminded him again that the war was long over.
A slight smile spread across Tanaka-san's face. The solemn lines of his forehead seemed lighter and more relaxed. He bowed slightly one more time and left my office.
After that incident, I became more and more involved with the Japanese. I spent more evenings having dinner with Japanese people from the plant than I did with other Americans. I was included in meetings that previously had been off limits. I saw firsthand how management and the front line worked together. I marveled at the expansiveness of Japanese communications. The interplay between all levels in the plant proved the local saying time and time again: "There are no secrets in Japan." Yet, in spite of all the ongoing communication, the Japanese also valued silence. They used breaks in the conversation to express many feelings. Sometimes silence was used as leverage in negotiations. Sometimes it demonstrated absolute comfort with the people around—there was no need to fill empty spaces with small talk. Often it was used to show respect and recognize position in the Japanese order of things. Over a half dozen years, I came to know and like the Japanese and their culture.
A year before my family and I were to return to America, my Japanese counterpart, Otaki-san, invited me to see the Japanese parent company's plant in Mihara, where he had been plant manager for 32 years. I realized the invitation represented a great honor and accepted enthusiastically. When we arrived at the plant, I was amazed for two reasons. First, the plant was one of the largest in the parent family and made a variety of products—from locomotives to printing presses. Second, the incumbent manager had left the city for a day so Otaki-san could have the run of the plant. This respect for Otaki-san's work and position was not lost on me.
That evening, Otaki-san invited me to his favorite Geisha house. I was pleased to be included for the evening and could see the relationship between my host and the women was one that had endured for years. I did not contemplate what the nature of Otaki-san's association with the Geishas had been or was—tonight I only witnessed the affection of long-time friends. After dinner and a few rounds of drinks, Otaki-san turned to me and said, "Despain-san, I think it's time to go to bed." I nodded, drained the last of my Saki, and left the room.
When I got to my hotel room, I realized it was only 9:00 P.M. "Jeez, if I go to bed now, I'll be up at two in the morning," I thought. So I grabbed my suit coat and headed back to the dining room. Otaki-san and his favorite Geisha were still visiting, so I joined them. Otaki-san ordered another drink for me. We hardly spoke as we sipped our Saki. After an uneasy half-hour, Otaki-san repeated, "Despain-san, I think it's time to go to bed." Once again, I dutifully said my goodnights, and like a child who's not ready to leave his parents' dinner party, returned to my room. Just as I draped my jacket over a chair, I heard a knock on the door. When I opened it, there stood a young Japanese lady in a kimono.
"Despain-san," she said, "I understand you requested to have your pants pressed."
I was surprised, but a little light-headed from the Saki. "Yes, of course," I said. I closed the door, removed my trousers, and passed them to the young lady.
I sat down and contemplated what had just happened. A blinding flash of the obvious caused me to slap my forehead and smile. Otaki-san wanted to be alone with his old friend. Removing my pants ensured no more interruptions would occur. I chuckled at how tactfully Otaki-san had manipulated me. Rather than being insulted, I found myself amused with the simple subtlety of Otaki-san's gesture and was reminded of my respect for him.
The next day at breakfast, Otaki-san asked me if I had ever been to Hiroshima. I knew Hiroshima was a significant sidetrack on the way home to Tokyo. I wondered a bit why Otaki-san wanted to take me there, but concluded it was simply an act of friendship. A bit uneasy, I agreed to the trip. Otaki-san promptly sent people after tickets, and the two of us left for Hiroshima. Along the way, conversation was limited as I wondered how I would react to visiting Peace Park, the epicenter of the atomic bomb drop, with Otaki-san. First, we went to the museum. Inside, I was shocked by agonizing pictures of people and animals taken just moments after the atomic bomb was dropped. Never before had I understood the horrific impact of the bomb. Skin seared off of the animals still standing in the picture. Prints of kimonos burned into flesh. Devastation and desolation. Around me, Japanese schoolchildren studied remnants of the massacre. From time to time, they would look at my American stature and face. I wondered what they were thinking. Were they blaming me for this terrible act? Did they find a natural hatred welling up inside them because of what America did to this city and its people? Or were they simply curious that a Westerner would even be in a place that the Japanese people saw as the final humiliation of the war? After touring the museum, Otaki-san and I walked to the eternal flame and saw the corner of the bank building with a darkened shape of a man still imprinted on the bank steps. Throughout the entire visit, we did not speak, nor did we look in one another's eyes.
