Dad used to tell a story about humility—I remember him telling this back when I was in my teens. It seems there was a man who lived in Western Pennsylvania, and when he died, he was greeted at the pearly gates by St. Peter. And Peter told this man about a bunch of heavenly old-timers who enjoyed hearing stories about happenings on Planet Earth. The Pennsylvanian said, “Great! Have I got a story to tell them! You see, I’m a survivor of the Great Johnstown Flood.”
So Peter led the man over to the group of old-timers and introduced him, saying, “This man is a new arrival with an exciting story to tell.” Then Peter whispered in the man’s ear, “I hope it’s a good story, young man. See that fellow in the front row? His name is Noah.”
Funny story. But that was also one of Dad’s parables—a story with a lesson tucked inside it. He didn’t just want to make you laugh, he wanted to make you think. It’s a story about perspective—and humility. No matter how great your accomplishments or your sufferings, there’s always someone who can top it. You don’t want to be bragging about your flood experiences—and find out that the guy in the front row is Noah.
Dad always kept a balanced perspective on his own achievements. In his show business career and his political career, he had plenty of fans and plenty of critics. He let both the cheers of the fans and the jeers of the critics roll off him like water off a duck’s back. When he received credit, he tended to reflect that credit onto others—and when he received accolades as president, he turned around and applauded the American people.
In his farewell address to the nation, delivered from the Oval Office on January 11, 1989, Dad reflected on his two terms in office:
In all of that time I won a nickname, the “Great Communicator.” But I never thought it was my style or the words I used that made a difference: it was the content. I wasn’t a great communicator, but I communicated great things, and they didn’t spring full bloom from my brow, they came from the heart of a great nation—from our experience, our wisdom, and our belief in the principles that have guided us for two centuries. They called it the Reagan Revolution. Well, I’ll accept that, but for me it always seemed more like the great rediscovery, a rediscovery of our values and our common sense. . . .
And as I walk off into the city streets, a final word to the men and women of the Reagan Revolution, the men and women across America who for eight years did the work that brought America back. My friends: We did it. We weren’t just marking time. We made a difference. We made the city stronger, we made the city freer, and we left her in good hands. All in all, not bad, not bad at all.
Listen to a lot of political speeches these days, and you’ll hear a lot of “I” statements—“I did this” and “I did that.” But if you listen to my father’s speeches, you won’t hear him use “I” statements very much, except to deflect credit away from himself and onto others. Dad didn’t talk a lot about what he did—he almost always talked about what we did together. He didn’t say “I,” but “we.” He always saw himself as one of the people—a humble servant of the people. And he acknowledged “the men and women of the Reagan Revolution,” the grassroots patriots who believed in America and who supported his efforts to bring America back.
These days, there are all too few leaders who have the kind of humility that makes a leader great—the kind of humility that marked the life and words of my father, Ronald Reagan. To be a great leader, you must first be a good human being.
And the first trait of a good human being is humility.
Good News and Bad News
In July 1982, during my speedboat racing days, I set the world speed record on the Mississippi River—a 1,027-mile run from New Orleans to St. Louis to win the Grace Challenge Cup. The event was a fund-raiser for the United States Olympic Team, and we raised half a million dollars. Racing analyst Sam Posey was the announcer for the television coverage by The American Sportsman on ABC. We had arranged for my father, who was in his second year as president, to speak at the fund-raising dinner at the end of the event.
I really wanted Dad to be at the finish line of the race—but he would only come to the dinner. I later learned that his reason for not coming to the race was that he didn’t want to steal the limelight from me. He thought he was doing me a favor by staying away—but I would have loved for him to be there! After all, I was insecure, hungry for approval, and eager for my father’s applause. Yet he thought that if he showed up, all eyes would be on him, and it would take away from what I had accomplished.
That night at the dinner, Augie Busch—that is, August A. Busch III, then chairman of Anheuser-Busch—was honored with the Sportsman of the Year award for his work on behalf of the U.S. Olympic Committee. Dad, of course, was the keynote speaker. Before Dad introduced Augie Busch, he said some very touching words about me.
He said:
I hope you’ll forgive me if I indulge in a little paternal pride. Mike, my son, you know, broke the record in that boat run, New Orleans to St. Louis. And Mike, I’m proud of you. And not just proud of what you did, but proud because you did it for the cause that brings us together here tonight. I know it wasn’t just a boat ride. I don’t know how you’re still awake, but a lot of effort went into that boat ride, and it was for a great effort, the effort of the Olympic Committee. Whether you’d gotten a record or not, I think all of us here hope that other Americans will emulate you and give of themselves in behalf of our country and our Olympic team.
Those are beautiful words for a father to speak to his son. I only wish I had heard them.
I had spent twenty-five hours racing up the Mississippi River, and I had been up for hours both before and after that race. I was totally spent—and while Dad was talking, I fell asleep. Right after Dad spoke those words about me, Bill Simon—the president of the U.S. Olympic Committee and former treasury secretary under Nixon and Ford—nudged me and said, “That was really nice.”
