I remember being fascinated by the number of students who truly believed that, if they were A students, at A schools, there would be an A life/career awaiting them. For some, that materialized, but for many others, it did not. Life just got in the way. I think my early interest in the whole career arena started back then. I sensed the importance of contingency planning in case the current track became blocked.
I had a chance to widen my thinking and consider the same kind of career contingency planning in organizations as I pursued further studies at Boston University and the Sloan School of Management at MIT.
I had no idea then that I would build my own future in the world of organizational career development. That door was opened in California when I was accepted to pursue a graduate fellowship at UCLA. That opportunity led me to study adult education and change management. The years of coursework also gave me a chance to test my early ideas and thinking by teaching in a variety of organizations and adult education centers. It all led me to finally determine that the subject of my dissertation would be how organizations could support the career growth of their employees, as well as the systems and structures that were needed to make that happen.
I was always a diligent student, studying hard for every course, always doing those extra assignments that would help me gain whatever extra credit I could. Studying, memorizing, applying what I learned, and adding a bit of my own creativity when it was needed were what I was used to doing, and doing so quickly and successfully.
I was not used to operating without an action plan. I was not used to failing. But that’s what proceeded to happen, several times.
I selected a dissertation committee (from the management school and the school of education) that I knew and felt would support my efforts. I selected an approach that would enable me to design a research agenda that seemed doable and would fit my style. I wanted to take action, move quickly, report on what I had learned from the research, and move on to the next stage of my own career. (Good approach for a Jersey girl!) And it was totally within my comfort zone.
But there was the problem. My committee intuitively knew and believed that operating within my comfort zone would neither change me nor give me the growth experience that this stage of my career/education demanded. They rejected each idea that I brought to them and told me to start over. As I said, failure was not something I was used to. Hard work always had been my way of getting through whatever challenges I faced. This time it did not work.
Their request was that I use an approach called grounded theory or phenomenological research. They actually said that they saw my flat side (right then, I knew I was in trouble). They felt I operated from my intuition and not from a theory base. I needed to ground myself in a belief system, a theory, a conceptual model that would be pulled from my own research and that I could put into my own words. It had to be something I could stand on and stand behind. I had to do more reflection (not my natural way), and come up with a strong conceptual model that was totally my own. I had no idea how to do this no matter how much I read about this approach. Not knowing was unbearable.
The one thing that kept me going was a comment from one of my committee members (while I was in tears after yet another rejection) that went something like this: “Hang in there, Beverly. If you can do this, it will be your career development.” Though I did not understand it completely then, this advice somehow kept me going. I wanted this experience to define my career and was determined to get to the other side.
I selected three organizations to study and went about my interviews with HR leaders, line leaders, individuals, and managers to understand how all of them viewed career growth. I collected a mass of data and tried (unsuccessfully) to report on that data.
The idea of phenomenological research is that when your theory holds and explains all of your data, you’ve got it. Each time I tried, I thought I had the theory. Alas, when I presented it, I realized it just didn’t hang together. I was convinced that I could not do this. The more I told myself that this was impossible, the more impossible it became. I even pleaded with my committee not to do this to me at the end of my education. Stupid words indeed, especially for the lifelong learner that I have become since that time.
Out of desperation (and loneliness), I stumbled into my own creative learning style. I realized I was not someone who could sit with information by myself; I needed a human being at the other side of my thinking. I found someone, and I actually hired that person to sit with me and listen to me talk about what I was learning and what I had heard in all those interviews I had conducted.
Interestingly enough, the learning partner I selected knew nothing about my research, but knew to ask great questions. As she asked and asked and asked, I responded and responded. Having someone up close and personal to bounce my insights off of was precisely what I needed (and, over the next three decades, has become my preferred way of developing new ideas). Slowly (very slowly), my own this is impossible perspective began to yield to insights that surprised me. The conceptual model that I had struggled to find for so long eventually bubbled up and actually became clear to me. And as it did so, I was able to make it clear to my committee and the work could begin.
I had no idea that this stretch assignment would become my real work for several decades. I was able to develop a model and framework that guided my consulting, as well as the learning solutions that were eventually designed and developed from that consulting. Along the way I met and brainstormed with other practitioners and clients. Each conversation enhanced that framework, and each presentation I gave helped to solidify this early thinking. Although the organizational landscape has shifted many times during the years I’ve been practicing, I have been able to rethink, improve, twist, and turn my early ideas to connect with each shift. And it all started with moving out of my comfort zone and committing to a new approach.
So, What Did I Learn?
I created my point of view from intuition combined with some helpful trial-and-error experiences. That intuition is still vital and I listen to it! But I learned that I needed to pause and reflect more, even though this was uncomfortable for me. I needed to pull insights from that reflection and test those insights with others. I needed a combination of comfort and challenge to eventually produce something I could stand behind.
