Career Runnings

One day before the Fourth Annual University of Virginia Investing Conference at Darden (UVIC) kicks off.  I blocked my calendar months ago to handle last minute details and crises, and to make any last minute decisions. My most important job so far today:  going out and getting lunch for the real conference leader, Deanne, Darden’s Corporate Relations Associate. I was just getting back from this errand when my daughter Christine called and reminded me that she has a job interview today.  We discussed that they will probably ask her about leadership:  what is it, what’s her style?  We talked about “good” answers, but it sure got me thinking about leadership and UVIC. I am, well, the leader of this event. But what kind of leader am I being?  What’s been my leadership style? 

A great boss and mentor of mine taught me that great leaders fill the gaps, the voids that are being left by others.  He demonstrated that great leaders provide ideas and insights when others need a boost, and then get out of the way.  He always set the tone and the pace, but let others lead.  He tackled barriers and demons that got in his people’s way, but then let them steer around the obstacles along the way.

Deanne and Jennifer, co-leaders of the conference, have demonstrated enormous leadership on this year’s conference.  Here we are the day before:  no crises, no panics.  I’m sure we have a few bumps to experience in the next 24 hours, but they’ve left time and space to deal with them.  Watching them lead has taught me so much these past few months.  My own leadership has evolved as I’ve watched them lead through sticky situations and resource constraints. 

So, my conclusion for Christine and her leadership questions:  stay out of the way, and let them lead.

Today I must write my performance review.  It must be today.  I’m already late, past the deadline.  If you know me, you know I am seldom late for anything, never miss a deadline.  But I don’t especially like feedback, and I have little respect for the process many companies call performance reviews.  Yet, as a student of “career management,” I know the importance of feedback and the value in knowing one’s self.  So, what’s my internal conflict?

I’ve sat through (and probably delivered) so many unfulfilling performance reviews—no, not ones about bad performance, but ones that left me wanting, angry, frustrated, empty, or wanting to run away.

I’ve too many times looked at the performance review as indication of my value (to whom?) and self worth.  My self esteem has been closely tied to my professional “success,” especially as reflected in the performance review.

BS, hogwash, malarkey.  While I “know” this (left brain), I don’t really know this, or at least I have trouble internalizing it this time of year.

Many HR professionals, and professors of Organizational Behavior, have written on the value, or lack of value, of performance reviews.  Some espouse eliminating them, some focus on strengths, some connect them with compensation, some connect them with potential and promotion.  I guess the jury’s out.

This year, though, I’m going to write my successes the past twelve months and my failures.  I’m going to express how I felt about the year, where I wish I had done more, and where I could have used more help.  I also want to celebrate my successes, and calibrate on my strengths.  I want to do more things that make me feel fun loving and inspiring, and fewer things that drain my energy.

Many of you might be finishing your most recent year, or your summer internship.  Now might be a natural time for reflection and feedback.  Be bold in celebrating your accomplishments, but also be genuine in your reflections of your weaknesses and failures.  Self awareness is a critical need for success in business today.  Many interviewers look for self awareness as an indication of learning agility and ability to deal with ambiguity and pressure.  Most likely your boss has observed your performance and formed opinions—no need to try to fool him/her.

If you are like me, take comfort—this performance review is not an indictment of you or your career potential.  It’s a point in time, it’s data.  Use the data to inform your future choices, not to calculate your self worth.  Ask questions, clarify, and seek examples of behavior discussed.  Make sure you understand the feedback.  I suggest not arguing about it—I guess you could point out behaviors that might counter the feedback, but not much good can come from such argument. 

For me, I’m learning (more now than earlier in my career) to appreciate the new data and the time my boss takes to “review” me (and by the way, I have a good boss, who processes this “stuff” the same way I do).  Key word there:  learning.  I still don’t love.  That’s why I’m two weeks late.  And instead of writing my review the past thirty minutes, I wrote this. Ha.

Given the competitive nature of life and careers these days, everyone needs a head start.  If you can just get that extra boost at the beginning, then you’re going to get to “success” much sooner.  But what I learned recently at The Corporate Athlete Course at the Human Performance Institute suggests that you really cannot get a head start if you do not know what your destination is.

“Tiger Moms” know the importance of a head start, and they do everything they can do to give their kids a head start.  (What an interesting read—definitely a good subject for a future blog.)  Baseball runners know this—they risk an out by “playing off the base” to get a head start on their run to the next base.  Even business gurus know this, given the plethora of books on getting off to a fast start in your career (see Right from the Start by Dan Ciampa and Michael Watkins and The First 90 Days by Michael Watkins).