I perked up and said, “What was really nice?”
“What your father just said about you.”
“My dad just said something about me?” Here I had been waiting for my dad’s words of approval—and I had slept through them! But I knew he had said them, and that’s what mattered. Later I was able to read a transcript of his remarks, and that was the next best thing to hearing them.
That was quintessential Ronald Reagan: always humble, always deferential, always wanting to make sure that others got the credit for what they did, always making sure that he didn’t steal the limelight—even when I would have loved to share it with him.
Another way Dad showed his humility is by admitting he didn’t have all the answers. In fact, he would sometimes ask for help from yours truly. Dad didn’t ask my advice very often, but one day in 1977, Dad called out of the blue and said, “Your brother Ron has dropped out of Yale after only one semester. He’s rebellious, and he won’t listen to me or Nancy. He says he wants to become a ballet dancer.”
I wasn’t sure I heard him right. “Did you say he wants to become—”
“Yes, Michael, a ballet dancer. You understand his generation better than I do. What can I do? What should I say?”
My first impulse was to suggest that Dad buy Ron a tutu—but I could tell that Dad was seriously concerned about Ron’s future, and it was no time for jokes. I couldn’t think of any profession Ron could choose that would be more at odds with Dad’s rugged image than the ballet. I was flattered that Dad wanted my advice—and I was enjoying the fact that Ron was on the hot seat instead of me.
Dad and I met in his office and talked for quite a while, but I don’t think I provided much insight. I had grown up around Ron—or “Skipper,” as Dad nicknamed him—but I didn’t feel I knew him well. I couldn’t understand why Ron would be so rebellious. After all, his parents weren’t divorced, mine were. And I certainly couldn’t understand what would make a young man join the ballet.
Within a few days, Ron returned to California and publicly announced his career plans. Several media outlets greeted Ron’s
announcement with snide hints that he was gay. The gossip about Ron was far more upsetting to Nancy than to Dad because Nancy was worried about Ron’s image. She wanted Dad to run for president in 1980, and she was worried about the Christian vote. What would Christian conservatives think if they thought Ron was gay?
Unlike Nancy, Dad didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about his image. His main concern about my brother was his rebellious attitude. The ballet dancing didn’t bother him, and even the gay rumors didn’t bother him. Dad was supportive of Ron’s goals. He told me his old friend, dancer Gene Kelly, had recommended a good ballet school. Soon Ron began studying at the Stanley Holden Dance Center in Los Angeles, and he showed real talent.
A few days later, Dad called me again, this time at the boat showroom where I worked. From the sound of his voice, I knew he was upset. “Nancy and I came back from a trip,” he said, “and we caught your brother.”
“You caught my brother doing what?”
“Well, he brought a young lady, the wife of one of our friends, into our house for the weekend. Nancy and I found them in our bedroom—and he had the cook fixing breakfast for them.”
It was hard not to laugh—yet I knew that Dad took this matter seriously. Ron was breaking Dad and Nancy’s rules and violating their trust.
“Dad,” I said, “I have good news and bad news.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the bad news is that Ron disobeyed you and broke your rules.”
“And the good news?”
“You found out he’s not gay.”
There was a moment of stunned silence—then Dad brightened and said, “Oh, I must tell Nancy.”
I was glad I could point out a silver lining, and I’ll always treasure the times my father humbled himself and asked for my advice.
Lessons in Humility
It has taken years of watching my father and studying his life to understand that his leadership greatness is rooted in his innate humility. Where did my father’s humility spring from? It was undoubtedly ingrained in him by his mother, Nelle. Humility, after all, is a Christian virtue, and Dad learned all the essential Christian virtues at his mother’s knee. It’s amazing to think that the lessons his mother taught him so long ago helped shape his life—and through him, those values helped reshape the world.
Here are some of the lessons in humility I have learned from my father, Ronald Reagan:
Don’t worry about who gets the credit. Dad didn’t originate the quotation on his desk plaque, but it epitomized his life. It bears repeating, “There is no limit to what a man can do or where he can go if he doesn’t mind who gets the credit.” I’m not sure why Dad kept that plaque on his desk. I doubt that he needed to be reminded every day to remain humble. Maybe he kept that plaque on his desk as a reminder to everyone around him. Maybe that was Dad’s way of setting the tone and creating a culture of humility in the White House.
Washington, D.C., is a town that reeks of ego and arrogance. Power has a way of inflating human vanity, and the closer people get to the center of power, the more arrogant they become. I think Dad used that plaque as a silent reminder that a key principle, a core value, of the Reagan administration was humility. Every staffer was to keep his or her ego in check and share the credit. If the chief executive himself was committed to a humble style of leadership, then no one on the team had any right to be arrogant.
The tone of unselfish teamwork that my father set for the Reagan White House undoubtedly contributed to the success of the Reagan Revolution.
