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Lead with passion, humility, & strength
Sometimes the things that you think are going to cause you to stumble may propel you forward. Four of five evenings last week I committed myself to attend events on campus. While each event was very different from the others, my purpose was to support students. I also knew that three of the events would afford me the opportunity to interact with students in at least three different demographic student groups on our campus – international students, fraternity and sorority life, and students from the residence halls.
Contrary to what some students believe, I do not spend my free time trolling them. I am concerned about their individual and collective strides toward academic success, physical and mental well-being, and safety. Sometimes it feels like I melt into the woodwork of the historic building on the south side of campus right after new student orientation ends each summer. I feel like I adopt the persona of a fictitious character who is characterized by students as a person half tin man, half wizard from that imaginary land in Dorothy’s dream. As the leader of the conduct office, I often say that I run a triage. Life in a triage can be hectic, chaotic, unpredictable, and complicated. I spend most days directing traffic and putting out fires. Although my leadership role provides ample opportunity to help students and other campus partners sort through behavioral concerns, I often miss the chance to interact with students outside of my office or students not connected to the issues that connected them to my office. There are many times that I feel that the students and others in the community are fine to just distance themselves from me because of the nature of my job. When I speak to college students who either choose to lead or who find that their peers want them as leaders, I tell them several things that I have learned from leading. While leadership is tough and lonely, it can also be exhilarating, exciting, and gratifying. It is tough to know that your decision will likely change the course of the life of a student or student group. It is tough to hear the details of some of the things that trouble people on the campus. It’s even tough some days to separate from the things I hear or see during the course of a day. It is also very cool when a student says something like, “As much as I didn’t like being held accountable for what I did, your office is ‘hella cool!”
I don’t remember which student called my office “hella cool” a couple of years ago, but I learned from that student the value of being relatable to those I serve. As a result of that lesson from a student, I said yes to opportunities to be in the presence of students in places designed for them last week. I left the security of my Lake Level campus home. Honestly, I shook my head at myself for saying yes to four nights of events after long work days. One night I would be an audience member listening to view points of international students. Two nights I would be a judge and the last night a mistress of ceremonies for an event. I worried that the students would not receive me well. I wondered if students ever imagine that the conduct lady even cares about their thoughts or feelings. The truth is that I care about understanding them, the culture of the community, and how to create and implement programs and educational opportunities to help them develop life skills for campus living and for life beyond the college bubble. I consider myself a thread in a safety net on the campus cast to brace them if they fall while learning how to be grownups.
I am driven by my passion to save kids from themselves. I am driven by my passion to build healthy, supportive villages around young people to guide them personally and professionally. I guess I am passionate about teaching people the benefit of time spent learning from other people. In the leadership community, these cool experiences are referred to as mentor-mentee relationships. Mentor-mentee relationships are excellent tools for learning and relationship building. This week I remembered that the mentor can learn from the mentee. This week taught me that the mentor can learn from the teaching moments crafted specifically for the mentee. My mentees made me a better leader.
I want to encourage leaders to let others see and feel their passion for the work they do. I want leaders to lead with their minds open to hear the comments of those who benefit from their service. Leaders must remember that they are serving others even if they are entrusted with some authority to make decisions. When great leaders lead, the conversation and the focus is more about the plans to improve the station of those they serve than about them. When great leaders lead, they move with urgency and intensity in a direction that takes everyone closer to the goal. Recently, in a yoga class the teacher lead us into the “humble warrior” pose. Immediately, I thought about the seemingly diametrically opposite words that describe many of the most favored leaders – humble and warrior. Great leaders temper their pride and ego-centered thoughts with the humble attitude of a servant. Great leaders, like warriors, prepare, plan, and pursue the missions and objectives with a passionate pursuit of excellence.
Last week I stepped out of my comfort zone and sacrificed some free time to hang out with students in spaces designed with their input and for their enjoyment. Often young people spend their time concerned about how they will be perceived and considering how they will fit in at the places they choose to go. I found myself every might having the same concerns. My hope is that more leaders will go into spaces that make them a little uncomfortable and permit themselves to relax into the environment and experience the people they serve in a way they may not have experienced in the past. I learned something at every event. I met new people and forged new relationships with students, campus partners, and members of the University alumni counsel. I danced. I sang. I ate sweet treats and good food. I got to do life with the people who matter. I go to do life with the students who are the reason that I do the things I do.
Big Mama
Yesterday, I went to do a little self-care at a local nail salon. The young woman who checked me in was so courteous. She was so hospitable that I took notice of her and I paid close attention to how she interacted with other folks in the salon. Her grace and kindness came as easy to her as the “Yes Ma’am’s” she coupled with her smiles. After observing and praising her in my head, I asked the nail technicians in earshot, “Where’s she from?” I was not surprised when they replied, “Um, somewhere in the South.”
I couldn’t say that everybody from the south addressed folks with a handle, or title, but I was reminded of my paternal grandmother, Big Mama, who demanded that the answer to any questions she asked of a child end with “Yes Ma’am,” “No Ma’am,” “Yessum,” or “No’um.” There was no exception to that rule and I haven’t been able to think of one child who dared not follow her directive. The young technicians in the shop became interested in the southern practices because the young woman and I had a few similar experiences. One of them asked what would have happened if I had chosen to address Big Mama without a “Yes Ma’am” or similar phrase. I laughed and said, “I have no idea.” I don’t think any child was brave enough to ignore her “request.” It would have been interpreted as disrespect. So, I proceeded to tell them about Big Mama.
