Teller, simply, didn’t know what to do.

His life, it seemed, was at an impasse. Any way he turned seemed to be a dead end. Most days, he felt as if he were living a work of fiction: more specifically, as a character in a tepid novel written with little sense of direction or plot. Certainly, the ridiculous nature of his existence couldn’t be real. How, he often asked himself, could this possibly be my life?

Teller identified a lot with the character of Harold Crick in the recent movie Stranger Than Fiction: a person whose moments in life, the significant and mundane ones, were all but indistinguishable. Teller existed, in recent times, within a narrow range of experience from neutral to negative. If this were an actual life he was engaged in, surely it belonged to someone else.

Surely it must.

Because: here he was, this year, at Cascadia College, located in a little town in southern Cascadia. How did this happen? It was absurd, really. Yes, everything about his existence at this point was absurd. That plainly was the word for it.

Even the name of the college, Cascadia, was just too weird. This was what the campus in Bernard Malamud’s 1961 novel, A New Life, was called. In that story, a professor (Samuel Levin, steeped in the liberal arts) finds himself teaching at the fictional Cascadia, an agricultural college with traditions much different than he was accustomed to. Struggling to overcome past adversities, Levin relocates and takes the teaching job in a far-off place in an attempt to start his life over. It is a place so foreign, however, that Levin finds he must have been attracted to a mirage. His struggles, not unpredictably, continue on. You can run, as they say, but you cannot hide.

So, here he, Teller, was. He was trying mightily, after a couple of job losses, to put his life in order. Unlike Levin, though, he was not a teacher (any longer). He was now an academic administrator, and held the position of Dean of Faculty at the real-life Cascadia College. A small campus in an isolated, rural setting. A place so entirely different that his past experiences had ill-prepared him for what he found. Teller had earned his doctorate at a big-time Big Ten campus of over 35,000 students. And now, here he was, attempting to function in a place where the entire little city barely scratched the 20,000 mark, with no diversity to speak of at all. This was not a college town. The place felt stiflingly-small and claustrophobic. And amazingly conservative.

Further, the college was in a condition that he had not really appreciated.

From the start, he found his administrative peers friendly enough people. They weren’t really bad folks. But, too, Teller wasn’t sure they were the right ones to actually run a college. Teller found he did not fit so well with them. So he spent as much time as he could amongst his “own kind” … i.e., the faculty. Teller’s span of control was fairly wide-reaching on campus; he lived with the humanities folks (that’s where his office was located), but was in charge of all the liberal arts and sciences. These people were the ones who not only intellectually engaged him, but also shared their stories and lives with him.

Sure, Teller found that there were some good aspects to all that sharing. He was, after all, able to talk with them about a wide range of topics: reactions and replication; reading and reasoning; rocks and rhymes; language and logic; peace, prose and philosophy; equations and equality; literature and liberals; Iraq and irony; politics and pooh-bahs. But mostly what everyone talked about (at least with Teller) was how to cope: namely, how to manage their lives given the massive number of changes the college had undergone in the last few years, including several presidents, leadership styles, and unclear expectations.

The net effect of all that change, Teller discovered, was that most everyone was off-center most all the time. And there was little trust, might say none, between the faculty and administration. Teller, of course, as the Dean, lived his professional life at the intersection of faculty and administration and their issues. So, if the conflict on campus were the Gunfight at the OK Corral, then Teller was in the crossfire. It didn’t take long before he found himself gravely wounded.

Totally dismayed at the current state of the campus, and while expending inordinate amounts of energy to keep from being injured any further, Teller concluded that there simply was no way to live in between these two warring groups. Although he believed himself to be the consummate diplomat, none of the gunslingers involved in this fight seemed to be much interested in letting their weapons cool and engage in team- or trust-building.

Teller, simply, didn’t know what to do.

Inspired by NPR’s This I Believe series...

I believe in listening. And in leadership. And that the two go hand-in-hand.

In the past two years, I have been in leadership positions that more directly affect the lives of people I work with than I ever have been before. While I’ve long seen myself as a student of leadership and organizational culture, and have led countless groups while working on specific tasks and projects, lately I’ve been called upon to provide direction, vision, and a voice for a large collection of other people on a day-to-day basis. It’s been a period to put my values regarding listening and leadership to a real test.

