Month: January 2023

Inputs and Outputs

I worked two jobs in college.

Chances are, we’ve heard this phrase before.

We might have even lived it.

I can claim that as true. Sort of.

You see, I did work two jobs to help me with such month-to-month expenses as food and gasoline. But not at the same time.

The first job was with my university’s admissions department. But it was from a heady position.

My role was to digitize prospective students’ college application documents. That meant splaying the packets of materials out on my desk, removing the staples, running each page through a scanner, and then stapling the packets back together.

It was boring work, yet somehow still tedious.

I was terrified of getting a paper cut, stapling my fingers, or accidentally mixing up documents from the applicants. And so, I came back to the dorms mentally exhausted each evening — just in time to start on my homework.

I can’t remember if I lasted a few days or a few weeks in that job. But at some point, I quit.

By the time the next school year came around, I had a new job. This time, I was an administrative assistant for a tutoring program for underprivileged youth.

The program took place at the university, so its offices were on-campus. My job was to check program attendance, file papers, gather the mail, and do a host of other menial tasks.

My tenure there lasted three years, severed only by my graduation from the university.

So yes, I worked two jobs in college. But the mileage varied.

What was behind the differing outcomes in my collegiate job history?

After all, both jobs were of similar administrative ilk. They both paid about the same and required the same hours.

Yet, I ran for the hills from one and stuck around for another. Why was that?

I believe the answer comes from three words: Inputs and Outputs.

You see, most jobs involve these. But some apply them more dynamically than others.

In the college admissions support role, the inputs were a set of paper documents. The outputs were the digitized files, plus the paper backups.

My job was to transform those inputs into outputs. But it relied wholeheartedly on both aspects.

If the inputs weren’t there, I had nothing to work on. That would leave me without any outputs — and without pay.

And so, I yearned for that stack of unprocessed papers on my desk to be as tall as possible. All while dreading the repetitive task of going through it.

With the admin assistant job, the inputs varied. There was always something to help with, but it wasn’t always the same thing.

I was able to practice creativity, to a degree. Efficiency wasn’t just about doing one task faster and more accurately. It was about providing as many outputs to my employer as possible.

And even for a fresh-faced college student like me, that was enlightening.

Over the past two centuries, there have been two dominant paradigms for work in the western world.

One is the Assembly Line Model. The other is the Innovator Model.

The Assembly Line Model was made famous by Henry Ford. His factory workers would each focus on one specialized task, repeating it as quickly and accurately as possible. When these tasks were performed in parallel, they’d yield a finished product in record time.

The Innovator Model is almost entirely the opposite. Tasks would vary widely, all in the context of a challenging end goal.

It’s easy to put each role into buckets. To relegate the Assembly Line Model to manufacturing and the Innovator Model to high-tech software.

But that would be a grave mistake.

Industries and salaries don’t determine which bucket each of our job functions falls into. Only one question does.

Is there a predetermined input?

In the case of my administrative assistant roles in college, the answer to that question was clear. Only the admissions job had such an input. The other role was far more varied.

But oftentimes, the situation is much murkier. We might have some base inputs. But we’re not solely wedded to them.

In these scenarios, our choices tend to diverge along three paths.

Some of us will stick to the inputs we’re given, sacrificing opportunity for reliability.

Others will shun the inputs, going rouge to make their own way to success.

And still others will split the difference, iterating off inputs in hopes of maximizing outputs.

I have taken this third path in my professional life after graduation.

As a TV news producer, I relied on the stories my assignment editors and reporters uncovered. But I also scrounged for material to round out the newscasts. Material that helped balance the needs to inform, inspire, and entertain my station’s viewer base.

As a marketer, I’ve relied on several things — technology, revenue targets, and product development, to name a few. But I’ve proactively viewed my work from a consumer perspective, identifying and filling the gaps I identified.

Through it all, I’ve strived to be transparent, compassionate, and collaborative. I’ve sought to provide unique value to my employers, but in a manner where my contributions could be replicated by others. I tried to be invaluable, yet not entirely irreplaceable.

It’s a blueprint that’s worked wonders for me. But I needn’t be the alone in reaping the benefits.

Business news these days is bleak.

Week after week, tales of stock market downturns, interest rate increases, and stubbornly high costs seem to take center stage. And this has led to a spate of layoffs.

Tech companies are reducing staff at levels not seen in two decades. Other employers are cutting their workforces at rates not seen since the Great Recession.

This has all led to a lot of heartache. Tens of thousands of workers have suddenly found themselves without a livelihood, searching for new roles in an unsteady economy.

