Creating traditions

In conversations this week I’ve used the word tradition to describe several events I’ve participated in once, such as the Survivor Mud Run and the Turkey Trot, and I started to wonder why I was choosing that specific term to describe things that were traditional only in the sense that I was planning on doing them more than once. Even as I was about to utter it, I would pause for a brief moment to consider the ramifications of using such a weighty word. Traditions to me mean shared experiences that are unique to a specific group of individuals, that are followed rigorously, and that go back generations or even eons. What I was describing hardly seemed to fall into my own definition.

I arrived at an answer as we finished our 2nd annual running of the 6th annual Turkey Trot, and it seems so simple now that I write it, but I’m coming to realize how complex and mostly primal the answer is: I’m trying to build a legacy and a sense of stability and meaning by creating my own traditions. Something that others will carry on after I’m gone, or at the very least something common the group can refer back to as the participants—an event that grounds us to a specific place and against which we can mark the passage of time.

In our highly mobile society I think we’re doing this a lot more than we used to; perhaps more than we ever have. While I bring some traditions with me from my parents, and by extension my ancestors, I really have very little that I continue explicitly, and those traditions I do consider important are for the most part the ones my parents (highly mobile individuals that they were, too) created themselves. I know my mom gets a great amount of satisfaction when she hears that we are carrying on a tradition she and my dad started. It’s a slice of immortality and a validation that what we did together as a family 30 years ago is still important to me today—important enough that I’m passing it on to my family. What I seem to have left behind are those traditions were are locally bound; those events that require living in a specific place and knowing people within a community for generations. I didn’t have too many of those to start with, so I don’t feel any real sense of loss. In fact, I appreciate the freedom I have to shape my own traditions, and to use those traditions from my family that carry the most meaning for me. (I dearly missed the annual game of Oh, Hell this year).

As I adopt and carry forward those traditions, I’m apparently carrying on the other tradition of creating my own traditions. And as I look around me at those individuals who are part of these newly-budding traditions I see that they, too, are building their own legacies—marking a point in time and assigning meaning and value to it—and I feel honored to be a part of their community, too.

A place at the table

We were down in LA this weekend remembering my grandma’s life.

I knew this day was coming soon. About a month ago I had visited. She said, “Samson, I’m tired. I don’t think I’m going to make it to my 88th birthday.” Recently, her eyesight had gotten so bad she couldn’t read or do her beloved crossword puzzles. Essentially, she got tired of living an increasingly austere existence and decided to move on. So we gathered together on Friday night to remember.

Remembering a life in my family means telling stories that could be movies, laughing, and, of course, playing cards. This is what we did after my dad’s death about two years ago. The whole night we talked about what my dad would have done had he been there: how he would have accused his brother Kenny of cheating at least a dozen times; and how he would have laughed at least as hard as the rest of us. It was a way to keep him present without agonizing over his absence. And now he’s become a part of every game.

Cards form the foundation of the social framework in our family. Every time the family gets together, the cards come out. When I think back to my own childhood, a vivid montage plays through my mind: my mom and dad, his two brothers and their girlfriends—and later, wives—gathered around various battered kitchen tables, wreathed in cigarette smoke, drinking coffee, and laughing, laughing with glorious abandon. I wanted to be a part of that group, to feel that sense of inclusion, acceptance, and joy of togetherness.

Finally being able to participate as a fully independent player (i.e. being responsible for my own hand), felt like a rite of passage. I could sense a shift in my relationship with the people around that table. I felt the weight of privilege and responsibility, a weight I accepted gladly. I knew that such things came with adulthood, and I wanted to make my parents proud by demonstrating my intelligence and maturity.

Not that such aspirations were always (or even consistently) realized. But at least I had been given the opportunity. I was part of the group, even if i didn’t drink coffee or smoke.

Now, when I play, it is with a tinge of sadness for my dad and his parents, players who are no longer at the table. The absence would be more acute—too acute—if there wasn’t another generation to fill those empty seats. One of my cousins has taken a spot. And Logan and Kaia will be in a position to take their own place at the table in a few years. First, though, I have to show them the ropes, so we started playing go, fish recently. I love watching them concentrate on their hands, asking someone for a king with such sincerity. They are incredibly, kissably cute.

I feel such a warm sense of fulfillment as I prepare this next generation to take their place at the table, how to interact, build bonds, and strengthen ties. I can only hope they will reflect back on their experiences with the same sense nostalgia and appreciation.

Origami

I have thought about posting here for months, but I was finally motivated to do it by this post from Chris McCann. A few weeks back we had coffee and a lively conversation about the subject of sustainability. The conversation brought up some nagging issues I’ve been trying to work through recently. Namely, how do I square my talent management consulting with my passion for building a sustainable world?

Over the past year I’ve become deeply involved in the sustainability movement, a return to my roots, really. And with each passing day the gap between my “work” and my passion has grown wider.

This is one of the major reasons I’ve been finding it so difficult to write here. Every time I started a post about traditional recruiting/talent management dilemmas I ended up trying to respond from a traditional corporate capitalist perspective, and every time the content rang false. A traditional corporate capitalist I am not. But I have been acting like one for a number of reasons, bifurcating my professional and personal identities to avoid the inescapable clash of cultures and philosophies. In retrospect none of those reasons seem compelling, but they may have been necessary for me to get here.

And here is where I stand now, firmly embracing my personal convictions as they relate to business in general and “talent management” in particular. The time for a new approach is come. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go water my garden.

Sorry, Heather, Seth's right.

It seems to me, Heather, that you’re intentionally misreading Seth’s blog. His overarching premise is that truly incredible people don’t need resumes to get truly incredible jobs. And he’s right. But wait, there’s more: Seth does suggest that there are other means of proving one’s abilities, that truly spectacular people have these means, and that all of them are “objectively” better than a Word document purporting to “prove” your worth as an employee.

And what, by the way, is so objective about a resume? The dates of employment? The duties and responsibilities? How does any of this prove one’s employability? You seem to think that other “objective” means of determining ability—such as GPA requirements—are bunk; what is it about resumes that’s somehow different or better than a GPA requirement? I would think a GPA is a FAR better indicator of someone’s ability to maintain a certain level of performance.

Here’s the real deal: resumes are the TRADITIONAL way we determine a candidate’s worth. Whether or not they’re an EFFECTIVE determinant is an open question. Seriously. How many candidates with sparkling resumes have you referred to your HMs that turn out to be total schmucks?

I think Seth is on to something. There are ginormously superior ways to identify great candidates.