How the leader proceeds in the face of negativity and complaints says far more about the leader than the constituents.
I recently had cause to reflect on something a good friend of mine said a few years ago: “When disagreeing, the negative opinion can seem to be more informed than the positive opinion. We should be careful with that.”
In the ensuing years and in various contexts, I heard my friend’s voice in my ear on more than one occasion and I have not only come to believe that what he said is true, I also believe that how an educational leader (or any leader for that matter) addresses responds to negative opinions, especially in the realm of decision making, says much about how that leader leads overall.
Leaders must contend with the reactions of those being led – both the positive and the negative reactions. Part of leadership is to put the positive in perspective while engaging the negative and sorting through both to discern a direction or to uncover truth.
Upon which kind of reaction does a leader spend the most time?
Upon which should a leader spend the most time?
There is a reason – and it is a bad one – that the old adage “the squeaky wheel gets the grease” is shared with such regularity: because it is true. Those who complain often and loudly get an audience, get recognition, get traction. Those who boisterously and repeatedly make arguments find themselves in administrators’ offices, whether to be heard or to be reprimanded. Most saliently, it seems to me that those who express the negative are too frequently regarded among the intelligentsia of faculties and staff.
Negative opinions are not the most informed, but they often seem that way.
Why is that? Why do negative opinions seem to be the smart opinions?
The responsibility for this challenge, while it is a shared one, falls more squarely upon the leader than upon the complainer. How the leader addresses and repairs the squeaky wheel is critical. How the leader proceeds in the face of negativity and complaints says far more about the leader than the constituents.
If the leader gives equal weight to each complaint with limited discernment about what is actually central and informed and what is not, that does not speak well of her leadership. If the leader gives too little weight or cannot distinguish what should be handled and what should be turfed, that, too, is a significant problem.
But the leaders who feel that every negative opinion must be addressed, countered, taken on and confronted because there is a sneaking suspicion that the rationale behind complaints is somehow better reasoned and, therefore, has more validity that other thoughts are just wrong minded.
It can feel as though negativity is sharper, smarter, and better developed than positivity, but that simply is not the case. How a leader deals with the predilection in himself and others to jump to this conclusion can make or break the leader in critical moments and at critical times because complaints can underscore crisis. The leaders’ response to them can promote crisis.
Watch leaders you admire handle negativity. Watch leaders around you address complaint. They will be confronted by both. What they do when confronted tells a story about their leadership and it is an important one.
If what I am about to do is not constructive, I need to discard the thought. If what I am about to say only tears down with no possibility of building up, it is the wrong way to go.
When I think back to the over twenty-five years I spent as a high school teacher and administrator, I remember many an afternoon drive home during which I had LONG conversations with people who were not in my car. I would talk to the principals who may have upset me by making a decision with which I did not agree. I would chat with the department chairs whose policies made it impossible for me to do my job well and to be the best teacher I could be. I would talk to the students who pushed every and all of my buttons during the day. I would have conversation after conversation, often thinking “I wish I’d said that” and sometimes, in the case of conversations I repeated ad infinitum in my head, I would convince myself I had, in fact, come up with the perfect rejoinder in the moment.
Only one person I can think of has ever been able to recreate the circumstances surrounding a conversation to get to actually use such a rejoinder, and it did not go so well for him:
The bottom line on these kinds of conversations is that, most likely, what I thought I wanted to say was, in the end, better left unsaid.
As teachers, educators and administrators, we are called upon to make decisions – all kinds of decisions – sometimes with time to ponder and consider, sometimes in a split second. As educators, we encounter people all day long. Some of them come to us at their best and some at their worst. Most come to us somewhere in between. They come to us with questions, with concerns, sometimes with emotion. They come to us with challenges that, perhaps, they want us to solve or challenges that they are putting to us.
And they find us, because we are human, in whatever state we happen to be in at the time. We might be up or down, happy or sad, relaxed or keyed up. What I discovered in my years in schools is that it rarely mattered (or, rather, it only mattered to an empathetic person) what my condition was when being approached. Typically, when someone wanted something, wanted to talk, wanted to confront, their moment was now no matter how I felt about it.