Last week  I attended the Consortium Orientation Program (OP)—a four-day event designed to give a head start on their post-MBA job search to a number of talented under-represented minority students.  The Consortium is successful in achieving its mission, and the OP is an integral part of the Consortium’s success.  The students are investing their time and effort now in their MBA job search, so they will be better prepared, and possibly even employed, before their MBA program even begins.

What struck me in my conversations with a few of them, as we worked on their “elevator pitch” one-on-one, was how few of them knew actually know where they want to go, or know what their life’s mission.  I empathize.  I have found it very difficult to articulate what I want in life, what success is, how I want to feel, and what I want to accomplish.  But I am finally at least trying to.  In my last blog post I shared a draft of mission statement. For the last two weeks, I’ve been reading it daily (almost) and thinking about it and my current job and extracurricular life.

I spent my time with these Consortium students, introducing this concept, and helping them get a small handle on what they stand for now, what they might want to do next, and how to begin to position themselves, not just for interviews this week, but for their career.  A tough task for just a thirty minute meeting, but to me, it was the best head start I could give them. 

And the best head start you can give yourself.

Do you know what it’s like after a really good snow storm, when the roads become passable but everyone still stays at home, because they’ve loaded their fridge and they feel safe there?  Tokyo was that way Saturday and Saturday night to me.  The city continued to return to normal after the earthquake (see Another earthquake, an eerie silence, and the Japanese people and The City Awakens), yet the streets were much less crowded than a normal Saturday.  Many shops were closed.  Having completed my business mission here, and departing on Sunday, I wanted to venture out and tour—the 5AM fish market receiving the most recommendations. Only on Saturday it was purported to be closed.  Okay for me, for as much as I wanted to get out, I also wanted to talk home and Tokyo morning is best for speaking to the US.  Even asking my Guest Attendant Marika about touring, she was concerned for me venturing out—not for my safety, not even for appearances (which are so important in this culture), but I think for my “mental health.”  Even though Tokyo was “okay,” the city was clinging to its own.  People were with family.   People were staying home.

But for me, sanity was getting out.  Too much Skype, Facebook, and Outlook can cause other mental health issues.  Besides the day was beautiful and I needed some exercise.  So I took off.  I visited a few traditional sites.  I believe this is Senso-Ji and Asakusa-jinja, peacefully coexisting Buddhist and Shinto temples.  The crowd in the markets around the temple were thick, though many of the hawker stalls were closed.  I also had traditional food at Diakokuya, a “famous” tempura place, with only three other diners, but I enjoyed sitting and watching the chefs at work, experts intensely focused on their tasks at hand.

Next I ventured two subway rides away to Kagaruzaka, formerly a vibrant geisha quarter, now an incredibly “San Francisco-esque” neighborhood, with hilly alleys, great shopping, tons of restaurants and cool little bars.  Again, I’m told the streets on a Saturday afternoon are usually packed.  Shopkeepers were courteous, though many had TVs blaring, and their conversations subdued.  I finished my afternoon visiting the Imperial Palace.  I debarked from the subway a few stops too early, but walked the mile or so to the palace grounds, only to find the palace closed.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t read the signs to find out why—to me the gates were just closed.  I had run the palace grounds my first two days here, and skipped the opportunity to enter then, and now I would not have that opportunity.  I did get to enjoy the gorgeous grounds and moats and fountains around the palace, and even helped a couple take a picture, and got this one in return.

Throughout the day, I enjoyed my sightseeing, but I also realized that between early that morning and midday here, I had called every single member of my family.  I needed to connect to people, and there was no one here to connect to.  I felt like I too was clinging to the conversations, however normal they were.

I ended the day on a more social note, visiting the Roppongi section of town, the least Japanese part of Japan, because of its mixes of government and businesses, and Japanese and gaijin.  Through my Lonely Planet guide, I found Bernd and Bernd’s Bar, a German pubeatery (like that word!).  Bernd’s was a bit off the beaten path, down a quiet alley, us a set of stairs, the opening into what could easily fit on the Charlottesville corner.  I met Bernd and his wife and bartender, all three of whom spoke perfect English.  A very interesting development:  I also ran into an independent Spanish photo journalism team (journalist Ofelia de Pablo), working in Japan for a German magazine, first to cover something about German tourism in Japan, but suddenly reassigned to get people’s (particularly German’s) reactions to the earthquake. Ofelia interviewed me—I directed her to my blog from the day’s events.  The bar, the interview, the Spanish-only speaking photographer, Bernd, the German beer, the few Japanese patrons, the TV covering the earthquake and nuclear reactor meltdown, and even my last Japanese meal:  a scene in which I too could cling to something—a ragtag group of new friends in a familiar setting, not needing to say much, but enjoying being together.