For I believe that effective leaders should listen to those they are charged to lead. All too often, I see leaders who seem to be “know-it-alls” or “fixers”: individuals who only listen to their constituents long enough to have a reply or “the solution” at the ready before the other is even finished talking. This kind of behavior is extremely off-putting. Who wants to be around somebody like that?

And I believe that listening demonstrates our respect, valuing and trust of others. For leaders to earn respect, they must show respect. So I believe that true, just shut-up-and-sit-there, good old non-judgmental listening is the primary way to do that. Trust and respect just naturally flow from good listening.

I have a dramatic personal experience illustrating when, as one being led, I was not listened to. A couple of years ago, with the most honorable of intentions, I was attempting to speak to the CEO of an organization on behalf of a group of employees; at one point in my report, I was rudely interrupted and informed the information I was sharing was not welcome or appropriate…that everything in the organization was, now, as “good as it gets.” It’s difficult to convey the intensity of that episode in this brief description but, I was, in essence, verbally and emotionally assassinated in public for attempting to express the “sense of the group.” For me, it was the single most appalling example of “leadership” that I had ever witnessed. I left the experience embarrassed, hurt and angry. And, forever, unable to respect the “leader” any more.

I run my show a lot differently. A LOT DIFFERENTLY. I believe in the power of stories, and love listening to them. I encourage my folks to come in, sit down, and tell me what’s going on in their lives. I listen. Because I care. And, I because I respect the variety of the human experience. That is, I respect them. I appreciate everything everyone does on behalf of the organization, and, after I have listened to them and their issues, I frequently advise them to pace themselves and to stay healthy. We’re all in this together, and we must take care of ourselves and trust each other along the way, or bad stuff will happen. Of course, bad stuff will happen anyway, but we’re much better equipped to handle those times if we tackle problems as part of a trusting team, rather than a stray collection of individuals who happen to share the same organizational space for a part of our lives.

Leaders. Followers. Everyone. Believe in this.

And listen…

The people who come to see us bring us their stories. They hope they tell them well enough so that we understand the truth of their lives. They hope we know how to interpret their stories correctly. We have to remember that what we hear is their story. (Robert Coles in The Call of Stories, p. 7).

On April 30, 1970, President Richard Nixon announced to a national television audience that he was ordering troops into Cambodia. Although the stated purpose of this so-called “incursion” was to hasten an end to the ongoing slaughter in Vietnam, many Americans, myself included, thought this a wholly-unwarranted expansion of the war effort.

I was in the last semester of my undergraduate college days at this time: politically-active and fervently anti-war. I had received a draft notice in June of 1969 and spent 22 days in the Air Force until a chronic knee condition led to a medical discharge. Although I was (because of my discharge) no longer at risk of losing my life to this insane activity, I had spent four long college years with the specter of the military draft – and the prospect of a gruesome, lonely death in a jungle a million miles away from home. For me, the war was personal.

Richard Nixon had been elected, at least in part, on the basis of his “secret plan” to end the war. Yet, here he was, less than two years later, ordering an obvious escalation.

I was pissed. I remember spending the remainder of the evening after Nixon’s speech composing a letter to the editor of my local newspaper. My writing skills were not too finely developed then and my letter was not the most eloquent piece of prose. But what I lacked in style, I hope I made up for in passion: Nixon was wrong. He was a madman. He had to go. The war must end.

Many, many people agreed with me. Unrest on the nation’s campuses, especially, took a dramatic turn. On May 4, 1970, my letter was published in the Eau Claire (WI) Leader-Telegram, the same day that four full-time college students (Allison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, Sandra Scheuer and William Schroeder) at Kent State University were gunned down by Ohio National Guard troops on their own campus. Another nine students (Joseph Lewis, John Cleary, Thomas Grace, Robbie Stamps, Donald Scott MacKenzie, Alan Canfora, Douglas Wrentmore, James Russell and Dean Kahler) were wounded; one was paralyzed for life, the others seriously maimed.

The students of the University of Wisconsin - Eau Claire, in the days immediately following the Kent State massacre, rallied. I, for one, picketed the Science building where I had spent the majority of my time as a chemistry student. On May 6th we held a campus-wide protest, gathering on the lawn right outside the student union building. And we planted four trees in memory of the dead in Ohio. The plaque from that memorial service is still there today, as are three of the four original trees.

