During the month of July, we will run “best of” content from the authors. The following article first appeared on February 20, 2008.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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It was my first day of work in a small town not far outside Rio De Janeiro, Brazil, and after three months of intense language training I quickly learned I had studied the wrong language. The people I encountered didn’t speak the language I so arduously studied. Plus, every time I opened my mouth they ridiculed me.

Fortunately, I discovered a wonderful tool for enhancing my language capacity without harming my battered ego. Children. The local kids spoke far better Portuguese than I did. Better still, most of them showed infinite patience when it came to pointing at objects and giving me the Portuguese word for it.

It was during just such a linguistic encounter that I discovered the topic of today’s article. I’d often heard the expression you shouldn’t judge someone until you had walked in his shoes, but the idea contained within this expression never hit home until I received a personal lesson on the topic.

Here’s what happened. An eight-year-old boy who was pointing at objects and giving me the Portuguese nouns for each asked me to teach him the English equivalents. That way we both learned a new word. The first object the boy pointed to was a cobblestone, so I carefully articulated: “Cobblestone.”

“Desculpe!” he proclaimed—suggesting I say the word again.

“Cobblestone,” I repeated, raising my voice a little. With my second pronouncement the boy fell to the ground howling and chortling in a cloud of dust. When he finally gained composure he dashed across the street, gathered a few friends, and then had me pronounce again, “cobblestone.” On cue, his friends broke into peals of laughter.

“Cahb-al-es-tone,” each muttered in a mocking tone, pointing at me and laughing—as if I myself had invented the deeply guttural and apparently hilarious word. Finally, after I’d had my fill of the boy’s mockery, I asked the lad to share the Portuguese word for cobblestone. “These things?” he asked while pointing at the pavers. “They’re called Par-a-lel-la-pee-pee-doos.”

“Par-a-lel-a-pee-pee-doo?” I thought to myself. “And you think the word “cobblestone” is funny?”

It was hard for either of us to know why the other found our word so hysterical. In fact, it’s hard to really understand how anyone else feels about anything—not at least without having lived their life.

For instance, I once read a story wherein a fellow told a dirt-poor friend who desperately wanted to take a girl on a date that he should take her to the grange dance because it would cost only two bits (this was in the early 1940s). For only a quarter, the couple would gain entrance to the co-op and access to snacks, and they’d be able to dance to a live band. Who could turn down such a bargain?

“But I don’t have a quarter,” his friend answered.

I’ve often wondered if my own children would understand that phrase: “But I don’t have a quarter.” They’d probably think the fellow didn’t have change, or he’d left his cash home. Or, that if he didn’t actually own a quarter, he could certainly get one.

Without living the life the impoverished farmer had lived, my children couldn’t possibly know the meaning of these simple words. I have a bit of an idea because I lived under similar circumstances. Like the poor children in a research study conducted over fifty years ago, if a researcher had asked me to draw a picture of a quarter, I would have drawn a big quarter—one that was much larger than the quarter the middle- and upper-class kids in the study had drawn. A quarter meant a lot to me, a boy of no means. To me, it was the size of a hubcap.

In high school my mom gave me a quarter to take the bus home each day. I was supposed to pack my own lunch and ride home on the city bus after school. But in our house the fridge contained things like a boiled cow’s tongue for sandwich makings. I hated cow’s tongue sandwiches. You couldn’t tell who was tasting whom.

Besides, even if mom had stocked the fridge with fixings other than tongue, heart, and entrails, only nerds carried their lunch to school. Cool kids drove their cars off campus to buy scrumptious burgers, shakes, and fries. Well, cool, rich kids did. My family had one old car that had been smacked a lot and then patched up and painted with dark grey primer. Since the car was originally white, everyone called the spotted beast “The Dalmatian.” My dad drove the Dalmatian to work, so I couldn’t cruise to the nearby burger place for lunch. Besides, I had no money for food.

However, not all was lost. I learned that if I walked six blocks from school to the center of town, the bus ride home only cost a dime. That maneuver gave me fifteen cents for lunch. This wasn’t very much money, even in the sixties, but I could buy one thing. Each day I ambled across the street and bought a hockey-puck sized burger. Actually, the item was so small and bereft of meat that it was against the law to call it a burger. Each day I ate a fifteen-cent “Beefy.”

By the end of the day I was famished. I’d walk to the bus stop in the center of town and wait for my ten-cent ride, stomach rumbling all the while. And then things got complicated. The bus stop stood right in front of a bakery which sported, among other tasty delights, a ten-cent chocolate éclair filled with rich vanilla pudding. From inside their glass-cased mini fridge, the éclairs called to me, whispering French enticements: “Eat-tay Moi.”

It was torture. If I gave into the Siren call of the éclair, I’d have to walk home for a mile uphill (mostly in the rain) carrying my books.

Of course, quarters weren’t just for lunches. Quarters could be combined to make larger purchases. For instance, on my mother’s birthday my bus fare came in handy. For two weeks I’d go without lunch and walk home every day so I could buy her the dangly earrings she had hinted she wanted.

After my mother passed away, my wife and I went through her belongings. Tucked neatly away next to the cache of earrings I had given her I found a scrap of paper I had made notes on in 1963. My mom kept the scrap as a memento from my Senior Prom.

On the note was written the following: Orchid-$10; Tickets-$5; Tuxedo-$7; Dinner-$13; Snack after the dance-$5.

I’m sure it wasn’t this financial account that caught my mom’s attention. What inspired her to save the note were the words I wrote at the bottom: Total-$40. Length of prom date-5 hours. Cost per hour-$8.

I had calculated how much the dance cost me per hour! I spent 160 quarters on a dance at a time where each quarter meant lunch and a ride home.

So when I read about the fellow who said he didn’t have a quarter, I think I understood what he meant. He meant he didn’t have a quarter, he wasn’t likely to get a quarter, and if he did get his hands on one, he certainly wouldn’t spend it on a dance.

Of course, I’ll never know for sure. We’re never perfect at guessing others’ meaning. Sometimes a whole life goes into the meaning behind a single word. I saw a quarter as a scarce resource that led to a meal and a ride. My kids see a quarter as something you toss into a change jar so it won’t jingle annoyingly in your pocket.

When you think about it, it’s a wonder we understand anything about each other. It’s a wonder that simple greetings such as, “What’s up?” don’t lead to fist fights—so different can be our take on things. But somehow we get by. Maybe just knowing that we don’t know much about each other helps us get along.

Fortunately, amid all of this confusion and misinterpretation, I do know one thing for certain: “cobblestone” isn’t funny. “Par-a-lel-a-pee-pee-doo”—now that’s funny.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
READ MORE

  Dear Crucial Skills,

My brother’s wife died suddenly and unexpectedly almost three years ago, twenty-one days before their thirtieth wedding anniversary. She was only fifty-two years old. Since that time, my brother has withdrawn deeply into himself and lives in the emotional pain of her death and his loss. He goes to work every day, but is a shell of his former self. He saw a grief counselor for several months after her death, but now speaks to no one about his lingering pain. What can I do to broach the subject with him, to let him know that I care for him and love him, and that talking about this matter may help?