That is perfectly fine. Administrators especially must be ready for such conversations no matter their mental or emotional state. What are we doing in school leadership if we are not as available, physically and emotionally as we can be, to help, to aid, to assist? I would argue that if being available to those around you is not in your top three goals as an educational leader, you should consider another line of work.
In some instances, these contacts are terrific.
I am not writing about those here.
I am writing about the ones that are not terrific, the ones that get under our skin, the ones that truly bother us and leave us having phantom conversations in the car on the way home.
We get upset. We are human. We get overwhelmed. We are entitled. We get frustrated. Okay, wait… Here is where we need to be careful.
This is where I need to be careful.
“I should have said this” is very dangerous. When I run these moments on a loop in my mind, I become worried that, in a trying moment, I might actually say what I thought I should have said or something like it from one situation to the next. I might get so upset that I would feel justified.
I can absolutely see that happening. If I try hard enough, I can remember times it did happen.
As educational leaders, we can get so overwhelmed we give ourselves a pass. We can get so frustrated that we might cross a line that cannot be uncrossed or burn a bridge that cannot be rebuilt.
We are confronted by such perils dozens of times a day.
We must be careful. We are leaders. We are public figures. And, no matter whether we believe it is fair or not, we are held to a higher standard.
In the heat of the moment or an hour later or in our car on the way home or as we are about to press “send” on that email, there is a simple question to ask: is what I am about to do helpful?
If it is not, I would argue it should not be done. If what I am about to do is not constructive, I need to discard the thought. If what I am about to say only tears down with no possibility of building up, it is the wrong way to go.
My father, who professed a dislike of school and who I never heard anyone call “teacher” was one of the greatest teachers I ever had.
I have shared this post before but, as my father’s birthday is tomorrow and, for me, these messages never get old, I share it again today.
My father was a massive influence on my educational career. He still is, over a decade after his death.
At this point in my life, I have come to understand that we tend to idealize those people who have come and gone in our lives. By this I mean those we have lost to death or to movements and flows of life or to other circumstances both within and beyond our control. When those we love move out of our lives, we have a tendency to idealize them – who they were, what they stood for and what they said.
I guard against this temptation when I think of my father, though I am sure that a bit of idealization sneaks in. How could it not? I loved him.
Dad, if you asked, would have said terrible things about school. He may have even said terrible things about teachers. Strike “may have.” Dad did say terrible things about some teachers and those things may even have been true.
Dad’s graduation photo
Dad attended the same Jesuit high school I did and he told great stories about it, including the undated, signed notes my grandmother would give him of the “Please excuse Mickey from class…” variety and the tale of a teacher picking up a talkative student’s desk and throwing that student, desk and all, through the door of the classroom without skipping a beat of his lesson.
Dad could tell stories.
Dad could also give advice, when asked, so, like a good son I never really asked him his advice about teaching. Terrible, isn’t it? Dad wasn’t a professional teacher, didn’t seem to have adored his educational life and I didn’t turn to him for advice when I chose the vocation.
Looking back on who he was and how he lived and, perhaps, idealizing him a bit, I think I can discern what he may have told me had I asked him.
Dad never took himself too seriously. Seriously. Though he was involved in a serious profession and found himself, in his work as a deacon, dealing with people in challenging times of life, he never let the moments get the best of him. He also never let himself think he was any better than anyone else. I remember him telling the story of when, during a baptism he was performing, he continually referred to the child – let’s call the baby “Chris” – as a boy when, in fact, she was a girl. “It’s a girl, dummy!” the baby’s grandmother finally corrected him during the ceremony. Dad loved to tell that story.
Teachers and administrators need a healthy dose of self-deprecation. If they take themselves too seriously, the work can become burdensome. They are public figures whose mistakes are going to be critiqued and scrutinized. If educators live and die with every challenging moment, the work can take a deeper emotional toll. Educators are well served by stepping back and smiling at themselves. Often.
Dad was very decisive. There may have been a lot of internal debate going on with my father and, surely, he and my mom talked about big decisions in their lives but, professionally and personally, Dad struck me as very decisive. Once he had made a decision, he didn’t spend too much time looking back.
Educators are called upon to make decisions minute-by-minute. While not all of these decisions are filled with import, many need to be made with confidence. This doesn’t necessarily imply that decisions must all be made quickly, but, once decisions are made, dwelling on and second guessing them as a matter of course can be very draining.
