ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

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  Dear Crucial Skills,

I’m wondering how to deal with the use of electronic devices in meetings, conversations, and other public forums. At home, my kids are continually annoying my husband and me with their use of so-called smart devices. At work, we don’t have clear guidelines about electronic interruptions and it’s the cause of some tension and discontent. What can we do to (1) set clear expectations and (2) keep ourselves from seeing every electronic invitation as just cause for interrupting a live conversation?

Electronically Interrupted

 Dear Interrupted,

Let’s start with a common example of the problem. You’re talking to Chris, one of your best friends, and her phone notifies her that she’s just received a text. You can tell Chris is torn between listening to you and checking her message. Trying to appear interested in the point you’re making, Chris craftily moves her phone so it’s now sitting at the top of her open purse. Chris then coughs into her hand—causing her to lean her head forward so she can catch a quick glimpse of the newly arrived message.

You can tell Chris is torn between responding to the message and talking to you, but you believe face-to-face conversations should be given priority so you continue with your point. But when you finish your idea, Chris responds by holding up her hand and signaling you to stop yacking. She then picks up her device and dashes off a response while you watch and wait. All of this is done with a flair that suggests Chris has just texted advice on how to complete heart surgery that would most certainly kill the patient should she not intervene, when in fact she’s just told her son to make himself a bologna sandwich. You find the whole experience annoying and mutter something to the effect of, “If Alexander Graham Bell could only see. . .”

Situation number two. You’re in a meeting when you feel your phone vibrate. You glance at the screen, notice the call is from home, and wonder what’s going on. There are eight people in the meeting, you’re not talking, and you don’t want to make a scene by exiting. So you gently pull back from the table, tuck your head into your chest, bring your phone to your ear, hit the redial button, and chat quietly with your spouse. He wants you to pick up the dry cleaning on your way home. You’re glad he caught you before you left work but can’t help but notice your boss giving you the evil eye. “Phone Czar!” you think to yourself. It’s not as if you missed anything important or interrupted anybody.

Or how about this? Your teenage son walks into the room with ear buds plugged into his head and you try to say something to him but he can’t hear you. When your son eventually responds, he more or less shouts at you. You tell him to turn down the volume or he’ll surely be deaf by age thirty. He retorts that he wouldn’t mind losing his hearing because then he “won’t have to listen to you complain.”

Variations of these electronic insults are manifest, myriad, and magnifying with each new invention. Why? Because as a society, we haven’t decided on the common courtesies and basic rules of electronic etiquette and we’re starting to drive each other nuts.

When you have the option to use a device to make your life more convenient—even if doing so might interfere ever so slightly with your face-to-face experience—you often take the digital path. After all, it’ll only take a few seconds and it’ll solve a problem before it grows out of hand. In contrast, when others interrupt a conversation by using a device for their convenience—well, that’s just plain rude.

We’re obviously not going to solve this problem easily or quickly. New forms of electronic disruptions are sprouting up faster than ever and with each new tool comes new violations of traditional social norms. The problem is very likely to continue for years. However, there are a few things you can and should do now.

First, create a “bug list”—an enumeration of the behaviors you find annoying or even offensive. Use this list to decide which issues warrant a conversation. You’ll let some problems slide because they’re not worth the discussion. You also won’t speak up to everyone since you don’t interact with certain offenders frequently enough to justify the conversation.

Once you have your list of problems, fight your burning desire to point fingers and act smugly. Don’t come up with a list of your ideas of what should and shouldn’t be done. You may have some very strong notions, but you don’t make the rules. Social norms are made by whole societies of people and consist of rough guidelines. They reflect current feelings and changing preferences, not scientific certainties. The guidelines you create need to be jointly developed and flexible.

So, instead of laying down your law, tentatively describe the problem. Ask others to share their view of the same concerns then move to a discussion of specific issues that are currently causing problems. Talk about the questionable actions and their consequences (often unintended). Establish basic principles such as “face-to-face interactions deserve priority” and “when genuine emergencies arise, excuse yourself from the conversation and move to a private location.”

Keep the tone of these conversations light and exploratory. Genuinely seek others’ point of view then jointly brainstorm solutions. Try out your new ideas and then make changes as necessary. In summary, go public, involve others, be flexible, and realize that new products are just around the corner so this discussion will continue for quite some time.

When it comes to encouraging yourself to stick with the rules, be prepared. You will be tempted to break your own code of conduct when doing so is convenient rather than socially sensitive. Motivate and enable your behavior with six sources of influence.

Source 1: Love What You Hate. Keep in mind the long-term consequences of maximizing your convenience at the expense of harming your relationships
Source 2: Do What You Can’t. Work on your crucial conversations skills. When others offend you, know what to say and how to say it.
Sources 3 and 4: Turn Accomplices Into Friends. Gain the support of others by continually going public with new challenges as they arise. As you discuss the issue, seek advice from a colleague or loved one who can give you feedback on how well you’re keeping your own rules.
Source 5: Invert the Economy. Reward yourself when you step up to the conversation and handle it well or when you take care to respect others over your electronic devices.
Source 6: Control Your Space. Use devices to solve the problem created by devices. For instance, a product was just announced at CES—the world’s largest consumer technology tradeshow. When a parent enters a room and talks to her teenage son who is wearing ear buds, the device recognizes the parent’s voice, turns down the volume of the device, and amplifies the volume of the parent. How cool is that?

I hope this helps you think about the growing electronic onslaught and provides you with a starting point for helpful conversations and a reasonable change in behavior.

I’d love to hear your creative strategies for controlling your digital devices so they don’t control you. Share your ideas below.

Kerry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

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Typically, this time of year, I write a piece about the holiday season. This year, I’ve penned a story that took place years ago—during the late spring—nowhere close to the holidays. Nevertheless, even though the tale doesn’t involve presents, or mistletoe, or anything remotely festive, I think it captures the spirit of the season.

The other day, while my three-year-old grandson, Tommy, and I took a walk through the neighborhood, the little guy picked up a rock and tossed it into an irrigation ditch. And then, in the non-sequiturial manner that defines three-year-olds, he looked up at me and whispered, “I love you.” Much to my delight, Tommy tells me this quite often, but on this particular day there was something about the circumstances that jarred loose the memory of an incident I hadn’t thought about for over half a century.

This particular memory started with what should have been a harmless trip to the grocery store. It was the spring of 1953, I was seven years old, and Mom decided she needed to fetch some milk in order to finish a batch of chocolate pudding. Five minutes later, as Mom, my brother Billy, and I rolled up to the grocery store, Mom spotted her best friend Lydia.

“I’m going to be chatting for a while,” Mom barked. “Why don’t you boys play outside with the kids in the neighborhood?”