Concerned Sibling

I’m so sorry to hear of your family’s loss and of your brother’s continued sorrow. How he must have loved his wife to grieve her passing so passionately. I also understand why you’re concerned about his lingering pain and apparent unwillingness to talk about it. He’s lucky to have such a sensitive and caring sibling.

You’re right to give the topic some thought. Getting others to talk about serious topics—when you’re the one who wants them to open up—always presents a problem. The other person could easily interpret your actions as meddling and become resentful. Or, they might simply feel you’re well intended but wish you’d leave them alone. Either way, the conversation can quickly head south and never recover.

So let’s start with a diagnosis. Why do people choose to clam up when speaking up would solve so many problems? In this case, the undiscussed subject is the loss of a loved one, but it could be about anything.

For instance, after I give a presentation on the topic of Crucial Conversations, people often approach me and ask: “How can I get my life partner to talk to me? I understand how the skills you shared might work once a conversation starts flowing, but my partner never wants to talk about anything.”

Let me address the broader issue of talking face-to-face about meaningful topics in general, and then I’ll return to your specific question.

Here’s my generic diagnosis of why people won’t hold certain conversations. They don’t think it will bring them much benefit. In fact, they fear the costs will exceed the benefits. So, it is better to clam up and live with the current problems than to open up and maybe unlock Pandora’s Box. It’s a simple enough theory. People seek pleasure and avoid pain, and they figure talking will probably bring them pain.

I’m reminded of a civic leader who approached me a couple years back about an upcoming community meeting. He was upset at the previous attendance levels and wanted to know what he could do to get people to show up at the important event. At first, the fellow wanted to use his position of power to threaten folks. Next he wanted to frighten them with horror stories about the impending doom they would surely suffer if they continued to remain apathetic about the meeting.

So I asked him: “Have you thought about the meeting itself?” I had been to a couple and then, like most of my neighbors, stopped going because the meetings were slow-paced, boring, and appeared irrelevant.

“What are you getting at?” the leader asked.

“Perhaps people would be more likely to go if they got more out of the meetings. Maybe if they enjoyed the experience, they’d be willing to give you more of their precious time.”

After a brief discussion, the leader left with a resolve to make the meetings something people wanted to attend.

So now, when people approach me about a spouse or partner who doesn’t like to do much more than grunt and point, I ask: “What, exactly, do you want to talk about?”

“Well, you know, important stuff,” they explain.

“What kind of important stuff?”

“Problems we need to solve.”

After I prod them further, it usually becomes clear that they want to talk to their partner about what he or she is currently doing wrong and why he or she needs to change. As I’d listen to their description of what their partner is doing wrong, I couldn’t blame them for wanting to talk about and resolve the issues. However, I could also understand why the partner was doing everything he or she could to avoid the discussion.

“So, you’ve tried to talk about the issue, but the conversation failed, and now you’re to the point where you don’t talk much at all.”

“That about sums it up.”

After hearing dozens of similar descriptions, I’ve begun to wonder if a less direct approach might be the better solution to getting people to open up. Prior to this insight, my usual suggestions advised people to talk with the silent party about his or her pattern of avoidance—clearly, openly, and directly. I’d suggest starting the conversation by making it safe. I’d have them explain that they’d like to talk about a problem they see—and resolve it in a way that meets both of their needs. I’d warn people about entering the conversation with the assumption that they were right and others were wrong. I’d encourage them to be curious, not judgmental, to describe the issue (facts not conclusions), and to ask the other person if he or she experienced the problem in the same way. I’d then advise people to let the other person talk.

Previously, I believed that if you followed these skills, you would start the conversation on the right foot. While this advice still holds true, I now think that with long-standing silence and a history of broaching a lot of problems, it is best to first set a goal of having enjoyable, non-threatening conversations—about anything—before bringing up headier issues.

Find a way to regularly talk about things the other person cares about. Next, move to serious but non-confrontational topics. Get to the point where you routinely hold pleasant conversations. Once you’re talking regularly, you can broach more testy subjects by following the steps I just suggested. But first, make conversations safe by not restricting every single interaction to a serious problem-solving discussion.

Now, with regards to your grieving brother, obviously you haven’t been continually trying to get him to open up nor are you constantly talking about problems with him. But the idea of making the conversation safe and pleasant for him certainly applies here. Perhaps your brother fears bringing up the issue will only aggravate the problem. And maybe this has been his experience.

So find time to talk with your brother in general (preferably face to face if he lives nearby, but at least by phone). Be his friend and confidant. Increase the time you spend together. Let the transition from pleasant, smalltalk to more serious topics happen naturally. With time, you might want to start talking about your sister-in-law. Share a pleasant memory or two. Read your brother’s cues. Don’t push the topic if he becomes too uncomfortable. Demonstrate that you can share lovely memories without it turning painful.

Eventually you may want to follow the more direct steps I outlined above. But start by simply being there for your brother and modeling a healthy approach to discussing your sister-in-law’s memory. This alone may help him get to the point where he can talk.

Kerry

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
READ MORE

Listen to Kerrying On via MP3
Listen to Kerrying On via iTunes

Yesterday when I stopped by our local, family-owned pharmacy I noticed a new addition to the staff. Working alongside an elderly gentleman and his adult son (both pharmacists) was a girl dressed in an apron—complete with a nametag announcing “Hello, I’m Rachel.” She was sweeping the floor behind the counter.

As I waited for my prescription, I struck up a conversation with the youngster and learned that she was, as I suspected, the owner’s granddaughter. It was her first day on the job. Of course, she wasn’t allowed to go near the drugs or the cash register. Nevertheless, she was doing her best to make a contribution.

“I mostly load the cooler with drinks,” Rachel explained. “Today I’m learning how to straighten and dust the shelves.”

“And how old are you?” I asked.

“Twelve,” she blurted as if announcing a triumph of some sort.

“Twelve!” I thought to myself. “But she’s just a child.”

Seeing Rachel in her apron caught me by surprise. Could I have been that young back in 1958 when my grandfather handed me a pale green apron and put me to work in his grocery store? It was the first Saturday after my 12th birthday when Grandpa announced that since I had come of age (in his view, at least) it now would be my job to run the store every Saturday. Grandpa would drive to the wholesale house and load up his 1943 Chevy with groceries for the week. And then he’d take care of “personal business” (play poker with his cronies at the Elk’s Club) while I held down the fort.

In my case, “holding down the fort” meant fetching items from behind the counter, scooping ice cream, slicing and wrapping baloney, pumping gas, totaling the sum on the back of a brown paper bag, counting out change, and bagging the purchases—all the while, making sure nobody stole anything. All by myself.