When the visit was over, we returned to the train station and boarded the train for Tokyo. During the first hour of the trip, neither of us spoke. Finally, I saw something out the window and brought it to Otaki-san's attention. Our normal conversation returned, but there were no comments about the experience we had just shared. During the period of silence, I sympathized with the pain the atomic bomb inflicted on the Japanese, but I was a bit annoyed at the object lesson. War was war, and people did inhuman things during these kinds of conflicts. I wasn't proud that Truman chose to drop the bomb, but I also realized an invasion of Japan with its steep and forbidding cliffs would have cost both sides hundreds of thousands of lives. I reconciled this inner conflict with my friend by dismissing the visit as a way for Otaki-san to express the dismay the war brought to the Japanese people. I was sure this sharing was a manifestation of deep friendship. During the months that followed, neither of us mentioned the trip. There was no question, however, that our friendship continued to deepen.
Several months later, because of a product-engineering problem, Otaki-san and I needed to return to headquarters in the United States for discussions. Before making arrangements for the trip, Otaki-san approached me with a plea to stop in Los Angeles rather than travel from Tokyo to Chicago nonstop. Otaki-san told me the long flight was difficult for him because of his age and health. I told him I had no objection to stopping, but had another suggestion. "Let's stop in Honolulu instead," I said. Otaki-san agreed, and the flights were arranged. The layover in Honolulu gave us almost a full afternoon of rest before dinner. After dinner, Otaki-san suggested we meet in the lobby at noon the following day. Departure for Chicago was scheduled around 3:00 P.M. "I have a better idea," I said. "I would like you to meet me for breakfast at 8:00, and after we eat I would like to take you on a sightseeing trip."
The next morning we ate breakfast quietly. I had arranged for a trip to Pearl Harbor. We remained silent as the tour boat skipped across the white waters of the harbor, heading for the stark white edifice that straddled the remains of the battleship Arizona. As the boat docked, all the tourists became quiet. In between the sound of water slapping against the dock, murmurs of condolence and soft crying could be heard. We joined the others and reverently walked up the steps to the first of three sections of the memorial. The flags of the United States, Hawaii, and the Department of the Interior stood in silent tribute opposite the colors of the lost ships. As we moved into the assembly area, we could clearly see the rusting hulk of the Arizona. From gun turret three, small bubbles of black oil wafted to the surface. Legend has it these are the "black tears of the Arizona," which will continue to seep to the surface until its last survivor dies. Otaki-san and I looked both forward and aft. Parts of the huge ship protruded above the surface in stark contrast to the peaceful blue waters of the harbor. Finally, we walked to the Shrine Room. Etched in somber gray-white marble were the names of all who had died in the attack. Lines of black letters filled the entire wall, stark reminders of the nearly 2,400 victims. To the lower left of the wall, we saw a smaller white box. Here were etched the names of the Arizona survivors who had died since the war. In death, these men were brought back to be interred with their crewmen in gun turret number two, below the soft rhythm of the harbor's waters. The significance of the memorial sifted silently among all who stood on its floating deck. We remained still.
Time drifted away, and we boarded the tour boat back to the island. We moved toward the back of the boat where no one else was sitting, arranged ourselves on the wooden boat benches, and remained quiet. We had not spoken since leaving the shore to visit the memorial. As the boat headed back to the island, Otaki-san uncharacteristically placed his hand on my leg, an unusual entry into individual space by a Japanese person. "Despain-san," he said. "You made your point." On the rest of the trip, we kept silent, pondering the horrors our countries had committed in the name of power and dominance—and appreciating the calm and cooperation we had come to know as friends and coworkers.
Things continued to go well for me in Japan over the next few months. I enjoyed the culture and the people I worked with. I felt at peace. I considered it one of the happiest times of my life. Then, in January of my sixth year in the country, I received a call from an executive vice president of the company. He was visiting the joint venture in Japan and asked me to come to his hotel room on Sunday afternoon. I was a little apprehensive, as I didn't know exactly what he wanted. But I put on a tie and headed to the hotel. When I got to his room, he offered me the job of president of the company's new venture in Mexico. "I can't put a date on when it'll happen, Jim," he told me. "We're still negotiating with the government of Mexico and the joint venture partner. We can't announce anything until things are farther along. But it's a great opportunity for you. Congratulations."
