Changing My Mind About Leadership

I'll preface this post by saying that I am suffering an acute crisis of confidence in almost all forms of leadership, including my own ability to lead. The world is shifting so quickly these days that even the most nimble and disruption-loving of leaders seem ill-equipped to move in the way that the world is demanding of us all. 

People this is a textbook definition of hard.

I try to suspend judgment but I was raised in a judgmental household. So judging people is a way of life that I have labored tirelessly to change. Sometimes I make good ground. Other times, I fall deep into old habits. Lately, I have been judging the hell out of those in leadership positions. Lately I have been extremely hard on myself. There is a magic to leadership; a subtle art of communicating in way that inspires and teases out the best in people. This art usually hinges on one's ability to see the world differently -- to see in prismatic brilliance what others see in a flat static 2 dimensional fashion. This "artist of vision" - if I may - can see the other side of any situation. No. Its more than that. They can feel the electricity of possibilities, and through their feeling they the share vibrant visions. Lately, I haven't seen this leadership in nearly anyone. From one side of the spectrum to the other, I am afraid, we are all out of that magical mojo. The juju that once held this human fabric together, seems to be fading. 

I was scrolling through 11 years of Twitter posts, and I came across a photo of my ideas notebook sprawled open. My scribbles, neat and orderly but meandering like a flowchart, and beneath it the hashtag: "IKeepANoteBook". I still keep a notebook but its mostly notes from meetings. Nothing inspirational or bursting with newness. Its all old; all trite. Its all indicative of my own personal resignation. I find it hard these days to do anything beyond stay afloat. At least as it pertains to leading people. I've been leading my colleagues through a training on Nonviolent Communication, and in a twist of sardonic irony, I find my own way of communicating growing more belligerent by the day. No I am not hurling curse words at folks, but I am judging them mercilessly with my silence. I torture them with my very obvious disinterested tone. Lately my mantra has been more "do what thy whilst" than "love thy will be done". I am a monster in the making. I am struggling to feel the feel of what's possible. Dare I say I am struggling to care?

Good leaders care. I simply do not feel like caring lately.

Apathy is a dangerous thing for people who wield any sort of formal power. Its as vile as caring about something in the singular, as is the case with the current presidential administration. He only cares for maintaining power for white wealthy men, and does so at the cost of any semblance of democracy. Not that we actually ever had a democracy, but for sake of this example, let's just go with it. Apathy causes one to walk along the edges life's precarious cliff, blindfolded, daring fate to tip you over the edge because you have nothing more to lose. I find it funny that there is a word for feeling others emotions - empathy - and a word for blocked emotion - apathy - and ones for hate and pity - antipathy and sympathy but there doesn't seem to be a word for the pathology of holding emotions for self. I wonder if there were, would we as leaders feel a stronger sense of accountability to ourselves? I think about this because, I have a moral sense of wrongness about my own apathy. To not care goes against all that I believe in, and yet, here I am as apathetic about many things, as the day is long, and no one holds me responsible for this. Not even I.

Conversely, I find myself existing under organizational leadership that is unbearably sympathetic. Emotions drive everything, in particularly, the irrational emotion of fear. In my professional sphere, the fear of being disliked, misunderstood, judged all drive people to their most base instincts. Decisions that are made, lack logic, but feel safe and dare I say "good". Its a swirly, hazy landscape that is as nonsensical as Alice on the other side of the looking glass. I struggle with the idea of leaders not understanding that your role is to make the best decisions possible in any given situation,any given moment, and those are often the hardest decisions. People undoubtedly will not like you at times. Life goes on. I hold a specific disdain for people driven by their emotions. Its not enough for you to go on a roller coaster ride, but by virtue of my position as a follower, I am reluctantly taken for a ride too. There's no consistency, just the need to be prepared for whatever curve ball comes hurling your way. Lately, I have been getting smacked relentlessly with spherical projectiles of emotion. I haven't the real energy to care beyond that of worrying about my own sanity in the midst of it all. I grew up the child of a narcissist mother and an overly emotional father. I've been on enough roller coaster rides to last me a lifetime. I think that I am overdue for some therapeutic stillness.  Feet planted squarely on mental terra firma, if such exists. My work life does not provide this. It leaves my apathy toeing the line of antipathy.

