“We live in direct relation to the heroes and sheroes we have. The men and women who without knowing our names or recognizing our faces, risked and sometimes gave their lives to support our country and our way of living. We must say thank you.”
… a reminder this Memorial Day to say thank you to the strangers who made so much possible for so many of us.
I first encountered Maya Angelou’s writing as a young teacher in America. In the English textbook provided to me by the school district was an excerpt from “I know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” and even though it was the story of a Black woman’s childhood in the South during the 1930s and 1940s, it resonated with me, then a young woman from another generation and from a tiny country on the other side of the world. The humanity in Angelou’s story reaches out into the universe where it will take up permanent residence in millions of hearts.
I remember reading aloud to teenagers from affluent white families, Angelou’s lyrical and clear-eyed account of a harrowing world in which she had been abused, raped as a child by her mother’s boyfriend, abandoned by her parents, left homeless, poor, and, for almost five years, unable to speak. But in this tumultuous life, she also fell in love with William Shakespeare and Dickens, with the written and spoken word. We are all the better for that, and I suppose the lesson for my students and for me was, as Anne Frank wrote in her diary,
I don’t think of all the misery, but of the beauty that still remains.
Such beauty. At 86, the indomitable Maya Angelou was active on Twitter, sending out to almost half a million followers, soul-stirring messages in 140 characters or less. Miniature poems. The day before she died, she took to social media again:
Over the years, I have collected bits and pieces of wisdom and encouragement that I turn to when the going gets tough, as it invariably does. Growing up, I was often told, “show me who your friends are, and I’ll show you who you are.” I was unconvinced of that, but with age comes experience and discernment and a willingness to listen again to advice I may not always have heeded:
As my daughter made her way into to adulthood, I hoped she would learn that the very first time a person lies to her or about her would be the first of all the other times; that the very first time someone wounds her with indifference or arrogance, manipulation or meanness, acts merely as precedent. The same might be said for integrity and loyalty which I suppose is why betrayal hurts so much, or as Arthur Miller once put it, why it is “the only truth that sticks.”
When people show you who they are, believe them.
Believe them – the first time, not the millionth time, so you know sooner rather than later, whether to walk this road with them or without them, dignity intact either way.
And for that perspective, Maya Angelou, I am forever in your debt.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
I first encountered Maya Angelou’s writing as a young teacher in America. In the English textbook provided to me by the school district was an excerpt from “I know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” and even though it was the story of a black woman’s childhood in the South during the 1930s and 1940s, it resonated deeply with me, then a young woman from another generation, from a tiny country on the other side of the world. Maya Angelou’s story and its humanity reached far out into the universe and took up permanent residence in our hearts.
I remember reading aloud to teenagers from affluent white families, Angelou’s lyrical and clear-eyed account of the harrowing world in which she had been abandoned by her parents, abused, raped as a child by her mother’s boyfriend, left homeless, poor, and, for almost five years, unable to speak. But in this tumultuous life, she also fell in love with William Shakespeare and Dickens, with the written and spoken word. And we are all the better for that. The lesson for my students? As Anne Frank wrote in her diary,
I don’t think of all the misery, but of the beauty that still remains.
And such beauty. At 86, the indomitable Maya Angelou was active on Twitter, sending out to almost half a million followers, soul-stirring messages in 140 characters or less. Messages such as this, her final Tweet just six days ago.
– reminding me again of her ability to convey something intensely personal, yet public, in the same moment.
Over the years, I have collected pieces of home-spun wisdom that I turn to when the going gets tough (as it invariably does). Growing up, I was often told, “show me who your friends are, and I’ll show you who you are.” That has turned out to be true. With age, comes even greater discernment and wisdom, and with the death of Maya Angelou, I am thinking of advice she dispensed a time or two, advice I have not always heeded:
My hope for my daughter is that she will learn that the very first time a person lies to her or about her will be the first of all the other times; the very first time someone wounds her with indifference or arrogance, manipulation or meanness, acts merely as precedent. The same might be said for integrity and loyalty which I suppose is why betrayal hurts so much, or as Arthur Miller once put it, why it is “the only truth that sticks.”
When people show you who they are, believe them.
Yes. I should believe people the first time they show me who they really are, as opposed to the second or third or tenth. Then I will know, sooner rather than later, whether to walk this road with them or without them, dignity intact either way.
