24 Another Chance

“As you can gather,” Lou said, “she called. I was given a second chance. And the Zagrum you’ve been admiring over these many years has been the result of that second chance.

“We made a lot of mistakes as we got restarted together. The only thing we did really well at the outset was to cover with our people the ideas you’ve learned over these last two days. We didn’t necessarily know all the implications in the workplace, so at first we stayed at the level of the general ideas. And you know something? It made a big difference. Just what Bud’s done for you these two days—that alone, when learned by people in a common enterprise, has a powerful, lasting effect. We know because we’ve measured the results over time.

“But over the last 20 or so years, we’ve become much more sophisticated in the specific application of the material to business. As we became more out of the box as a company, we were able to identify and develop a specific plan of action that minimizes the basic workplace self-betrayal that we’ve been talking about. Right out of the chute, when people generally are still out of the box toward their coworkers and the company, we introduce our people to this way of working together.”

Lou paused, and Bud jumped in. “Our effort now is in three phases,” he said. “Yesterday and today, you’ve begun what we call our Phase 1 curriculum. It’s all we had in the beginning, and it alone has tremendous impact. It’s the foundation for everything that comes later. It’s what makes our results here possible. Our work in Phases 2 and 3 will build on what we’ve covered by plugging you into a concrete and systematic way of focusing on and accomplishing results—an ‘accountability transformation system’ that minimizes self-betrayal at work and maximizes the company’s bottom line. And it does this in a way that greatly reduces common organizational people problems.”

“Accountability transformation system?” I asked.

Bud nodded. “Who are you focused on when you’re in the box?”

“Myself mostly.”

“And what are you focused on when you’re in the box?”

I thought about it for a moment, and then said, “On being justified.”

“What if all the workers in an organization held themselves accountable for achieving a particular, concrete result? If they were truly accountable for this, would they be justified if they failed to accomplish that result?”

I shook my head. “Probably not.”

“So they would therefore be focused on achieving a result rather than on being justified. Right?”

“I suppose so,” I said, wondering where Bud was going with this.

“And what if this result, by its very nature, required the workers to be thinking of others?”

I didn’t answer immediately.

“Think about it,” he continued. “If everyone was focused on others, who would they not be focused on?”

“Themselves?” I ventured.

“Exactly. An in-the-box organization is filled with people who are focused on themselves and on being justified. Imagine, in contrast, an organization where everyone is focused on others and on achieving results.”

“It would be an out-of-the-box organization,” I said.

“Exactly. And that is what our accountability transformation system is designed to create. In a disciplined, sustained fashion, we keep people focused on results and on others. The culture of blame that is so prevalent in organizations is replaced with a culture of deep responsibility-taking and accountability. People who focus on themselves and on being justified don’t make it here.”

“What about seeing those underachievers as people?” I quipped, before I could stop myself.

“Letting people go is a behavior,” Bud responded. “There are two ways to do it.”

“I know, I know,” I said, attempting to cover myself.

“And in the unfortunate case where we have to let someone go,” he continued without pause, “we aim to let a person go, not an object. It’s an entirely different thing.”

I nodded, now clearly realizing that my future at Zagrum depended on getting this right. “So what do I need to do to begin applying this accountability system?” I asked. “I’m ready to move on to Phase 2.”

“No you’re not,” Bud said, smiling. “Not quite.”

“I’m not?”

“No. Because although you now understand what the foundational self-betrayal at work is, you don’t yet understand the extent to which you are in it. You don’t yet understand the extent to which you’ve been failing to focus on results.”

I felt my face begin to slacken again, and I realized in that moment that I hadn’t felt that defensive sensation since the previous morning. The thought seemed to rescue me, and I returned again to openness.

“But you’re no different from anyone else on that score,” Bud said, with a warm smile. “You’ll see it soon enough. In fact, I have some material for you to read, and then I’d like to meet with you again in a week. We’ll need about an hour.”

“Okay. I’ll look forward to it,” I said.

“And then the labor will begin,” Bud added. “You’ll need to rethink your work, learn to measure things you never knew needed measuring, and help and report to people in ways you’ve never thought of. You will learn to hold yourself accountable in deep and disciplined ways. As your manager, I will help you do all this. And you, as a manager, will learn how to help your people do the same. You will discover, through it all, that there is no better way to work, or to live.”

Bud stood up. “All of this together makes Zagrum what it is, Tom. We’re glad you’re a part of it. By the way, in addition to your reading, I have some homework for you.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering what it might be.

“I want you to think of your time working with Chuck Staehli.”