I was hungrier for snacks than I was for companionship, so I set off in search of discarded pop bottles in nearby gutters. If I got lucky, I’d find a few bottles and trade them in for penny candy. At age eleven, my brother Billy was hungrier for adventure than for sweets, so he set off for points unknown.

After talking with Lydia for nearly half an hour, and with a quart-bottle of milk firmly tucked under her arm, Mom stuck her head outside the store and shouted, “Boys, it’s pudding time!”

With the promise of chocolate hanging in the air, I raced back to the store—but Billy was nowhere to be seen.

“Go find your brother,” Mother exhorted. “He’s probably down by the creek.”

The creek Mom referred to flowed through the countryside a couple of blocks north of the store until it abruptly disappeared into a four-foot-high cement culvert that carried the water underground for two miles. The tunnel was filthy, dark, dangerous, and chock full of rats. In short, it was boy heaven.

Unfortunately, just getting to the creek posed a serious challenge. The route went past the McHenry house and the McHenry house was filled with stone-cold criminals. The adult McHenrys (when not in prison) were constantly tossing back home-brew while feverishly hammering on the pile of rusted auto parts that was their front yard. The McHenry boys, ever anxious to please their parents, cursed, spat, and sic’d their dogs on anyone who had the temerity to breach their territory. I was about to be their next victim.

But I got lucky that day. As I walked toward the creek, the McHenrys were nowhere to be found. Seizing the moment, I dashed passed their den and down to the tunnel entrance. Whew! I had made it!

And then I faced a new challenge. If my brother was, indeed, playing in the culvert, I’d have to shout out a password before he’d let me in. It was kid code. My friends and I were always using secret words such as “Open sesame” to gain entry into our forts or to earn freedom from captivity should the “enemy” lock us up. This system worked quite well except when we changed or forgot the password, which was most of the time.

“Open sesame!” I hollered as I rounded the bend near the mouth of the tunnel. I heard nothing from Billy. “Open sesame!” I tried again, followed by silence and then a resounding “Geronimo!” which also had no effect. Next I tried, “Montezuma!” Then “Beelzebub!” Still no response. Just when I was about to whip out the granddaddy of all passwords—”Code red!”—I was yanked off my feet and held in the air—thrashing like a gaffed salmon. Craning my head to see who had ahold of my collar, I stared into the face of Chuck McHenry, the oldest and foulest of the McHenry boys.

“Lookin’ for your brother, are ya?” Chuck asked with breath that could stop a bullet. “Cuz if you are, me and my brothers have him trapped.”

Sure enough, a few feet away stood two of Chuck’s teenage brothers. They were throwing rocks into the mouth of the tunnel, as if competing in some sort of sadistic carnival game. Eleven-year-old Billy would peek out of the culvert opening to see if the coast was clear and then the McHenrys would hurl jagged rocks at his head.

“Leave my brother alone!” I hollered as I tried my best to kick the McHenry ringleader. Chuck merely laughed. I was seven; he was in his late teens. Fighting was useless.

After I tried to break away for what seemed like an hour, Chuck offered up a plan: “If you want us to let your brother go, you’ll have to do somethin’ for it.”

“What?” I asked.

“What do you guys think?” Chuck questioned his brothers. “Should we make him run naked through stinger nettles?”

“Maybe we should hang him by his heels from a tree!” one of his brothers chimed in.

“I got it!” Chuck announced as he nodded his head knowingly. I couldn’t imagine what he had in mind, but whatever demented stunt he had concocted, I’d gladly do it. Billy was my best friend, my protector, my big brother.

Then, with a grin that suggested he had just devised the most nefarious punishment ever, Chuck announced: “Tell your brother—in a loud voice—that you love him!”

I was confused. This was all he wanted? To tell my brother that I loved him?

“Go ahead,” he chided. “Say it! I dare you!”

“I love you!” I shouted to my brother.

The McHenry boys then hooted and howled. From their point of view, I had just humiliated myself beyond repair. Right there in front of the whole neighborhood, I, a boy, had been tender and sensitive. Worse still, I had dared to say, “I love you”—to my brother no less! Ugh! As far as the McHenrys were concerned, I had completely disgraced myself.

Finally, after nearly laughing himself sick, Chuck tossed me to the ground and threatened to “pound” my brother and me if either of us said a word to our parents. Then, tiring of the whole affair, Chuck turned on his heels and darted back to his lair—his brothers close behind.

After checking to see if the thugs had really gone, Billy cautiously climbed out of the tunnel, took my hand, and walked me back to the grocery store.

“Don’t tell Mom what just happened,” Billy warned. “If you do, the McHenrys will beat us for sure.”

“Plus, if we tattle, Mom will ask us what we learned,” I added. Then we both laughed at the thought. Mom was always asking us what we had learned from our latest debacle and to be honest, I didn’t have a clue what I had just learned. I could say that I had learned not to play in the culvert, or go near the McHenrys—but I already knew that.

No matter what we were supposed to have learned that morning, the incident remained locked deep inside my brain until a few days ago when my grandson, Tommy, tossed a rock into a stream and told me he loved me. And then, like an orb tumbling out of a gumball machine, the McHenry memory tumbled out of the dark recesses of my mind and onto these pages.

I’m glad it’s been nearly sixty years since the original event took place because now I’m mature enough to know what I learned that day. And I’ll be darned if I hadn’t learned it from the most unlikely of characters—Chuck McHenry. The lesson couldn’t be clearer. When threatened by your worst enemy, when going toe-to-toe with the adversary, remember the secret password. Not just any password, but the password.

I love you.

It opens all doors.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

READ MORE

  Dear Crucial Skills,

I own a furniture consignment shop. We have a new customer who is seventy-five years old, very lonely, and needy. He constantly comes in the shop or calls to talk about how he used to be a Hollywood star and a millionaire, or to tell us about each of his seven marriages.

I don’t know how to tell him we are busy, but we have each heard his story three or four times and it’s starting to make us all feel uncomfortable. How can I tell my needy customer that I don’t have time to talk without offending him?

At a Loss

 Dear Loss,

Thanks for the question and for your genuine concern for a person in need. Let me start by suggesting that this situation calls for a tactful discussion instead of a full-blown crucial conversation where you jointly brainstorm a solution.

You’re right in worrying about hurting the fellow’s feelings. He’s a human being and like all of us, he deserves to be treated with respect. Obviously, you don’t want to bluntly tell him to stop talking so much or repeating himself so frequently. And while it’s true that he may be lonely and is looking for simple conversation, even companionship, it’s not the responsibility of a shop owner to meet those needs (more on this later).

The kind thing to do is to pull the gentleman aside and set your ground rules. Explain that you appreciate his business and enjoy the conversation, yet you face a challenge. The shop requires your careful attention and does not allow you to carry on long conversations, enjoyable or otherwise. So you’re asking him to conduct his future business quickly—without lengthy discussions—so you can fulfill your responsibilities as a shop owner. Then thank him for his cooperation.

