Leadership as Obsolescence

       A true paradox for most leaders in appointed positions is that, if you've done your job well, you render yourself obsolete. We are hired for a particular reason at a certain point in time, usually based on clear institutional needs and/or desires. A clear list of objectives thus exists; they may even be part of some larger strategic plan. Check off the items as you achieve them by using the skills in your toolkit and fly the mission accomplished banner. Then, however long that process, arrives the time for the next person to take over.
       That's a rational, utilitarian perspective. It makes sense, and it fulfills our desire for tangible progress. It's realistic. It's also too shallow.
       On some levels, working through a check list is relatively easy. It can become procedural, systematic; people comply with the items and do their jobs. But do they embrace them? That's where we start to sense the deeper reasons we should aspire to leadership as obsolescence. It's about culture. It's about what Peter Miller called "the smart swarm," those organizations which function like flocks and hives. They are in sync yet without an obvious hierarchy, the common goals leading to great efficiency fueled by each member's contribution. In a human institution this produces a virtuous cycle and subsequent long-term sustainability. Meanwhile, the leader fades into the background, having helped to create something that endures long after that person is gone.
       We can have a hard time looking at leadership this way. Daily minutiae obscures the horizon, and this stance demands the longest of views. Plus it's in our short-term interests to make ourselves seem indispensable. And certainly we need the right leaders at any given time.
       Can a leader avoid obsolescence? Perhaps so, although the way may involve another paradox, or at least some irony. It may take less ego, making things more about others than one's self. It may take more humility, realizing--and admitting--how little one actually knows. Then one can grow and learn and evolve right along with the institution. Because the truth is not that the institution needs that particular leader. When the culture is right, they benefit from each other.

Measuring a School Year? The Real Questions

                 A couple of Junes ago, Jessica Lahey, author of the excellent The Gift of Failure, had a provocative post on The New York Times Motherlode blog: “How Do You Take the Measure of a School Year?” Around the same time, unaware of her post, I wrote “Good Year?” Recently I’ve been pondering these same questions, although in a very different frame of mind. Usually come May I’m so, so ready for the summer. While I’m still working, the pace is very different, and there is time for some refreshment. This year, though, I’m ready to keep going. At St. John’s we’ve had a wonderful year; and because I’m energized by the great things happening here, I want to maintain the momentum.

                Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking a bit about Jessica’s question. She presents some different thoughts from parents and school folks, most of which are conclusions. I’m going to take a slightly different twist and begin in a different place. First, of course, you have to make some attempt to clarify what success would mean. What it would look like. We know any sort of large-scale consensus on that remains quixotic. But hope remains that we can reach it on a school-wide basic. Most certainly in an independent school, where we should have a clear mission and approach and culture. An ethos, if you will. This clarity then leads to the questions one should ask in taking that measure. 

                Knowing one size does not fit all, I offer you, in no particular order, questions that schools should ask in taking the measure of a school year:

• Are we a better school now than we were at the start of the year?
• Whose needs did we put first--adults' or kids'?
• Did we take enough risk? Did we let the kids?
• How farsighted were we in thinking about the purpose of education?
• Did we recognize and tap into the value of each member of our community?
• Did we aim to inspire and enchant?
• Did we give kids the right sort of headaches? Did we make them good tired or bad tired?
• Are we asking the right and better questions?
• Were there times we became so enthralled that we lost track of time and other frames?
• Is our lens one of healthy skepticism or viral cynicism?
• How often do we start with why?
• Have we held ourselves to the professional standards we often expect of kids?
• Do we practice what we preach?
• Was our first reaction constructive--"yes, and"--or destructive--"no" and "but"?

                 Certainly some will reject this set of questions, perhaps even the approach. I've heard the argument often enough: you can't really measure these things. I try to understand the sort of mindset that requires the certainty and affirmation that can come with hard data.The questions do point us to softer topics.But as the cliche reminds us, soft is hard and hard is easy. We can measure plenty of things in education, and we put plenty of faith in them. Certainly the questions above demand more of us. That's because they remind us what really matters.