After a brief orientation period where Grandpa taught me how to make change and watch for thievery, he donned his grey fedora, walked out the back door, and left me in charge of everything he owned.

“That’s my training?” I thought as I heard the Chevy pull onto the street.

I quickly learned that my job consisted of sitting in the back room watching TV until the bell hanging just above the door would announce a customer: “Jingle Jingle.” Like Pavlov’s dog I’d jump to my feet, push through the swinging door that separated the store from Grandpa’s living quarters, step up to the counter, and ask: “May I help you?”

The customer would then walk around the common area while selecting items such as bread, potato chips, and canned corn. Or they would ask me to get the more expensive items located safely behind the counter. For instance, when requested, I’d grab three packs of Camels (23¢ a pack), a quart bottle of Pepsi Cola (25¢), and so forth.

Initially, the customers were nervous about being served by a boy. I was a rather short twelve-year-old. Plus my voice hadn’t gone south yet and this didn’t exactly engender confidence. But I was good with numbers so, as I zoomed through the paper-bag math, the regulars soon learned to trust me with their orders.

With time, I too became comfortable on the job. In fact, it wasn’t long until my friends were routinely visiting me at the store. We’d play cards in the back room. That is, until a customer would enter. . .

Jingle Jingle.

Then I’d break away from my buddies and reluctantly wait on whoever had walked through the door. About six months into the job, I became bored—enough so that my friends and I decided it would be fun to play a trick on the kids who arrived with a pop bottle to trade for penny candy and then take forever making their choice.

Here’s what my bent little mind came up with to keep the kids away. I would crack open a can of chili powder, remove a plug from a hollow gum-ball, and fill it with the red-hot powder. Then I would replace the plug and place the loaded candy onto the lip of the gum-ball machine that sat on the counter next to the till.

“Say, look at that!” I’d exclaim with a look of surprise as a kid walked up to the counter. “Somebody forgot their gumball.”

“I love that stuff,” one of my friends would add.

The unsuspecting kid would look at the brightly colored sphere and then glance back at me for approval. I’d pause for effect and then add the Pièce de résistance: “Go ahead, you can have it.”

Immediately a hand would dart through the air, grab the candy, and stuff it into a welcoming mouth.

Then my friends and I would wait. First the kid would roll the orb around in his or her mouth, tasting the scrumptious outer layer. Next a small nibble. Then came the payoff—a big bite followed by a few rapid chews and eyes that would suddenly widen to full aperture. Next came a howl followed by tiny feet rushing through the door—Jingle Jingle—and ending when the kid leaped off the porch and spit the fiery concoction onto the gravel.

“What’s wrong with that gum?” he or she’d ask with a look of betrayal.

Of course, we never answered because my friends and I would be doubled over with laughter. It was just the kind of thing twelve-year-old boys find hilarious. It was also mean spirited and wrong on many levels.

My buddies and I carried out this trick for two gleeful Saturdays until my grandfather finally caught wind of our shenanigans. My father lectured me, but I could tell from his repressed smile that he thought the whole thing was pretty funny. Mom went off the deep end and chided me for falling in with a crowd of “hardened criminals.” She was convinced I had started down the slippery slope to a life of crime. Grandpa took a more reasonable approach. He asked me what I was thinking. This, of course, was hard to answer because I was thinking that causing the kids to believe that their mouth was on fire was hilarious—which, as I thought about it, made me sound like a sociopath.

Eventually, Grandpa ended his reproof with the classic guilt-trip.

“I expected more of you.”

Gulp. Given that I loved Grandpa dearly, those five words were a shot to my heart. Plus he banished my friends from the store and docked me two Saturday’s wages.

From that day forward, I worked feverishly to regain my grandfather’s trust. I scrubbed the shelves, washed windows, sorted the pop bottles, and otherwise kept busy every second of every eight-hour shift. I also treated every customer with respect. Especially the kids.

I tell this story because as I watch my own grandchildren grow older, I know they too will do childish things. And then when they’re old enough to know better, they’ll still do childish things. The truth is, they’re wired that way. Research reveals the logical and responsible parts of an adolescent’s brain don’t fully develop until around age eighteen.

Fortunately, if adults follow my grandfather’s lead and watch over their errant wards as their brains develop, correct them when necessary, and hold them accountable, they probably won’t (as my mother predicted) fall in with a den of thieves. And hopefully, when they take their first job and screw up as well, a wise boss will firmly correct them and give them another chance.

At a time when the press seems to take every new statistic as evidence of an oncoming Armageddon—in a world where arguments are purposely made for their shock value alone—it’s hard to maintain a proper sense of proportion. Not every drop of rain portends an oncoming storm. Not every sighting of a locust signals a massive swarm just over the horizon. More often than not, the rain stops after a light sprinkling, the locust continues solitarily down the path, and a boy in a pale green apron surprises everyone by growing up.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
READ MORE

Listen to Kerrying On via MP3
Listen to Kerrying On via iTunes

In January of 1965, after living their entire lives in soggy Western Washington, my mom and dad packed up their belongings and moved to sunny Arizona. After enjoying the dry climate for several months, Mom wrote a letter to her father inviting him to close up the “mom and pop” store that he operated thirteen-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week and come live with them in Tempe.

“We have a room set aside for you,” Mom explained. “And there’s a lovely park nearby filled with men playing checkers and chess.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Grandpa replied in a return letter. “I must admit that it’s tempting to move to a place where it doesn’t rain most of the time, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. You know how hard it is for a man of my age to find work.”

Grandpa was eighty-five years old at the time. He couldn’t conceive of not having a job.

My grandfather loved to work almost as much as he loved his independence. He’d always been that way. Orphaned at a young age, Grandpa had moved in with a relative who didn’t like him much and, to make that point crystal clear, beat him regularly. One day when Grandpa was ten, his school teacher began whipping a small child in his class. Grandpa could take it no longer and pummeled the cowardly teacher until he fled from the classroom. Grandpa was expelled for his efforts and while his caretakers brooded over what to do with him, he packed a change of clothing in a brown paper bag and set out from Dyersville, Iowa to live with his cousin May—the one person who had showed him love when he had met her at a family gathering a few years earlier.

For several days Grandpa trudged westward. For sustenance he drank from creeks, ate fruit from trees, and stole eggs from chicken coops.

“When we first laid eyes on Billy we were sitting on the porch drinking lemonade,” cousin May explained years later when I met her for the first time.

“At first,” May continued, “I thought it was a stray dog coming down the dirt road that passed in front of our house. I could barely make out a speck in the distance, followed by a trail of dust. But then I could see it was a person. It was a boy. The poor thing looked like he was going to collapse; he was so weak from the heat of the sun. And then as the boy drew close enough to see his face, I could tell it was Billy! Mother and I ran to greet him, took him in our arms, and smothered him with kisses.”