May 4, 1970, was thirty-six years ago. On this day, today, let us not forget the madness that can afflict us as a nation.

Let us also not forget that we always have a voice. Let’s remember that protest can lead to change. We must know that when we perceive injustice in the world, we can stand, march, shout and be heard. We can make a difference.

Thought for the day: We have the ability to put an end to the killing. All it takes is the will.

Soundtrack Suggestion

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.
Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?
Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?
Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.

(“Ohio” – Neil Young)

I’m in no way a student of The Classics. I regret to report that my formal, “classical,” general education has been woefully inadequate. So, when I now (presume to) speak about Plato’s Republic, and “The Allegory of the Cave,” well, you’re going to need to take what I have to say with not only a grain of salt, but maybe an entire wheelbarrow full!

I was browsing Gareth Morgan’s Images of Organization (1986, my copy of the first edition) today, still (always!) trying to make some sense of my world. (You know me: I can’t seem to shut off my mind!) In the chapter that examines the metaphor of “organizations as psychic prisons,” the discussion begins with a description of Plato’s cave allegory.

The Wikipedia summary of the allegory (copied, pasted, edited) goes thusly:

Imagine prisoners who have been chained since childhood deep inside a cave. Their limbs are immobilized, and their heads are fixed as well, so that the only thing they can see is the cave wall. Behind them is an enormous fire, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised walkway, along which men carry From Great Dialogues of Plato (Warmington and Rouse, eds.) New York, Signet Classics: 1999. p. 316.shapes of various animals, plants, and other things. The shapes cast shadows on the wall, which occupy the prisoners’ attention. Also, when one of the shape-carriers speaks, an echo against the wall causes the prisoners to believe that the words come from the shadows. The prisoners engage in what appears to us to be a game — naming the shapes as they come by. This is sum total of their life: the only reality they know.

Now, suppose a prisoner is released and is able to stand up and turn around. At first, his eyes will be blinded by the firelight, and the shapes passing will appear less real than their shadows. Then, if he is dragged up out of the cave into the sunlight, his eyes will be so blinded that he will not be able to see anything. Gradually he will be able to see darker shapes such as shadows, and only later brighter and brighter objects. The last object he would be able to see is the sun, which, in time, he would learn to see as that object which provides the seasons and the courses of the year, presides over all things in the visible region, and is in some way the cause of all these things that he has seen.

I’m wondering if this allegory may be the source of the term “thinking outside the box” – for certainly the freed prisoner is absolutely forced to “think outside the cave” when confronted with a world so dramatically removed from his prior experience. What a total shock to the system to be freed, leave the cave, and discover what’s there to be found!

Is there a modern-day equivalent to the cave? Could our families, workplaces, and/or significant relationships ever be considered versions of the cave? Is it possible we are (or can become) so myopic in terms of how we view the world that we think the shadows on the wall are “reality”?

And, what if we removed ourselves, even for a little while, from the warm cocoon that is our family, job, or relationship, and took a look around at the rest of the world? What would be our experience? Would it be similar to the freed prisoner, who, if he ever went back to the cave, would undoubtedly have significant problems trying to communicate his experience “outside” to the others still imprisoned there? How would it be possible for “the enlightened one” to share his knowledge? What resistance would be met? What ridicule and contempt would he experience for, saying out loud, his newly-acquired version of reality? How could he ever function in the “old way” (seeing and naming the shadows), when he knows “truth”? And, how could the prisoners ever accept an entirely new perspective without the external experience themselves? Wouldn’t this type of new information, so different from their own, be viewed as a tremendous threat?

Aren’t we, everyday of our lives, trapped in the illusion that our experience is “real” – and the only thing? Aren’t we convinced that this is “the way the world works?” Aren’t we, more often than not, content to remain in the dark – neither risking exposure to alternate ways of thinking nor seeking new experiences? In what ways do we all have the tendency to be(come) psychic prisoners, trapped in a reality that gives us a totally skewed understanding of the universe?

[See Morgan, 1986, p. 200, for the discussion that was my inspiration for these questions.]

