Some of my posts here, if not just my most recent one, reveal that I care about doing the right thing. It’s also very important to me to speak up about injustices, those that are minor and those that affect us all. I don’t have to be impacted at all by the injustice—as a middle-aged white male, I’m unlikely to face much injustice in my life, especially in this country—but I will try to speak up for those who may face it in our country and abroad. I don’t really have a platform to make a difference on major issues. I certainly won’t help change minds by railing against those injustices in my elitist way on Facebook.
It’s better for me to engage these issues one-on-one and ask about what makes people think and feel a certain way. I know I’ve helped people individually open their eyes on certain issues. If I’m going to write about big, societal issues—and writing about them probably isn’t going to end up being my thing—I’m going to have to really give some consideration to whether my two-cents will actually make a difference. It probably won’t, especially with my relatively, um, low readership. (Start sharing these posts, folks!)
This leaves me with really only one serious option—especially for this space. That would be to stick to writing about what I know and love best, myself and my experiences. I could simply talk about my self all day. Should I start a podcast? Nah, as awesome as that would be—and as sweet as it would sound—I don’t think TedPod would have the reach that would make it worth my while. And I’m a much better writer than I am a raconteur, anyway. So, let me tell you about a time when I stood up and spoke my mind about hypocrisy in leadership.
We’ve all seen supervisors and manager who have exhibited
some form of hypocrisy. (Ahem. . . as a former manager and supervisor, there,
but for the grace of God, go I, and all that.) If you haven’t, well, I hope you
enjoy your first job someday. It’s easy to dismiss someone as a hypocrite. There’s
a lot of “do-as-I-say-not-as-do folks in positions of responsibility. It can
really be a dilemma deciding whether you should approach one of these
supervisors about what you may be perceiving as hypocritical.
Perhaps this person isn’t self-aware enough to realize that they’re demanding something from you that they aren’t, themselves, doing. Maybe they’ll thank you in front of everyone, shedding a tear as they realize how their inability to live up to the standard they’ve set has created an unhealthy tone for the organization. Maybe it’s created a hostile environment. Maybe there’s a lot of resentment out there, and people are just biding their time, waiting for an opportunity to move on.
But not anymore, because you’ve shown this leader that you’ve got moral courage. You’ve got gumption, kid. Moxie! And things are gonna be different from now on. We’re just going to give everyone the afternoon off, but that supervisor won’t take it off—well if only from active, direct supervision. That supervisor is going to stay in the office to reflect and maybe reread some books on leadership.
Or, possibly just as likely, that person is an asshole, and you done fucked up. You’re living under a microscope now, idiot!
One way to find out is the open-door policy. It’s a hallmark of American management. It may be a thing throughout Western Culture or even throughout the world, but I can only speak from my experience. This piece is, at best, unresearched. I have no idea if the Mercedes-Benz corporate offices in Stuttgart, Germany, have an open-door policy; or if the Cambodian sweatshop where the jeans I’m wearing were made has an open-door policy; or, I don’t know, if Osama Bin Laden had an open-door policy for Al Qaeda. I mean, sure, he was reportedly living in a cave for a while—so there was no “door” or whatever—but was he even approachable?
Anyway, open-door policies are an important leadership tool. Even if no one takes advantage of the policy, it shows—or at least gives the appearance—that the manager is open to feedback from the people on the front line, whether that “front line” is an assembly line in a factory, the sales department of an insurance office, or on the literal front lines in a combat unit.
I’ve taken advantage of open-door policies several times over the years. Usually, it’s been pretty casual—mostly in my civilian jobs. It’s generally just been constructive suggestions. But there was one time I used a first sergeant’s open-door policy when I was in the regular army. The situation seemed simple enough, if only because I was a foolish and young idealist.
The event that made me want to complain to, or rather, address an issue with the first sergeant happened during our battalion change of command in the summer of 1992—I think—in Crailsheim, Germany. The battalion, 5/2 ADA—the “Nickel-Deuce”—had a few days of practicing the pass in review bullshit, which was enough of a pain in the ass, on its own, without the added pressure of having to have things look perfect. Sure, it was a lieutenant colonel’s special day, but as a lower enlisted man at the time, I was not, how shall I put this, inspired to give a fuck.
Still, many of us, as professional soldiers, had no problem shining our boots and pressing our uniforms—those who’ve joined the army since 2006, enjoy your freedom from such drudgeries. Also, on such occasions, one had to blacken the eyelets on their LBE, their load-bearing equipment, the suspenders and pistol belt on which we carried canteens, ammo pouches, and other such tactical extrenea, for quick access.