And for that perspective, Maya Angelou, I am forever in your debt.
Over for another year, this month long Writing Challenge’s final assignment prompts word-weary pseudo-writers like me to glance back at the trail of breadcrumbs I’ve scattered behind me over the past thirty days. Fitting, since April 30th coincides with National Honesty Day, which, in all honesty, I never knew existed.
It never occurred to me that we would need to officially designate twenty four hours for honesty, but then I haven’t read Mr. Goldberg’s book nor any of his research which reveals that we mortals tell up to 200 lies a day, from great fat whoppers about why deadlines were missed to teeny-weeny white lies about a friend’s new hair color. Admittedly fascinated by this, I had to venture a little deeper into the tangled web and found myself at a Radical Honesty website. Well. Not to be disrespectful (or maybe I’m just not being honest), but I wonder if the patrons of the Radical Honesty website consider themselves “honesty radicals,” which makes them sound a bit dangerous and alternative. Edgy and urban, like a band from somewhere rainy, like Seattle or Derry, circa 1990.
As intrigued as I am by the honesty radicals, I would not want to cross their paths on a bad-hair day, made worse perhaps by the kind of cold-sore my best friend Amanda names after those people she believes caused it (as you do with hurricanes), and therefore feeling unattractive, perhaps even ugly. According to the Frequently Asked Questions page at the Radical Honesty website, where you will find self-assured psychologist and founder, Dr. Brad Blanton, waxing honest about the truth, the “honest radical” would make no bones about validating my sorry state on such a day. The FAQ page includes a sample question and answer to help prepare an aspiring truth-teller with what to say should they have the misfortune to encounter me on my worst hair day ever, when I might be feeling “unattractive,” or “outstandingly ugly.” I am not making this up. I couldn’t make this up. As Dr. Blanton himself explains:
Suppose you met someone whom you found unattractive. How do you handle that?
If the person’s outstandingly ugly, then that’s an issue I’m certainly going to bring up to talk about right off. I would say, “I think you look kind of ugly and this is what I think is ugly. I think that big wart on the left side of your face is probably something that puts people off and that you don’t have much of a love life, is that true?” Then we’ll have a conversation about it. That ugly person has probably always felt the negative unexpressed reaction from people. The idea is that they end up not avoiding the damn thing instead of living a life that’s dancing on egg shells. They live life out loud and it’s a whole lot better life.
What else can I say, other than Founder, Brad Blanton Ph.D., ran twice as an Independent candidate for the United States House of Representatives. He did not, however, win. If you would like to get to know him better, you can always visit his website and sign up for what appears to be something along the lines of a truth-a-palooza in Greece later this summer. I’m not making this up. Honestly.
My renewed interest in the the benefits of being entirely truthful now at a rolling boil (and the whole point of the 30th day of the writing challenge momentarily on a back burner), I’m now curious about who among us lies the most. Another quick search takes me to a 2010 study in the United Kingdom in which researchers found that out of 3,000 people polled, the average British male tells 1,092 lies each year, about three a day; his female counterpart, a mere 728 times a year – around twice a day. BBC News kindly provides a chart showing the top ten lies told by men and women, which I find intriguing and, well, a bit too familiar. Survey Says:
Top 10 Lies Told by Women
Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine.
I don’t know where it is, I haven’t touched it
It wasn’t that expensive.
I didn’t have that much to drink.
I‘ve got a headache.
It was on sale. (which would be impressive only if it were in a sale in 1978)
I‘m on my way.
Oh, I’ve had this ages. (surely this is preceded by “This old thing?”)
No, I didn’t throw it away. (yes … these words have fallen from my lips in reference to a pair of cargo shorts and/or a Hawaiian shirt)
It’s just what I’ve always wanted.
To be fair, here are the Top 10 Lies Told by Men:
I didn’t have that much to drink
Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine
I had no signal
It wasn’t that expensive
I’m on my way
I’m stuck in traffic
No, your bum doesn’t look big in that (in our house, this is typically a measured and calm “No,” from my husband in response to “Do these jeans make my butt look big?” He has used “Not really,” in the past. But only once.)
Sorry, I missed your call
You’ve lost weight. (Instinctively, my husband knows not to say this because it will in some way imply that prior to the weight loss, I must have been fat, but not when I asked him about the jeans.)