We need to build our own thought platform. When that platform is confirmed by the work we do every day, it continues to provide strength and expand. When it comes through a particularly difficult experience and is ratified by continued work, you stand on firm ground.
Collaboration is sweet. For those of us who learn best when we are in dialogue with others, we need to find those dialogue partners and not be afraid to invite them in.
All of the books I’ve written since my first one have been collaborations with other wonderful thinkers. I realize that my creative juices get stoked when they come into partnership with others.
The hardest experiences are the ones that teach us the most. When you are able to see the world as a giant classroom, you begin to understand that all experiences are here to teach you something about yourself. If you stay open to those experiences, no matter how tough, you grow.
Reflection Questions
When have you felt or said to yourself, “This is impossible!’’ If you were able to turn that around, how did you do it? What is repeatable?
What is your preferred learning style? How has that been confirmed for you?
Have you ever used a learning partner? If so, how did that work for you?
18
Understanding in Moments
Catherine Carr
In 2009, Catherine Carr took her human resources and finance experience on the road and joined Doctors Without Borders. Since then she has had the honor of working on more than 10 different projects in Africa, the Middle East, the Philippines, and Haiti. Each experience has played a part in shattering her preconceived notions, teaching her to become comfortable with the uncomfortable, and deepening
her connection to the world.
Catherine has a bachelor’s degree in communications from the University of San Francisco and an MBA from Golden Gate University. When not traveling and working, she spends her time writing, speaking, and reconnecting with family and friends. She can be found via the usual social media means. And if none of that works, there is always her website: www.catherinecarr.global.
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Life changes in moments. And since there are close to an infinite number of them, it’s a crapshoot knowing when the life-changing ones will hit. In my experience, they usually happen when I least expect them and always right about the time I think I’ve got it all figured out.
A different culture, a new condition, an idea never considered. Sometimes gently, sometimes not, forcing me to cross over and see the view from another perspective. At times freezing me in my tracks. Other times slowly drawing me in close. Every time, bringing me closer to understanding something new and allowing a deeper and more meaningful connection to the world.
Late one afternoon in 2013, well into my fifth year with Doctors Without Borders, I was working and living in a small village in northern Syria. The team had converted an unremarkable two-story house into a small hospital. Our task was to provide emergency medical care to victims of war, civilians and fighters alike.
On this particular afternoon things were slow. No emergencies, the sun was shining, and not a cloud over the olive groves in the distance. It was the middle of winter and yet there was a sense of spring in the air. I decided to escape the crowded communal office and visit the medical teams downstairs. I patted my head, determining that my hair was more or less tucked respectfully under the sock, that close-fitting head-covering peeking out from under the scarf of my hijab. If I had known a moment was right around the corner, I would have checked more carefully.
After some time and a lot of laughter with the downstairs crew, I bounded back upstairs, using the typically empty stairwell. I was in a great mood, humming and taking the steps by leaps. It felt good to move and I enjoyed feeling the wisps of hair that had escaped the sock against my neck and face. My hijab had definitely slipped out of place and I didn’t care.
I had rounded the corner of the first set of stairs and launched into the second set when I saw him coming down toward me. He was tall but seemed even more so because he stood at the top of the stairs. He had a full beard and wore a traditional white head covering, white pants, and white tunic, with a black vest and wide black belt around his waist. Given my geographic location, our patient demographics, and the fact that he was walking unassisted, I knew he was a fighter who had come to visit a friend in the hospital.
It is said that, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” A lovely theory indeed, but when standing before an unexpected reality in an empty stairwell, space has a way of collapsing in on itself.
We stood. Staring at one another. I thought about bolting back down the stairs but knew that was lizard brain thinking. I held my ground. Space collapsed and time slowed. We were functioning at our most basic levels. “Interesting,” I thought, “in addition to flight or fight, there is also freeze.”
Knowing lizards aren’t very smart, my ego rolled right over lizard brain to take the wheel. Still not the place to be if the goal is rational thinking, but it does seem to be the path our minds take when confronted with any new situation. It’s as if the brain says, “Okay. Situation safe. Now, how does this situation affect me?” Ego thinking can be a dank, dark place where decisions are made in the name of me me me and with the conviction that my way is the right way.
I will never know what he was thinking. But, assuming we were both in ego thinking at the same time, I can imagine.
Me: “Hey Mister, who do you think you are? Standing there all intimidating and making me feel uncomfortable?”
Him: “Woman, who do you think you are? Running around with your hijab out of place, not respecting our customs?”
Me: “Don’t you know who I am? I am a woman from the US of A and can do whatever I want.”
Him: “Have you forgotten where you are? There is a war going on outside these walls. And, and … was that humming I heard?”