Now, I think I see what Marika was insinuating this morning—that I shouldn’t go out because I needed to bond with others that touring cannot allow, even though of course staying in my hotel room would also not have accomplished much.  But what I discovered was that what I needed to find was a group to which I could cling, at least for a few hours.

Early this morning I started another post, entitled “The Japanese People,” but in the last few hours, my perspective has changed.  A couple of hours ago, we had our second earthquake in as many days here, or 400 miles from here.  Somewhere between 8.4 and 8.8 if CNN is to be believed.  When this happened I was with a new friend, a Darden alumnus, Shin.  We were just arriving at Tokyo train station, buying our ticket for a one hour train ride, when the ground started shaking.  As it continued, and progressed, we decided to walk, then run, to the exits.  As did thousands of others.  It continued to shake.  We made it outside.  My friend’s reaction was not comforting—I hoped he would say “oh, no worries, this happens all the time.”  His comment was not so encouraging.  I saw the worry in his face, and in the faces of those around us.  You could see the buildings shaking, literally.  The light fixtures and the curtains.    Books fell off the shelf at the bookstore. Construction workers rushing off the construction site.  But what struck me most was the silence.  Just silence.  Tokyo is a bustling city.  No matter where you are, you hear trains, and traffic.  But not now.  Trains stopped.  Cars stopped.  No one spoke.  We all just looked around.  We looked up.  I took this picture of the hundreds of people in the distance outside—if only I could have captured the looks on faces.  Looks of concern.  Looks of sadness.  Looks of wonder. Within minutes of cessation of the quake, people started moving slowly, but the silence remained.

My friend and I decided we should wait to see if the trains would resume.  We sought refuge in a nearby coffee shop.  After just moments, the shaking started again.  The building (a tall skyscraper) public address system announced that we should evacuate.  I grabbed my chocolate and ate it as I hurried out the door (I’m not quite sure what that says about me).  The shaking stopped after what seemed like minutes—just an aftershock I guess, the first of many.  My friend, and it seemed everyone else around, was on his phone, or trying to be on his phone, but no one could get through.  I guess everyone was trying to call someone.  I thought of calling, but everyone I care about was sleeping.  I looked up and took a picture of the swaying crane on top of a nearby building.  Was I the only one worried that it was coming down?  The silence of the streets continued, only interrupted now by a helicopter, canvasing for damage.  My friend and I went back in and again tried to drink our coffee.  After a few minutes discussion, we decided that our train trip would probably not occur, so we started our walk back to my hotel, only about 20 minutes walk away.  Down the road from us this window was shattered.  The roads were packed with people—all the buildings were evacuated and the trains were not running.  This was not the devestation of recent wars and natural disasters.  It was just eerie silence, even as thousands of people filled the streets.  My friend and I made it to a pub near the hotel, as no one was being allowed in my hotel yet.  We drank  Guinness and stared at the TV.  Only I understood nothing.  I could only watch the faces of those around me.  Now the big concern, and the actual event unfolding before us on TV, was the tsunami.  Ten meters, the height of a three story building, heading toward, and hitting land three hundred miles away.

My friend finally walked me to and dropped me in my hotel lobby, with thousands of others.  I learned that I could take stairs to my fourteenth floor room.  For some reason I thought I would feel safer there—alone in my room.  My instinct is to pack and head for the airport.  As I arrived on my floor I was greeted with great concern by Mariko Fujiwara, the fourteenth floor concierge.  I had passed her many times in the past few days, only to say a quick hello, and thank you.  But now I asked her about her.  And about her family.  I learned she was educated and learned to speak English in Canada, and that her family was a few hundred miles away on the coast. And phones were not working. Yet, she hurried around helping the people on the fourteenth floor, concerned for their well fare, not her own.

Even as I sit here, I have felt several aftershocks, my dresser drawer opening on its own, the curtain swaying.  On instinct I grab the desk to hold on.  After five to ten seconds it stops. In the background the TV blares the concerned voices of the newscasters, though I understand nothing.  But I see the tsunami moving across the land on the screen.  I turn if off.  Somehow the silence seems more fitting.

I can’t help but reflect on the Japanese people.  Before the quake I was going to write about their friendliness, their formalness, their respectfulness, their cleanliness, their patience with me.  But I knew none of them.  Now I write about Shin and Mariko and the other new friends I have made during this silence.  I write about the hundreds of faces I observed as people poured out of the buildings.  I’ve observed their humanity, their worries about their family, their fear…and their concern for me, the foreigner.  It seems genuine, and warm, and real, yet respectful and patient and kind.  This wasn’t (isn’t yet) a natural disaster of epic proportions, but it was (is) scary for me.  But at least it has given me a glimpse of the character of the Japanese people…a character that I can appreciate and respect and, well, love.