It’s a sobering moment, to be sure. But this inflection point also provides a unique opportunity.

We now have the chance to reinvent the way we approach work. To be more than a connector between inputs and outputs. To be scrappy and fill the gaps that existing systems and processes yield. To propel our role, our employer, our industry forward.

Such attributes will not guarantee security or success. But they’ll put us in a far better position to get where we want to be.

Yet, even in this moment, many of us are still yearning for reliable inputs. Whether we’re hanging onto our roles or looking to land a new one, we have little appetite for being transformational. It just seems too risky.

I understand the sentiment. But it’s sorely misplaced.

The more we settle for turning the same tired inputs into outputs, the more we make ourselves forgettable. The more we depend on others, without providing unique value in return. The more we put ourselves in jeopardy of becoming redundant.

Hiding in plain sight isn’t the safe play. Not in a game that awards extra points to the bold and the determined.

So, let’s switch tactics. Let’s put our stamp on the work we do.

Let’s take agency. Let’s be transformational. Let’s dare to make vision reality.

Inputs needn’t define our destiny. That responsibility can, should, must fall on us.

It’s time to grab the reins.

The Price of Integrity

I pulled into the parking lot, certain I’d arrived at the wrong address.

I was in a suit and tie. And I had driven across town at rush hour to get here. But here looked nothing like I’d expected.

You see, the reason for all of this — the fancy clothes, the slog through traffic — was a job interview with a marketing firm. I knew little about the firm, but I expected it to be located within some massive office building.

Instead, I found myself face-to-face with a nondescript, industrial office park. Single-story buildings abounded, devoid of signage. Plumbing and home contracting work trucks sat on the far end of the parking lot.

I couldn’t be in the right place, could I?

Fighting through my apprehension, I made my way to the front door and opened it. In the small lobby sat a few other job candidates, dressed like me. I gave my name to the receptionist and took a seat alongside them.

One by one, we were called into a manager’s office. When it was my turn, the manager only asked me a few basic questions. Then he asked me to return to the lobby with the others.

A few minutes later, we were told we’d be going out in the field. We were paired off with existing employees, all wearing suits like we were. And we followed them outside of the building.

The employee I’d been paired with directed me to his car, and asked me to get in. Soon, we were found ourselves at a different industrial office park. We got out of the car, walked right past the No Soliciting signs, and entered an office.

The employee introduced himself and launched into a pitch about some kitchen knives. The startled office workers stated they didn’t need cutlery, but this man would not be so easily denied. He endeavored to change their minds, unveiling a prototype he had brought with him in a carrying case.

When the office workers softened their stance to We’ll think about it, the man handed over a business card. Then, we were on our way to the next office.

At this point, I was starting to realize that I’d been duped. This marketing role I’d applied to was actually a sales job. A door-to-door sales job. And I was now trapped.

After a couple more office visits, the employee and I returned to his car. Sensing my apprehension, he tried to sell me on the job.

The man spoke of how much money he was able to earn in commissions each month, and all the nice things he was able to get his girlfriend. He gushed about the opportunity to earn even more soon.

I was still unconvinced, so I peppered the employee with questions.

When I asked about the No Soliciting signs, he implied those were just suggestions. When I asked about the man’s tactics, he talked about the importance of turning a No into a Yes. When I asked if he could truly vouch for the product, he mentioned that he could vouch for making money, and that was what mattered.

Then he turned the questioning back on me.

Is this something you feel you can do? If so, we can keep going. If not, I can bring you back to the main office now. But consider about the opportunity this job brings before you answer.

I did consider it for a moment. But ultimately, I told the truth.

I could not see myself doing this, and I wanted a ride back to my car. Immediately.

Every now and then, I think back to the “job interview” experience I had that day.

It was unpredictable, manipulative, even deceptive.

But was it worthy of my icy response? Probably not.

The salesperson I was paired with was certainly shallow. But ultimately, he only cost some office workers a few minutes of their time. People have done far worse.

So, why was I so anatomically opposed to his work? Why was I so revolted that I bailed on the only job prospect I had at the time?

The roots of that answer lie in an unfortunate event from my childhood.

I was about 5 years old, tagging along with my parents as they shopped for a new car. After looking at a Toyota Camry, my parents told the salesperson they didn’t want to buy it. But the seller wouldn’t take No for an option and pushed my parents to make a down payment on the spot.

Offended, my father asked to speak with a manager. But instead of hearing us out, the manager locked all of us in his office and showed us a Camry promotional video.

When the video was over, he tried — forcefully — to coerce my parents to sign a check for the down payment. And once they again refused, he lit into them for making his salesperson look bad. It was only when my father threatened to call the police that the manager finally unlocked his office door and let us leave the dealership.