The LBE had many brass eyelets, around drain holes in the ammo pouches and canteen covers, as well as every few inches around the pistol belt, for the hooks to connect the suspenders or other items. For a pass-in-review or a layout inspection, many people had a separate set of gear that they purchased new, for just such displays, so they would never have to worry about blackening all the brass parts with a Sharpie or, preferably, M’Nu—an old brand name for black out emblem refinisher that was perfect for such detail work.
Me, I didn’t feel like paying for all that shit, so I just used the gear that had been issued to me. I blackened the eyelets and clips and hooks and snaps and everything when the situation called for it, perhaps once every year or so. And then there, on the parade field in Crailsheim, as we prepared to line up for Lieutenant Colonel Parlier’s special day, we found one First Sergeant Arthur Kearney walking among us, looking over our uniforms and gear to make sure we were parade ready. He found one person in particular to call out, my friend, Private First Class—I’m pretty sure he was still PFC—Scott Garand.
Scott was a good guy—he still is. Now, he wouldn’t have been mistaken for a more aspirational soldier with a mind toward a longer career in uniform—like yours, truly—but he did his job. Lots of people enter the military to do their time and their jobs to get their education benefits, or whatever, and then get out. No big deal.
But why might I take issue with ol’ Top Kearney’s hounding of Scott? Surely, Scott knew what was expected of him on that day. Had he not made his own bed when his uniform wasn’t, as they say, squared away? Sure, but there was something that caught everyone else’s attention as Kearney berated Scott in front of all of us. It certainly wasn’t the unblackened brass on Scott’s gear. It was the nearly completely unblackened brass on Kearney’s.
I wasn’t surprised that a soldier would show-up after a week’s bitching about blackened eyelets without having put any effort into blackening a single goddamn eyelet. It was, however, rather surprising that the person who hadn’t squared his uniform away was the damn first sergeant who’d done literally all the bitching. Being squared away on shit like that is usually a foregone conclusion for most senior NCOs. That’s, like, their thing.
Seeing such a display of looking like a pile of shit (in a military sense), I took action. I had a Sharpie in my pocket, many of us did. It was common practice to touch-up the eyelets before such a parade; there was always someone who needed it. Usually though, it wasn’t the fucking first sergeant. So, I went right up by First Sergeant Kearney, held that Sharpie in the air, and started calling out, “Does anyone need a Sharpie? I’ve got a Sharpie, right here! Sharpie, anyone?”
Was that a little passive-aggressive? Yes, but it was also hilarious, and at that point, I had the sense not to call him out. Quite a few people noticed me announcing my willingness to share my Sharpie. Ol’ First Sergeant Kearney was not among them, apparently, for he went through the ceremony looking like that aforementioned pile of shit (in a military sense).
This, as you may have surmised, did not sit well with young Specialist Perrin, so I went to my section’s leaders, Sergeants Obluck, Barnhart, and Walker, and I explained to them that I felt Kearney’s display of do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do leadership went beyond mere hypocrisy. Such a display, especially at Garand’s expense, was, in fact, bullshit. Obluck, Barnhart, and Walker, they agreed with me, and they had a suggestion for me to deal with it.
“Teddy,” they said—not in unison, of course, I just don’t remember who actually gave voice to the suggestion. And yes, they called me “Teddy.” We were rather informal in the Nickel Deuce Headquarters Battery Commo Section. “Teddy,” they said, “You should go talk to him under his open-door policy.” They assured me that he had always been fair with them. He had been a fairly good first sergeant leading up to this one notably hypocritical incident. Maybe he was a good guy, too, and maybe he was open to honest feedback from the troops under his charge. I mean, he had seemed pretty cool, at times.
I went forth to discover how cool he actually was. I found him outside the orderly room.
“Excuse me, first sergeant, can I speak with you for a minute? Sergeant Walker suggested that I talk to you under your open-door policy.” I’m not sure which name I used. I certainly didn’t say that all three had made the suggestion. I think Walker had seniority over the others, so I’ll just use his name. It’s not important.
“What is it, Specialist Perrin,” he replied.
So, I told him what it was. It hadn’t sat right with me that he’d singled out Garand, who was probably doing his best, especially when, he, as the first sergeant, hadn’t taken care of his own gear.