After days of lonely effort, Billy—at ten years of age—had walked across the entire state of Iowa to his cousin May’s house just outside Sioux City. He was finally home. For the next eight years his cousins loved and cared for Billy until he graduated from high school and set out to make a life for himself. Then, for almost two decades my grandfather worked at everything from trapping in Minnesota to playing cards on a Mississippi river boat—until he finally met my grandmother, Pricilla, and fell in love, settled down, and raised my mother.

Grandpa taught my mom to be as independent as he had been for twenty years as a bachelor. He had learned to cook and sew, and do all things domestic—not as a point of pride, but from sheer necessity. So as Grandma taught my mom how to run a household, he taught her how to swing a hammer and repair the plumbing.

By the time I was twelve, both my mom and granddad had passed the tradition to me. I’d come home from school to find Mom had torn out part of a wall with a crowbar in an effort to get a remodeling project on its feet. I’d then help her make dinner before Dad came home from work.

This independence has served me well. I love the freedom that comes from being able to do so many things on my own. However, sometimes my desire for self-sufficiency morphs from autonomy to pig-headedness and that’s when it gets me into trouble. Strengths, unguided by wisdom, often become weaknesses.

For instance, last fall when my wife Louise and I vacationed in Paris for our 40th wedding anniversary, my need for independence really pitched us a curve. Louise and I had signed up for a Segway tour by night. (I don’t know what we were thinking.) The upbeat guide taught us how to speed along on one of those motorized sticks while he pointed out the glories of the City of Lights. Unfortunately, after only a few minutes I could tell that Louise’s diminishing night vision was giving her problems and I was quite certain we needed to stop and return to the base. Trooper that she is, Louise wanted to stay the course.

But I couldn’t shake my premonition. Something bad was about to happen. I also didn’t know how to tell our guide that we needed to stop, and I most certainly didn’t want to force the entire group of tourists to return to base on our account.

So, each time my wife drove her Segway too close to a cement pillar placed to keep cars from entering the pathways, I’d shout a warning: “Not so close!” as my blood ran cold with the thought of her crashing and falling.

How could I get this band of merry tourists to do an about face? If the two of us went back on our own, how would we find the way without the help of our guide? How could I fit the blasted contrivances into a cab? How could . . .

Bang!

In what felt like a slow-motion nightmare, I saw my wife’s vehicle smash into a post and throw her ten feet through the air and onto the rough cobblestones below. Louise writhed in pain as I leaped from my Segway to her side. My worst fear had been realized. She had crashed and (as I later learned at the hospital) broken her pelvis.

For the next three days, as our return flight drew closer, I nearly went crazy trying to figure out how to get Louise back home. The doctors assured us she could travel without doing herself any harm, but her pain was so great she couldn’t take a single step. Fortunately, she could stand, slowly shuffle right or left, and slip into a wheel chair. Now, if I could just get her to the airline front desk, they would wheel her onto the plane—but how?

Out of utter desperation I eventually approached the manager of the hotel we were staying at and said something I almost never say.

“I need your help,” I nervously whispered as if sharing a deep, dark secret. Then I quietly explained our predicament.

“Yes,” the manager responded, “I can see your problem. I’m not sure how to solve it, but don’t worry Mr. Patterson, we will figure it out.”

And they did.

The independence my grandfather so fiercely demonstrated—and that has generally served me so well—occasionally keeps me from asking others for their assistance, even when I need it. Had I stopped our little tour group and said to our guide: “My wife and I need to return, but I also don’t want to disrupt the tour. Do you have any ideas on how to achieve that?” I’m sure the guide would have come up with five different solutions.

But I didn’t think to ask the guide. It simply was not in my nature. It was not the kind of thing I thought a self-sufficient person would do. Of course, we paid dearly.

I know I’m not alone in my misunderstanding of independence. At work, employees routinely avoid asking for help on a project because they fear it might make them look weak. Or a newly promoted boss refuses to say “I don’t know,” because he’s the new supervisor and thinks he’s supposed to know everything. And then, of course, there’s that whole getting lost on vacation and refusing to ask for directions thing . . .

For over sixty years I’ve honed my abilities to stand on my own—as if that’s life’s one true measure of success—when in truth it’s also a wonderful thing to both give and receive help. Stopping and asking others for their assistance is not a signal that we’re weak or that our character is flawed. It’s a sign of our underlying humanity.

Here’s to being more human.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
READ MORE

Dear Crucial Skills,

We’ve been through Crucial Conversations Training, have returned back to work, and aren’t changing all that much. Everyone liked the ideas and wanted to do something new, but we haven’t been very good at transferring what we learned in training to how we behave at work. What can we do to kick-start our interest and actually change how we behave at work?

Stumped

Dear Stumped,

The problem you suggest is common to everyone who has ever had a new aspiration. You finish a training program, set down a book, or walk away from a lecture or sermon—fired up with good intentions to embrace what you just learned. But then you get back to work and are faced with eighty new e-mails waiting for you, a boss who is on your case about a project you let slide, and your coworkers who want you to join a new action team. You’ll have to implement what you learned at training sometime early next week, once you get caught up.

As the days turn into weeks and the weeks into months, you envision the decay curve from your introductory psychology class associated with embracing new concepts. It’s not one of those slightly sloping lines you might see when tracking, say, weight loss. No, the nasty decay curve that plots changes in behavior against time is really more like a decay cliff. With each day that passes without making some kind of change, the likelihood of doing anything new drops precipitously. As the days pass, good intentions transform into apathy, apathy into old habits, and old habits into guilt.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. You can implement new techniques that support the changes you’d like to make. Here are six tools (following the model we use in Influencer) for transforming good intentions into behavioral changes.

1. Value Links. There are probably at least two reasons you wanted to embrace what you learned in training. First, you believe implementing the skills will make your life better. You also want to be the kind of person who speaks honestly and effectively. You want to work in a company where people replace back-biting with honest dialogue. These are some of the values that go with learning and implementing the skills. Keep these values in mind. Talk with your colleagues not just about the training content, but also the underlying values. As you link behavior changes to the qualities you care about, you increase the likelihood that you’ll actually implement what you learned.

2. Advanced Learning. Most training sessions are intended to start you on a path of learning. Crucial Conversations Training is no different. At the end of the formal training, kick-start your informal and extended learning. Assign your work group to study one of the chapters from the book. Meet and review what you studied. Discuss how it applies to you and your work group. Continue through the end of the book. In addition, ask your HR manager or trainer to conduct a follow-up training session where you review Crucial Conversations concepts, discuss applications, hone skills, and otherwise continue to advance your learning.

3. Contract with the Boss. As the training comes to an end, meet with your boss and lay out a plan for implementing what you learned. Make it clear that you want to bring the skills back to work where they can do some good. Review the skills you think will help you the most, discuss them candidly with your boss, and then tie them into your formal performance review. You might as well get credit for making personal changes and adding to your skill repertoire.