All of this should be done pleasantly, with a slight smile, and with genuine compassion for another person. You’re not opening the conversation up for debate, nor are you asking for suggestions. You’re professionally and politely defining the boundaries of your relationship.

Now, having said this, let me return to the issue of a lonely gentleman who appears to be looking for more than a simple purchase. Let me write, not just to you, but to all of us—myself included.

Not long ago, I was taking a brisk walk when I passed near an older fellow, a complete stranger, walking the other way. He signaled me to stop and when I did he chatted me up for a full five minutes. I was in a hurry to get back to work, but the gentleman seemed oblivious to the fact that I was trying to exit the conversation at every turn. Later that same day, I stood in line to buy a handful of groceries while an elderly woman in front of me wrote out and recorded a check—seemingly in slow motion—while casually chatting with the clerk. I almost climbed out of my skin.

At the end of the day, my mind turned to the intersection of two factors. One, my own lack of patience, and two, a growing number of elderly people who are likely to tax my ability to slow down and smell their roses. As I thought of these two events, I remembered the fact that as baby boomers age (and I’m one of them), they’ll put a massive burden on the healthcare system—leading to a huge shortage of healthcare professionals. I also recalled reading that, in 1950, for every person over 65 there were twelve people of working age, but in 2050, that number will drop to three—burdening social security. I was aware of both the medical and financial burden that will accompany the gray wave. We hear about those issues nearly every day. What I hadn’t thought about was the need for love, kindness, a gentle word, and yes—time—from those who will have so much of it on their hands.

The awkward situation at your shop provides evidence that there will come a clash between those who are frantically running about their daily tasks—stretched to do the job of two people—and those who will want to slowly write out a check, go on casual walks, and talk with shop owners about the old days.

And while it’s true that the shop owner can’t always meet the needs of aging customers, it is equally true that the rest of society will have to come to grips with living alongside a growing number of seniors who are finding their senior years more lonely than golden. As our life paces and interests come in conflict, we’ll continually face the question: What do I really want here?

I wrote earlier about my father who had largely gone blind, working on my pride and joy—the flowers in front of our house. Dad really wanted to contribute to the effort and eagerly put on his gloves every time I watered, mulched, or planted. Because dad couldn’t see all that well, he often damaged or even killed flowers every time he lent a hand. This bothered me until one day I asked: “What do I really want?” I decided I wanted my dad to work alongside me more than I wanted perfect flowers. We’ll be faced with the same question in years to come as more and more elderly people will ask for our time and attention at a stage in our lives when our free time will, if anything, be growing scarcer.

Hopefully, as we ask the question of what we want for ourselves and for others, we’ll find both the desire and the methods to spend time with those who have given us so much. Perhaps outside the shop someone will talk with your needy customer about the good old days. Maybe a neighbor will bring by a fresh-made loaf of bread, and then sit and chat for a while—doubling the gift. Perhaps his son will call with a short item of business, and then lengthen the conversation to cover whatever Dad wants to discuss. Perhaps all of us will learn to find ways to stop and smell the roses.

Kerry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

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This story begins in the spring of 1954, not long after my eighth birthday. At this time in my life, two important events happened over the same weekend—Mother’s Day and the appearance of a traveling carnival. Both required money. Lots of money. Fortunately, after months of squirreling away most of my weekly 50-cent allowance, I was able to set aside six whole dollars—two dollars to buy my mom a pair of Mother’s Day earrings she had pointed out at a local jewelry store, two dollars for an unlimited ride pass at the carnival, and two dollars for food and bus fare.

When the appointed day finally arrived, I leaped off the bus and set straight off to buy Mom’s earrings. I was on a mission: first secure the earrings, and then go have fun. Unfortunately, as I approached the jewelry store I also drew closer to the carnival and its joyous and tempting sounds. To me, the rumble of the rides and the squeals from the children were the modern-day version of Ulysses’ sirens. Since I had neither a ship’s mast nor men to tie me to it, I eventually gave in to the irresistible clamor. I decided to put off buying the Mother’s Day earrings and go straight for the home of the Loopty-Loop. This was my first mistake.

I made my second mistake when I arrived at the carnival itself. Instead of going directly to the ticket booth and buying an unlimited ride pass, I wandered into the midway where a hoard of carnies tried to convince me to win Kewpie dolls, pinwheels, and the like. At first, I resisted the invitation to play the games. They weren’t in my budget and besides, who wanted any of that cheap junk?

And then I came across a booth that awarded winners a small cage containing a parakeet. I had never seen such magnificent birds. They weren’t just green and blue; they were fluorescent green and blue. And according to the nice carnie with the missing front teeth who worked the booth, you could teach the exotic creatures to talk. Plus the fellow had a “MOM” tattoo on his right bicep. It was fate. It was kismet. It was a sign.

“I would like one of the parakeets far more than the earrings,” the “MOM” tattoo whispered to me.

Hesitantly, I loosened my grip on my six dollars as I sized up the challenge in front of me. All I had to do to win the most extraordinary prize ever offered by a man with a pack of Lucky Strikes trapped under his right T-shirt sleeve was throw a dime and land it on a plate—a huge plate no less. And there were dozens of plates. So I took a deep breath and cashed in one of my dollars for ten dimes. I could practically see the smile on Mom’s face.

The first dime hit right on a plate—oh boy, oh boy, oh boy—but then it bounced off. But then it almost landed on another plate. This was going to be a breeze. Of course, it wasn’t one bit easy. After bouncing six dimes and winning nothing, I started having second thoughts. But then the fellow with the whispering tattoo told me not to worry. “You’re bound to win soon!” he promised. “Honest.”

And so went the two dollars I had set aside for food and return bus fare. But all wasn’t lost, I reasoned. If I won a bird soon, I would no longer need the two dollars I’d set aside for the earrings and I’d be back on budget. The next twenty dimes bounced pretty much like the first twenty. They would hit one plate, glance off another—and almost win me a bird. Almost.

As I clutched my last two dollars, I was tempted to walk straight to the jewelry store before it was too late, but then as I turned to exit from over my shoulder I heard one of the parakeets chirp, “Pretty bird!” In retrospect I believe the exclamation did indeed sound like “Pretty bird!” but only if spoken through missing teeth. In any case, I cashed in for twenty more chances to win the best present any kid had ever given his mom for Mother’s Day!

The three-mile walk home was a dismal one. I hadn’t eaten anything, I didn’t get to ride anything, I had no money, no earrings, no bird, and worst of all, boy, was I going to get a lecture!