Where I no longer seem to care at work, I do find myself ensconced in empathy in my home life. At home, I am the alpha female of a pack of furry beasts -- dominating little miniature schnauzers. To say that they are the loves and loathing of my life would be accurate. Before this pandemic, I didn't spend as much time in their company. So all time spent together was good time. We remained a sort of novelty- they happy to have my attention and copious pity treats, and I happy to be with living creature who know instinctively the virtues of unconditional love. Now we are together almost 24/7, and in this extended and undeliberate bonding time, I am noticing that I have failed them as a pack leader. I yell, get impatient, and on a few occasions, have shut myself off from them only to hear  their breath at the door awaiting my return. I have not been very empathetic. I once read somewhere that dogs can smell the, past, present, and even the future. Their lives are neither long nor linear but they are profoundly complex. Humans aren't nearly as interesting or labyrinthine. Sometimes I watch my dear Charlie wander through my small apartment, intent on finding the perfect napping spot. Most times he settles in some corner of my bedroom, isolated from Theo and me. I suppose that in  my bedroom, I am usually at my calmest and the hormones that I release are the least stressful. Maybe he senses that? Recognizing his comfort there, I do not disturb him, although I find myself curious about what's going on in his head. My older bearded friend, Theo, never leaves my side. I often feel the need to reassure him of my love an loyalty, especially after I have not been on my best human behavior. Its a strange dance between the 3 of us, but of all of the dances, its the one that I find most satisfying. I am forced to attempt my best waltz with them, and with them I am learning to be a better leader. I fail often. I fail miserably. And yet, I keep trying. For them, I care.

I studied power and leadership in my graduate program and there are many ways for it to show up. Contrary to the American hegemonic ideal, leadership isn't always loud or charismatic. It wont always show up as authoritarian or at the head of the pack leading the charge. No, sometimes its quiet, mindful, deliberate, and doesn't need a commanding title. I think that I much prefer this deceptively powerful form of leadership. I prefer puissance to charisma. The former take more finesse; whereas the latter suck energy. A waste if you ask me. However, quiet coercion - sophisticated Jedi mind trickery, as I like to call it - can easily lend itself to resentment and resentment to apathy, which brings us here. My increasingly apathetic approach to leadership. I resent that other people are slow to get it. The cant seem to catch the rhythm, and its making me lose hope. What is a leader devoid of hope if not a despot oppressing others with my own pessimism? 

I do think that there is room to shift yet again. In the life cycles of nonprofit organizations there is a middle ground that dances from maturity to decline to turnaround. I am indeed a seasoned leader, mature in my analysis of how a leader should be, but for the better portion of the last 5 years, I've been beleaguered by this inability to give a damn. I am very much on the decline. I am too young to be on such a precipitously downward path. For heaven's sake I am only mid-career. Fate be not tempted, I still have another 25-30 working years left in me. I can only guess that a "turnaround" is afoot. A second wind in which I will find that spark once again. Maybe I will be a ways smarter about how I use my new found energy. In my 20s and early 30s I was burning through it like humans are burning through natural resources. I think I threw myself into an early ice age from which I will soon hopefully thaw. I don't like this phase of simply not caring. It feels like time wasted, as I search for something worth caring about in this life. 

I don't quiet know what to make of it all.