Big Mama’s real name was Ora Lee. She was a “pleasantly plump” woman who was closer to short than she was to tall. Her flat forehead and long, straight dark hair spoke of her blended heritage. Big Mama said she was Black and Native American. I had no reason to doubt her because she believed in the power of the things born from the earth and she devoted her life to healing people through the spiritual compass within her. She believed in becoming one with the land and listening for the voice of the Lord. Little was known about her past because she hid that part of her someplace and she kept that place securely locked. However, she overcame her sorted past and gained wisdom on that journey. Her journey fortified her to stand as the matriarch for our family and the community. I wish I could remember all of the home remedies and wives’ tales Big Mama practiced. Yesterday, I laughed as I recalled a few memories of time spent with Big Mama.
Big Mama took seriously the Biblical directive to walk around Jericho to demonstrate the power of the Holy Spirit. Big Mama once ran circles around a church congregation to seal them in the Spirit. Nobody said she was speaking in tongues, but I am pretty sure there were words coming out of her mouth as she ran laps around the sanctuary “covering” the place with the Spirit. I wrote a blog about that special moment at a church in Montgomery in a post entitled “Spirit Filled.” (See http://wp.me/p6L8u0-5W ) That story made me laugh then and I laughed yesterday while telling it. Big Mama caught those folks off guard and their response was priceless.
There was another time when Big Mama came to our house and Mama started talking about the garden in the backyard. Mama usually grew tomatoes, cucumbers, bell pepper, and okra. That year, the okra crop must have been lagging behind the growth of the other crops if Mama was concerned. Big Mama, a strict disciplinarian, heard Mama’s concern and offered a solution. Big Mama was so strict that she told me that I would be committing a sin if I played a game that required cards or dice. So, no card games and no board games with dice when Big Mama was around. She also stressed that secular music was of the devil so you dared to play any music other than a church tune when Big Mama was present. Big Mama had a strict interpretation of Biblical principals. She expected people and things to obey her. She interpreted the Bible to mean that humans were in charge of the earth and the things that dwelled on the earth. When Big Mama heard about the scarcity of Mama’s okra crop, Big Mama marched out of the house and into the backyard. On her way to the garden, she broke a switch off of one of the trees and proceeded to spank the okra. As she whooped it, she chastised it and told it to grow. Initially, there was shock. Then, there was robust laughter. That story made all of us laugh in the salon yesterday and I giggle every time I think about Big Mama in her ankle length dress with her crucifix hanging from her neck giving the gospel to the okra.
I loved Big Mama. She called me “Tim” instead of “Kim” my whole life. I have no idea why she never pronounced my name correctly. I always answered to “Tim” and I never challenged her on the pronunciation of my name. Big Mama had the belief that once “You put teen on their age they think they grown.” As a result, I didn’t get a birthday present from her after I turned thirteen. Big Mama fascinated me because she didn’t complete grade school, but she could read the Bible and count money. She had a gift of healing and her instincts about people were generally on point. She told me when I was about twelve or thirteen that I would do something special. I often wonder if I have done that “special” something yet. I wish that I had been mature enough to sit with her more often and for longer periods of time to listen to her talk about natural cures for all sorts of illnesses, and to hear her talk about how she seasoned the food she cooked, and to hear her laugh with her whole body when she recounted funny stories about other people she knew. Big Mama always told me that I was smart and she made believe that I was teaching her how to compute simple math equations. One of my takeaways from my time with Big Mama was to be respectful to God and to my elders. Big Mama also taught me to be true to what I believed in and to share my faith with others through prayer and giving. Big Mama taught me to encourage young people to believe in themselves and to believe in the power of the village. I hope that we can all walk in the legacy of my Big Mama and bless people with transparency, humor, and compassionate hearts.
The Sound of Love
Daddy used to say, “Ooowee, Lola, Buddy made that horn talk!” My daddy called my brother Buddy and almost everyone else called my brother “Butch.” Although my brother answered to at least two nicknames, the name Mama gave him was Charles which made my brother a junior. People called my brother “Cooper, Jr” in order to distinguish him from Daddy. Butch and Daddy didn’t look just alike, but but they had very similar names and very similar professional paths. It made sense that the folks added “Junior” to my brother’s name when they spoke about him.
Butch and Daddy both graduated from Alabama State University in Montgomery, Alabama. My father played baseball there and my brother’s claim to fame was being the head drum major of the Marching Hornets in the late sixties. When Butch graduated from college, he went to work at a high school about thirty miles from Montgomery where Daddy was the vice principal. Daddy and Butch went to work at Autaugaville High School in 1970 to begin the process of integrating public schools in that rural Alabama county. Daddy had a master’s degree in administration, my brother had a bachelor’s degree in music, and their new principal had a degree in agriculture. In my opinion, their working relationship enhanced their relationship as father and son. In addition, they grew to respect each other as professionals working in a challenging environment. Daddy had the chance to mentor Butch as a young educator who wanted to use his gift of music to change the lives of the young people at the school.
