Gunny Su, Where Are You?
Jeff McHenry
Miscrosoft Corporation
Several months ago, I met with one of my employer’s esteemed
managers named Rick (not really). Rick has an IQ of about a zillion and understands
PCs as well as Lorena Bobbitt understands knives. When it comes to high tech, Rick is a
certifiable genius.
Rick’s manager told me that Rick has the potential to be a VP at
our company one day except for one little problem—nobody can stand to work
with him. He is abrasive, doesn’t listen well, and doesn’t believe in
compromise. "A couple of his projects are grinding to a halt because he’s being
stonewalled by people in another division," his manager told me. He continued:
One guy told me if faced with the choice of spending the rest of his
life watching a Jerry Springer marathon versus doing something to help Rick
succeed, he’d opt for Jerry. I’ve told Rick he needs to fix his style, or
else his career’s gonna stall. It made him mad—so I’d appreciate it
if you’d tell him again when you start working with him.
Rick’s manager felt that Rick wasn’t aware of how much fear
and loathing he was inspiring. But he also said that Rick pays good attention to numbers
and data. So we decided 360 feedback might be a good place to start with Rick.
I have love-hate feelings toward 360 feedback. For those of us in the
business of working with derailing managers, 360 feedback is one of the most powerful
tools we have. But you have to remember, those of us who coach derailing managers
don’t exactly have a master mechanic’s toolkit at our disposal. As my esteemed
colleague Brian Stern has noted, using 360 feedback to confront a surly manager
is a lot like invading a nuclear superpower armed with pop guns and squirt bottles. Those
of us who frequently use 360 feedback understand how Custer’s men felt at the
Little Big Horn. So those of us who work with derailing managers are not exactly blessed
with a great toolkit.
This speaks to a core challenge faced by any practitioner—the
lack of power. Like Tim the Toolman, I have often wished for more power in my professional
life.
My yearning for power is all the more bittersweet because I had power
once. The year was 1988, and the place was Camp Pendleton. I was site manager for a job
performance and test validation project sponsored by the U.S. Marine Corps. I showed up
for work at "oh-dark hundred" my first morning on the job, and there to greet me
was my esteemed point of contact Gunnery Sergeant Suianoa. Gunny Su was approximately the
size of New Jersey, except with less body fat. At 6’4" and 240 pounds, he
epitomized the lean, mean fighting machine. After introducing himself and shaking my hand,
he slapped me on the back so hard my shoulder blades almost popped out my rib cage.
"Welcome to Camp Pendleton, Cheff," he said in his wonderful Samoan lilt.
"I am here to help you get your chob done."
Just then an official U.S. Marine Corps bus drove up and out came 56
official U.S. Marine Infantrymen carrying M16 rifles. I had worked with some reluctant
clients before, but the most dangerous weapon any of them had ever wielded was an electric
stapler. "Don’t worry," Gunny Su assured me with a grin, "I’ll
take charge of these Marines."
He called them to order. "For the next two days," he told
them, "you do whatever Cheff tells you. Is that clear?"
"YES, GUNNERY SERGEANT SUIANOA!" they cried in one Marine
voice.
"If Cheff says go here, go here. If Cheff says jump there, jump
there. If Cheff says run across camp, turn a somersault in the cactus, and then come back—you
do it. Do any of you have any questions about this?"
Fifty-six U.S. Marines, all trained killers, all of them armed to the
teeth, shouted, "NO QUESTIONS, GUNNERY SERGEANT SUIANOA." Gunny Su then turned
the 56 U.S. Marines and their M16s over to me for further instruction.
The pride I felt that day is rivaled only by the day my daughter was
born. Finally, I had the authority an industrial-organizational psychologist deserves! I
wanted to show my appreciation to Gunny Su for his wisdom and discernment. I intuitively
sensed, however, that it might be against Marine protocol to kiss a gunnery sergeant on
the cheek so early in the morning. So instead, I swaggered up to the front of the unit and
politely asked my Marines to do well on their tests and have a nice day. In their manly
deep Marine voices, they assured me they would. Then they scurried off to their testing
stations.
I thought about Gunny Su as I was walking into Rick’s office to
share his 360 feedback with him. I wanted to have the same power in shaping Rick’s
behavior that I had had at Camp Pendleton with the Marines. What could I say to help Rick
see how his behavior was limiting his effectiveness? Before showing him his 360 report,
I asked Rick whether it was important to him to have a big impact at work. "Extremely
important," he told me. He then reiterated to me his frustration over his lack of
progress on a big project owing to a couple of peers who "couldn’t tell their <anatomy
part deleted> from a hole in the wall." I suggested that while reviewing his
feedback, he should think about why his peers were blocking him and what he could do to
win their cooperation. "Those guys are idiots!" he roared at me. I asked him
what he would do if forced to choose between "take no prisoners but have no
impact" versus "a little collaboration and a lot of impact." He was very
thoughtful for a moment. "I understand what you’re saying," he said
quietly. "It’s a question of what I value most."
I got to the guy, I thought. The power is back. I could feel my pride
swelling.
I paused to let Rick reflect on his learning. Then I asked if he was
ready to review his feedback report. He smiled at me.
"Sure," he said. "Let’s see what those SOBs have to
say."
"Gunny Su," I whispered to the heavens, "where are
you?"
***
Please direct all complaints and concerns about this article to the TIP
editor. Praise, kudos, your musings about I-O practice, and suggestions for future
articles can be emailed directly to me at jmchenry@microsoft.com.
TIP
Vol. 36/No. 2 October, 1998
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