It was a great opportunity for me, I was convinced. And I was excited to be selected for such a big job. Still, it was hard to keep the news to myself. Another coworker in Japan had lived in Mexico for several years and spoke occasionally about the culture and how much he enjoyed it. I yearned to ask him more questions, but knew I had to keep this secret to myself. So I tried to put Mexico and my new responsibilities out of my mind. I trusted that everything would be okay.
Finally, in June, the company announced its new joint venture and my position as president. My stint in Japan was over. Although happy to return to take on another new challenge, I felt a sense of deep sadness in leaving these disciplined and respectful people. The night before my departure, I celebrated my friendship with many of my fellow Japanese workers. Saki flowed freely, and laughter and cheers of "Bonsai!" punctuated the festivities. Now, it was almost time to leave my office. I spent the morning tidying up my affairs and making sure all was in order for my replacement. As I prepared to leave, I could not understand why the Japanese were not stopping in to say goodbye. My office window was frosted, and I could not see out. I felt conspicuous walking to the door to see if anyone might be coming. So I simply sat at my desk until the hour of departure. "Maybe we had too much of a party," I thought to myself. Time wore on, and still none of the people I knew and worked with came to see me. "How odd," I thought. "Maybe as a stoic people, once they say goodbye it is over." I shrugged my shoulders, packed papers in my attaché case, and prepared to make my last journey out of the office to where my chauffeur would be waiting.
I exited my office and was overwhelmed with what I saw. Along both sides of the aisle, down the long hallway, through the next office, and down the stairs, my Japanese friends and coworkers stood side by side. As I walked by them, they silently bowed, never saying a word. I wanted to say something to my friends. I wanted to let them know how much I had learned from them. I wanted to tell them how much I cared for them. But I could not speak. Tears flowed from my eyes.
* * *
The most penetrating recognition I ever received was not delivered by brass bands or bountiful words. No, the message delivered by the Japanese who stood in silence was more profound and moving than words could ever be. And so was my experience in this distant land where common understanding built a culture of performance and respect. New responsibilities now took me to vastly different places, so these quiet lessons lay dormant for many years, but I did not forget.
Chapter 11. Alone with My Fears
The fearful Unbelief is unbelief in yourself.
—THOMAS CARLYLE
For the first eight months of my new assignment—before moving to Mexico—my family and I lived in Illinois, near the company's headquarters where I worked. I returned to work confident and anxious to try out some of the leadership and people skills I had gained in Japan. I was excited about the opportunity to use what I'd learned. "What a difference this could make here!" I thought.
My eagerness and hopes, however, were quickly dashed. Although I had visited the States during our six years in Japan, until we moved back I didn't realize how assimilated to Japanese culture I had become. The contrast between our "new" U.S. home and Japan was so severe I began to feel insecure and uneasy almost immediately. The social order and respect that had become part of my natural routine suddenly vanished, replaced by brawling individualism. My fellow managers were louder and more demanding than those in Japan had been. The idea of consensus or constancy of purpose that had distinguished the Japanese culture was not visible. Respect was something demanded by leaders, often extorted from followers by threats or punishment. It was not the quiet, dutiful deference the Japanese showed to those who had position and higher responsibility. No, the Western form of respect was often fear-based, like the respect shown by a puppy for a rolled-up newspaper. I felt lost in this environment, out of sync with my fellow managers, and at the same time out of sync with myself. What was I to do with all I had learned in Japan? Abandon it? Force it on those I worked with? Instead of taking a step forward into my new job, I felt as if I were moving sideways or backward. In my confusion, I put this internal conflict out of my mind and buried myself in my job responsibilities.
My new assignment was providing leadership for the construction of a manufacturing plant in Mexico. I was excited about the job at first—and flattered beyond belief. I was only 43 years old. I didn't have a college education. Yet higher management believed I was capable of handling this responsibility. But reality began to settle in as I learned more about my new job. For the first time in its history, the company had taken a minority position in a joint venture. As president, I would report to the Mexican partner, not to the company. Construction of the facility would be handled by Mexican contractors. Only a limited number of expatriates would accompany me to Mexico. My job was to manage the building of the new plant, handle negotiations with the Mexican government, assemble a staff of Americans to assist the Mexicans with constructing and operating the factory, and hire and manage the Mexican workers who would build the products. Negotiations with the government and joint-venture partner required frequent, sometimes weekly, trips to Mexico City. Day in and day out, I dealt with people I did not know and hundreds of details I had never addressed before. I worked late and long, slept little, ate poorly, and didn't exercise. Many nights I didn't go home until after midnight.