Daddy was very proud of the fact that my brother was the first band director at the school. Daddy was also proud that my brother was well-prepared for the role of band director. Daddy supported my brother’s passion to be a musician from the time that Butch was a young boy. Butch, our sister, and me took piano lessons from the same piano teacher, Ms. Black. At some point, Ms. Black told my mother that Butch had a natural gift for music, but she didn’t think the piano was the instrument for him at that time in his life. Apparently, boys teased him about playing the piano so Daddy bought him a horn. As I recall, Daddy found someone in the neighborhood who had an alto saxophone for sale for $40. My dad paid the man ten dollars that day and gave the man the balance when he got paid. I really think my brother used that horn to get him out of years of chores like cutting grass, making beds, and doing laundry. Daddy often boasted that he made the statement that, “As long as Butch was practicing that horn, I would support him.” (Let me just say that by the time I came along the level of expectation changed and practicing a horn was not enough to eliminate a chore list.) Butch practiced, found his passion, and his voice through music. He loved music and invested himself in music to become one with everything that generated sounds. He became an amazing musician who blessed the world for many years with musical abilities. His first love was the alto saxophone, but his heart made room for many instruments over the years. He was not a classically trained musician, but his delivery was classic. He hit minor chords in a major way and the sax could make runs and scat like the best vocalists.
Mama, like Daddy, recognized the that the boy had talent so she would “invite” him to play or sing at every church program Old Ship A.M.E. Zion Church sponsored. Once the planning committees announced the themes and the dates of the annual events, Mama would call Butch and “ask” him to put the dates on his calendar. She made sure to tell him what selection she thought most appropriate for each event. Butch would oblige and the audiences were never disappointed. Most of the time he played a hymn my mother liked on his alto saxophone. When he had a pianist to accompany him, he would integrate smooth tenor vocals into the performance. In recent years, we have joked about him being the oldest kid slated for the church programs. He laughed about how Mama never saw it as odd that her really grown son was on the same program as the youngest members of the church family.
When I was in the seventh grade, I wanted to enroll in band class. Although I knew that he was a band director, it was then that I first appreciated how much he knew about musical instruments. I learned that he could play more than one instrument. He played the flute, the guitar, the saprano sax, the bongos, the keyboard, and all of those random percussion instruments I didn’t know had a function in a band. I began to understand the breadth of knowledge he had about music. I realized he was a master of music and that his commitment to the sound was deeper than the pitch or tone made by a person playing one instrument. He spoke about balance between the horns, woodwinds, and percussion and the need to produce a harmonious product for the audience. He was concerned about the details in the music and the heart of the musicians. Conversations with him about music turned the space into a laboratory and he was the head chemist in charge. Most of the time I didn’t really want to know the science behind the sound. I just wanted to hear the sound. My brother taught me to make the effort to hear the heart of the artist when I listened to music. Hanging out in his makeshift laboratories taught me to appreciate the ability of music to reach the heart of a human soul then influence emotions, thoughts, and actions. It seemed that his goal with every performance and in every composition was to create a moment that would allow his love of the music and his hope that the music would meet the heart of a listener and transfer his passion and the pureness of the spirit he invested into the sound. My brother loved the sound because it carried his expressive messages. He loved the fact that he could mix chords, blend instruments, write lyrics, and deliver all of it in a perfectly timed melody intented to empower folks to love the sound and be made alive because of the sound.
My brother was seventeen years old when I was born. He graduated from high school two months before I was born. He was old enough to be my father and that made for an interesting relationship between us. I looked to him to shelter me like a big brother, yet I hated it when he wanted to protect me like he was my dad. Because of the age gap, we never really lived in the same house so I looked forward to the announcement that he would be stopping by the house or to his surprise drop in visits. Because of the age gap, I didn’t have the privilege of hearing my brother play gigs anywhere except in the garage at the house when his band, the “I-85 Express” practiced. They would play hits from the rhythm and blues chart and the pop chart. One time he gave me the microphone and let me sing the female vocals with the band. That was cool and scary at the same time. Until then, I was used to him singing lead or leading family sing-a-longs. It was also common for him to sing happy birthday to family members on their special days. Once, when I was a freshman in college, he did the unexpected and he called me early one morning to sing Stevie Wonder’s song, “I Just Called To Say I Love You.” That was one of the sweetest things he had ever done. The funny part of the story was that he later admitted that he dialed the wrong number the first time he tried to call me and he woke up some girl down the hall from me. I loved that he called me “kiddo” and always wanted to know what I had going on in my world. He was the big brother who wanted to make me laugh. He aimed to impress upon me the need to own my intelligence and to think of myself as “pretty.” He would tell me that he was proud of me and end conversations with “love you girl” and his infamous “virtual hugs.”
My brother’s name became synonymous with music. He took pride in the science of the sound and he worked his craft with great discipline. He wanted his family, friends, and students to appreciate music beyond the notes on the page. He wanted his audiences to love the sound and appreciate the artistry and science that produced the sound. There were times when I just wanted the answer to the question, the short version of the tale from the band room, or for him to just sing the song, but got a lecture or demonstration to make a point about the methodology behind the tune. My brother believed that there was no substitute for hard work and that musicians should not make excuses when they fell short on reaching a task or goal. When he wasn’t playing, he was thinking about playing or arranging the next band drill. He stayed in planning mode orchestrating the next thing for the band he was directing, the church choir, or gig that was on his radar. My brother spent his time away from work working on music. I know that because he took me with him to the music store downtown to pick up instruments that he left to be repaired, to look at refurbished instruments that he could afford on the meager high school band budget, or to select sheet music for the upcoming marching or concert band performances. My brother loved music shops like my technically driven Daddy loved stores that sold picture tubes and radio parts. At the time, it seemed like his extra effort was too much and unnecessary. Now I know that without his extra effort some kid might never have had an instrument, his high school band would not have been invited to play at two NFL games, and a lot students would have missed out on college scholarships.