Witnessing traumatic events like this at a formative age can be scarring. And this particular experience continued to cast its long shadow over me when it comes to the art of selling.

You see, going into that cursed interaction, intents were aligned. My parents had an interest in buying a car. The sales staff at the Toyota dealership had an interest in selling one.

But once my parents changed course, that alignment broke down. They didn’t want to buy a Camry, but the sales staff still wanted them to make the purchase. They tried every dirty trick in the book to turn a No into a Yes.

Now, all these years later, I found myself in a similar dynamic. I was tagging along while someone doggedly attempted to turn a No into a Yes.

Only this time, intents weren’t aligned. This time, the salesperson was showing up out of the blue hawking a random product. A product his audience didn’t want. And one they could likely purchase elsewhere if they changed their minds.

In both cases, the resistance of the prospective buyers was real. It wasn’t a bluff or negotiating tactic. It was the truth.

But that truth got in the way of the seller’s objectives and compensation. So, they tossed integrity aside. They waged war on their audience’s stated intentions to put another closed deal on their ledger.

They might have been able to sleep soundly at night after acting this way. But I wouldn’t.

As I write this, I’m nearing a decade of work as a professional marketer.

My roles, functions, and knowledge have changed over those years. But one thing has remained constant.

No matter what my job title has been, or the core industry I’ve supported, my employer has always featured a direct sales staff.

The sellers I’ve worked with have generally been fantastic. And people are often eager to buy the solution they’re hawking. So, as a marketer, I’ve had no qualms about supporting their efforts.

But that support comes with strings attached.

You see, I carry one lesson forward from that door-to-door sales experience. In my case, the price of integrity is infinite.

I refuse to sell myself out for a quick buck. And I refuse to sell anyone else out by walking all over their resistance.

This means two things for me.

First, I will not work in sales roles. The chances of a moral crisis are too high, particularly when my financial solvency is on the line. Much respect to all the above-board sellers out there, but the discipline is not for me.

Second, I will not directly support efforts that sacrifice integrity. I don’t create marketing materials that run afoul of the truth. And if a salesperson does feel like doing some arm-twisting, I make sure to stay clear of it.

This is my mission. It’s the path I walk alone.

But it doesn’t have to remain that way. Indeed, it shouldn’t.

We can all raise the price of integrity. We can all agree to respect our intentions and to act with decency — without exception.

Such a shift might change the way we buy and sell. And it might mean that we’re talked into fewer experiences outside our comfort zone.

But such tradeoffs are worthwhile.

Indeed, if we can treat each other — and ourselves — with respect and dignity, it will truly make the world a healthier place.

And that outcome would be invaluable.

Survive and Advance

They were a juggernaut.

The 2014-2015 Kentucky Wildcats men’s basketball team had top-end talent up and down the roster. Led by a legendary coach, the team had elite-level prowess, talent, and competitive drive. And this made them a nightmare to compete against.

The Wildcats could beat you with offensive skill. They could smother you defensively. And they could outlast you with superior depth.

The college basketball season is a grind, and even the best teams end up with a few blemishes along the way. But not Kentucky.

The Wildcats finished off the regular slate with a 31-0 record. Only 7 of those games were decided by less than 10 points.

As they entered postseason play, a sense of inevitability reigned.

All Kentucky had to do was win 9 more games. That would make them the first men’s team to go 40-0 in a season.

The Wildcats rolled through their conference tournament and the early rounds of the national tournament. But once they reached the Final Four (the national semifinals), something strange happened.

Kentucky’s opponent — the Wisconsin Badgers — matched the Wildcats blow for blow, before pulling away in the final minute.

The Badgers won by 7 points. And just like that, Kentucky’s season was over.

There would be no national championship. No coronation as the best team ever. Kentucky’s ballyhooed players would watch the title game along with the rest of us.

The Wildcats had played 1,574 minutes of masterful basketball that season. But the 1,575th minute cost them everything.

College basketball is full of peculiarities.

Pro basketball has evolved into a spectacle, with elite players competing in modern arenas blaring hip-hop beats.

But college ball remains rugged and antiquated. Games take place in old-school fieldhouses, with cheerleaders and pep bands providing the soundtrack. Jump ball confrontations are replaced by an alternating possession arrow. And, in certain circumstances, players must make one free throw to get a chance at a second. (The dreaded 1 and 1.)

These oddities are widely forgiven, though. For the college basketball season ends with perhaps the most iconic tournament in sports.