It’s just what I’ve always wanted.
Katie Maggs, associate medical curator for the London Science Museum, which commissioned the study, believes we have a way to go in determining whether lying can bet attributed to our genes, evolution, or the way we were raised, pointing out that “Lying may seem to be an unavoidable part of human nature but it’s an important part of social interaction.” She goes on to explain that the prevalence of lying has led to an increase in research dedicated to lie-detection technology. Ms. Maggs admits that only a few of us appear to be able to detect with any accuracy when someone ie lying based on subtile facial or behavioral cues, but high tech-developers are hard at work creating more precise technologies.
What about people in various professions? How do they fare in the truth-telling business? According to a Gallup poll in 2011 in which participants were asked to rate the honesty and ethical standards of 21 professions, members of Congress sit right at the bottom below lobbyists, car salesmen, and telemarketers. The top three perceived as most honest are, nurses, pharmacists, and medical doctors, which, I have to say, makes me breathe a little easier. But only a little.
In my working life, which now spans three decades, I have been gobsmacked by many of the lies that have flown from the lips of people behaving badly. Not the harmless white lies told to spare feelings, but the other kind employed to preserve the images and reputations of some, while systematically destroying others in the process. There are the flat-out lies that are told to reframe, defame, blame, shame, and even destroy other people. There are the truths that go unuttered, so their very opposite must be true – where there’s smoke there’s fire, right? Often, a different corollary is at work; instead of fire, there are mirrors that distort and deceive. Once ensnared, it is virtually impossible to escape unscathed. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive!” Indeed.
Before I go any further, and even though she doesn’t know me, I must apologize to Oprah. I used to think that if it was screaming from the headlines of The National Enquirer, there had to be at least a grain of truth in it (the idiomatic smoke and fire ) I have since learned that, as a friend recently put it, “People make shit up. They just make shit up.” A more elegant assessment of what people do, comes from Maya Angelou, who, in an interview with Opran, explains that gossip and lies are attempts to
Reduce your humanity through what Jules Feiffer called little murders. The minute I hear [someone trying to demean me], I know that that person means to have my life. And I will not give it to them
So as I bid farewell to the Writing Challenge for another year, it is as a fifty year old. Wiser. Happier. In good health. Telling the truth. I enjoyed seeing where many of the daily prompts took me and, of course, meeting others along the way. One of the high points was the opportunity to meet AnneMarie Ciccarella of Chemo-Brain.Blogspot.Com, another blogger known to many of you who stop here. We both happened to be in Washington D.C. at the same time, for different reasons, and found the time to meet at the end of a long Saturday. With age, I am realizing there are so many moments just like these that are worth making time for and infinitely sweeter and better for us than any extra minute spent at the office.
Finding the time to write every day proved that there is time in the day to write and reinforced again that all these moments that make up a day and a life, are of unequal weight. For years, before illness, I made them so, my priorities slightly askew, perhaps not terribly different from those of late Senator Paul Tsongas, who said in a 1992 interview:
Pre-cancer, I was one of the pettiest people you’ve ever run into … I would get angry at my wife for leaving the top off the toothpaste. I’d get angry at my kids for the dumbest things. Looking back on it I feel mortified. I was a fool.
The cancer diagnosis required him to take stock, and inHeading Home, the late Tsongas explains that it was a letter from an old friend, Arnold Zack, that helped put in perspective the senator’s promising political career,
“No one on his deathbed ever said, ‘I wish I had spent more time on my business.”
A least favorite prompt? Honestly, because, you know it is that day, Day 8’s prompt annoyed me. “If your health condition were an animal, what would it be?” It brought to mind all those god-awful uncomfortable ice-breakers and energizers so many of us have been forced into at work retreats and orientations for new employees. Nonetheless, after stewing about it for a minute or two, I was able to produce a post that I enjoyed writing: Breast Cancer Ice Breaker. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later, when I was trying to prove to my brother that Thomas Hardy is a great writer, because even our favorite poet, Seamus Heaney, says so, I stumbled upon something Heaney said in response to a similar question about what animal he would be from Henri Cole during The Art of Poetry No. 75 interview for The Paris Review. (Seriously, who asks that of a Nobel Prize-winning Poet and then follows up with “and what building would you be?” I kid you not). Anyway, I can just hear the man from Anahorish deliver this phlegmatic response:
I might enjoy being an albatross, being able to glide for days and daydream for hundreds of miles along the thermals. And then being able to hang like an affliction round some people’s necks.