Butch expected excellence from himself as a musician and from musicians he performed with and those he taught. He led bands with pride and competence. He expected hard work, precision, and passion in performances. My brother has been fighting a good fight against a vicious opponent for about three years. He has fought gallantly and with resilience and pride. Even with chinks in his armor, he has continued to hold his ground and reestablish himself when his footing was challenged. I love my brother and the lessons he has transferred from his years as a musician to this life challenge. He has lived out one of the messages to his students over the years to never quit and to give your best in whatever you do. Recently, he told me that he continues to believe that he will “get better before [he] gets worse.” Even now, he has shown himself a resourceful leader who in the face of a challenge made a new way; he took new paths when needed to overcome the adversity in his life. In addition to the lessons on hard work, accountability, pride, passion, resilience, resourcefulness, and strength he has taught over the years, that statement taught me the benefit of believing in yourself and the mission and the benefit of maintaining a proper perspective while you show up to deal with whatever your challenge might be any given moment of any given day.
His heart lived in his music. The sound of his music delivered his heart to me. I am thankful that I will always have the sound of his love for me in my heart. I wrote this so that he and everyone else would know how much I have always cherished him and his gift. I want him to read this and know that I heard all of the love he has for me in every sound he blew from his horns and in every melody he sang. I want him to know that I love that he shared his love with me. To my brother, with love!
Motivated by My Special Relationship with Death
Death burns like an ember left in the fire pit. The ember signals the end of a fire that provided an audience for the living whether the fire is in the backyard pit or a bonfire before a rival football game or a campfire at a youth camp. The fire beckons the living to draw near. The fire provides light and warmth for those who answer the call. For those living in the distance, the benefit of the fire is an awakened imagination enhanced by wonderment and reflection. It sounds rather cliché to say that people make cool memories around a communal fire, but it is true. While I don’t remember specific conversations from my time around the fire pit, I do remember feeling alive. That type of experience provided a forum for conversation, laughter, and relationship building. The fire seems to have enough power to permeate the walls that separate communities and at least get people to enjoy the same space for a moment. Life focused on the light, warmth, and the wonder of a fire, leaves no space for thoughts of the fading embers and death. Something that created a communal vibe and breathed positive energy among a group of people is also symbolic of the cycle of life.
Death lives with me even though I have never considered it a friend. Death reminds me of that nosey neighbor whose company is never the mission, but who I know spends a lot of time peeking into my world for any glimpse of what it must be like to be me. Death is a bothersome, abrupt end to a relationship with the world. Every day that I live I overcome death. However, every day of life gives death opportunity to loom over me like hovering rainclouds. Seeing the clouds pregnant with change brings anticipation and consideration about the unknown. I am left wondering at what exact moment nature will dampen my life with a storm. When will death be relevant in my life again?
I had the blessing and the curse of being raised by older parents. The blessing of their wisdom housed in bodies weathered by the experiences that made them wise. My father died about twenty years ago after a lengthy, complicated relationship with heart disease. He had a love affair with stress and cigarettes that resulted in death teasing us for years with phantom knocks on our door. Mama lived on after his death to share stories about his life, their lives together, and the legacy they wanted to leave behind. Daddy always said he wanted to die a quick death and he did. On the other hand, residuals from Mama’s stroke and subsequent seizures frustrated her for about six years until she died a little over two years ago. Daddy refused the last surgery that might have extended the life expectancy of his heart and Mama said, “My brain doesn’t match my mouth.” Mama and Daddy always said to live life with your head and your heart. They encouraged me to live life passionately and with thoughtful, considerate decision making. Ironically, it was the malfunctioning of her brain and his heart that quieted their voices and quenched the kindling spirits within them. Watching Mama and Daddy flirt with death for so many years didn’t make me any more comfortable with end of life discussions or preparation for the finality of death.
Everything in me resists death talk like being forced to wear heels and pantyhose for more than a couple of hours on a hot summer day. Even if I could limit the conversations, I couldn’t separate from the sight of my dying loved ones. As much as the thought of being without their physical presence saddened me, I appreciated the resilience and courage that lives in a dying person. Good church folks talk a lot about life over yonder and the transition to a place with many mansions in the sky. Unfortunately, when the fire of one who warms my spirit becomes a burning ember of a smoldering fire, death is like the nosey neighbor imposing unexpected confidence that brings him knocking at my door. Death is complex in that it arouses competing thoughts and emotions. How does something representative of lifelessness ignite movement and motivation? I don’t know how it does it, but I know it does. Maybe it has something to do with the cycle of life and the need for mankind and the universe to continue to exist.
After Daddy died, I remember struggling to recall the details of our last conversation. After Mama died, I remember thinking, “If I had known that it would be the last time we…., I would have done something differently.” The thoughts I had after death called Mama and Daddy made me thankful that I supported my loved ones in the best ways I could so that I would not have to live with regret. Death motivated me to do all that I could do to honor them after death in the celebrations of their lives. Because I was forced to be more intimate with death than I ever dreamed I would be, I was moved to come to terms with the truth that we each have a limited amount of time to contribute to the greater good. Death motivated me to be present in moments with those I care about because I never know when it might be the last time I did anything with that person. Familiarity with death moved me to use my voice and to express my passions out loud in service to others while I have the blessing of time. I challenge my audience to learn from my relationship with death. I want to inspire my audience to live life out loud every day and to value the relationships in their lives.
Sewing Machines and Quilting Bees
There have been days like today that I needed a reminder not to get caught up in negative thoughts. I reminded myself not to let those negative thoughts dictate the tone and pace of my day. I went to sleep last night feeling like a remnant of a bright, sturdy, textured sheet of fabric – relatable yet frustrated with the separation from my normal by some situations that were out of my control but connected enough that I was left feeling like the remnant after the shearing. When I was a child, my mother, her sisters, my grandmother, and my sister sewed. While Aunt Willie Mae was the master seamstress, the others could lay a pattern and piece together an outfit suitable to be worn outside the house.