The NCAA Tournament — widely known as March Madness — pits the top 68 teams in the country against each other. Teams face off against each other, with the winners moving on and the losers going home. This continues until there is one team left standing.

In theory, March Madness is not all that different than other postseason tournaments. Both the college and professional versions of American football have a single-elimination tournament at the end of their seasons. Part of the World Cup in soccer uses the same format.

But none of these tournaments have the size or scope of the NCAA Tournament. And none are as inherently cruel to elite teams as March Madness.

You see, to win it all, college basketball teams must win 6 games in a row. Those 6 wins must come against other great teams, under the brightest of lights.

This requires a mindset shift. It requires teams to embrace three simple words.

Survive and advance.

Indeed, it’s the most scrappy and desperate teams that have the edge in March. This has led to all manner of surprises over the years — with “Cinderella” teams knocking out more highly-regarded opponents.

Kentucky was able to avoid such an upset in the early rounds of the 2015 tournament. But the sand ran out in the Final Four.

Wisconsin proved to be scrappier than the Wildcats with the game on the line.

The Badgers survived. They advanced.

I often think about the 2014-2015 Kentucky Wildcats. The team that had it all yet walked away with nothing.

It’s tough to know what to make of them.

Generations of evidence show that The Two T’s — talent and teamwork — provide a winning combination. Darwin’s theory of evolution states that the stronger species survives, adapting to adversity more deftly than its foes.

Yet, the loss to Wisconsin defies both trends. The Badgers were no slouch that season, but they weren’t at Kentucky’s level. If both teams were firing on all cylinders, Wisconsin would seemingly be toast.

But they weren’t. The Badgers took the Wildcats’ best shot and prevailed.

In the wake of this outcome, what should we do?

Should we cast off Darwin and The Two T’s, declaring them false prophets? Absolutely not. That would be as foolish as denying the existence of gravity because a party balloon floated toward the ceiling.

Should we shrug our shoulders and chalk this all up to an anomaly? Perhaps. But it doesn’t help us make heads or tails of what happened.

No, the best course of action is to consider what the Kentucky Wildcats could have done better. And then to avoid those same pitfalls in our own life.

The answer to that is clear.

For whatever reason, the Kentucky Wildcats failed to take stock. They failed to consider what they had, and what would be needed to protect it.

This led them to get outscrapped at the worst possible time.

We must not follow suit.

As I write this, another college basketball season is in full swing.

Some teams have risen to the top. Others have stumbled but have some time to right themselves.

Indeed, March Madness is months away for college basketball. But for the rest of us, Selection Sunday is upon us.

We’re heading into a new year rife with uncertainty. Persistent inflation and accelerating layoffs are all over the headlines. The long tail of a pandemic and societal divisiveness each linger beneath the surface.

For quite a while now, we’ve relied on our attributes to thrive. The parallel rise of the tech and venture funding industries has provided ample growth opportunities. When it came to our lives, our careers, and our financial futures, we had leverage.

But now, the tables are turning.

Those around us are battening down the hatches. Growth is turning to maintenance. Excess opportunities are drying up.

In the wake of all this, we need to do what the Kentucky Wildcats didn’t. We need to adapt.

Instead of deciding which options best maximize our talents, we should consider how we can hang on to what we have.

We must be scrappy. We must be gritty.

We must survive and advance.

I’m ready to rise to the moment. Are you?

The Time Shift Fallacy

As I entered the arena, I was in for a surprise.

I knew that I was there for a pro hockey game. And I knew that my favorite team would be wearing modified throwback jerseys.

But what I didn’t know was that nearly the entire game experience would be retrofitted.

The sound system blared 1990s music. The scoreboard showed TV commercials for such bygone brands as Kay Bee Toys and Circuit City. The Zamboni drivers wore Zumba pants.

For a moment, I was transfixed. My mind had traveled back to the days when Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux were on the ice. My body seemed to follow suit.

But then, reality snapped me back.

That star player who scored a hat trick (three goals) that night, leading to a cascade of hats from the stands? He was a baby in the late 1990s.

Those high-powered smartphones we were using to check the game stats? They were years from being invented back in that decade.

And the arena I was sitting in? Well, the team didn’t even start playing there until the early 2000s.

Yes, I was in an alternate reality. One that capitalized on nostalgia without sacrificing the comforts of modernity.

For a night, it worked. But when the clock struck 12, the experience turned into a pumpkin.

And an uncomfortable reality lingered.

Retro night at the hockey game isn’t the only time we’ve thrown it back.

Indeed, remnants of the past are all over our present.

Fashion from the 1990s has been back in style recently. And several cultural figures from that era have had a renaissance.