As I trudged down the dirt road that led home, my next-door neighbor, George Lockhart, drove up in his milk truck. George arose every day at the crack of dawn and delivered milk to the front doors of various families around town. He was now on his way home. Normally I would have been thrilled to hitch a ride with George—you know, ride up front with a guy wearing a cool milkman uniform; maybe he’d even give me a fudgesicle. But not this day. I had just suffered the great parakeet debacle of 1954.

As I told Mr. Lockhart about my failed attempt to win my mother a bird, I explained how I had lost my entire six dollars to a game that looked ever so easy but was probably impossible to win. George nodded knowingly but didn’t say a word. Eventually, when we arrived at his house, Mr. Lockhart turned to me and said, “I’ve done you a good turn by giving you a ride home, would you do something for me? I’ve just had a new load of wood delivered and I need some of it chopped into kindling.” Then he handed me an ax.

Things were looking up. I wouldn’t have to go home and face the music—at least not right away—plus, I’d get to swing an ax. Now, before you go all safety-conscious on me, let me remind you that this was in 1954. Back then, eight-year-old boys went to the carnival unescorted, walked long distances alone, and yes, they even swung the occasional ax. Well, I did anyway.

After a couple of hours of fevered chopping, Mr. Lockhart reappeared, gave my stack of kindling a nod of approval, and said it was getting dark so I should go home. As I turned down the path that led to what would certainly be a stinging lecture, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked around and there stood Mr. Lockhart. In his right hand he was holding six one-dollar bills. “This is for the work you did,” George explained. Then he handed me the money, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Six dollars! It was a miracle! It was exactly what I had lost! I could hardly wait to get home and tell Mom what had happened.

When I returned to town the next morning, I made a beeline to the jewelry store and bought the earrings Mom wanted. (She wore them on special occasions for over fifty years.) When I made my way over to the carnival, I didn’t let myself walk within a half-block of the parakeets. I knew I’d be too weak to resist the temptation. Instead, I bought a wad of cotton candy, purchased an unlimited ride pass, and spun myself into oblivion.

I learned several lessons that day, but I think the most interesting one is about influence. When someone you know does something really stupid and your natural inclination is to lay on a lecture and lay it on thick—think about George. He knew better than to smugly point out my obvious poor choices. Before launching into the traditional diatribe laced with “what were you thinking?” and “hard-earned money,” he correctly assessed the situation. He realized my intentions had been pure and that I had most certainly learned my lesson, so instead of lecturing me or preventing me from trying again, he gave me a second chance. What a wonderful idea. He gave me a do-over.

Sometimes it’s just what the milkman ordered.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

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Listen to Kerrying On via Mp3
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Last week while talking with (and trying to impress) my two seventeen-year-old nieces, I mentioned that I had run into Robert Redford at his restaurant just up the hill from our home. The two stared at me with a gaze teenagers typically reserve for a lecture on the history of floor wax. After politely listening to me gush about Bob, one of the twins asked, “Who’s Robert Redhead?”

What?! They hadn’t seen The Sting?! They hadn’t watched Mr. Redford as the delightful Sundance Kid? Had the world gone mad? As I probed further, I learned Mr. Redford wasn’t the only older celebrity unknown to my nieces. In fact, the two were virtually unfamiliar with any stars, celebrities, or politicians of my generation. At first, I figured they didn’t watch TV or movies, but I quickly learned they could tell me the shade of Taylor Swift’s blush, write an entire book on Justin Bieber, and quote whole segments from Miley Cyrus’ latest movie.

How is it these two knew so much about their own times but virtually nothing of the movies, TV, or life experiences of anyone old enough to shave? When I was their age, even younger, I knew a great deal about my parents’ world—including their politicians, luminaries, and movie stars—because I watched dozens of films from the thirties and forties. In fact, I watched them with my parents.

As I congratulated myself on my own sense of history, it struck me that I had no reason to gloat. When I was growing up, my childhood world was perfectly organized to create an environment in which I not only associated with adults and adult things, but spent time learning and discussing life as it unfolded in front of us in our living rooms. We only had four TV channels and they were so lacking in programming that the stations gladly showed material from decades earlier—just to fill the airtime. And since we, like most families of the 50s, only had one TV set and most programs were family friendly, every evening we sat down together and watched a combination of old movies and primetime TV shows.

Why does any of this even matter? Realizing that my nieces were almost completely unaware of anything aged longer than, say, a can of Cheez Whiz got me to thinking. I began to mourn the loss of a simpler time when everyone—adults and children alike—could quote the same movies (“Badges! We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!”) and discuss the same current events. A time when entertainment wasn’t so enormously segmented so as to appeal to only fourteen-year-old boys who own a video game system or twenty-one-year-old single women looking for love . . . or a wedding dress.

What is cultural entertainment actually doing for our culture? If it’s not bringing us together, there’s a good chance it’s driving us apart. I fear we’ll eventually become so segmented that members in a specific niche of the population will have little, if anything, to discuss with people outside their very specific demographic. By becoming increasingly diverse in our tastes and interests, I fear we are limiting our ability to relate to diverse populations—including our own nieces and nephews.

I was discussing this issue with my partner Ron, when he knocked me off my “old fogey” soapbox with a message of hope. He and his twelve-year-old son Ben were talking with a neighbor when his neighbor asked Ben, “So young man, what do you think was George Washington’s greatest contribution to the country?” (Apparently this neighbor wasn’t into small talk). After thinking for a second, Ben responded, “Resigning his commission as general before accepting the presidency.” Ben then went on to explain that disconnecting himself from the military had helped Washington shape the nation into a republic rather than into a military state.

As you might guess, Ron was proud of his son’s insightful remarks. He was also rather astonished. How had his twelve-year-old son developed such an informed opinion about such a weighty topic? It turns out Ben routinely watched and loved the History Channel where he had seen several episodes on Washington’s life.

So, there is hope. In the “good old days” we created a common culture by watching (and reading) old-fashioned stories, enthusiastically discussing current issues and events from the past, and jointly building values that were shaped and conveniently portrayed in their widely shared entertainment venues.

Today we can do the same, not in spite of but with the help of the latest resources. But, in my opinion, only if we use the tools wisely. We may have to switch off a few video games and skip past a dozen or so TV exposés covering celebrity shenanigans, but if we’re willing to search, there’s a great deal of terrific scientific, artistic, and historical material out there that we can and should experience with our friends, relatives, and loved ones.

Of course, it’ll take effort. It’s time we stopped retiring to separate rooms and engaging in separate electronic activities. Instead, pick a program (or a book) of substance, sit down, experience it with your children, friends, and family members, and then discuss the themes and concepts. Watch it at home where you can talk freely as the show unrolls. Pause and discuss issues and ideas. Revel in new scientific and historical discoveries. Roll back the clock and learn from the masters. Tell your own stories while giving people of all ages a chance to talk—each teaching the other.