I thought back to my first day on this new job. Confident and excited, I had smiled and said to my boss, "I won't let you down!" His response had startled me. "If we want you to succeed," he said, "you will succeed. If we want you to fail, you will fail." Now his menacing words were coming back to haunt me. I began to feel this job was beyond my abilities and out of my control. I felt alone and unsupported. I didn't know how to build a plant, let alone participate in borrowing money needed to finance one. I had never negotiated with the government of a foreign country. I had no experience in any of these matters, and I was receiving no guidance or direction from my superiors. Nor did I have layers of seasoned managers below me. After six years in Japan, my connections with the company's "network" had withered. I had no one to turn to for guidance as I coordinated the multitude of activities and assembled a team of people who would help me plan, construct, and occupy the new facility. My learning curve was steep, yet I didn't ask questions or express my concerns for fear they would reveal my inadequacies. I was sure that leaders who did were relegated to lower-level jobs or distant locations and were never heard from again. I would not become one of those people, I told myself.
But still I worried. "If we want you to fail, you will fail," rung in my ears. I began to fear that my every word and action were being watched and judged. Although I had sharpened my grammar and diction, I worried that my words were being mocked and twisted. I wondered if other managers were talking about me and what they were saying. For the first time, I felt my lack of a college education might be used against me.
As weeks turned into months, I felt a strange sensation creeping into my life. At first, I just felt jumpy. "Too much coffee," I thought to myself. "Not enough sleep. I can handle it." But little by little, the world started closing in on me. A burden without a name anchored itself to me, like the chains Marley wore in Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Sometimes I could feel the weight bearing down on me, pushing my thoughts into a panic, causing my heart to pound and my hands to tremble. I fought this sinister anxiety almost constantly. Sometimes it would come in the middle of a meeting, and I would have to make an excuse to leave. Sometimes I would have to pull the car over to the side of the road. But I continued to work, every day heading to the office and continuing the process of setting up the Mexican facility. I rationalized that my paranoid symptoms were "normal" in high-level positions. It was the responsibility and stress of the job. It was the long hours. It was lack of sleep. It would all change once project planning was complete and the family moved to Mexico.
After eight months, the time came to relocate. Here I can start over, I told myself. Here I will be in charge, with no one watching me or questioning me or second-guessing my decisions. Mexico itself seemed an appropriate setting for my personal and professional struggles. The country was a study in ambiguity and opposition. The architectural magnificence of the ancient Aztec builders was in contrast to the cruel practice of human sacrifice by their leaders. Reverence for the Virgin Mary and her compassion for the suffering was in contrast to the violence with which the conquistadors had pressed the natives into Christianity. Imbalance seemed inescapable in this arid land. Even the native plant, the maguey, had a strange duality. It offered sustenance as a vegetable and flavor as a vinegar. But when fermented, it was potent liquor that created an artificial euphoria and visionary hallucinations for those who sipped it.
Into this world my family and I arrived. The factory was located 100 miles south of the U.S. border, and I had insisted that all 51 Americans who worked at the joint venture live in Mexico. The living conditions at first were terrible. Homes lacked running water and reliable electricity. Landlords felt no responsibility to maintain or upgrade the structures. As renters, we had to pay for improvements or repairs needed to make the places livable. So the company converted the rental properties, investing thousands of dollars. Even so, the homes had running water only part of the time, and electricity was unpredictable. My wife and I moved into a beautiful new house where nothing worked. During our first days in the home, Gloria was nearly hit on the head when the bathroom exhaust fan suddenly fell from the ceiling. We had water piped into our home only four hours a day, two days a week. The balance of the time, the city water system was shut down because it leaked so badly.
All of the American families experienced various degrees of culture shock. I worried about my workers and their families. There were quite a few teenagers in the group, and I knew from my own youth how easy it was to get into trouble at that age—and how harsh the punishment in Mexico could be. People arrested even for petty crimes were usually thrown into jail, and the American principle of innocent until proven guilty was not the law here. To protect our families, I befriended a police officer, gave him some of my own money, and asked him to keep an eye on us. "If there's ever an American arrested," I told him, "please let me know right away so I can come and help." My decision paid off two times. Once, an employee leaving Mexico to return to Illinois accidentally killed a child who ran in front of his car. Another time, the teenage son of an employee shot a pellet gun through the open window of a pick-up truck, hitting the driver in the neck and causing him to run off the road into a ditch. In both cases, the American was arrested, and I was notified by the police officer. After complex negotiations, the Americans were released.