Until next year, then, consider me as Heaney, adrift for miles and miles, and then coming to rest around the necks of others who might possibly be trying to shake me off right now. Would I lie to you?
Thank you for reading.
P.S. If you’ve made it to the bottom of this post, you most likely have The Eurhythmics “Would I Lie to You?” stuck in your head. You might as well take a minute or two to enjoy a very young and impressive Annie Lennox belting it out in this 1985 video.
If you’ve never been on fire, then how can you burn out? Let me count the ways. Yesterday, or the day before, I wrote about bullying in the workplace. As an aside, I am beginning to lose track of the days, which reminds me I could always play a new card – Post Cancer Cognitive Impairment (PCCI); or just admit that I have a terrible memory. In my defense, the estrogen that fueled my cancer is inextricably linked to memory. Without the former, the latter is blocked as well. This is the very last thing you need if you are also a target of workplace mobbing, a phenomenon that can leave a person feeling demoralized, devalued, worn down, worn out, tormented, betrayed by people who once were friends, and, undoubtedly, burned out. Once upon a time, it happened to me.
Midway in the journey of our life I came to myself in a dark wood For the straight way was lost
~ Dante Alighieri The Divine Comedy
Perhaps it happened to you too. Would you do things differently were it to happen again? I would. After all, when you know better, you do better, as Maya Angelou told Oprah Winfrey. Admittedly, as a mother and a woman living with cancer, I worry sometimes that I won’t live long enough to fulfill my moral and maternal obligations. I want to do what I must to ensure my daughter will know how to be safe at work, the way I made sure she looked both ways before crossing the street when she was a little girl.
Imagine for a moment, the new employee, my daughter or yours, all grown-up and off to work, eager to do well, to leave her mark – on fire. Initially she feels confident and competent, buoyed perhaps by her credentials, her natural charm, and a heart that’s bursting with goodness. But then, inexplicably, she does something that triggers an overtly hostile response from a supervisor, perhaps another woman whom she thought would be her mentor. What did she do wrong? It will take time and serious introspection for her – and you – to figure out just what it is about her own actions or abilities, her intelligence even, that provoked the response, as unfair as it is. In no way, is this to justify, condone, or minimize the attacks on her, but if she can just be convinced to step back, lay low, avoid a confrontation that will only bring more negative attention her way, she may just buy enough time to develop an exit strategy, an escape route. It will take an Academy award worthy effort on her part, but she has no choice other than to “act” differently if she is to be treated differently so she can extricate herself from the situation, reputation intact. The sooner the better.
If you are in such a situation, you probably don’t need a test to tell you you are burned out. Still, if you are interested, Christina Maslach, a prominent researcher in the phenomenon of burnout, has developed a self-assessment that allows you to gauge, albeit informally, where you might fall on the spectrum from high-octane to a barely smoldering ember. I am not a psychologist, and I am not suggesting you use this as a reliable diagnostic test. A more rigorously validated tool can be found in the Maslach Burnout Inventory. But for starters, here is the self-test:
Listed below are the chief indicators of burnout. Do you experience these: Not at all, Rarely, Sometimes, Often, or Very often:
Do you feel run down and drained of physical or emotional energy?
Do you find that you are prone to negative thinking about your job?
Do you find that you are harder and less sympathetic with people than perhaps they deserve?
Do you find yourself getting easily irritated by small problems, or by your co-workers and team?
Do you feel misunderstood or unappreciated by your co-workers?
Do you feel that you have no one to talk to?
Do you feel under an unpleasant level of pressure to succeed?
Do you feel that you are not getting what you want out of your job?
Do you feel that you are in the wrong organization or the wrong profession?
Are you becoming frustrated with parts of your job?
Do you feel that organizational politics or bureaucracy frustrate your ability to do a good job?
In a previous job, where I was a target of workplace mobbing, I would have said “Hell, yes!” to enough of those questions to score in the 60 – 75 point range which would suggest the high likelihood of my being “at very severe risk of burnout – do something about this urgently.”