4. Maintenance Crews. Find one or two other people who have been through the training and form a “maintenance crew.” Meet monthly and work to maintain and improve the concepts and skills you learned during the training. Discuss common problems, jointly settle on how you can use the skills, and then practice the conversations. Take turns practicing each skill with real problems you face and don’t forget to give each other candid feedback and specific coaching. By practicing in a safe setting and receiving honest feedback and advice, you can improve your skills in a risk-free environment while preparing to deal with real problems at work.

5. Rewards. Ask your boss or HR manager if it would be okay to reward people who practice the new skills they’ve learned. Make the reward simple and then ask people to report their attempts at holding crucial conversations. People shouldn’t share the names of others involved in the crucial conversation (respecting privacy), but should write a short report of the skill they tried, what happened, and if necessary, what they might do different next time. Then, based on hitting a certain target number of attempted crucial conversations, celebrate efforts with small rewards.

6. Agenda and Reminders. If you care about something, you talk about it, and if you want to hard wire the conversation about high-stakes conversations, add it to your agenda. In each team meeting, openly share what you’re doing, what’s working, what isn’t, and any corrections you are making. Post the Crucial Conversations model on your office wall. Also place a copy in your meeting rooms. Use the model as a reminder of what to do and how to do it. Use the model when discussing your experience as a team.

Use any of these suggested follow-up tactics in combination, and the chances you’ll continue to practice and master the skills increase. Use four or more methods, and the likelihood you’ll transfer the skills from the training room to your work increases tenfold.

Kerry

Kerry Patterson Influencer

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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I’ve often heard that on our death beds, none of us is likely to look back on our life and lament, “I should have spent more time at the office.” To be frank, I’ve known several people who should have spent more time at the office, but this doesn’t negate the point that one day, we’ll look back on our lives and assess what we did.

Research on the topic of happiness reveals that most of us have no idea about what actually causes it. In Stumbling on Happiness, author Daniel Gilbert suggests that most of us are pretty bad at predicting what will make us happy and what won’t. For instance, when you ask people which will make them happier—a bigger salary or taking a daily walk with a loved one—people generally pick the money. However, when you measure people in both conditions, more time with a loved one typically yields more happiness.

When it comes to my own happiness, I do know a couple of things. First, happiness is not a constant state that one hunts down, tackles to the ground, and possesses. You never achieve happiness; you just experience happy moments. Second, we often assume receiving recognition for our labors will bring happiness. Not to say that it doesn’t, but sometimes, it’s surprising what kind of recognition truly matters.

Last week, as I drove my nine-year-old granddaughter, Kelsee, to our house for a short visit, she asked me what kind of job I had. For a couple of minutes I talked about training and consulting while Kelsee sat quietly and listened. Eventually, I mentioned that my partners and I also wrote books. Now this got her attention. Books she understood.

“You’re an author?” she asked.

“Yes,” I explained, “that would make me an author.”

“Can I see your books?”

As soon as we arrived home, Kelsee rushed to my office to examine the books. She touched each as if it had been retrieved from a sunken treasure chest.

“Can I have some to take to school?” Kelsee asked.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“So I can put them in the school library.”

This library Kelsee spoke of, of course, would be a grade-school library. I smiled as I imagined children dressed in three-piece suits, carrying miniature briefcases, and checking out books that explain how to wield influence over challenges such as world-wide calamities and corporate failure.

“I doubt that kids your age would enjoy the books,” I explained.

It took me a while to talk Kelsee out of the idea of placing our books in her grade-school library, but eventually she accepted my advice with quiet resolve. However, she wasn’t done. A week later, when I once again drove Kelsee to our home, she struck up the following conversation.

“Grandpa, during show-and-tell last week I told my teacher that my grandfather writes books.”

“Really? And what did she say?”

“She asked who you are.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Your name. I said that my grandfather is Kerry Patterson.”

“And then what did she say?”

“Well,” Kelsee continued, “before she could answer, Hannah—another girl in my class—shouted real loud: ‘NOT THE KERRY PATTERSON!’”

To be honest, I was a little surprised that a nine-year-old girl had ever heard of me. Surely she had me confused with somebody else.

Kelsee enthusiastically continued her story. She was obviously enjoying the moment.

“So I asked Hannah how she had heard of you and she explained: ‘My mom reads everything he writes.’”

“And what did you say to that?” I asked.

Kelsee paused for a moment, smiled wide and then said: “So—you’re familiar with his work.”

Now, that short interaction with Kelsee will never make it onto my resume. There you’ll find a chronological list of accomplishments in which I will have taken satisfaction, but you won’t find the secret of happiness. The secret of happiness lies not in the act of creating joy. The secret of happiness lies in recognizing joy when it comes.

With this in mind, here’s what I desire to have stated in my eulogy—better yet, I want it carved in bold letters at the top of my tombstone:

“So—you’re familiar with his work.”

This one moment of recognition from my granddaughter brought me happiness.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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The following article first appeared on August 23, 2006.

When I’ve finished conducting a training session, it’s common for people to approach me with a series of questions about the training’s underlying philosophy. At the top of the list is: “What philosopher influenced you the most?” Sometimes people will insert a guru of their choice. “Was it Kant?” “Did you draw heavily from Rousseau?” “Were you thinking of Socrates when you . . .”

While I have a working knowledge of the icons people mention, I’d have to say that none played a very big role in my work. First, I can’t remember what most of them said, and second, none will ever displace an incident that set me on a philosophical course I continue to follow to this day. Like a lot of useful philosophy lessons, it all started with a Roy Rogers double feature.

In 1954, if you happened to be eight years old, and I did, Roy Rogers sat smack dab in the center of your universe. He was this marvelous cowboy/actor who was always chasing down the bad guys and saving the schoolmarm in the most remarkable and innovative ways. So when the newspaper announced there would be a Roy Rogers double feature showing on Saturday, I anxiously waited for the big event.

At that stage in my life, each day as I’d come home from school, I’d stop off at my Granddad’s place where I’d talk with him about Trigger, Bullet, Nelly Bell, and all of the other members of Roy Rogers’ entourage. Granddad had never seen the singing cowboy in action, but he always showed great interest in whatever caught my attention. He would patiently listen to me as I retold each tale of derring-do.

In truth, while it was Roy who had captured my eight-year-old interest, it was really Granddad who had captured my heart. At five foot four with a fireplug shape, a cigar stub in the corner of his mouth, and an amazing wit, he cut a large swath in my world. He owned and operated the local grocery store and, as far as my friends and I were concerned, that made him a celebrity. In fact, since he was the guy who stood behind the candy counter, it made him a childhood god.

Like all septuagenarians at the time, whenever Granddad visited downtown he wore a wool suit and a gray fedora. Since it was now the 1950s, the felt hat put him in a distinct minority. Most men had dropped any form of head gear at the same time women had stopped wearing gloves (in the late 40s), but Grandfather wouldn’t think of going outside without being covered. To him, you weren’t fit for public appearance if you weren’t in a suit and the suit had to have a matching hat. In Granddad’s case, it was the gray fedora.