On top of these issues, problems at home compounded my unrest. After our return to the United States from Japan, my wife, Gloria, had undergone a mastectomy. While she was recovering, her mother and then her father both died tragically of cancer. For two years, Gloria was lost to grief and depression—and as her spirits declined, so did my own. I felt guilty for concentrating on work when she needed me at home, and equally guilty for spending time at home when I knew so much needed to be done at the office. The pressure became too much for me, and I found myself reverting to the old behaviors I had learned under Howard. I bellowed orders. I demanded results. I unleashed my temper when my expectations weren't met. I resorted to any behaviors that proved effective in achieving my objectives. I found myself changing. I knew something was happening to me, and I didn't like it. But I couldn't stop it. As I became more and more autocratic in my approach with people, I found I was losing the serenity I had known in Japan.
Although an emerging market that longed to be part of industrialized North America, Mexico seemed confused. I found early on that starting a company in Mexico involved multiple trips to government officials, high-ranking businessmen, bankers, lawyers, and more government officials. There was no easy way to expedite the process. I figured I must have made 100 visits to people of influence in the Mexican government before the company was stable and effective. While Mexico was hungry for new industry, it still clung to the old parochialism of its Spanish heritage. No foreign industry could own a controlling interest in a Mexican company. In fact, minority ownership (at most 49 percent) was the law. This legal requirement was the reason I reported initially to the Mexican partners. To their credit, they gave me the latitude I needed to get the business up and running, but the volatility of the leadership and environment of both the Mexican corporate world and the government loomed over me like a great condor ready to swoop down on the new venture.
Also waiting in the darkness to attack me were my silent and insidious fears. Instead of getting better after the move, my symptoms got worse. I was driven to accomplish the task I had been assigned. In my heart it had to be done in spite of any difficulties, in spite of any burden it caused me personally. But I found out there was a limit. I suffered extraordinary anxiety and came close to a nervous breakdown. As best I could, I continued with my work but was painfully aware that I was falling short of my own capabilities. I don't think others recognized this to the extent that I did as my confidence continued to deteriorate. Little did I know at the time that I would suffer from this psychological intrusion for three long years.
* * *
I learned that many people suffer from similar feelings, but that didn't help me. I was told by one doctor that perhaps 20 million Americans suffer from some form of the anxiety and depression I was experiencing. I now believe that the pain I experienced was a product of a very difficult work environment, one that was filled with fear of all kinds. Some, certainly, was generated by my shortcomings. But most was generated by leaders whose focus was on intimidation and punishment, coming down hard on people whenever they thought things were a little bit wrong or took a little bit long. Encouragement and support were seemingly lost.
After my anxiety attacks abated and the "ugly demon" was gone, I asked myself, "How many other leaders within the organization and beyond have experienced something similar?" I wondered how they handled it, particularly as it related to their own performance. Later I would discover the answer. Fear and conflict in the workplace diminish people and cause two reactions. Some leaders minimize anxiety by "decoupling" and finding what I call a psychological safe zone. They don't make waves. They don't really make a difference, either. They do just what is required to get by. Others, like myself, are still driven to achieve. They plow forward and suffer the emotional and physical consequences in varying degrees. In both cases, the organization is the loser. It is ironic that many of the best leaders are sensitive, caring people—and thus are the most vulnerable. When the organization fails to support them, it is these leaders whose leadership we lose.
* * *
These months before the Mexican plant was up and running were ones of loneliness, extreme loneliness. I had lost the peaceful harmony of the Japanese, the unity of purpose and quiet, deep respect. I had lost the infrastructure and camaraderie that helped our U.S. industry grow. My familiar world was gone. Fear of failure ruled, bringing me physical symptoms and emotional pain. Gone was the leader who had thrived in a culture of encouragement. In his place was a man who pounded the table, demanded results, and intimidated others. In his place was a lonely autocrat who once again "delivered the goods," but what a price I paid! Eight years later, an even greater business challenge would be placed before me, but because of this experience I would be open to new methods—I would find a better way.