But I am not in that situation anymore. I am, in fact, on fire again. What does that mean? I think it means I have reclaimed all the hours I need each day to learn something new, to throw my head back and laugh, really laugh – with those who love me, to stay in the car until the end of a favorite song on the radio, to go to my job without a letter of resignation at the ready every day and my attorney’s number on speed dial.
How did I escape? I have to believe the entire universe conspired to assist me, as it always does, because in that horrible place, I made some errors that could have been detrimental to my health, my professional identity, my career. Now this is important – they didn’t seem like mistakes at the time. Tired of dodging bullets, I began to fire back. I thought I was defending myself; instead I was throwing gasoline on the flames. Foolishly, I tried to reason with people in power. I failed. My words were twisted, my body language was questioned by a man who probably never commented on the body language of a man in my role. I vigorously objected to my rights as an employee being systematically taken away, and I openly questioned what seemed to be an orchestrated effort to disempower me. I confided in colleagues, mistaking them for friends. I stayed late working on projects for which others took all the credit, when I should have been home with my family. All mistakes.
In retrospect, I completely underestimated the destructive power of “the group mentality” and was wholly unprepared for the lies they would tell, even to themselves. I fought back. I was afraid; they told me I was paranoid. I questioned an inefficient system; they said I was difficult. I told the truth; they said I was sabotaging the organization. People I had nurtured betrayed me. Immaterial betrayals at first, but betrayals nonetheless and
I suppose I understand. Sort of. We’re all only human after all. Still, when I imagine an ostensibly supportive conversation that may have occurred between “the bully” and a colleague, with me as the main topic, the sense of disappointment is sickening. Hindsight being what it is, I can almost hear a conversation that may have unfolded like this:
“I know you are friends outside of work, and I absolutely respect that relationship. Of course, I understand how difficult her situation must be for you. We know how focused you are on your job, so listening to all her concerns must be terribly distracting for you. Yes, yes, it is such a pity she is so unhappy here, because we know she has such potential. But she is a strong woman, and I’m sure you’ve noticed that even her body language has changed. A shame, really, because she is bright. Very bright. I hate to say it, I really do, but it’s probably just best for all of us if she can find something more aligned to her career goals. Fit is really everything isn’t it? Oh, before I forget, I just wanted to let you know how impressed we were with that presentation you gave last week. Really amazing. We’d like to spotlight you in our next newsletter.”
Sounds like bullshit? It is, but it works, especially if a different variation of the same theme is shared in individual conversations with every one of your co-workers. Behind closed doors. Quietly, carefully, and immediately documented, it will be shared with the mob. Your colleagues and your subordinates will be convinced that where there’s smoke, there must be fire. A different kind of fire. They will forget all about the light and warmth it once provided, and instead be duped by lies and flattery, empty promises of job security or promotion, smoke and mirrors.
And it will be your undoing.
You won’t hear a thing about these conversations so cleverly and quietly conducted when you are at lunch or on sick leave. The silence will confound you and frustrate you. You will second-guess every glance exchanged between colleagues in your presence. You will doubt your ability to do your job. You will wonder who else is blind-copied on emails to you, and you’ll even start wondering if your office might be bugged. Not because you are paranoid or emotional – even though you will be told that you are both – but because you are being tormented at work. You might even find yourself thinking of the other mob and Goodfellas. Good. Fellas.
For a second, I thought I was dead, but when I heard all the noise I knew they were cops. Only cops talk that way. If they had been wiseguys, I wouldn’t have heard a thing. I would’ve been dead.
If you are reading this and in a similar situation, I urge you to consider the lessons from Dr. Janice Harper‘s experience and who commented here yesterday. In Just us Justice: The Gentle Genocide of Workplace Mobbing, Dr. Harper provides her clear-eyed assessment of “the bully” in the workplace and how to survive when the mob is upon you. Her best advice?
Get out.
And who could argue with these words?
If you are fighting for a principle, make the principle your own significance to the world. You can give far more to the world by surviving mobbing than by fighting it…. if you are being mobbed, don’t fight back, fight forward. Fight for your future, and relegate mobbing to your past
For a second, I thought I was dead, but when I heard all the noise I knew they were cops. Only cops talk that way. If they had been wiseguys, I wouldn’t have heard a thing. I would’ve been dead.