He paused for a moment and gave me a look. And would you believe that he apologized? “You know, I’m sorry, Perrin. I just get caught-up in all the work of being a first sergeant, and I sometimes forget that I’m a soldier first. I let you down. I let all the men in the battery down.” Here he paused and took a deep breath. “And I let Garand down, too. I let him down most of all. I think I’ll go to his supervisor right now to make sure he’s put in for his promotion. Thank you, Specialist Perrin. We need more men like you in this army, men with moral courage. Thank you so much. You’ll be one hell of an NCO someday.”
Would you believe that? I mean, you’ll probably believe just about anything I write, but I don’t understand why you’d believe that. It’s just not a TedBlog type of story. I did not find out that First Sergeant Kearney was “cool” or that he was a “good guy.” I found out that he was an “asshole.” He did, however, pause for a moment and give me a look, though.
But after that look, he proceeded to tear me a new one or go up one side and down the other. Pick whatever metaphor you want. He gave me a dressing down. He put me in my place. Whatever. I was definitely failing to see the merits of approaching him under his open-door policy.
He explained to me that I did not know his job, nor did I see what he did with his time. Blah-blah-blah and on and on for a few minutes, closing with a warning that I’d better watch myself because he would be watching me. Whatever I did, I’d better be right, for when I ultimately messed up, I would surely regret it.
One, immediate regret was that I hadn’t asked Walker or one of the other NCOs to come with me. When I went back to the section, they all had a good laugh. “Dam, Teddy, that’s fucked up. I guess it wasn’t such a good idea to go see him under his open-door policy.” No, it was not. And no, I don’t think they set me up. I think they honestly thought he wasn’t that bad.
But here’s the thing, see. Although fucking Art Kearney claimed that I did not “see what he did with his time,” I had, in fact, seen what he did with his time. Everyone on the post saw what he did with his goddamn time. This motherfucker had an off-duty job delivering pizzas for the PX. That’s what he did with his time. Me, being a relatively quick learner, I did not explain to him that, yes, I had actually seen what he did with his time. I just had to fume for a while and bide my time.
A couple of weeks later some friends and I were drinking in the barracks, and we decided to order some pizza. This guy named Art delivered it. I was still stinging from the rebuke, and I bristled at his cheerful greeting. After he left, we realized that there was a mistake in our order. I don’t remember who called the PX about the error, but I clearly remember telling him to “Let ‘em know that Art guy fucked it up.”
You’d think having at least half a brain and having been warned, that I’d use that half-brain and not fuck up under Kearney’s watch. Nope. Six months or so later, I missed a Friday evening formation. That wasn’t the fuck-up. I think I’d been on some kind of “run” or whatever for work or something. I don’t remember. I do remember the staff duty runner waking me up early Saturday morning because I was late for my duty doing headcount at the mess hall. I guess the new duty roster had been announced during that Friday formation. Oops.
During Monday morning’s formation Kearney announced that I had to see him afterward—not that I could truly see him, for I was a specialist, and therefore, unqualified—he told me that I was his the next Saturday. Fine. I accepted my fate.
I’m not going to say I was disappointed, but he must have forgotten to be laser-focused on his vengeance for my impertinence during one of his tours of duty delivering pizza. The extra duty that weekend was just sitting outside his stupid office writing an essay about accountability or some bullshit like that. He just kept me there for a few hours and then barely glanced at my work. I was free after a quick, “You wanna be an NCO, Perrin, you gotta be responsible for knowing where you’re supposed to be and being there on time.”
“Roger that, first sergeant,” and I was done. Luckily, I was generally a decent soldier, so he had time to chill before I made a mistake, so even more luckily (luckilier?), his bark had been worse than his bite.
If I could tell Art one thing—and I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me now if he couldn’t even remember my faux pas long enough for me to really regret calling him out—I’d tell him that I didn’t mean anything I wrote in that essay. It was definitely not heartfelt, and I’ve been chronically late for just about everything since I left the regular army, probably as some kind of subconscious “fuck you” to that Art guy.
On the other hand, though, I sure as hell learned something about open-door policies. I mean, I didn’t completely forsake them. I’ve had supervisors and managers that I could genuinely communicate and be honest with. I’ve also had some that definitely would not have been pleased with honest feedback. For the most part, I’ve known who was who. That being said, I’ve generally avoided giving any supervisor or manager any feedback that they might take too personally before my final review has been signed. That just makes good sense.
So, yeah, be careful of those open-door policies. That door may open to an asshole. But be especially careful if the person opening that door has just finished publicly announcing—before all their charges—that they are an incredibly hypocritical asshole. Such an asshole does not want your feedback.
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