Soundtrack Suggestion

Chains, my baby’s got me locked up in chains.
And they ain’t the kind that you can see.
Whoa, oh, these chains of love got a hold on me, yeah.

Chains, well I can’t break away from these chains.
Can’t run around, ‘cause I’m not free.
Whoa, oh, these chains of love won’t let me be, yeah.

I wanna tell you, pretty baby,
I think you’re fine.
I’d like to love you,
But, darlin’, I’m imprisoned by these...

Chains, my baby’s got me locked up in chains,
And they ain’t the kind that you can see,
Oh, oh, these chains of love got a hold on me.

(“Chains” - Carole King)

It happened on August 13, 1983. (My goodness, it’s been quite a long time ago now.) The unbelievable, unthinkable words were penetrating my clouded brain. “Mr. Arnold, I’m sorry, you are under arrest for driving under the influence of intoxicants. Would you turn around, please, place your hands on top of the vehicle, and spread your legs? You have the right to remain silent…”

With these words (as best as I remember them), I started down a path I wouldn’t have believed. The journey took me into a small-town police station and court room, a court-appointed alcohol evaluator’s office, an alcohol and drug education program, and a treatment group every Tuesday evening for months. Along the way I shed a lot of tears and took a very hard look at the way I’d been living.

That night, in Junction City, Oregon, as I was starting on my way home to Corvallis after an evening at the Scandinavian Festival, I flunked the field sobriety test in spectacular fashion. Although, at the time, I was in the process of obtaining my third college degree (a master’s degree in counseling), I found it impossible to recite the alphabet. Walking a straight line was out of the question. As I rode to the police station, handcuffed, alone in the back of the police car, what was happening didn’t seem real. I was, after all, quite intoxicated. Then, sitting in an obscure corner of that tiny station-house, I waited patiently for the sergeant to prepare the breathalyzer machine. I became confused when explained my rights about taking the test. I asked for them to be repeated. When I understood that I would lose my license automatically if I didn’t submit to the procedure, I agreed.

The results were impressive. (At least I was impressed.) I blew a blood-alcohol level of 0.19%, almost twice the statutory limit of 0.10% that was considered evidence of intoxication at the time.

“I’m releasing you on your own recognizance tonight, Mr. Arnold…”

Ok, so at least I don’t have to spend the night in jail, I thought. And I won’t have to come up with bail money in the middle of the night. As I stepped out into the cool, early morning air, I sat down on the sidewalk in front of the police station…

and promptly started sobbing.

Geez, how did I get into this mess? (I never intended any of this, you know.)

I had started drinking when I was in high school. In the small town in northern Wisconsin where I grew up, it was a pretty “in” thing to do, at least with my crowd. And during my marriage, which lasted the span of my twenties, I entered deeper into the world of chemical coping. To treat the problem I had with chronic tension headaches, I took Valium every day for over seven years. The doctors I consulted advised this route as a means of treating my affliction—and I had trusted them. In my late twenties, just about the time that I was deciding that I could and would end my marriage, my headaches improved and I was able to eliminate my need for the drug.

I thought.

My life as a perpetually-partying, single male was quite a contrast to the life I had had as a neurotic, withdrawn, Valium-dependent married person. I went back to the drinking that I had given up during the years of Valium involvement. (I had heeded the warnings about the combined effects of Valium and alcohol; the last thing my headaches needed was alcohol to magnify their intensity.) Alcohol and socializing went hand in hand during the first few years of my new single life, as they had earlier during my high school and college years.

I elected the state’s diversion program available to first-time DUII offenders. I had talked to some friends that seemed to know about such things and explained that I probably would “get off” by attending an alcohol education group; I might also have to continue on into a treatment group after that—but that was for “alcoholics.” Surely that wasn’t me.

My court-appointed acohol evaluator took a look at my involvement with Valium and alcohol from the information I supplied and labeled me a “problem drinker,” however. I was stunned. (I had not even been totally truthful about my drinking—and she still thought I had a problem!) I was particularly curious—and disturbed—how my Valium history was linked to my involvement with alcohol.

When I got to the five-week alcohol education group, I was determined to demonstrate my “responsibility” with respect to alcohol use. Although the information presented was quite on-target, I wasn’t able to fully grasp or admit how much of it applied to my own situation. At the conclusion of the group, my stated plan for handling drinking was the goal of controlling it.