I have memories of visiting fabric stores with my Mama when I was child. We would spend time sitting and flipping through the pages of very large, heavy books that contained pictures of all sorts of clothing one could make by following the pattern instructions. Mama’s favorite fabric store had a section with rows of chairs placed around a long, wooden table with a slanted top that seemed to be specially made to hold the pattern books. The pattern books were the do-it-yourself manuals for fashion. There were catalogs for at least four or five companies and Mama would take more time looking through the catalog books that suited her taste or wardrobe needs at the time. Each item of clothing in a catalog was assigned a number. I sat next to Mama and dreamed about which outfits someone could make for me. Until now, I hadn’t considered that the exposure to women who made clothing contributed greatly to the development of both sides of my brain. The exposure taught me to appreciate those who mastered a trade then used it to serve the village.
After selecting the pattern, we walked around the store evaluating fabrics and notions until we found the combination of things to help us create a perfect outfit. Mama paid for her items then headed home to continue the process. Positioning the cloth on the bed took care in order to ensure that the fabric laid flat and taut. Next, Mama would open the package that contained delicate sheets of grayish brown paper with black markings. Mama trusted me to help cut out select pattern pieces, but not all of them. Unlike cutting out paper doll clothes, one had to use care not to cut the wrong lines of the pattern pieces on these delicate sheets of paper. There were solid lines, dotted and segmented lines and curved lines. Just being entrusted with scissors and allowed to stand near the pattern and the cloth was a privilege. I accepted the privilege with the level of responsibility and seriousness warranted by such an assignment.
I graduated to pinning the pattern to the fabric. As I recalled ,that task involved a round, tomato looking pin cushion and strategic placement of pattern pieces. We needed to make certain that each necessary piece found a place on the cloth. It was a real life two-dimensional puzzle soon to be transformed into a three-dimensional dream. Honestly, I believe that I am more excited about the potential and the process now than I was as a child. Seeing the finished product brought the thrill of accomplishment and the pride of persistent passion. I had witnessed the care invested into the process from beginning to end by the women in my family who stitched the garments. The women worked with an eye toward the details of the artistic piece of clothing. Moreover, the women loved and respected for the garment and the future owner of the garment who at every fitting realized the time for owning the envisioned piece of clothing was growing nearer.
The floor in and around the cutting table (Mama’s bed) was always littered with threads and randomly shaped pieces of beautifully colored, textured cloth. Like the cloth that found a path to the floor, I felt aimless and separated from the master plan. I could only imagine those odd-shaped shreds of fabric felt unlucky and without purpose. Would the separated pieces have chosen this station or was there excitement about the road less taken? As I considered my station this morning, I felt much like the discarded fabric pieces and I certainly didn’t feel like I chose these feelings for myself last evening or this morning. While there were so many things that gave my personal world light, color, and texture, my head and my heart were fastened to the heaviness of my week and the uncertainty of my future. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” This morning I felt like the remnants cut away from the pinned pattern pieces on the cloth. I felt like that discarded cloth trying to understand the journey so that I could convince my head and my heart that I had not yet reached a destination. Thank God for a pen and paper and for the women whose DNA owns me. Thank goodness that the lessons we learn and share during our journeys do not end when we reach our destination. Those distinct sounds of those Singer sewing machines are long gone, but the lessons from my DNA donors live on. The women taught me that the scraps from the cloth purposefully supported the making of the envisioned piece. The women, in my family, taught me that just because I couldn’t see a purpose for the cloth that was cut away from the pattern it didn’t mean the remnants had no purpose or use. I learned that there was value in the remnants.
In our family, the journey of the uniquely shaped, assorted fabric pieces led to the needling together of family heirlooms that warmed us for years to come. I began to think about all of the random pieces in my life right now and how the pieces seem to have no logical connection to me. Unlike Mama, I know that I am not the master seamstress in this masterful work, but I must trust that what appears unintended and without meaning will manifest itself as a perfectly purposeful and useful design. The banner on my blog site was created from a picture taken by me of a quilt made by women in my family. I hope that my audience will see it and remember that many random and seemingly useless things can create a beautiful and purposeful end. Living is in the journey and the journey is enhanced by the outliers. The goal is not to limit the potential of our most grand dreams by missing the benefit and usefulness of the pieces you needed to cut away. Once you complete the logical, intended mission, see how the things you needed to cut away might contribute to the elevation of you, your dreams, and those around you.
The Blessing of Unexpected Learning Outcomes
While participating in a national conduct administrator conference, I attended a panel discussion to learn more about paths taken by four student conduct department heads from four different college campuses. After the detailed introductions, the panel moderator who was also a panelist announced that the panel members would each respond to a list of scripted questions before answering impromptu questions from the audience.
The first question asked by the moderator read something like this: “When did you decide that you wanted to lead a student conduct office?” Immediately, after asking the question, he answered the question. He explained that becoming a student conduct office administrator in higher education had been his goal for many years. He further explained that he planned his course of study and selected professional opportunities keeping in mind the end of being the leader of a student conduct office. Before I applauded his goal setting and persistent pursuit of the target, my mind wandered. I am certain that I missed something between his discussion about the rigor of his EdD degree (as compared to a PhD program) and his introduction of the next speaker. I am certain because my thought bubble read something like this: “This question could relate to any leadership role.” Once the thought bubble filled with my thoughts, the panel was silent to me. The panel was silent in the way that the ball game goes silent when the television has the game on the screen, but the volume is turned off. I took a mental detour from their well-planned journey of shared experiences so that I could explore my own thoughts.