In short, don’t be mauled by modernity. Master it. Use electronic tools that could easily fractionate and alienate to unite and illuminate. Make the language of your home the language of ideas steeped in history, vivified by art, and supported by science. Create a common culture. Better yet, couple the wisdom of ages with the efficiency of modern methods to create an uncommon common culture.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

READ MORE

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In early 1951, a few months before I entered the first grade at Larrabee Elementary School, the U.S. embarked on one of the most peculiar and troubling lines of research ever conducted. Sixty-five miles northwest of Las Vegas, in a place known as the Nevada Proving Grounds, scientists began detonating nuclear devices. You know, just to see what would happen.

I first became aware of these blasts when Mrs. Plunk, the rather gruff principal (who ruled Larrabee not unlike General Patton ruled the Third Army) started projecting movie clips from the Nevada test site onto the cafetorium wall. When each nuclear display ended, Mrs. Plunk blew a whistle and we kids scattered about the room like—well, like kids in a nuclear-attack drill.

After careening about wildly and trying our best not to scream too loudly, we eventually found an empty spot on the edge of the floor, laid face down, and placed our hands tightly behind our necks. We needed to practice this ritual, Mrs. Plunk earnestly explained, in the off chance the Soviet Union—which was also testing nuclear bombs—tested them on Larrabee Elementary School.

One day, the newsreel contained even more haunting images than usual. This time, American soldiers, dressed in green fatigues, toting rifles, and holding their helmets tight to their heads, walked resolutely into a cloud of nuclear dust as the latest blast rolled across the desert. Would the guys be knocked down? Would the blast break their bones? Or, in the words of six-year-old Bobby Keefer who was lying face down next to me, “Would the soldiers wet their pants?”

If you were to view this same footage today you’d surely ask, “What were those scientists doing to those poor soldiers?” It’s not as if the dangers of radiation were a secret. Certainly not in 1951. And yet, the testing continued.

You can’t watch this “science-gone-mad” video without asking, “What similarly insane things are we doing today?” What modern invention have we wholly embraced, appears to have made our lives better, but is actually slowly killing us? In short, what “nuclear walk” are we taking today?

For some it’s plastic bottles. Don’t people realize that plastic slowly leaches Bisphenol A, which will eventually turn us all into helpless blobs of oozing flesh? Or how about holding cell phones close to our brain while they emit invisible death rays? That can’t be good, right?

Here is the latest trend that has me concerned (this week). If you took a vacation nowadays with a group of a dozen adults of differing ages and backgrounds, you would quickly note that they fall into two groups. First, you have those who set aside their worries, take their minds off their jobs, and throw themselves into the true spirit of vacationing. That’s Group One.

The people in Group Two offer up the occasional “Ooh!” or “Ah!” but they aren’t exactly living in the moment because they haven’t exactly unplugged from their jobs. They’re digitally linked to their offices—constantly fidgeting with their electronic devices, dashing off messages, and whispering underneath the tour guide’s lecture. Group Two folks are also highly stressed from trying to keep one foot in the moment and the other back at work.

My, how things have changed! Thirty years ago as I prepared to depart on my first overseas vacation, my boss kindly exhorted, “Please don’t phone us. Don’t even think about us. Disconnect, relax, and recharge your batteries. We’ll take care of whatever comes up.”

Contrast this thoughtful advice with the experience of two of my friends, Lisa and Jordan, who work as managers in a firm not far from my office. Lisa and Jordan’s bosses (like many of today’s leaders) don’t offer a comforting speech as their employees head out for a week of family fun. Quite the contrary. Lisa and Jordan’s bosses insist that they respond to phone calls, e-mails, and texts—24/7—especially during vacations.

Of course, much of this torture is self-imposed. There are advantages to being constantly connected to work. For one, you gain flexibility. You can take a mid-afternoon break to attend a niece’s soccer game and then make up for lost time by connecting to your office and working from home later that evening. In addition, if you stay continually tethered, you can also promptly respond to your phone calls, e-mails, and texts. You can be amazingly prompt and everyone wants that.

But what if you (dare I say it) unplugged from the grid once in a while? Would disconnecting for, say, an hour or so actually make your life better? In a word, yes. Consider the effects of constant interruptions. Every time you stop your current task, deal with an interruption, and then return, you place the original task from short- to long-term memory, put the new job into short-term memory, and then reverse the entire process to get back on task. Completing this conceptual lifting dozens of times a day creates stress, which (and the research on this is yet to be completed) just might lead to distress and all of its attendant health problems.

As if this weren’t bad enough, frequent interruptions can also lead to job dissatisfaction. Instead of working continuously for periods of an hour or more on a task that’s challenging and solvable (elements that career expert Mihály Csikszentmihályi insists contribute to job satisfaction), we purposely interrupt our flow, add stress, and make our jobs far less enjoyable.

There’s more. On those occasions where blurring the borders between work and home leads to additional time on the job (which it usually does) this too exacts a hefty toll. In a study recently conducted in England, those who labored 11 or more hours per day had a 67 percent higher risk of coronary heart disease than their less-tethered 9-to-5 office mates.

Even if you don’t work extended hours, the mere act of remaining connected can be surprisingly damaging. Waiting to be interrupted—expecting to be interrupted—can trigger a stress response similar to that of actually being disturbed. And then, of course, there’s the whole problem of being interrupted, flitting off to the new task, and its impact on ADD. No matter your electronic devices, if you’re constantly switching tasks, it’s not long until you become less able to hold focus.

Obviously, with the release of each new innovation, there’s much to think about. As we invent and embrace new devices, we may not know the toll they’re taking on our mental, emotional, and physical health until it’s too late. Whether we’re setting ourselves up for job dissatisfaction, family tension, failing health, or ADD, one can only speculate. So, what’s a person to do?

As a starter, make the current practice of remaining constantly tethered and frequently interrupted part of your family and corporate dialogue. There’s no need to suffer quietly—you’re not alone. In fact, over two thirds of subjects recently surveyed in a poll conducted by the bureau of labor statistics suggested that they’ve experienced problems with their employer because of conflicts between their job and their duties as a parent. Much of this unresolved conflict is a natural consequence of today’s constant tethering.

So, speak up. Talk openly about the two-edged sword of innovation. What new invention or trend is working for you? What’s slowly killing you? Or better yet, how is an invention or trend that’s working for you, also killing you? Decide how and when you want to be connected and where and when you want to be interrupted. Make it a choice, not the natural extension of embracing what appears to be a helpful new tool.