You are never too important to be a servant. Even though he was the president of the United States, my father didn’t consider himself too important to clean up spilled water on the hospital bathroom floor. He was well acquainted with the story about Jesus and his disciples in Mark 9—a story he had undoubtedly taught to his young pupils when he was a Sunday school teacher in Dixon, Illinois. Jesus overheard his disciples arguing among themselves as to which of them would be the greatest leader in the kingdom that Jesus would establish. So Jesus called them to himself and said, “Anyone who wants to be first must be the very last, and the servant of all.”10
Leadership could be defined as the art of accomplishing great goals through other people. And great leaders accomplish those goals not by intimidating people and bossing them around, but by equipping them, empowering them, encouraging them, motivating them, and serving them so that they can achieve great things. Dad understood that a truly great leader is not the boss of everybody, but the servant of everybody. He saw himself as a servant to his staff, to his cabinet, and to the American people, and by serving them and empowering them, he was able to achieve his goals of changing the world.
Here’s another story about the humble serving attitude of my father. In November 1985, Dad went to Geneva for his first summit meeting with Mikhail Gorbachev. The subject was international diplomatic relations and arms control. During the summit, Dad and Nancy stayed at a lakeside villa in Geneva. When they arrived, they found a note next to a goldfish bowl. The note, written by the young son of the family who owned the villa, asked President Reagan to please feed his goldfish.
So the president of the United States dutifully got up every morning of the summit and fed the goldfish. One morning, he discovered one goldfish floating on the water, dead. So he summoned an aide and said, “We’ve got to find another goldfish for that boy.” So the aide went out and found a replacement. Dad handwrote a note explaining what had happened, and expressing his hope that the boy would find the new goldfish acceptable.11
The leader of the free world demonstrated his greatness by serving, by feeding a little boy’s goldfish. Great leaders are great servants. Those who want to be first must become the servant of all.
Be humble enough to admit mistakes. Many people think that admitting mistakes causes them to “lose face.” In reality, most people actually admire those who are honest enough and humble enough to own their mistakes instead of shifting blame. Nothing builds trust like being accountable.
Leadership isn’t about always being right or never making mistakes. Great leaders make decisions, explain those decisions to their followers, and accept responsibility for the results. And when the results are bad, great leaders say, “I made a decision that didn’t turn out well. I learned a lesson from that mistake, and I’m now going to make a new decision to correct that mistake.”
You tell me, who would you rather trust—the leader who denies his own mistakes, who pretends everything is going fine when it’s obviously not, and who blames predecessors or staffers or circumstances for the mistake? Or are you more likely to trust the leader who admits his mistake and offers a plan to correct it?
Yes, admitting mistakes makes a leader vulnerable—but it also makes a leader more human, easier to relate to, and easier to trust. If you are a parent, a church leader, an educator, a business leader, or any kind of leader at all, take a lesson from Ronald Reagan. Be humble enough to admit your mistakes.
If you are in leadership, practice saying “we” instead of “I.” Instead of hogging credit for the team’s success, acknowledge and thank everyone who made that success possible. In your speeches, in your written communication, in your one-on-one conversations, practice getting “I” out of your vocabulary. Learn to speak in all-inclusive terms of “us” and “we.”
Be humble enough to learn. My father had a rare combination of leadership qualities—strong self-confidence combined with selfless humility. He absolutely believed in the rightness of his values, principles, and positions—but if you showed him where he was wrong, he would immediately adapt to the new information, discover new ideas, and adopt a new viewpoint. You can’t teach an arrogant person anything, but a humble person is always learning. That’s why confident people with humble attitudes make great leaders.
You might think that humility is an old-fashioned virtue that no longer applies in today’s fast-changing world. Not true. The same humble willingness to learn that marked my fath
er’s life is one of the key ingredients for success in the Internet age.
Laszlo Bock is in charge of “People Operations” (hiring and personnel) at Google, one of the most successful companies in the world. He says that Google long ago learned that grade point averages and test scores are worthless in determining who should be hired. Those criteria he said, “don’t predict anything.” Instead, Bock says he looks for a quality that he calls “intellectual humility,” the willingness to patiently acquire new skills and knowledge. “Without humility,” he said, “you are unable to learn.”12
It was Dad’s intellectual humility that enabled him to conceive of possibilities that many of his closest advisers couldn’t imagine—such as the Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), also known as the “Star Wars” missile defense shield. The idea for SDI did not come from one of Dad’s aides or advisors. It was an idea that my father had been nurturing and thinking about ever since 1967. That’s when Dad, as the newly elected governor of California, visited the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory and met physicist Edward Teller. One of the topics Teller spoke about involved ways to defend the nation against nuclear attack. My father took everything he learned at that briefing and distilled it into his SDI proposal.
People who are always learning have a way of coming up with visionary new ideas. That’s why my father, who was known for his old-fashioned conservatism, was also known for his visionary ability to foresee the future. A humble attitude is essential to learning, and a willingness to learn is essential to great leadership.
My father didn’t mind who got the credit. That’s how he achieved so much and went so far. That’s how he changed the world.
Lessons My Father Taught Me Page 14