Dad had a great sense of humor. He could make fun of almost anything and could be highly irreverent.
Teachers and administrators who cannot laugh and who do not have a sense of humor can certainly do the job. They can do it at a high level, even. But I have found that those who don’t have a sense of humor simply don’t enjoy the work as much as those who do. If you’re not going to enjoy being in a school, the other rewards of the vocation may not be enough for you.
Dad connected with people. When Dad died, I spoke in the eulogy about his “guys.” Dad had many, many “guys,” people whose lives and his had intertwined over the course of his work with the Church and simply because of the man he was. There was a great number of people who called Dad “friend” and a lot more whose lives had been touched by him and, surely, who had touched his life in turn.
Much like not having a well-developed sense of humor, it is possible for educators – teachers and administrators – to do the work without connecting with kids and with parents and with their colleagues. It is possible. I am just not sure how well the work is done by people who don’t enjoy connecting with others. Actually, I am pretty sure that those people don’t do the work nearly as well. Teachers and administrators must connect. It’s part of the job description.
Dad had a terrific sense of justice. I suppose having a strong sense of justice was part of Dad’s job description as a deacon. He was very in tune with this, could sense an imbalance of power or a bad situation readily and reacted strongly to them. He was motivated by those who had been abused by any system, inspired by David vs. Goliath stories, championed those who had less. The homeless came to Dad. He worked hard for those with less. He never stopped fighting in this area. He also, from the pulpit, didn’t shy away from talking about issues of justice, even when such homilies made people uncomfortable.
Educators are called to not only be fair and just, they are called to highlight injustice around them. They are called to act in a just manner and to point out to developing young minds the injustice that exists in the world. Further, they are compelled to help students understand that they can be part of changing unjust systems. If we’re not about this as we teach, we’re simply doing a disservice to students.
Dad was a great storyteller and loved to listen to others’ stories. I miss a lot about being able to talk with and listen to my Dad. I try to emulate much of what he was in my own life. Yes, as I have written above, I know that I idealize my father in many ways, but not in this one. Dad was a terrific storyteller and could command “the room” so to speak. He told wonderfully engaging and funny stories. He also loved to listen to others telling stories and would often ask for the same story to be told over-and-over again. He would want to hear about the same moment, the same incident, the same funny instance. And, when he listened, his reactions and smile and attention validated the storyteller and made that person feel very special.
Shouldn’t educators tell great stories? Beyond delivering content and inspiring skills in our students, shouldn’t we also be able to tell them great stories about our subject matter and convey or love of it? Shouldn’t we also listen to those around us at least as much as we speak to them?
My father, who professed a dislike of school and who I never heard anyone call “teacher” was one of the greatest teachers I ever had. He should have written a book about education. If he had, it would been titled Lessons about Teaching from a Guy Who Didn’t Like School.
The old adage “oil and water don’t mix” is demonstrably true. Head into your kitchen. Find some oil. Put the oil in a glass filled with water. See what happens. Go ahead. I will wait.
See? What did I tell you?
Oil and water do not mix.
I would like to suggest that arrogance and good leadership are, likewise, incompatible. They, too, do not mix.
Let us not confuse arrogance and confidence. Confidence is an important quality for a good leader. Good leaders possess confidence. Often the confidence of a good leader comes from experience, a record of good decision making and an understanding of what it means to serve a community. Confidence in effective leaders is founded. It is earned.
Arrogance is another story.
Leaders who are arrogant, who believe theirs is the only voice in the room which carries significant weight, are likely to run into problems. Arrogant leaders do not listen well. Good communication is not their default position and why should it be when they already believe they know what is best in most situations? They are less likely to compromise, to collaborate, to empower. Arrogant leaders believe they are the most critical piece in the school. They believe they have to have a hand in every decision and must be consulted and cow-towed to in every circumstance.
Arrogant leaders rarely succeed over the long term. They may have initial success, especially in schools that may need clarity established around procedures and rules and directions, but their arrogance typically hamstrings them sooner rather than later.
Arrogance and leadership do not mix.
Add this phrase to your list of adages that make sense.