And remember, it’s not an all-or-nothing proposition. You’re not required to take a vow of digital celibacy. You don’t have to chuck your devices; you just have to control them so they don’t control you. For instance, you can set your devices to notify you only at certain times; as opposed to the instant a message arrives. You can also negotiate with colleagues and bosses to watch your back while you vacation, disconnect, and recharge your batteries. Friends can and should be part of the solution rather than part of the problem. Friends don’t let friends walk into a nuclear cloud.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

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When I was a young boy and our extended family gathered to celebrate holidays, it was common for the adults to congregate in the dining room and play pinochle while we kids romped around the yard or (when it was raining) watched The Hopalong Cassidy Show on our 19” DuMont TV consol.

But not always. Sometimes my uncle Vic would break away from the adults and teach me a trick or two. It was Vic who showed me how to press two fingers to my lower lip to create a wolf whistle. It was Uncle Vic who taught me how to tie a cat’s cradle, how to spin a button on a string, how to make a coin disappear, and dozens of other childhood tricks and games.

I often wondered why my uncle so readily slipped away from the rest of the adults—just to spend time with a kid. One day, long after he had passed away, I asked my mother why Uncle Vic was as likely to spend time with me as he was to mingle with his peers. Vic’s actions were particularly curious given that his wife, my aunt Mickey, was such a vibrant, vocal personality. I couldn’t imagine how she ever ended up with such a quiet man.

“Don’t you know what happened to your uncle?” my mother asked. “When my sister first met Vic, he had been the life of the party, oozed confidence, and looked the part of a movie star. Why, when he and Mickey walked into a restaurant, the crowd would hush and stare at them. It was as if celebrities had entered the room.”

“And then what happened?” I asked.

“World War II.” She explained. “It happened to all of us—only more so to Vic. You see,” Mom reluctantly continued, “your uncle joined the Army and was immediately sent to the Philippines where he was put in charge of a platoon. It was the job of Sergeant Victor Veloni and his platoon to clear the remote islands.”

“Clear them of what?” I asked.

“Of enemy soldiers who stayed behind to cause havoc with the American troops and Philippine civilians. Surely you’ve heard about them. You know, the soldiers who perched in palm trees—some for years—waiting for a chance to shoot anyone who came into view. Your uncle Vic and his team would land on an island and then do whatever was required to remove the tree-dwelling snipers.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

I could tell that Mom didn’t want to talk about the details.

“Vic and his team would police the island until someone would shoot at them, and then they’d deal with the sniper.”

“They walked around until someone shot at them!” I exclaimed.

“Mostly,” Mom replied. “It was the best way to draw the enemy into the open.”

I could hardly imagine trudging around a steamy, tropical island in full military gear, while waiting for a bullet to pierce my helmet. It’s beyond comprehension.

“Wasn’t that dangerous?” I asked.

“Dangerous?” Mom continued, “Vic ended up losing every single man in his platoon and half of the replacements. One by one, he lost his dear friends and comrades as they fell prey to sniper fire. Our prayers were answered when Vic came home alive, but he never forgave himself for doing so.”

“And that’s what changed him?”

“When the war ended and your uncle returned to Seattle, I hardly knew him. He was the same handsome man who had gone off to war, but the vibrant, fun-loving Vic that used to live behind that chiseled face was no longer there. The horror of watching his friends die, the tension of waiting for the next bullet, the self-imposed guilt for not taking one of his own—it killed the Vic we knew and left behind the quiet, withdrawn man you grew up with. Not everyone who survived the war actually survived the war. Vic went off to battle, but somebody else came home.”

I had no idea about any of this. I was just glad my uncle Vic had spent time with me. I just wanted to know why he had always been so kind, gentle, and attentive.

Earlier this month, as teenagers from the local Boy Scout troop posted a flag in our front yard to help celebrate the 4th of July, my thoughts turned to the scores of people—like Vic—who have sacrificed in so many different ways, so that you and I can enjoy our many freedoms. As the scouts unfurled the flag, my mind turned to an earlier day with a different group of scouts I had taken to a military cemetery. As these young men and I gathered on a grassy hillside just outside San Francisco, we stood by the graves of decorated soldiers and read aloud the detailed stories of the selfless acts that had earned each fallen soldier both his medal and his grave.

Today my thoughts turn to not only these young men and others who have fallen in the field, but also to those who have returned home—many injured, all affected, and some, like my uncle Vic, transformed into a completely different person. When TV news commentators talk of the number of wounded and killed in current battles, or when statistics pop up on the screen to summarize what’s happening over seas—I don’t see the numbers. I don’t think of the statistics. Instead, I see an image of my uncle Vic. It’s not the image you might imagine. It’s not of a crowd gathered to pay homage to his sacrifice. It isn’t of a general draping a medal around his neck. Nor is it of a band trumpeting his glory. It’s far more humble—and more important—than any of that. It’s the image of a little boy holding a cat’s cradle string, and sitting on the lap of a true American hero.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

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  Dear Crucial Skills,

Kerry’s recent article, Confronting Workplace Sarcasm, unfortunately resonated with me as someone who uses sarcastic humor and often fails to see the negative impact it makes. I am intrigued by Kerry’s assertion, “And so, I said goodbye to that part of me” and wondered if it was as easy as that statement sounds? Did you have to tell everyone you were trying to eliminate this habit and give them permission to call you on it? I, too, have had similar feedback from my wife, but I have failed to take the next step—much to my chagrin.

Chagrinned

You’re right. Nobody rids him- or herself of the “fun” use of sarcasm in one clean swipe. In my case, employing sarcasm wasn’t a mere tic that I had picked up along the way—such as saying “umm” too often or picking my teeth with a matchbook cover—and heaven only knows I have dozens of such tics. In my case, sarcasm was a finely crafted tool I honed and enjoyed for decades. It had all the short-term perks and tantalizing allure of any bad habit and was not going to go quietly into the night.

At first, I did exactly what you said. One day, after I had been particularly derisive with my wife, she informed me that my “sharp tongue” wasn’t something she admired. This revelation came as a total shock to me in that we were newly married, we had reared no children as of yet, and I still held a rather high opinion of myself. Shocked that my wife didn’t share in my love for irony, I swore that I would no longer hurl sarcastic remarks at her. In return, she hugged me, vowed to hold me accountable, and threw a party.

This method of influence helped a little, but eventually turned out to be insufficient because it required far too much monitoring on my wife’s part and didn’t get to the underlying causes of my problem. At its root, I preferred using irony to taking part in an honest and direct discussion. I was good at sarcasm. It brought me pleasure. Plus, I didn’t always see the negative effects of my verbal assaults. Sure, some of the people I put down would flinch a smidgeon, but more often than not, others around me would laugh out loud at my “clever” remarks or even high-five my efforts.

Then one day I said to my wife, “Oh I’m sorry, is vacuuming the living room beneath Your Highness?” She didn’t flinch. Instead, a tear came to her eye as she yanked the vacuum away from me and stomped into the next room. The tear got me. What was I thinking? Did I really need to get a cheap laugh or try to win an argument by using derision and irony—at my sweetheart’s expense?