I reflected on my paths to leadership and observed that I had many accounts of me ending up in leadership roles that were unintended when I was introduced to an organization, task, or cause. While I appreciated the process that placed the moderator in a leadership role, I knew that life for most folks, namely me, seldom presented in such an organized process that ended in a person being elevated to the role of leader. However, the mental exercise that followed his question kept me on an organized, scripted path. This type of organized process fed my natural bent toward developing a plan and then working said plan. His comments aligned perfectly with the belief system and the practices of Type A, overachiever like me. I thought, “It’s pretty exciting when the goal(s) and the outlined plan resulted in the likely outcome.” Then, I realized there seemed to be a stark contrast in the process of the thoughtful planner who chose a path that earned her a leadership position and the person I described as seldom having a specific plan of action specifically designed to earn her the role of leader of a group, task, or cause. This acknowledgment that leadership roles have found me more often than I have sought out leadership made me wrestle with my belief that stability and routine were foundational keys to my success as a leader.
My parents were career educators who taught primarily in rural Alabama. Most of my childhood I lived in the same house so I grew up believing that I would have one job in the same southern city close to all things familiar to me. I married a man who was the son of a soldier and his family moved frequently. They lived in many cities in the United States and abroad. Because of this transient lifestyle, he has welcomed change for as long as I can recall. He has regularly talked about the benefits of becoming comfortable with change and the practice of inviting new beginnings and adventure. Most of my adult life I have resisted change and failed to see the hopeful adventure of relocation or starting on a new course. How did my initial thoughts about there being many routes to the same end take me to this train of thought? How was it possible for me to be engaged in an this tangential dialogue in my head if there were many very different routes available to produce good paths and leadership roles for the person traveling those respective paths. How did I end up in a mental exercise sorting through what I believed were life challenges caused by my personality traits?
My lengthy aside from the panel discussion proved a fruitful blessing. I learned that I placed myself in a box sealed with fear of change, dread of the unknown, and insecurity about possibilities in the name of monotony, external expectations of others, and limited opportunities. The truth of me, and a lot of us, is that we instinctively live life way outside of those boxes every day. For me, and for many, we thrive in environments that breath the oxygen of color, vibrancy, and fluid change even if we often forget or fail to realize that is what we are doing. We live our lives being contributors to our spaces in ways that we hope will liven those in our spaces and that will energize us to give more. The truth is that we are not machines built by the folks who work to build those boxes around us.
My takeaways from the panel discussion were likely not the intended learning outcomes of the presenters. Nonetheless, I believed that I received the teachable moment I needed from the session. I realized that I subconsciously allowed myself to let one of those boxes be erected around me. I had become comfortable living out the anxious patterns of one who believed that the normal created by others defined my normal and my best circumstance. I sat in that room proud that my hypothesis that my end as a leader in higher education was still a good thing even though my script was different than that the moderator. I also learned that I was not as limited and controlled by fear of change, unexplainable circumstances, and an unknown ending as I thought. I learned that as a leader, I innately possessed the ability to manage change, unexpected events, and unpredictable occurrences. How did I ever let myself get caught up in the narrow-minded thinking that limited my growth potential?
Although I encourage students daily to use the lyrics of Jon Foreman and “make their wrong note a melody,” I realized after that panel discussion that I missed countless opportunities to apply that lesson to my own life. Through this positive affirmation exercise, I found strength and empowerment in the realization that I have successfully spent most of my life confronting the fear of change and the discomfort of uncertainty. The self-exploration gave me the ability to see that I had the ability to blend my Type A personality and my unscripted journeys. What I previously explained as conflicting principles, I began to define as a cool life balance. Suddenly, I saw that the strength and the perceived weakness served me well in leadership. I hope that my audience of leaders, the youthful and the more seasoned, will first identify the challenges that they believe limit their progress. Then, with lenses of positivity and life experiences, discover that they have already been doing the things they believed they might not be able to overcome. My hope is that the blessing of enlightenment and empowerment of the leader will strengthen the village.
The A, B, C’s of Leadership
“The A, B, C’s of Leadership”
Since my youth, I have been fascinated with the student of leadership models. However, my studies have not involved reading evidence-based essays or collecting usable data for a research project. I have spent most of my life “reading people,” as my dad would say. Life has afforded me countless opportunities to lead something whether I led a teen ministry, a decorating committee for a banquet, a little girl troop, or the charge for more responsible leadership on the college campus where I work.
As of now, my years as a full-time mom outnumber the years I have worked full time outside the home. While some may argue that stay-at-home moms possess no skills transferrable to a workplace, I have relied heavily on experiences from that time of my life in my life as an administrator in higher education. Interestingly, the young adult children on my campus remind me of my children when they were two or three years old. Over the course of my life, I found myself living out cycles and the expression that “life comes full circle.” Well, that is true for most people. The spirit behind the terrible two’s or the thoughtful three’s resided in my young adult children and it resides in most of the young students on my campus. Like the two year old, the young adult child discovers free will and engages in behaviors that bring them pleasure and hopefully satisfaction. In both cycles of life, any attempt to coach the young person or save them from themselves is met with resistance. Why did I raise mine (and some babies of other mothers) then accept a job that reminds me of the terrible two’s? Because I consider myself a leader and my “A, B, C’s of leadership” mandate a responsibility that I share my experiences in a way that promotes greatness in others trying to figure out what Prince called “This thing called life.”