The day of the double feature finally arrived and I stopped by Granddad’s store to let him know I’d be catching the bus that stopped in front of his establishment in order to go downtown and see Roy in action. He smiled broadly and explained that he too would be heading into the city to stock up on supplies. Maybe we’d run into each other. With the prospect of bumping into my Grandfather in mind, I headed downtown.

Later that day I merrily walked from the movie theater to the bus stop a few blocks away. While sucking on a Tootsie Pop and still musing about Roy’s latest conquest, I was confronted by an image that stopped me in my tracks. The Tootsie Pop actually fell from my mouth as I stood agape. There, at the end of the block no more that twenty yards away, lay Grandfather on the sidewalk. He appeared to be dead. His body lay askew while a withered hand clutched something bottle-shaped in a brown paper bag. What had happened? Did Granddad have a heart attack on the way to the wholesale house?

As I drew closer my fear turned to confusion and then despair. Why was nobody helping him? It was a busy Saturday afternoon and lots of people were walking right past him without even glancing. One person even stepped over him and sneered. Had the world gone mad? Were there no real heroes in Bellingham? Roy Rogers routinely shot it out with bad guys in order to right a wrong; couldn’t somebody stop and check Granddad? How hard could that be?

When I finally fell to my knees next to Granddad and moved the gray fedora that was covering his face, I discovered that it wasn’t him after all. It was a stranger—an old man who hadn’t shaved in days, smelled of wine, and who wasn’t dead, but instead was dead drunk.

Quickly I leaped to my feet. And then a warm wave of relief swept over me. It wasn’t Granddad and he wasn’t dead! It wasn’t Granddad! I stood there and cried tears of sheer joy until a kindly lady stopped and asked if I was lost. I mumbled that I was okay as I scuffled off to catch the bus.

As I rode the bus home I realized that I had equated a gray fedora with Grandfather, so when I saw a man wearing Granddad’s hat of choice, I made a logical leap that had caused me a great deal of grief. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. And then my emotions darted in another direction as my wide-eyed innocence took over. The better me couldn’t be so readily consoled. Yes, this stranger wasn’t my Grandfather, but surely he was somebody’s Grandfather. Where were his grandkids? And the strangers who passed by—why hadn’t they done anything? I sobbed for the stranger all the way home.

When I finally arrived home, I burst through the front door and told my mom how I thought Granddad was dead and how it had turned out to be somebody else. She smiled knowingly and explained that the poor fellow I had stumbled upon was known as a “wino” who was probably sleeping it off.

“But where were his grandkids?” I asked. Where was the little boy who would fall to his knees and help him home? Mom didn’t have an answer.

I was forever changed that day. First, I opened the door into the harsh part of life that my parents had protected me from. Some people become indigents who die on the street. Worse still, we don’t always know what to do about it. But the second lesson I learned was far more important and returns me to the question of the philosophy underlying our training. It’s the philosophy of the fedora. I learned that if I put Granddad’s fedora on a stranger—instantly transforming him or her into a person I loved dearly—the stranger became someone worthy of my care and attention. Putting a face on the faceless masses, assigning a name to a crime or war victim, thinking of the people who cause you grief—thinking of them as real people with children of their own—well, this humanizing act has a dramatic impact on how you first think about and then treat them.

For example, if I put the fedora on the elderly man driving the car in front of me at fifteen miles an hour in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone, my impatience and disgust transform into sympathy.

If a person at work lets me down and I can’t believe how uncaring he or she is, I place him or her under the fedora and I won’t be so quick to pass judgment and become angry. “Maybe,” I think, “he or she had a good reason for missing the deadline. Go find out.” Instantly I transform into a far better problem-solver than when I don’t assume the best of others but instead angrily wade into the discussion with hostile, and often groundless, accusations.

So, if you want to know what philosophy most influenced my training theories, remember the power of the fedora. Take it in your hands, turn it over and peer into its crown. There, somewhere between the manufacturer’s label and the hat size, you’ll find one of the most useful philosophies ever discovered by an eight-year-old.

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations, Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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  Dear Crucial Skills,

I am a relatively new supervisor, and several of my former peers are now my direct reports. One has been with the company for twenty-five years and her attitude has become increasingly combative. She questions almost everything I tell or ask of her, she is very negative about company policies, and she makes comments in front of other employees that undermine my authority and the company. My managers think she is detrimental to our entire department, but I am trying to save her job because I think she would be hard to replace.

It has become increasingly difficult for me to have conversations with her and I end up avoiding these conversations as much as possible. How do I turn this situation around?

Undermined

This conversation could eventually lead to the other person being disciplined in one way or another. While I know you’ll do your best to not go down that path too quickly, you have to be prepared for the worst. How you’re supposed to handle performance problems within your company—including the disciplinary steps you need to follow—is often formalized. That means the formalized steps need to be carefully followed if you expect to be supported by HR, your boss, the legal department, and the company.

Why worry? For years I have watched as well-intended supervisors have stepped up to a performance challenge, done their best to hold a crucial conversation, and ended by disciplining an employee. Then the supervisors learn that they should have first given a verbal warning before putting a letter in the employee’s file or provided a written warning before putting the person on probation, etc. Now the supervisor is in trouble with HR and needs to go back and reverse the proposed disciplinary step.

I’ve even seen a supervisor fire someone only to be forced by the legal department to bring the employee back to work (complete with back pay) because the supervisor didn’t follow the formal disciplinary process. This is not only discouraging to the supervisor, who has done his or her best to fulfill the responsibility of holding others accountable, but completely undermines his or her authority and puts the relationship at risk.

So the first step in starting a conversation that might lead to discipline is to know the formal disciplinary process your company follows. A simple conversation with an HR specialist (as well as a heads-up to your own boss) should be enough to teach you all you need to know. If your company does not have a formal process in place, consider the following guidelines. Catch problems early, before they get out of control. Always remain calm and respectful. Otherwise, the attention will soon be on you and how you became abusive during the discussion. Be crystal clear about the infraction itself and both the short- and long-term implications if the person doesn’t change. Far too many people leave a performance discussion (1) unclear about what they need to do differently and (2) unaware that if they don’t change there will be repercussions.

Here are a few tips for holding that conversation.

First, set aside time to talk in private about an issue that has you concerned. Start the conversation with a statement of your good intentions, but one that also conveys the severity of the situation. “Today I’d like to discuss a problem I’ve noticed over the past few weeks. I want to solve it before it becomes more serious. I hope to come to a resolution that works for both of us.”