I wasn’t perfect with my wife from this moment on—but I tried to be.

But then there was everyone else out there. I was raised in a university environment where professors routinely mocked their students for making naïve or inane responses. And being the team player that I am, I honored this fun university tradition.

“It appears to me, Mr. Johnson, that you missed the part of your undergraduate education where they taught logic and reason.”

I said something to this effect during an MBA lecture—everyone laughed hardily—and then I saw Mr. Johnson. There was no tear running down his cheek, but he looked quite wounded. And once again, my wife’s face flashed before my eyes.

Drat! Now I had one more place where I would be on my best behavior. I apologized to Mr. Johnson at the beginning of the next class period, and much like a twelve-stepper, I admitted to my flaw and promised not to use sarcasm with the students again. It was a big step. I now start every college class with a promise to push the students to their best and most careful thinking—but also to respect them.

I was on the mend. First my wife, next the classroom.

And then I had teenagers. If sarcasm is the effect, teenagers are the cause. As my own children grew into their “spread their wings” years I found myself constantly looking for ways to advise, teach, correct, and discipline them—and sarcasm was such a handy tool.

Fortunately, something came into my life right around the same time my children were coming of age and at least partially shielded them from my verbal stings. My research partners and I started studying the interpersonal skills associated with high-stakes conversations where emotions run strong and opinions vary. As you may have guessed, when it comes to holding these high-stakes conversations, using sarcasm is a no-no.

As our studies unfolded, I found a replacement for caustic comments. I learned how to calmly and respectfully describe a problem and ask for input. I learned how to distinguish a motivation from an ability problem. I learned how to motivate with natural consequences and enable others through jointly brainstorming possible solutions. In short, I learned several skills that enabled me to talk directly and effectively rather than tangentially and ironically.

Without these replacement behaviors, I’m quite certain I would have continued to heap on the sarcasm and use other indirect, punitive, and ineffective methods with my teenage children (and anyone else who let me down and then fell under my crosshairs).

Other tools have helped keep me on the path of dialogue. With one of the clients I worked with on a corporate turnaround, the execs used sarcasm so frequently and aggressively that they crafted and wore their own campaign buttons. The graphic on the buttons consisted of a red circle with a line through it. The word behind the line was SARCASM. Wearing these “no sarcasm” badges actually helped the team (and me when I was with them) remember to be on our best, most professional behavior.

On another consulting assignment, the leadership team I worked with created an “abuse jar.” Like the “swear jars” many people use as a tool for punishing foul language, members of this particular team required that each member put a dollar in the glass container every time he or she used harsh humor, threats, sarcasm, or other forceful means. One day when I said something that positively oozed with irony, one of the VPs required me to pony up a dollar. In retrospect, a sarcasm jar would have been a nice tool in my change arsenal.

Focusing on the consequences of my actions, contracting with others, developing alternate skills, creating visual reminders, building in financial incentives—all of these influence tactics helped me strip my repertoire of sneering remarks—but this wasn’t all that I did nor did I eventually eliminate sarcasm entirely.

To help ease my transition from wise guy to normal citizen, I learned how to apply sarcasm in a way that doesn’t harm others. I use it on myself. When teaching classes or writing articles, I make myself the target of ridicule and derision—and heaven only knows I give myself plenty of ammunition. This way I get it out of my system but at no one else’s expense.

And that, my friends, is the caboose to this rather lengthy train of thought.

Kerry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Crucial Conversations, Crucial Confrontations, and Influencer.

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  Dear Crucial Skills,

As we all do from time to time, I find myself having to call a company to resolve an issue, and am often frustrated at the very beginning of the phone call when I’m asked to press a series of buttons before I’m allowed to talk to a human. By the time I get to this point, I’m so frustrated that I don’t always use my best Crucial Conversations skills. How can I make the best of these call-center crucial conversations?

Frustrated Customer

I’m sure thousands of people share your annoyance with being sent to what feels like electronic purgatory. I too become quickly irritated when I’m forced to punch a half dozen buttons before I’m given the opportunity to talk to someone.

I’m equally convinced many of us button-haters aren’t exactly on our best and most respectful behavior when we finally interact with a human being. After we’ve had our fill of instructions such as, “If you’re a left-handed vegetarian, please press seven,” we tear into the customer service representative (to quote comedian Ray Romano) “like a monkey on a cupcake.”

Even if we’ve only become moderately snippy with the unfortunate employee, after we’ve hung up and had a chance to review our snarky remarks, many of us look back and ask, “What was I thinking? It’s not as if that poor employee came up with the policy that puts people in a foul mood before he or she talks to them. So, why did I just abuse an innocent bystander?”

It’s hard to come up with a convincing response to this question, although I did hear an explanation at the airport a few months back that almost fits the bill. It seemed the fellow standing in front of me at the service counter had landed in Minneapolis a few minutes after his connecting flight took off. I listened in on the conversation as he delivered a tirade so heated, vitriolic, and yet curiously clever, that people walking by stopped, pulled out their laptops, and took notes.

The fellow put on quite a show. He raised his voice, used insulting and hurtful terms, and waved his arms wildly as if he were guiding in a jet fighter. And yet, the guy kept his threats just veiled enough and his tone just controlled enough to keep from getting sprayed with mace and wrestled to the floor.

When the gate agent finally did get a word in, she explained that there was no reason for the passenger to yell at her—after all, it wasn’t her fault he missed his connection (a well-worn expression that is sure to throw gasoline on the fire). Prepared for just such a retort, the furious passenger explained why he did have the right to tear into her.

“Despite the fact that this airline leaves me stranded in airports, flies my baggage to the wrong city, rarely gets me to my destination on time, has forced me to miss birthdays and countless other precious family events—despite all of this—you still choose to work here. You sat back and watched this freak show you call an airline inflict untold damage on your innocent customers. That makes it okay for me to be angry at you because you’re part of the problem.”

Despite this carefully constructed argument, nothing the fellow said justified his verbal abuse. Nevertheless, this hurtful response does demonstrate what can happen to a presumably reasonable, rational, and decent human being after years of being subjected to poor customer service. To bystanders, such an explosive reaction always seems far too large given the triviality of the precipitating event. However, that’s because bystanders watching such an incident only observe a snippet from current events and not a broader sampling from history.

Which brings us back to your problem. Being electronically routed throughout the ether adds one more annoyance to a growing inventory of petty offences that could lead to an unhealthy tirade or at least an uncharacteristically snippy response on your part. So, when you ask what you can do to make sure you’re using your best crucial conversations skills after being given the electronic run-around, you ask against a backdrop that includes years of customer abuse—adding to the complexity of the problem. So, what’s a person to do? Here are a few ideas to help you keep your cool.

