When We Realize We Are the “They”
According to a 2017 report by the Wall Street Journal, more than 60 percent of Americans work for a company that employs at least 100 people. The remainder works for organizations employing anywhere from one to 100, so it’s safe to say the majority of us, at some point, will gain professional experience in a large organization or institution. That means many of us will know what it’s like to be the “us” abused by an insensitive “them.” It might be for a policy decision or new direction we don’t agree with. “They decided …” is a refrain I’ve heard often over the years, in and out of the military, even from people well vested in the mission. The ‘us vs. them’ dichotomy develops naturally from the distinction between “senior leadership” or “management” and “employees.”
An operations group responsible for the intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) mission may consist of 350–400 Airmen who operate weapons, manage facilities, and maintain a large vehicle fleet. Colonels are usually selected to command Air Force groups; these officers have at least 20 years’ experience and are responsible for strategic leadership and resource management at a large scale. Among the group commanders I’ve encountered, I will always remember one for his favorite reply to our gripes: “You are the they.”
It took me a while to understand what he meant. Many of my peers were in the same boat at first, until he spent a few minutes at the end of a work day to explain.
We love to complain about how “they” did something. Or didn’t do something. We were wronged, we don’t agree, “they” don’t know what they’re doing. But the truth is, we are what we condone. We can’t control the senior leaders and “management” installed above us, but we can control how we respond to them and how we lead, because of and in spite of them. We must follow the law and remain true to our values; otherwise, what requires us to adopt their approach and outlook as our own? This explanation, accompanied by deep reflection, became a profound moment in my leader’s journey. It informs how I show up every day and provides for me a framework to answer my own question in the paragraphs ahead.
That group commander was right. I am the “they.” Each time I’ve led differently than my boss, I’ve chosen between: 1) paying lip service to “how it is” and encouraging mere survival, and 2) taking ownership as an advocate of, and servant to, my team, risking job and career progression in the process. Perhaps this sounds extreme. I think this is the only dichotomy that matters. When we succumb to institutional pressure (especially when that pressure is inconsistent with the organization’s own values), we sell out the very employees who trusted us. I’ve been faced with such a choice many times. In one example I’ll share below, I made my choice on someone’s behalf only to fail miserably in obtaining the hoped-for result. I tell this story not to aggravate old wounds but to illustrate how critical it is that you take ownership of your role. So critical, in fact, that doing so is necessary to keeping the institution’s faith with its employees.
Jake was a direct report and near the end of his tour. His assignment was categorized as “special duty,” a job outside his specialty’s standard career plan. Despite promises of a high quality-of-life and large staff to share the workload, Jake ended up responsible for three people’s jobs by the end of his three years. The Air Force deployed his office partner and first supervisor without providing a replacement or relieving anyone else of additional duties, so Jake took on almost all of those. We lost two more to a short-notice relocation and a retirement. Jake absorbed more tasks, some aligned with his training, some not even close. He sacrificed his well-being to meet the unit’s needs and save whatever was left of his time for his wife and four children. He forwent regular workouts, lost sleep and opportunities to eat healthy, and put off his goal to start toward his next degree — which, incidentally, was an Air Force expectation for someone at his rank and time-in-service. But Jake embodied our service’s second Core Value: “Service Before Self.” He personified service, at his own expense and the expense of his family and individual goals. When his final performance report came due and he had to decide where to go next, the rest of us agreed he deserved the highest marks and an assignment where his family and he wanted to go. Not to mention, he needed to return to his professional “roots” and develop further as a leader and technical expert by taking responsibility for a team of Airmen. He deserved every bit of effort to make it happen.