“Staehli?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes. I want you to think about how and whether you really focused on results during the time you worked with him. I want you to consider whether you were open or closed to correction, whether you actively sought to learn and enthusiastically taught when you could have. Whether you held yourself fully accountable in your work, whether you took or shifted responsibility when things went wrong. Whether you moved quickly to solutions or instead found perverse value in problems. Whether you earned in those around you—including Chuck Staehli—their trust.

“And as you think about that, I want you to keep continually in your mind the ideas we’ve covered. But I want you to do it in a particular kind of way.” Bud pulled something from his briefcase. “A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, Tom. You can use this material to blame just as well as you can use anything else. Merely knowing the material doesn’t get you out of the box. Living it does. And we’re not living it if we’re using it to diagnose others. Rather, we’re living it when we’re using it to learn how we can be more helpful to others—even to others like Chuck Staehli.

“Here are some things to keep in mind while you’re trying to do just that,” he said, handing me a card.

This is what it said:

Knowing the material

Self-betrayal leads to self-deception and “the box.”

When you’re in the box, you can’t focus on results.

Your influence and success will depend on being out of the box.

You get out of the box as you cease resisting other people.

Living the material

Don’t try to be perfect. Do try to be better.

Don’t use the vocabulary—“the box,” and so on—with people who don’t already know it. Do use the principles in your own life.

Don’t look for others’ boxes. Do look for your own.

Don’t accuse others of being in the box. Do try to stay out of the box yourself.

Don’t give up on yourself when you discover you’ve been in the box. Do keep trying.

Don’t deny that you’ve been in the box when you have been. Do apologize; then just keep marching forward, trying to be more helpful to others in the future.

Don’t focus on what others are doing wrong. Do focus on what you can do right to help.

Don’t worry whether others are helping you. Do worry whether you are helping others.

“Okay, Bud. This will be helpful. Thanks,” I said, slipping the card into my briefcase.

“Sure,” Bud said. “And I look forward to seeing you again next week.”

I nodded, then stood up and turned to thank Lou.

“Before you go, Tom,” said Lou, “I’d like to share one last thing with you.”

“Please,” I said.

“My boy—Cory—do you remember him?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, two months after Carol and I watched him drive away, we rode in that same van to the remote wilderness that had been Cory’s home for those nine or so weeks. We were going out to meet him, to live with him for a few days, and then to bring him home. I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous.

“I had written him frequently in the weeks he was gone. The program leaders delivered letters to the kids every Tuesday. I had poured out my soul to him in those letters, and slowly, like a young foal taking his first uncertain steps into a stream, he began to open himself to me.

“I had discovered through those letters a boy I never knew I had. He was full of questions and insights. I marveled at the depth and feeling within his heart. But most especially, there was a peace singing through his prose that had the effect of calming the heart of a father who feared that he’d driven away a son. Every letter sent, and every letter received, was a source of healing.

“As we covered the last few miles to the rendezvous point, I was overcome with the thought of what almost was—a bitterly divided father and son who had risked never knowing each other. At the brink of war—a war whose effects might have been felt for generations—we were saved by a miracle.

“Driving around the last dusty hill, I saw about a quarter of a mile away the dirtiest, scraggliest-looking group of kids that I’d ever seen—clothes worn and torn, stringy beards, hair two months’ past due for clippers. But as we neared them, out of that pack flew a lone boy, a boy whose now-lean figure I yet recognized through the dirt and grime. ‘Stop the car. Stop the car!’ I yelled at the driver. And out I darted to meet my son.

“He reached me in an instant and leaped into my arms, tears streaming down his dusty face. Through the sobs I heard, ‘I’ll never let you down again, Dad. I’ll never let you down again.’ ”

Lou stopped, choking back the memory of the moment.

“That he should feel that for me,” he continued, more slowly, “the one who had let him down, melted my heart.

“ ‘And I won’t let you down again, either, Son,’ I said.”

Lou paused, separating himself from his memory. Then he rose from his chair and looked at me with his kindly eyes. “Tom,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders, “the thing that divides fathers from sons, husbands from wives, neighbors from neighbors—the same thing divides coworkers from coworkers as well. Companies fail for the same reason families do. And why should we be surprised to discover that it’s so? For those coworkers I’m resisting are themselves fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters.

“A family, a company—both are organizations of people. That’s what we know and live by at Zagrum.

“Just remember,” he added, “we won’t know who we work and live with—whether it be Bud, Kate, your wife, your son, even someone like Chuck Staehli—until we leave the box and join them.”