Master Your Story
Let’s start with the story you tell yourself. Simply being aware that you might respond historically rather than episodically is a step in the right direction. When being shuttled around the electronic universe, keep in mind that this phone call is a single instance—not the sum total of every uncaring, bureaucratic, save-the-company-money-at-your-expense response you’ve experienced to date.

Start with Heart
As you begin your conversation, think about the poor person on the other end of the line, how he or she has had nothing to do with the policy, and most certainly doesn’t deserve your criticism. Besides, he or she isn’t likely to be in a place to change the policy anyway. Additionally, realize that what you really want isn’t to send a hostile message to the company via the customer-service worker. What you really want is to get your problem solved. You know from past experience that lashing out with anger and resentment only delays resolving the issue you are calling about in the first place.

Consider the side effects of anger
Keep in mind the impact you have on your health every time you become angry. When you allow petty annoyances to heap one upon the other until you eventually blow your stack, you harm not just those around you but also yourself.

Anger sends the message to your body that it’s time to prepare for an upcoming blunt trauma. In response, your body thickens your blood so you won’t bleed out. That’s right, every time you get angry you produce cholesterol. And if this isn’t enough to give you the yips, keep in mind that every time you blow a gasket you also weaken your immune system, stress your heart, and maybe worst of all, you become an angry person you really don’t want to be.

So, the next time you’re required to go through a button-pushing ritual—be prepared. Before you make the call, take a deep breath and be ready for the fact that you may be transferred around or otherwise bureaucratically pummeled. Fight your natural proclivity. Put on a smile—don’t conjure up a counter-attack. In short, take charge of your response rather than vice versa. Don’t brew up a fresh batch of cholesterol.

And remember, the person on the phone shouldn’t be your target. If you want to provide the company with feedback, ask to talk to the shift manager or send an e-mail explaining your position on the phone game. In pleasant and honest terms, explain that you much prefer an immediate human response. This may have no effect on the policy, but it is the professional and healthy way of trying to make a difference. Equally important, taking the civil route doesn’t vent your frustrations on a hapless employee, and it also won’t make you ill.

Kerry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of four bestselling books, Change Anything, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.

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  Dear Crucial Skills,

In Crucial Confrontations, you give an example of teens parking in your parking spot, and although you pleasantly ask them to stop, they don’t. Unless I missed it, the book never answered how to motivate these teens, whom you don’t really know well enough to figure out how to motivate. I occasionally face problems with people I don’t know and I’d really appreciate some help on how to handle them.

Still Waiting

Motivating others is always tricky because you can go wrong in so many ways. So how can you address the challenge of influencing others who you believe should—and easily could—change their behavior, but won’t? In short, what do you do when others don’t face an ability barrier; they just need to be motivated?

You don’t motivate others—you only tap into their existing motivation. Humans have agency. You can’t swing a magic wand or put them under a spell and force them to behave in new ways. They’re going to choose how to act on their own. That means you have to affect what they’re thinking and feeling, because their thoughts will drive their behavior—certainly any behavior as complicated as parking in your parking spot. So, give up on the notion that you’re going to motivate others. Instead, you’re going to tap into their existing wants and desires, plus affect how they think, and in so doing help direct how they choose to act.

Using power, threats, authority, and other forms of compulsion is easy and dangerous. Many people’s primary influence tools are power, threats, and other forms of compulsion. At one point, all of us have been upset enough that we too have employed threats, insults, verbal attacks, or even physical abuse (perhaps when we were kids). The forms of abuse vary from actual physical abuse to hostile glances—but the message is the same. Do as I ask, or you’ll suffer in some way.

Why would some people routinely exert force? It’s what they know. They’ve tried several methods of encouraging and inspiring others, only to see their efforts fall short. So, they reach down into their bag of tricks and pull out their power. One’s authority and control over resources is ever so handy and so easy to use. You can threaten others with little more than formulating a sentence or two. You can put the fear into someone by merely staring at him or her intently with a look of disgust. You can shake your head, tighten your jaw, bark a harsh word, and the other person quickly complies—for fear of what you might do to them. That is, if you have power.

Of course, when you use your power to create a real or implied threat, you can pay dearly. Your relationship may no longer be the same. The nature of the other person’s job may have changed. Now, instead of completing their work—even taking pleasure from completing their job—they’re avoiding punishment. They may need to be closely monitored. They may dislike or even despise you. You may spend countless hours playing cat-and-mouse as the person you threatened gets even with you every time you leave the building. You’ve moved from supervisor to warden and nobody likes that job.

Explain natural consequences. So, instead of quickly employing your power, explain to the other person why you’d like him or her to change his or her behavior. That is, explain the natural consequences currently associated with the wrong behavior. For instance, “When you’re going to be late for a meeting and don’t let us know, we sit and wait for ten or fifteen minutes.”

The natural consequences associated with a behavior make up the reasons you want the behavior to change. Natural consequences occur independent of outside action, and require no authority or power. They also motivate in your absence. Once others understand how their actions affect you, the job, the customers, other employees, and so forth, this knowledge keeps them motivated in your absence.

Be patient. Sometimes you may have to explain several consequences until you find one that motivates the other person. This puts you on a consequence search. You explain the effects on the job—the person doesn’t seem to care. You explain the consequences to other employees—also to no effect. You point out how it affects the customer—now they come around. This, of course, takes us to our earlier point, you can always rely on your power—”I’m going to call the police.” You can always make a threat—”I’m going to tell the boss.” But it’s not the place you want to start. Instead, begin with natural consequences.

So, what happened with the teenagers and the parking spot we talked about in Crucial Confrontations? In truth, that was a slightly altered story. The real story consisted of neighborhood kids letting the air out of my father’s back right tire—forcing him to pump it up with a bicycle pump each morning before going to work. I was in my early 20s at the time and visiting from college, so I gathered the neighborhood kids to play basketball in our driveway. After a few minutes, I drew the kids into my confidence. I explained I had just learned that somebody was letting the air out of Dad’s tire and this had me worried. Maybe they could help catch the offenders and get them to stop. You see, my dad wasn’t all that young anymore and I was worried about his heart. Plus, it made him late a couple of times and his boss didn’t like that. I wasn’t certain these kids were the offenders, but they now knew why I was concerned.

Nobody ever let the air out of Dad’s tire again.

I could have threatened the kids with police action. Instead, I explained the natural consequences associated with the act, and let that knowledge work its magic. Do natural consequences always work? No. Sometimes you have to either back off your request or escalate your methods. Sometimes you simply can’t find anything the other person cares about and you have to draw down on your authority. But this should be your last resort, not your starting place. And by the way, whether you’re talking to your closest friend or an absolute stranger, your best motivational tool is always the same. Explain natural consequences.

Kerry