“A” is for the attitude of the leader because attitude sets the tempo for the leader and the audience whether the audience is expected or incidental. The leader’s attitude influences the perspectives about the mission or goals of the group. In the movie “Remember the Titans,” one team member reminded a team leader of the value of attitude when he said, “Attitude reflect leadership, Captain!” In this scene, the leader was complaining about the poor attitudes and poor performance of the team without recognizing his role in generating these outcomes or his ability to change the same. The leader’s attitude about the following will guide the response of the group positively or negatively: accountability for the goals and actions of the leader and the membership, acceptance of the good and the not-so-good situations that arise, and accessibility of the leader to the membership and the incidental audience.
“B” is for belief. The leader must express an unwavering belief in the mission and the ability of the group to accomplish the goals and tasks associated with that mission. The leaders’ belief in the available human capital goes a long way in onvincing the membership and the audience that the goals and mission are attainable with the represented skill sets in the group. Moreover, the leader must be mindful that the belief system of the leader becomes the practice of the body and potentially the audience. Therefore, the leader ought to express beliefs cautiously and responsibly. Additionally, the leader must be willing to correct the group when there is a misinterpretation of the beliefs by the words or actions of the group members. When the leader fails to hold every member accountable for the beliefs of the group, the divergent voice(s) tend to become the expression of the whole that the leader is forced then to defend or reject. This type of confusion becomes the focus or the undercurrent that distracts the group from the intended outcomes of the organization. The intended outcomes of service-oriented leadership are more difficult to attain if the leader does not control the belief system and practices of the membership. In general, leaders serve for the benefit of others with the intent of creating a brotherhood and to be a blessing or benefit to others within the organization and community served by the organization. (Please note that the work “brotherhood” is interchangeable with the words sisterhood and community.)
Finally, “C” is for commitment. The leader must be committed to the role of leader before accepting the job. The leader must remain committed during the time of service too. The agenda set by the leader must reflect a commitment to 1. Building up the character of the membership and the community, 2. Positively impacting the climate within the group and the community serviced, and 3. Effecting change in the culture of the community that is safe, legal, and responsible. Leadership is tough. Leadership is hard work. Excellent leaders are more than hype folks who stand out front to get the audience excited about the mission or the goal. The leader must be on the front line, in the trenches, making contact every play like the linemen on a football team. The leaders attitude about preparation for the hard work and the leader’s attitude about working until the job is done usually generate momentum that ignites the body to advance the beliefs of the leader and the organization. The challenge for any leader is two-fold: 1. how to remain committed to the calling of leadership and 2. how to communicate goals and tasks that inspire other people who often seek the control and instant gratification of a two-year-old to focus on a commitment to delay satisfaction until sometime in the future for the benefit of the greater community.
Dear God, It’s me, Kim!
Dear God,
It’s me, Kim – again. I started writing this letter to you a week ago early Saturday morning. My canine kid, Swaggy, didn’t respect that Saturday was not a work day for me. His body clock woke him up about 5:30 and he demanded that I get up and moving too. As I resisted Swaggy’s urging to get up, it occurred to me that if I got up I could spend some alone time with my Bible and my God. So, I got up, washed my face, brushed my teeth, turned on the kettle to heat the water for my coffee, grabbed my Bible, a journal and a pen, and sat down to commune with you. Once I sat I couldn’t think of anything to say. It’s funny how I have told myself all of the things I would do or say if I had time and when I got time I found that the list evaporated into nothingness. So, I decided to get back to an old practice I started as an eleven-year-old child – writing “Dear God letters.”
As you know, I have verbalized my tag line which is that “I ain’t the best church lady.” I have literally missed a month of Sundays of church services and I tend not to keep up with all of the events on the church calendar. You know all of the reasons that church people have challenged me over the years and you know my heart.
When I sat down to commune with you, I realized that the chaotic subsections of my life had moved outside of the compartments in which I placed them. As a result, I had more difficulty speaking to and hearing from you. Chaos had been my normal since I was eleven and I adapted to that model. To survive that life model, I compartmentalized the chaos then directed the chaotic subcategories to remain where I put them. My directive was not to store them for safe keeping, but so that I could control when I allowed each chaotic section permission to participate in the symphony of my life. I envisioned myself as a director of a band who signaled the rise of the horn section while silencing the woodwinds. In my perfect band, I would only hear from the section of the band I permitted to play. However, even when they didn’t play they sat on ready, excited to participate with the excited readiness that often caused members to play out of turn. There have been times when my sections performed like a grade school band that happily played that one song they rehearsed for an entire fall term for their winter concert audience. When my chaos refused to stay sectioned according to my directives, I smiled like the parent at that grade school band concert nodding in approval like I really didn’t hear the squeaks, squawks, and missed notes as the band played the song. I found myself with members blaring random notes, at will, and that random noise from the entire band caused me to have difficulty organizing and communicating my thoughts and needs to you.
This dilemma reminded me of the eleven-year-old me who started writing letters to you. At that time, life felt complex, uncertain, and frightening. I think my mother knew that our family dysfunction caused me angst so she encouraged me to “write about it even if you can’t talk about.” Until now, I have never shared the contents of a “Dear God letter” with anyone except you. I used to write the letters, read them, and destroy them because I was afraid that someone would find the letters and then know my inner thoughts and feelings.