When the staff recommendations were discussed on the last day of group, I was stunned. “And, Jim, we advise that you continue for a minimum of six months of weekly treatment group. You can have an appointment with me at 2:00 p.m. next Thursday to discuss what will best fit into your schedule.”

I didn’t really think she could possibly be serious. Was she talking to me?

“What? Just like that you sentence me to six more months? What is this anyway? Why are you doing this to me? Isn’t this negotiable?”

It looked like my stated goal of controlled drinking wasn’t going to satisfy these folks. I thought, Yeah, I know what you want. You want me to say I’ll quit drinking. Well, I don’t need to quit!

I left the group room angrily that day.

But… something was happening here. I was definitely being told that my use of alcohol was much more serious than I had ever admitted. Eventually, days later, my emotions settled down. Could they be right? Was I (gasp) an alcoholic?

I started the treatment group a couple weeks later. The same woman who had facilitated my education group was facilitating the group that fit into my schedule.

What a group!

As we went around for the initial introductions, my assessment was that everyone there had a much more serious problem than me.

I really resent this, I thought.

During the second week of the group I had an individual appointment with the facilitator. She recommended that I spend some time with the psychiatrist on the staff—that maybe he could offer some insights into my situation that I had not considered. I resisted, she insisted. I finally agreed to pay for a quarter hour of psychiatrist time.

Which was a turning point for me in this whole story, I guess.

The doctor I saw turned out to be OK. With my degrees in chemistry and my studies in counseling, I felt that I had something in common with him. He wasn’t there to analyze me; the hour I spent with him turned out to be quite educational and illuminating. I finally was able to listen to explanations about how my body had become dependent on the sedation it had been receiving during all those years of Valium and alcohol. And that I was, as a human being, OK. After all, I hadn’t really set out to become drug-dependent. That’s just the way it turned out.

Oh…

During this meeting and afterwards, I gradually began to become aware that if I wanted to live the way that was consistent with my self-image, I’d have to stop the alcohol altogether. What a realization! I didn’t need alcohol to have a good time—or to cope with life.

During the six months that I attended the group, I became, more or less, its co-facilitator. I became heavily invested in changing my alcohol habit to fit the healthier lifestyle that I had started the year before I’d applied to graduate school as a counselor. And I wanted to assist the other group members in this quest.

Along the way, however, I saw that just about everybody else was stuck back at the stage I had been—not really convinced of their problem. Yes, they said many things otherwise, but not persuasively.

Well, that was their problem. I knew what I wanted to do for me, so I proceeded to do just that. It was clear to me even before the treatment group was halfway over that I needed to stop drinking—totally. None of this Controlled Drinking Thinking. I realized that because of the physical tolerance I had developed I would be back at old levels of consumption if I chose to begin drinking again.

I didn’t want that then. I don’t want that ever again.

Was my treatment group a brainwashing experience? Who knows, maybe it was. To me, it doesn’t matter. What I do know is that my life has been much more fulfilling and manageable since that decision. From what I’ve seen and heard, though, I’ve had a pretty easy time of it—at least with kicking the habit. Once I decided that quitting drinking was the route I needed to go, pretty much all the rest fell into place. I’m not the white-knuckled sober drunk. I haven’t attended the meetings to stay straight. I just don’t drink anymore. Period.

Despite my initial resistance, I feel that I was very gently led into sobriety, and for that I’m thankful. Every person I encountered along this particular journey was understanding and respectful. The police officer, the judge, the alcohol evaluator, the education and treatment group facilitator, the psychiatrist—all treated me extremely well. And all the others in my life have been supportive; what a relief!

This whole experience has led me to a totally new way of living, though the personal issues that led me to substance abuse have cropped up from time to time. My control, my perfectionism, my anger… I continue to work on these and other concerns to try to make my life more manageable.

If I hadn’t had the good fortune to be arrested, I might not be alive today. I’ve come to believe that I was (and am) living in a state of grace. Perhaps, even, with a guardian angel attached. I don’t know how else to explain this outcome. I had driven drunk countless times and who knows what would have been my fate if I hadn’t been allowed to learn all this, in this way.