Me: “Yes, that was humming and listen here. You have no right to intimidate me just because of how you look. There may be a war outside but on behalf of all women in the world, I demand….”
And on it goes, the righteously right ego thinking. Falling deeper into the well where empathy and understanding do not thrive. I saw it happening and noted we were only five or six seconds into this exchange.
Then, I saw a glimmer. It was the light of rationality. I turned toward it and thought, Whoa!!! Catherine. You are in Syria. Your hijab is out of place and he is as confused as you are. Fix it.
But he fixed it faster. He covered his eyes with his hands and turned his body into and against the wall. Look at that, I said to my ego. By turning away, he not only honors his culture and mine, he also creates space for us to pass.
Rational thinking now standing strong at the wheel, I slowly walked up the stairs and humbly said in a low voice, “Shokrun” (Arabic for “thank-you”), when I passed by him. I reached the top of the stairs and turned to see what he would do next. Nothing remarkable. He simply continued his journey down and out of the building, never once looking back.
I stood there pondering all that had happened in that less than 15-second eternity of time. I like to think that a Syrian male rebel fighter crossed paths with an American female humanitarian and together, in silence, they found space in a small stairwell to honor one another’s cultures in this world. And then I wonder if somewhere in Syria, a male fighter is telling his rebel friends about the time he encountered a female humanitarian in an empty stairwell.
It is possible to find empathy and understanding in a matter of seconds and in complete silence. We can also arrive at that same place when we allow our hearts to connect over time, even if we share only a few words of a common language.
While on another assignment, this time in a small village in the Ivory Coast, I got sick. Within weeks of arriving I was puking up vibrant yellows and neon greens into the plastic garbage can by my bed.
Nothing stayed down, not even the medicine. The project doctor put me on an IV and for four days I stayed in bed, except for those infrequent visits to the pit latrine. We lived and worked in a small compound where conditions were tight and there were no secrets. My colleagues and housemates were very kind, giving me what little space there was for my dignity when I did make those visits to the latrine, holding my head and IV bag high.
It was the first time I had ever really been sick – and sick to the point where there was talk of taking me out of the field. To do so involved re-delegating duties, a six-hour road trip with two land cruisers meeting midway, a transfer and bad roads the entire way, only to arrive at a hospital where the doctors would not know me nor have English as their first language.
As profoundly afraid as I was, I also knew how fortunate I was. The doctors in the project knew me and had come to understand my version of French. I was included in their medical rotations, along with the many children they were caring for at the hospital. I had a 10-by-10 space all to myself, a bed of my own, a fan, and intermittent electricity. I had my own plastic garbage can holding my vomit and no one else’s. I was the lucky one in this situation.
I slowly got better, eventually returning to work weak but ready to see what had happened while I was out. My first stop was the infant ward. It was malaria season. Medical staff moved from bed to bed doing what they could. Babies crying out at their disappointment with life. Mamas consoling their sick infants. Because of what I had just been through, I now felt their frustration and fear of being sick at a profound level. In one bed, I saw a mama lying on her side in the shape of an S, breastfeeding one baby while patting the back of another who was lying in the space beh
ind her knees. I turned around and left.
I headed to the juvenile ward. Just a quick look, I promised myself. As soon as I entered, my heart fell into the eyes of a little boy. He was 10 years old, and from five strides away, even I, a nonmedical member of the team, could see how sick he was. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his knees inches from the child in the bed next to his. Draped over his lap was a well-used and once vibrantly colored piece of fabric. His legs, from knees to toes, were wrapped in bandages, his body swollen and dusty. The only areas of his skin showing his true and beautiful color were where tears and beads of sweat had rolled down, cleaning away the dust. His lips were quivering in pain and he was taking quick and shallow breaths.
Our eyes connected and rather than look away, I looked deeper. Once you know something you can’t not know it. I knew what it meant to be sick. I knew what it meant to be in pain, scared, and beyond miserable.
I walked over to the little boy and sat next to him, putting my hand on his head because it seemed that was the only part of him that did not hurt. He then shared his pain with me. He raised his hands from his lap, palms up, in defeat as if to say, “I’m broken.” I nodded. He was speaking a mixture of French and the local language. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the feelings. I know what broken feels like. He spoke until he ran out of words. Then we sat in silence, holding hands, taking deep breaths together.
At dinner, I asked the team about the little boy in the corner. They knew exactly who I was talking about. Arsene had arrived weeks ago with two broken legs. He had been climbing a mango tree, picking those now ripe and delicious palm-sized fruits, when he fell. His mother wrapped him in a blanket and carried him in her arms for a full day, navigating motorcycle and bus transportation to get to the hospital. Arsene had been through multiple surgical procedures to repair his broken legs. There were complications, and just when things were going well, he had a bout with tetanus.
Work is Love Made Visible Page 14