Changing My Mind About Connection

Last week I started Isabel Wilkerson's Caste. Last night while sitting on the rooftop, I made the decision to stop reading it. At least for now. I am fan of Wilkerson's writing. It is so in part because she is a great wordsmith, but also because we share a surname. For the first 18 years of my life, the state of Alabama had assigned me my mother's maiden name, despite the fact that the US Air Force legally handed me my family name of Washington. Its odd. For years I carried a name that even my mom no longer carried. The world can be weird like this. The weirdness bleeds over into the reasons why I decide to put down Caste. There is a passage in which she describes a lynching in Omaha, NE, where I got my most recent and final degree. I recall walking through the streets of Omaha, feeling curiously enchanted. I'd considered taking a teaching job there. It felt neutral. Wilkerson's recounting of the brutal murder of a Black man made Omaha anything but neutral. As a matter of fact, none of the grounds we stroll daily are neutral. As I sat surveying the Hudson, with eye's blurry from the impending tears, I wondered how many atrocities occurred in place I now call home? In Alabama, my birth home, the markers of the past horrors were still visible; in some area venerated. It is not lost on me that the very place that I used to go to cash my check was also the site of a slave market. There is a placard there to remind the world - but only if you pay attention to it. I wasn't paying attention to the markers in Omaha. I'd decidely, whether consciously or unconsciously, turned a blind eye to the past. We'd laid a veneer atop the misery of the past, and suddenly its stating to wear thin, and show. 

The book became heavy in a way that I wasn't ready for. 

Prior to opening Caste, I'd just finished "The Yellow House" by Sarah Broom; a book recommended via a tweet by Kiese Laymon, whose writing is wildly Black and wildly Southerner. I didn't expect much but its by far the most honest telling of a person's life I've read in a while. I fell in love with the book and the writer herself. I felt like we'd been friends for forever. This is due in part to her simple mastery of language, but also because we are born one day apart. End of year 1979. I am a day older. There is that weirdness again. What I came to appreciate about this book is that the author wasn't just sharing information - useful subject matter, a recollection of history, an idea - she was was sharing herself. 

Alone of the rooftop, looking at the Hudson, now with a full fledged tear sliding down my face, I had to admit that I miss connecting with people. The last hug I received was from a friend, leaving NYC to move to Alabama. We knew that hugging went against all social distancing logic, but it felt both satisfying and sad to hug my friend who now I would only get to see on a limited basis. As an introvert, the idea of missing people seems off. Its almost as if I am admitting a weakness, that yes, I too need people. I am, too, human. Maybe it was this longing for human connection that made Caste unappetizing right now. I didn't need to hear about the one of many ways we aren't doing our best a humans. I needed to feel someone's writing; to let their words be an offering of their rawest self. 

I've found that I have been longing to overshare lately. I shared the elevator with one of my neighbors, a British transplant. We speak in passing, mostly him commenting on my dogs, and reassuring me that their barking is threatening. He's always smiling. Charming even. On this evening, he shares that he's not ready for the winter. Drastic weather patterns aren't familiar to him. I tell him, that they aren't to me either but the door opens before I have a chance to explain that I am from the Deep South and that I could empathize. I hesitated to end our conversation but it would've felt strange holding him up. For the rest of the evening I regretted not holding him up. I wanted to know more about what brought him here,why he stays even when the U.S.'s response to the pandemic has been deadly, or more simply, his name. See that's the thing about life before this pandemic. We've all lived in this building with no urge to commune. Lately we've all been a bit more friendly and garrulous. Maybe we are all trying to fill an emotional crack in our foundation?

Yesterday on my walk, a cleared the sidewalk to let an elderly lady pass. She spoke to me with exaggerated movements, but here words I couldn't hear over the music blaring in my ears. I wanted to hear her, her smile so wide and he energy so bright. I removed me earbuds and she repeated "Some of us are short of memory, but thank you for wearing your mask." She made me smile. I felt as if I had a much needed moment of connection. Lately, I smile, wave, and verbally greet most people that I pass on my walks. People are no longer a nuisance. They feel necessary. The weirdness of feeling something other than my usual introverted inward pull.

Today I am reading Zadie Smith's Intimations. I am hoping that she shares more than her mastery of words. I am hoping that in some weird way, she'll share parts of herself, and I can fill in some of the cracks that now exist.