This should come as no surprise. Generational revitalizations are like clockwork in our society.

Styles from the 1980s re-emerged in the 2010s. And figures from the 1970s found new life in the 2000s.

Still, this is the first time I’ve experienced both the original and the remix. And the nostalgia has brought both glee and alarm.

At first glance, there’s not much to airbrush from the 1990s. The Cold War had ended. The American economy was humming. Aside from the O.J. Simpson trial and the Monica Lewinsky affair, there was not much to wring our hands about.

But dig a bit deeper, and the story is less tidy.

You see, the 1990s introduced the world to a film called Forrest Gump. The movie follows the title character on an accidental journey through many key moments in 20th century America.

In one such scene, Gump is trying to go to class at the University of Alabama when he finds a crowd gathered outside a building on campus. It turns out the commotion is over the racial integration of the university. Several Black students are heading to class, protected by the National Guard. And the crowd, while calm, is hostile to their cause.

During the commotion — including grandstanding by the segregationist governor George Wallace — Gump can be seen on his tiptoes, staring in on what’s going on. He later picks up a book that one of the students inadvertently dropped and hands it back to her.

In the moment, the scene seemed quaint. A relic from a moment in American history.

But recently, real-life imagery of another pivotal moment has seen some new light. The moment was the integration of North Little Rock High School in Arkansas. The era was the 1950s. And the peering onlooker was Jerry Jones.

Jones was an awkward teenager back then. But today, he’s the billionaire owner of the Dallas Cowboys — one of the world’s most famous sports teams. That makes him plenty visible.

As such, the response has not been kind. Instead of viewing the image as quaint, many have directed ire at Jones. Why was he there? And why didn’t he do more to help the bullied Black students?

The answers matter. But the questions are even more significant.

History is written by the victors.

So goes an adage that’s attributed – often controversially – to Winston Churchill.

For decades, we took such commentary at face value. But these days, we’re adding a new twist.

You see, there are now two dominant positions when it comes to historical artifacts. There are those who seek to amplify the flaws of those who came before us. And there are those who seek to wipe those blemishes away.

Thanks to this, turning points in our history — such as desegregation — are no longer taken at face value. They’ve become flashpoints.

Never mind the foolishness of viewing 20th century actions with a 21st century lens. The outcome is set in stone.

Those in the photos, recordings, and writings of yesteryear are sure to be canceled one way or another. They are certain to be construed as villains or heroes, even if they went through those eras as bystanders.

This principle is evident when it comes to Jerry Jones and that photo from Little Rock. But what about that scene from Forrest Gump?

If the movie was being made today, would that plot point have been altered? Might it have been cut?

The answer would most likely Yes.

Indeed, plenty of comedy routines from the 1990s are now considered “over the line.” A prominent 1980s song spoke of asking a doctor for a woman’s gynecological photos. A classic 1970s movie featured an Italian American saying the N-word.

None of that would fly today.

This is the reason the cultural staples of the present are so carefully varnished. And it’s the reason why we curate our trips down memory lane, through such experiences as retro night at a hockey game.

It seems sensible. It seems safe.

But it’s not working.

Back at the arena, I took in the sights and sounds of retro night with wonder.

But down the row from me, a young girl was perplexed.

The girl didn’t understand all the 1990s references. And her mother was struggling to describe them to her.

I couldn’t blame either of them.

The girl was born years after 90s mania had subsided. Like a Soviet defector encountering McDonalds for the first time, she had no ability to generate the warm fuzzies others did.

And her mother experienced that mania in real time. She was processing the Disney World version of the 1990s at the same time she was trying to explain it. That proved too tall a task to master.

This one example explains the time shift fallacy.

All our varnishing, cleansing, and massaging of the past can’t substitute for the real thing. Those of us who lived through it know better than to be bamboozled. And those who didn’t are in no position to understand, appreciate, or judge.

It’s fair to question the faults of the past using the glare of a modern lens. Such enlightenment is necessary. And efforts to avoid such inquiries are corrosively reckless.

Yet, it’s not fair to categorically dismiss all those who committed such faults. Dictators and madmen deserve our scorn for their atrocities, to be sure. But teenage onlookers captured in photos from yesteryear might not.

We might find movies reprehensible for racist dialogue. We might find songs offensive for sexist content. And indeed, we might think twice before sharing these bygone staples in contemporary settings.

But it must end there.

We mustn’t have the gall to think we can time shift, even for a moment. We mustn’t have the hubris to think we can sanitize the past. And we mustn’t categorically mistake the sins of ignorance for malice.

Yesterday is gone. The window for changing it has closed.

Let’s make today great instead.