Next, pick one or two of the problems from the variety you’ve suggested. You described the problem with short-hand terms such as “negative,” “detrimental,” and “combative.” These words, of course, are both inflammatory and vague. The listener isn’t likely to know what she has actually done, but is likely to be insulted by your unflattering characterization. Think about the specific behaviors you want her to change. Pick the actions you care the most about, not the ones that may be easiest to address. Don’t sell out by choosing the wrong behavior or back down by candy coating your description.

Now practice. Describe the actions you most care about to a friend or confidant. See if your friend understands the meaning of your words. Describe actions not conclusions. For instance, “Last week you suggested that our new cost-cutting plan was stupid and when I tried to explain why I thought it might work you rolled your eyes and called me naïve.” This clear description helps the person know exactly what you want to see change. Contrast this clear explanation with “You’re disruptive in meetings,” or “You’re constantly negative.” Inflammatory conclusions offend instead of inform.

Next, stop and ask the other person if she understands the issue. Don’t keep piling on new problems. Deal with one issue at a time. Since the problem you described is now big enough that your own boss wants to let the person go, you must also explain the disciplinary steps you’ll take if the person doesn’t change. Even if the person has already agreed to comply, explain that you’re glad she is willing to change, because if not, you’ll take the following disciplinary action. Since this isn’t the first infraction, and discipline may follow, you can’t leave out this information. Don’t phrase it as a threat, simply describe the reality.

This should be enough to get you started. I commend your willingness to actually work on the problem rather than simply let it slide or let the person go.

Kerry

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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This year I’ve decided to give you (kind readers) a Valentine’s Day gift. I know it’s a few days late, but since my present is neither candy nor flowers (and won’t decay) I think the gift I have in mind will do just fine. I’m giving you a nonperishable story of a Valentine’s Day I experienced some thirty-five years ago. It’s a tale that I believe might help lift your spirits some day when you’ve done something—how does one put it?—not all that clever. Plus the story provides a nice reminder of the importance of keeping focused on what you really want.

It all started one Saturday evening when I suddenly realized that I only had an hour to buy my wife a Valentine’s Day gift. Since Louise was working on a project across campus (I was a grad student at the time), I loaded our six- and four-year-old daughters into the back seat of our Volkswagen bug, strapped our six-month-old son into one of those plastic baby carriers, and headed off to the nearest shopping center I could find.

Soon, with Becca, Christine, and a Raggedy Ann doll connected to me in a daisy chain of hand holds and Taylor swinging gently in the plastic carrier clutched in my other hand, we found ourselves scurrying through a very high-end shopping center that was close to our apartment—but unlike any place I’d had ever been before (it didn’t have “Mart” or “O-rama” in the title). It was chock-full of wealthy, beautifully attired, perfectly coiffed people who frequented the luxurious stores that surrounded us.

Since I had been cleaning my outdoor grill when it struck me that I needed to buy a gift, I didn’t look much like the prim and proper patrons around me. I looked more like the Maytag repairman, and my kids appeared as if they had just been plucked from the sand pile in our back court. Which they had. The shoppers’ genial smiles turned into looks of disapproval as they scrutinized our scruffy clothes, our home-cut hair, and our barely opposable thumbs.

Eventually the four of us found our way to the home center of a posh department store where they had on display the very present my wife had hinted she wanted—a variable speed blender, complete with pulse control. Soon, a perky clerk was wrapping up a bright red blender I had chosen in honor of Valentine’s Day. I knew that a household appliance wasn’t as romantic as, say, a diamond necklace, but you have to ask yourself: Can you whip up a batch of pureed spinach with a diamond necklace? I don’t think so.

Next, as the clock continued to run, the girls and I scampered out into the shopping center in search of an affordable card. Everything was so expensive. A simple card cost five bucks.

“Daddy,” Christine uttered, “don’t you think . . .”

“Shush,” I blurted as we hurried past one high-end store after another. “I need to find your mother a card.”

“I know,” Christine continued, “but . . .”

“No ifs-ands-or-buts about it. If I don’t find a card, I’m in trouble.”

Seeing that her sister was getting nowhere, three-year-old Becca asked: “Where’s baby Taylor?”

It was like being hit by a bucket of cold water. There in the hand that had once carried my son, was a package containing a variable-speed blender, complete with pulse-control. Where was baby Taylor?

“He’s back in that big store,” Christine offered as she pointed to the far end of the shopping center.

Egads. I had left my son in the middle of the blender display! In a flash I reversed course and headed back to the scene of the crime where I frantically tried to get into the store—repeatedly banging into a locked pair of massive glass doors.

“The place is closed,” explained an older gentleman walking by. “It’s Saturday night.”

“But I left my so . . .” I cut myself off midword. “But I left something inside.”

“You’ll have to go around back to the employee entrance,” the fellow explained.

Moments later the girls and I scurried along a terribly long wall while employees disgorged from a lone door at the far end of the building. The animated employees walking our way were all talking about some idiot who had . . . (well, you can guess). Then, as they saw me frantically hustling along with my two remaining kids in hand, they quickly concluded that I was the fool they had been bad-mouthing.

If looks could kill . . .

The best I could do was smile back lamely. I just wanted my son back.

Eventually my daughters and I found ourselves inside the building and standing next to a knot of folks who were cooing and making other baby noises while my son, still in his plastic container, smiled back politely. I searched for the proper words.

“Has anyone found a baby? It seems I’ve lost one.” No, that would land me in jail for sure.

“Funny thing, I came with three kids and now I only have two. Go figure.” Equally lame.

Eventually I blurted out, “You’ve found my son! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Pointing out that they had found (rather than I had lost) my son appeared to take the edge off the pack of store clerks. Nevertheless, the lady in charge gave me a long, hard look before barking, “Do you think you can get him home without losing him?”

“I brought my Raggedy Ann,” Christine remarked as she held up her well-worn doll. “And I didn’t lose her.”

“Yes, dear and I’m very proud of you,” I muttered back. Then looking the authority figure directly in the eye I tersely proclaimed, “So, we’ll just be heading on home now.”

With this lame pronouncement fresh off my lips, I snatched up Taylor and retreated out of the massive building.

“Do we tell Mommy the secret?” Christine asked as we walked back to the car.

“No!” I blurted. “We mustn’t tell Mommy that I bought her a variable speed blender, complete with pulse control. It would spoil the surprise and we don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“I mean. . . how you left Taylor in the middle of the store and then got locked out?”

I was doomed. There was no way I was going to be able to keep the two girls from tattling on me. And sure enough, a few minutes later when we pulled up in front of our apartment, the girls bolted from the car as they rushed to tell mom the exciting news. They kept the blender a secret, but not the fact that I had left their baby brother in a big, scary store. That part of our little escapade they told with great relish.

“You left him in the store and then got locked out?” Louise asked incredulously as I presented her a brightly-wrapped gift.

“True,” I explained, “but you haven’t had a chance to see the gift I bought for you. I was so focused on expressing my love for you with this truly special household item—complete with pulse control—that I lost focus for a second.”

“You didn’t lose focus,” Louise accused, “you lost Taylor!”