As a child, I believed that I was the only one living with the dysfunction resonating in my head, heart, and spirit like the noisy clamber of the grade school percussionist. As an adult, I realized that I was not the only one performing this phenomenal feat. People performed this feat on a regular basis as they try to manage life and the noise in their heads. Sometimes the sections played softly, in tune, in the background like a sound track to my life movie. But, the letter writing was mandated at those moments when the band forgot that it was never to have a primary role, but only provide accompaniment to my script. It was never supposed to play louder than I could speak or think. In the last few weeks, I learned that each chaotic subsection had a trigger and the collective force of all of the subsections led me to do what I knew I had to do – write. The pen I used when I wrote letters to you became the baton, raised to lower the volume so that I could think. Every time I wrote a “Dear God letter” I remembered why my mother’s advice to write manifested itself in letter writing to God.
During the crazy, confusing period of my childhood, a librarian at my elementary school gave me a book to read. (Unfortunately, she has been nameless and faceless for years.) The book was “Are you there God? It’s me Margeret” by Judy Blume. Last week, I visited the local library virtually and I checked out the book because I needed to refresh my memory about why this book transformed my adolescence and continued to influence my adult life. The young girl in this book reminded me that feelings of inadequacy, rejection, insecurity, aloneness, and being misunderstand did not discriminate. I was reminded that my chaos did not wait for my life to settle down. I also had no guarantee that each feeling or emotion would prevent me from experiencing future occurrences of the same feelings like the chickenpox or a rare celestial event. Judy Blume, through this book, taught me the cathartic value of writing letters to God. Taking the time to write to you gave me more control over the situations in my life that triggered the negative feelings. My pen became my baton. The gliding of the ink from my pen to the paper created musical notes bouncing in my head transforming my loud grade school band into a soothing symphony.
The main character reminded me that I had that ability to take each care or chaotic issue to you in my writing. I remembered that even the things that feel small to other folks can wreak havoc in my life. I remembered that when I write to you, there is no human judgment or endless lecturing. I got to say everything that was on my mind and in my heart when I penned letters to you. When I’m done writing my “Dear God letter,” I don’t have all of the answers to my problems, but I have calmed the chaos enough to breath freer and think clearer. I hope that somebody who reads my letter will decide to write their own letter. The truth is that some things are better said in a letter to God and not out loud (especially when you have to yell over the band for other folks to hear you speak.)
In Honor of First Lady Michelle Obama
As our country prepares for the Obama family to leave the White House, I am reminded of some of my most special memories from their time in office. The first is my brief encounter with Michelle Obama in 2008 and the other was being on the phone with my mother during President Obama’s first inauguration. My mother and father told me that I could be anything I wanted to be when I was a child, but my mother admitted to me that she never thought that she would ever see a president of our country who was not a white man. I agreed with her and I honestly think that most of America would have agreed with that statement at that time in our country. I also think that some people hung on to that disbelief and fought the reality of that truth for the entire eight years he was in office. Unfortunately, because of this many folks missed the opportunities to support a first family who did not have a scandal created by them while they served us respectfully around the globe. So many Americans missed the opportunities to applaud Michelle Obama for showing women that it was alright not to be the stereotypical size of the doctored photos of women in the magazines and that it’s alright to eat barbecue. We saw the Obama family continue to have family time which we say we value as Americans. We saw him be affectionate toward his wife and laud her for her Ivy league smarts. We watched a family bring grandma to the White House to help keep a support system around the girls who grew up right before our eyes.
I used to think I wanted to be a politician, but after watching Americans (some of whom I called close friends) be so hateful and abusive toward the Obama’s made me thankful that God didn’t call me to that type of service. I have never forgotten a friend referring to Michelle Obama as “that woman” when I mentioned that I was going to hear her speak during the primary campaign in 2008. I couldn’t understand why my friend had so much animosity in her comment when the Obama’s were pretty new on the scene and stood for everything we say we love in America. They came up without riches and fame. They studied and earned their places in the Ivy League schools we hold in high esteem. They kept cool tempers even in the face of hate, rudeness, rejection, and resistance. They kept speaking about their desire to help ALL Americans have health care, including preventive health care. They worked to end the food deserts in our communities by working with local drug stores to add fresh fruits and healthy food options where none existed. Michelle Obama recognized the effects of electronics on our children and worked to get them moving and eating healthy to combat childhood obesity and the diseases that came with that unhealthy state of being. They opened the White House to average Americans so that we could all believe that the White House belonged to us and people who looked and lived like us. There are all sorts of things that we could argue President Obama did not accomplish, but he has said himself that he didn’t accomplish all that he hoped he would get done. Please tell me which of us gets everything we think we will get done in a day for our own house let alone for our country. I struggle to figure out why there has been such harsh judgment on this man and his family for being and living the “American dream.”
When I see the construction industry actually making plans to construct stuff, I remember when President Obama took office that not too many houses or buildings were under construction. I remember the car industry was failing. I remember that COBRA was the only hope for those out of work and not able to pay the high rates for insurance because they were struggling to pay for rent and food. I remember that our country was in a couple of wars and a man who posed a significant terrorist threat to us had not been found by the prior administration. I wish those who opposed him would just show some ability to say they found one thing to be grateful about during his presidency. A girl can wish.
Regardless of what other folks say or think I am thankful that Michelle Obama was our first lady. I am thankful that she took less than a minute of her time to say hello to me, give me a hug, and speak words of encouragement to my soul at a time when I needed uplifting. She is a tall woman in stature and in spirit. I am excited to see what the rest of her journey holds in store for her and her family. In honor of her service to our country, I am reposting a blog written about my encounter with her in 2008. May God’s favor continue to rest upon Michelle Obama and her family.