Building Strategy

     During the past spring break, my wife, son, and I traveled to West Texas to hike in Big Bend and the Davis Mountains. We spent some time in Alpine, a wonderful small town where the residents have bumper stickers that read "Austin may be weird, but Alpine is far out." One of the main attractions in Alpine is Kokernot Field, a baseball stadium built in 1947 for the then-outrageous cost of $1.25 million. Texas Monthly has called it "the Yankee Stadium of Texas"; and Sports Illustrated, "the best little ballpark in Texas (or anywhere else)." Rancher Herbert Lee Kokernot, Jr. was so determined to build the most impressive park that he used to check the number of light bulbs at other parks to make sure his had the most. There remain some beautiful touches in the wrought iron and outfield fences. The ranch's brand is everywhere, often quite intricately.
     To be sure, it was a build-it-and-they-will-come endeavor. For a while it worked. One time in the 1950s 6000 people showed up for a game, and several current and future professionals played there. But after the last semi-pro game of 1961, the park was used on and off by Sul Ross State University, whose program went dormant for a long stretch, and the local school district. 2009 marked the first pro game played there in 48 years. The park is now the home of the Alpine Cowboys of the Pecos League, which compresses 70 games into a 72-day season, for which players earn $50 per week. I also was totally underwhelmed by the park. Perhaps I expected too much. But the main thing I noticed was how run-down the entire place seemed. I wondered if it were used at all anymore or if it were regularly maintained. That said, I could see what a jewel it must have been in its heyday. You can also imagine what Kokernot's hopes and dreams and vision were. Perhaps he had a strategic plan...
     I say that somewhat tongue-in-cheek, as I'm unclear when strategic planning--with a final, elaborate document--became in vogue. But I'm quite serious when I say I found myself thinking of many school's strategic plans and how they often become focused on building ever-grander facilities. On some level this makes sense. Impressive facilities do attract families. They give boards and donors a sense of accomplishment. They can galvanize a community. They can provide direction and even inspire. It's certainly fun to dream and engage in master campus planning projects.
     However, I wonder how much truly strategic thought goes into these plans and the emphasis on building projects. In other words, do we consider what should be happening in those building? I sense that it does--but in somewhat misguided fashion. As symbolized by the buildings themselves metaphorically, it's a matter of bigger, faster, stronger...but not necessarily different. The plans seldom reveal truly dramatic or meaningful curricular or pedagogical change. Plus millions of dollars are invested into buildings based largely on current realities, despite the rapidity of change in the larger culture and cries for schools to become more nimble and innovative. To put the issue more starkly: we're creating plans intended to look out x number of years along with constructing magnificent buildings that should last decades at a time when a fairly-recently unimagined future races towards us faster and faster. Meanwhile our costs keep rising.
     I'm not saying that schools shouldn't have great facilities. They should be places which symbolize our values and stir our imaginations, sparking amazing work. I'm urging that we be more thoughtful in what that work should be. That raises a certain irony. Most schools acknowledge that we should be doing more to help kids become more innovative and creative (actually, I should say remain--or at least not beat it out of them). Towards that end, many have begun incorporating bits of design thinking into their programs. One of the main features of that mindset is how constraints can lead to more creative thinking. Yet we construct facilities which remove as many restraints as possible.
     To me that's not good building strategy. I fear that if we don't have much deeper conversations about what happens in those buildings, many of our schools may end up like Kokernot Field.
   

Burning Out Kids' Engines

     In a recent conversation I heard about a ninth grader taking AP courses. Just a few years ago, I'd heard about more juniors taking them. Only recently had I heard about sophomores.
     What's the hurry?
      I don't know; in fact, I can't even come up with a single compelling argument. The issue is not my problems with the AP program in general. It's something much more basic, Why do we think this is good for young people?
      It's part of a disturbing trend of adults pushing things onto kids at younger and younger ages. The college counseling process starts earlier. Middle school kids take SAT prep courses. They have all sorts of intense "enrichment" programs. Club sports begin earlier and earlier. Someone told me the other day about a select baseball team on which the kids had fancy uniforms, high-grade equipment, and their own walk-up music when coming to bat. They were kindergarteners.
     We're directing young people's energies in the wrong way and at the wrong rate. Think about a car with its engine being revved too high for an extensive period. It breaks down sooner, even burning out.
     In many newer cars, if the engine is revved too high for too long, the onboard computer shuts it down. So are we more careful with our cars than with our kids?

Both Leadership and Followership

            I suspect that at some point just about every American child has been urged, “Be a leader, not a follower.” Schools promise to produce leaders; some even have incorporated it as part of their missions. Current leadership espouses distributed leadership. The idea is that everyone can be a leader in some form or fashion. How it manifests itself depends on context.

            I embrace such thinking for several reasons. It chips away at traditional notions of leadership, many of which emphasize particular personality traits and hierarchy over other qualities. It’s more respectful of diverse individualism and nurtures greater motivation and commitment. Progress can come faster as more people paddle together. So I fully agree that we should be helping people learn how to lead better. My concern is with what we incorrectly put at the other end of the spectrum.

            Follower is a pejorative. I understand why, given the way we often use it and the subsequent connotation. Certainly we don’t want someone to be simply a follower. However, I have a simply contention, albeit one that may initially seem counter intuitive. Just as we strive to teach leadership, we should be teaching wise followership. Who and how one follows factors heavily into one’s leadership, both as it initially forms and its evolution.

            I’ve pondered this notion for a long time, and I’ve touched upon it briefly in various posts. Always present in my thinking to some degree, it’s come to the forefront recently as I’ve read a preview copy of Stephen Valentine and Reshan Richard’s book coming this July, Blending Leadership: Six Simple Beliefs for Leading Online and Off. (It’s a wonderful book with excellent insights about leadership in general, and I recommend people purchase a copy as soon as it comes out.)Two passages rekindled my thoughts on this topic. They write, “Our beliefs emerged from many places: from our own practice and observation; from the Ahmads who entered our lives with curiosity and playfulness, pushing us to turn over our perspectives; from our own leading and teaching, from our own leadership anthropology; from continual conversations with each other and with people at conferences and with authors we have only read. As we have tried things or tried them on and looked around or listened or succeeded or failed, belief statements cohered” (27). Shortly after, they point out that school leaders “not only follow thought leaders, but also engage actively with them, building off their work, their thinking, as if it were a platform” (36).

            In so many ways, we become who we follow, consciously and unconsciously. It can be as large as adopting philosophies and practices to imitating physical mannerisms and verbal tics. It’s how we learn, beginning the moment we become aware of ourselves and others as unique beings, becoming stronger as we develop a sense of the person we wish to become. The danger comes when we lost that sense of self and begin to follow blindly, unthinkingly. Instead, it must be reflective, critical, challenging. It must hoist one out of any echo chamber.*

            Essentially, it’s about learning. About oneself and about others and about the endless interactions between all those pieces.  About possibilities. And the greatest possibilities are realized when we both lead and follow well.

__________

*There are, of course, many ways one can practice good followership. Ideally, I would share some here. However, I think that would become too long a tangent from the principal arc of the post. Perhaps the next post…