I wrote a first draft of his report. The paperwork would travel from my desk to my boss’ boss, who would adjudicate the final stratification and promotion recommendation. My boss agreed that Jake deserved the top rating, “Promote Now,” signifying both his past dedication and current readiness to lead others at a higher rank. These reports travel up and down the chain-of-command at least once, if not twice, before they’re “final.” I’d spent many hours in the last year writing award recommendations on Jake, submitting him for additional opportunities to serve (when he could fit them in), and advocating for his need to stop doing certain tasks day-to-day so he could focus on what was important — at work and at home. I tried to protect him as far as I legally could; ultimately he never received real relief. Nor did he complain. Ever. All this made for a confounding moment when I learned Jake didn’t qualify for the top rating among his peers. The reason? Because he hadn’t pursued formal education or organized community involvement. Despite his inability to affect the outcome, I asked a loaded question: How can we punish someone who chose the unit’s mission and 150 Airmen over his own career and family? The reply: This is how it is. The Air Force’s second core value is “Service Before Self,” yet we consciously punished an Airman for placing service to the Air Force and its mission before himself.
One week later, the failure intensified. Jake’s opportunity to apply for a new assignment came and went with nothing more than a database error message. When he logged in on the date of his eligibility to input choices and request a move to one of eight locations, the system locked him out as ineligible to make the request. He attempted contact with a help desk advertised on the error screen; naturally, he encountered an automated message and no options for recourse. He reached out to two different senior leaders who worked on personnel matters; neither could assist. Jake received an automated email a few days later with his new assignment — a spot about 3,000 miles from his preferred region. An area with high cost-of-living, few options for education and family services, and a guaranteed 45–60 minute one-way commute. The response from when I made my first phone call to the person tasked with working these issues? “It’s the fault of the member.” It was Jake’s fault, he said. Air Force instructions specify when Airmen may apply for certain types of relocations; apparently in our case, his application window opened a full eight months earlier. Turns out the part of the instruction that applied to Jake was an exception that applies to a tiny proportion of Airmen in special assignments. The senior leader I talked to missed it when he told Jake to “be ready” to apply, and so advised Jake to be ready on the date when he’d logged in. Jake did everything he was supposed to; he even burned his own vacation time for the week he was scheduled to apply to make sure he was ready. He was focused, not just for himself but his wife and children, all of whom were hoping to return closer to parents and grandparents. I made multiple phone calls, sent a slew of emails to senior leaders, and solicited advice from others, all in a vain attempt to connect with someone willing and able to fix it. The responsibility to engage fell to me. I appreciated the freedom to act, but had to ask more than once for help given how little “horsepower” I could bring to bear. All I got back was, “What’s your recommendation?” If your boss is asking you what to do after you’ve asked for help, you’re not going to make it far in the end. Even after learning there was nothing more we could do, Jake put on a strong face and supported the institution that had wronged him twice in one month.
I knew I was in for an uphill battle as soon as I made the first call. I knew I’d be out of my element as a relatively junior officer working on an enlisted Airman’s assignment. And I knew almost everyone thought the whole thing was Jake’s fault. But I refused to sit back and accept that “this how it is” simply because no one else thought the battle worth fighting. I’ve made many mistakes since entering the Air Force. And I’ve failed as a leader many times before. But I also know how it feels to build a successful team, with teammates who know their roles, know each other, and are united behind a common mission and set of values. Through it all, I’ve never believed that you “pick the battles” that are easiest to win. You pick the battles that are supposed to be fought.
My previous drafts of this article proposed removing incentives for personal ambition, applying genuine intellectual force behind our decisions, and promoting leaders who didn’t fear their own supervisors and commanders. None of these resonated strongly enough. I think because all of them were predicated on something else. Something deeper. A sense of responsibility and individual values stronger than what the institution expects. A sense of responsibility and values the likes of which we advertise to the public, yet routinely fail to meet in reality. The Air Force, and military generally, does not lack for dedicated service members and leaders who don the uniform for noble reasons. But an expansive literature highlighting our decades-long failure to recruit and retain true leaders into senior officer ranks demonstrates our proclivity to live out old patterns of behavior. And remember, before you think the problem unimportant or insignificant, don’t forget that we’re not just talking about botched assignments and heavy workloads. We’re talking about an institution that shines for recruits, only to cast ominous shadows as you transition. We’re talking about an institution that purports to place people and families first, only to sacrifice their lives at each other’s hands because of horrendous senior leadership. Not until each of us embraces that we are the “they” will we break the cycle of bad leadership and be worthy of the trust our teams placed in us.