“I didn’t lose my Raggedy Ann,” Christine offered.

And so there you have it my friends—my present to you. Never again did I leave a child locked in a department store. I learned my lesson. I learned to stay focused on what really matters.

In addition, I freely admit to my idiocy. That’s the whole point of this story. One day when you’re feeling bad because you missed a deadline at work or maybe you were late picking up your daughter at soccer practice, think of me and my Valentine’s Day debacle. Compared to me, you’ll be a saint. And should a loved one become angry at you for not flossing your kids’ teeth adequately or keeping them from getting hurt on a see-saw, you can say: “True, I messed up. But at least I’m not as bad as that idiot who left his baby in the middle of a blender display!”

That’s my present to you.

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations, Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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Listen to Kerrying On via MP3
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You can’t live in a community nowadays without it happening to you once in a while. Of course, how you respond to the assault depends on where you reside. Comedian David Brenner describes the difference in approach. He says that if you live on the east coast, you say something snide and tell the offender to beat it. If you live out west, you turn to the person you’re with and complain under your breath. But you never say anything directly to the offender.

And what is this crime we’ve all suffered? Line cutting. You’re patiently waiting your turn to buy tickets when suddenly, a selfish cur has the nerve to violate all that is good and proper and cuts in front of you—as if you’re not even there. Do these people think they’re better than you? Maybe their time is more important than yours. Is that it? These are the things you think to yourself if you live in Seattle. If you live in New York, you shout these words to inconsiderate line cutters.

I live in the west where, if Brenner’s right, we mostly stay mum—but not because we’re nice or gentle. The people I know clam up because they don’t want to appear rude or break any social norms. In extreme cases, they don’t like the odds they’re facing. Anyone brazen enough to cut in line might also be aggressive enough to punch you in the nose should you point out their peccadillo—although I’m fairly sure those who do speak their minds don’t use the word “peccadillo.”

So here’s the big question: Is there a reasonable way to deal with people who violate social norms such as line cutting? Surely there’s an effective strategy that falls somewhere between the violence of name-calling and the silence of whispering insults. And if there is, could the average person learn the method and then teach it to others?

These were the questions I wanted to answer as I gathered a group of grad students to work on a research project back in the fall of 1980. To kick off our study, we established a base-line measure. We would cut into a variety of lines and observe what people actually did. The very first day we cut into fifty different lines and nobody said a word. People made faces or quietly complained to the person next to them, but nobody actually confronted the line cutter.

Having established that our neighbors were unwilling to speak up to a norm-breaking stranger, we moved ahead with our study. For the next phase we placed a graduate student from our research team in a line. After fifteen minutes, another grad student (also from our team) cut in front of the first student. Our confederate in the queue then abruptly said, “Hey bozo, don’t butt into line! The end’s back there” (pointing menacingly toward the back). After this short, terse comment, the line-cutting grad student apologized and headed to the back of the line.

Now for the interesting part. We’d wait five minutes and then cut in front of the person who had been standing directly behind our outspoken grad student. Would the research subject mimic the direct, although somewhat obnoxious script he or she had just seen? We had demonstrated an interaction that worked. The crass line cutter went to the back of the line. Would such results, despite the abrasive nature of the script, embolden the observer?

In a word, no. Our grad student told the “bozo” to get to the end of the line fifty times and in fifty different locations—but not one person who observed the interaction spoke up. As we had hypothesized, the moderately violent approach we had demonstrated was exactly what people were trying to avoid. They didn’t want to act and look rude, so they remained silent.

Next we repeated the experiment, only this time we armed the grad student standing in line with a more socially acceptable script. Our research confederate stated politely, “I’m sorry. Perhaps you’re unaware. We’ve been standing in line for over fifteen minutes.” As before, the line cutter apologized and went to the end of the line. Once again, we waited five minutes and then cut in front of the person who had just observed the interaction.

Did the more pleasant script provide an alternative the research subjects standing in line would actually use? Drum roll please.

It certainly did. Eighty-five percent of the time, the subject who had observed the more pleasant script spoke up—usually using the exact words he or she had heard: “I’m sorry, perhaps you’re unaware. We’ve been standing in line for over fifteen minutes.” When provided with a healthy alternative to silence or violence, research subjects embraced the new script and used it the first chance they had.

As this study shows, people can and do learn new scripts by observing others in action. In fact, it’s how we learn just about everything we say and do in social settings. However, unlike our line-cutting study, social scripts are rarely taught purposefully and directly. But what if this were to change? What if this year, each of us, along with our promise to get fit or stop spending so much, vowed to teach our friends, children, and direct reports effective interpersonal scripts?

For instance, a person who reports to you cares deeply about a recent change in policy. She brings up her opinion in your weekly team meeting. As she expresses her view she pushes too hard. She overstates her position, uses inflammatory language, insults those who disagree with her, and otherwise turns the group against her.

As her leader, this provides you with a wonderful chance to offer individual coaching. At the end of the meeting you talk directly with your direct report about her stance and how you supported her view—right up until the point she called everyone who disagreed with her a cretin. You explain how her approach actually turned people against her. And then you role-play the scene again—only using more effective skills. Under your careful coaching, your direct report tentatively states her view by using terms such as “perhaps,” and “I wonder.” Equally important, she asks others for their point of view and then listens.

Let’s extend this recommendation. What if you and a million other people vowed to do the same thing? That is, they agree to “play it forward”? They don’t pay it forward—it’s not an act of service that can be passed on to others, but they play it forward—it’s a social skill that can be done in acts under the guidance of a director. People conduct mini-plays where they model effective social behavior—exemplifying skills that fall between silence and violence. Equally important, when someone they know and love moves to either silence or violence, they sit down with the offending party and play out the script in a new, more effective way.

Just think about the possible impact. For instance, what if parents modeled and practiced interpersonal skills with their offspring a thousand times before their kids hit puberty? Imagine, if in addition to driving their kids to gymnastics and oboe lessons, parents built social instruction into their daily conversation—just as often, just as seriously, and just as skillfully as someone teaching music lessons? What would the world be like if part of growing up was growing socially wise?

Now all of this playing it forward would be unnecessary if we were actually skilled at speaking our mind. And maybe we are. After all, it’s been thirty years since we completed our original line-cutting research, right?

To see where we stand today, Joseph Grenny’s son replicated the study a couple years back and uncovered the same discouraging results. Nobody said anything when the ten-year-old cut in front of people standing in line. Since he was so young and people might have been reluctant to speak up to someone so small and vulnerable, he eventually asked his mom to butt in line for him. After twenty-five cases where nobody uttered a word, finally a woman tapped our research mother on the shoulder and spoke her piece.

“Who does your hair?” she asked with a smile.

It seems conclusive. When confronted by inappropriate behavior we either blow up or clam up.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. We don’t have to choose between two unhealthy options. Not if we play it forward.

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations