The Wrong Side of the Road

I was trying to get a good deal on my auto insurance a few weeks ago. It was incredibly frustrating!

I know everybody who drives goes through this process, but most people don’t have the problem I had. No matter who I spoke to, I kept running up against the same issue.

The fact that I’ve been driving for decades didn’t matter. Because I was driving in another country—and on the “wrong” side of the road—my experience didn’t matter. I only get credit for three years, the amount of time we have been living and driving in the US. Apparently if I had been born in Germany or France or any other country that drives on the right side of the road, then I would have had a better chance of getting credit for thirty years of driving.

I said I’d driven on mainland Europe many times. On vacation. On business trips. To see family. To buy cheap French wine. I’ve even driven a double-decker bus.

Nope. No credit.

I tried to convince people I was a great driver. (I left out the bit about how Andrea has to keep a constant eye on me because I fiddle with the radio or look out the window or listen to what the girls are saying in the back of the car.)

Nothing. Both my history and my context was denied. The computer says No! I listen to the constant debate in this country about lives that matter. Three words, Black Lives Matter, can stir up such dissension. My experience of having my history and context count for nothing makes me think about all the people who have their racial history and context dismissed. Whatever their experience, they haven’t been driving on the right side of the road.

I’ve gotten past the fact that I have to shell out for the rates of an inexperienced teenage driver, but I still feel indignant about somebody not recognizing what I bring to the steering wheel. Thirty years!

In the debate about whose lives matter, we do the same thing as the insurance agents. It’s too easy to dismiss history and context because we’ve already decided it’s not relevant.

Obviously, everybody matters.

But in the discourse around Black Lives Matter, we miss the history and context of a century ago or thirty years ago or last week in neighborhoods across America. Every day, we too easily dismiss the stories and journeys and experiences of people who are different in some way that we are. As far as we’re concerned, everybody else has been driving on the wrong side of the road.

Well, maybe I have been driving on the left for most of my life. I don’t have the identical experience as someone else. But I do have a capacity for empathy, and I like to think everyone around me does as well.

The joy, the excitement, the connection we can feel through empathy is astounding.

I don’t claim to be a paragon of virtue. I certainly have my non-empathetic moments. But on issues as big as whose lives matter, we ought to be empathetic. In doing so, we will free ourselves from comparisons of anger and rage and the need to out-shout each other.

Ultimately we’ll all drive on the same side of the street—or better yet, right down the center of a street named Empathy.

Our Friend Gail

Gail became a great friend to us when she and I both worked in government, me in the UK and Gail in the US. She’s a thoughtful, intelligent consultant in the area of behavioral health for all sorts of organizations.

As we came to America, she offered us so much very practical help, including sound advice and somewhere we always felt welcome. Her home is one of those places where were feel genuinely relaxed. It’s a safe space. At every encounter I am astounded at the way she cares for us.

Part of Gail’s manner of hospitality is that she loves to create a platter of food, one large colorful, fragrant abundance of food. Now we create platters at our house. When we create a platter we are especially proud of, we send a photo to Gail, and she sends us her offerings as well. (And it saves on the washing up.)

During a visit at the beginning of the summer, we were talking about a salad. Gail asked us if it was all right, which of course it was. More than all right. Utterly delicious.

“Salads never taste as good when you make them for yourself,” she said.

That’s true! If you cook for yourself, it’s just never as good as when someone else cooks for you. Sometimes when I am chatting with a friend on Skype, my wife brings me a cup of tea. Now mind you, it’s not that I’m not a modern man. I’m an Englishman. I can make proper tea. But it’s so lovely and tastes so much better when Andrea does it.

This is true for so many experiences.

But I can think of one where the principle does not apply—making an apology. No one else can put together the ingredients of an apology that feels authentic for you. The one thing we have to do for ourselves is say, “I’m sorry.”

Yet if we can swallow the truth that we may not be the only person in the room with an answer, or that our words came too fast and too fierce, or that a choice trivialized other valid perspectives—well, being sorry can be so liberating.

As a leader I’ve learned that a heartfelt apology can be another transition point both in my growth as a leader and in the potential of a team or an organization. An authentic apology is the kind of salad only I can create, and it nourishes both me as I offer it and those who receive it.

Daddy to Dude to Sir Outalot


Honestly, I don’t know what came after that, because the word came out of my daughter’s mouth. I was “Daddy.” Calling me “Dude” had the shocking effect of a swear word spoken by my sweet daughter, and I completely lost traction with the conversation.

Dude is one of those words invented by a genius—or at least popularized by a genius in the last couple of decades—because it can mean virtually anything you want it to mean.

If you do something really cool, even accidentally, those around you might say, “Dude!” and pat you on the back.

If you win an award? “Dude! Congratulations!”

But if you’ve just embarrassed yourself and tanked the project, it might be

“Duuude! What were you thinking?”

If you’re the only one in the room who didn’t get the joke? “Dude.” Inflection and body language mean more than the urban dictionary entry. In my case at home, Ellie was also rolling her eyes while saying, “Dude,” a

combination which even I realize has meaning all its own. Maybe I don’t want to know. I can’t even ask what she meant because she just rolls her eyes all over again.

Ellie just turned ten and is growing up so fast. Relationships change as you grow up, of course. We all test the limits and boundaries. I’m used to my adult son constantly jibing me, but I am not used to Ellie calling me Dude. But even established relationships continue to develop new dimensions as we enter new seasons.

At work, in a new role I took on only a few months ago, I’m going through a similar process of sorting out nuances of relationships. What exactly does “Dude!” mean in this situation?

Most new jobs have a honeymoon period, during which people extend us grace as we get to know them, understand their work, appreciate their contributions. And they’re figuring out the same things about this oddball British bloke who turned

up on the doorstep. What an enlightening time that has been.

I want to do well. I want to achieve something. The coherence around work I’m doing gets clearer day to day. I meet with colleagues who run hospitals, behavioral health service lines, and home health services. They have fascinating stories. Their visions are strong and powerful. It’s so energizing to listen to them. And what a fantastic reminder of the value of growing into relationships.

What we often do not have in work settings, and which I’ve been given in this unique position, is time. My responsibility is to piece together a program of work largely delivered and supported by others—not in the sense that I sit in a cushy office while the little people do all the work, but in the sense that many parts of the hospital system, and agencies in Memphis, are doing great work that can be leveraged to new levels of excellence by understanding and appreciating what we each bring to the table. Being influential often is associated with levels of knowledge or a title on the door, but this time I think it has to do with how well we listen to one another.

At work, if anyone calls me “Dude,” I hope it’s in the vein of “Dude! Genius!” But I’m not holding my breath. If I see the Ellie eye-roll going on, I’ll know it’s something else.

So they don’t call me “Dude,” at least not to my face. But a good friend and leader of strategic change here where I work has named me “Sir Outalot.” And to me it feels as if I’ve been knighted by the queen herself. If I’m out of the office a lot, it’s because I’m out in the community listening. And if I can use my new stature to ennoble my colleagues and make them Lords and Ladies of Listening, then all the better.

Right? Dude.

Camp Whatchamericana

What is this obsession with camps in America?

When I was a kid, the sports teacher at my school. He was a great guy—unless he made you run cross country in the rain. (I used to run with the smokers. I could count on them to stop for a cigarette, and honestly, I needed the break even if I didn’t inhale.)

At the end of the school year, he’d go off to a summer job in America. People would ask him what he did in America in the summers and he’d say, “I’m a camp counselor.”

I didn’t have a clue what that was, having never been to camp anywhere, much less in America.

Now I do. My two little girls have had a summer full of camps. First they did Vacation Bible School together. Then separately one went to swim camp and the other to dance camp. Ava was the star, of course, the best of the two dozen girls on stage. You can trust me on that. I am telling you the truth. You know I wouldn’t exaggerate on such a matter.

Later Ava went to Frozen camp. Just when I got those songs out of my mind, she made sure they were wound up for another round, turning our house into a constant karaoke zone. Meanwhile Ellie was doing mud camp. You read that right. Mud camp. Who knew? Every day’s outdoor activity ended in a pool of mud—and various lost articles of clothing. People pay money to send their kids to camp to get filthy, and apparently I am one of those people.

The camps are popular, and they help kids learn all sorts of skills. In addition to the variety of camps, I’m taken with everything else Memphis has to offer. The library has all sorts of free summer activities. So many organizations have so much going on. It’s great, really.

I had none of that as a child. So what did I do in the summer? I played the World Cup in a little alley next to our house. It was narrow enough for me to play on my own. I could kick the ball up against a house on either side of the alley, representing the competing teams. Because I was England, I would always get knocked out early from the World Cup. But then there was Brazil and their star player Pele. While I was Pele, I was also the crowd chanting, “Pe-le! Pe-le!”

Because my dad was ill, he was home a lot during that season of my life. My most shameful moment happened in that alley. My dad was outside watching me for a few minutes, and a boy came down the street and said, “What are you doing?”

My dad said, “Oh, he’s playing football again and he’s Brazil.”

Then he went in the house, and the boy said, “Who was that?”

“My granddad,” I said.

I was only eight or nine, but as a consequence of being ill, my father looked old enough to be my grandfather.

I don’t know why I said that. I don’t torture myself over it, but the fact that I denied my father in that way still echoes in my mind more than forty years later.

Although no one else has known, until the first person to read this post, I feel the shame of it. I have had a hard and fast rule since that day that I would never deny someone like that again.

I saw Pele play once. He came to England for an exhibition game, and my older brother took me. I could hardly see, but there he was, dressed in gleaming white and looking stellar. Everybody wanted the Brazilians to get a free kick outside the penalty area to see what Pele would do. He did get a free kick—and missed. Harry Potter hadn’t come along yet at the time, but if it happened now, the crowd would be hoping for a Harry Potter style of moving the ball back to the net when obviously even Pele had missed the target.

We all miss the target. It’s part of our human condition. But what do we learn from it? How do even our failures help shape us into the people we would like to be? Whether in summer camps or playing the World Cup singlehandedly, we make slips during childhood, and we must learn our lessons. My swimming, dancing, singing, muddy daughters are both in the general age range I was that day in the alley. I’m sure they made some slips, and not just in the mud, but I hope they also had insights at camp this summer that they will carry with them as they grow into the amazing women I know they will be.

Why Do I Watch This Stuff?

I am addicted to the political discourse that will take us to November 8 and the election of the next president of the United States. (POTUS is a very cool nickname, don’t you think?)

November 8 is also my daughter Ava’s birthday. She will be seven, and by that point we will have been in America for the best part of six years. Ava knows only America as her home and Barack Obama as her president. The truth is Ava wonders why he has to go.

If I’m honest, I’ve had a fixation about politics for quite a while. It’s just that at the moment it’s virtually insatiable. This latest round has been fueled by Brexit in my homeland and of course the nominating conventions here in the US. I watched both the Republican and Democratic conventions almost fanatically. Speeches and strategies and platforms and promises. Some of it was lofty, and some of it was … not.

On the one hand, I chide myself. What is the attraction of watching all this? I’m not a US citizen and I can’t vote. I don’t actually have a citizen’s obligation to reach a conclusion and show up on November 8. On the other hand, it frustrates me that I have a sense of what is right, but I cannot participate in the process of bringing it to be. I feel blessed and happy to be in this country, and I’m eager to contribute. My girls could not help but encounter some of the conventions because they were on all the time. Both girls began to ask, “What happened today?” as if it were the latest reality television craze. Of course, they can’t vote either.

I talk about my girls a fair bit here on the blog, so I felt an affinity to Michelle Obama’s compelling speech and her focus on her children. (FLOTUS is also a cool nickname.) I appreciate the historical context of the last seven and a half years of an African American woman living with her black daughters in the White House, a national structure that slaves were required to help build even though they could no more vote than I or my girls can now. The Khans were incredibly moving in the presentation about what being an American meant to the son they lost to war. My mother’s loss of a son helped me connect to the Khans.

Despite glowing moments, however, I would have to be living under a rock not to shudder at the divisive language that—ugly as it has been—is only beginning as we head into 90 days of intense campaigning. “You can’t be a true person of faith if you vote for this candidate.” “You have no moral center if you vote for that candidate.” “The choice is between evil and more evil.” “I will never vote for a candidate who (fill in the blank).” #NeverTrump. #NeverHillary.

Can we even hear each other over our polarizing statements?

My thoughts keep returning to the word convention. The term points to the kind of gatherings we have just witnessed with nonstop television coverage, a large meeting with some sort of common purpose. But another definition is the way things are usually done with regard to a particular activity. (And I suppose the political conventions have their own conventions about how they do things.) A third definition is an agreement that represents a mutually beneficial way of moving forward on matters that are genuinely important. For instance, the Geneva Conventions are a body of international law that provide minimum standards of humane treatment to individuals who become victims of armed conflict. The conventions—agreements—establish the way of acting that will be widely accepted and followed. The Geneva Conventions address war, a dirty, horrid, awful thing, and say that even in extreme circumstances, we can still express our humanity.

Perhaps in this post-nomination, pre-election season, we would do well to set aside the meaning of the word convention as a large gathering where neither side has to listen to the other. Instead we could focus on the meaning that suggests ways we can agree to conduct ourselves for mutual benefit.

What would it take for all of us to hear—and offer—less anger and more respect? What would be some conventions that would carry us into the future we will share no matter who is elected? Even when things get down and dirty, how will we express our humanity toward one another?

Now that would make some good television.

Brexit and Blexit (Don’t Ask)

Brexit. Where did the word start? I suppose it traces back to Grexit, a term coined several years ago amid speculation that Greece would exit the Eurozone. That was bandied about sufficiently that when the UK considered leaving the European Union, we had Brexit.

I couldn’t stop there. I put all sorts of letters in front of “exit” to make new words. My wife is sick and tired of it, frankly. My favorite is blexit, a combination of bladder and exit that especially amuses me at three in the morning when I have to get out of bed. Andrea would prefer I stop broadcasting my blexit tendencies.

The Brexit vote is a few weeks old, but I still get questions. England has a new prime minister as part of the fallout of Brexit, but people are still watching the continuing consequences. For instance, there was a surge of people exploring whether they might get Irish passports that would allow them to remain part of Europe despite the Blexit vote. The value of the pound against the dollar is of concern. And it was a bit disconcerting when I heard just after the vote that there was an enormous surge of Internet searches on “What is the EU?” by people in England.

Whenever something happens in Britain, Americans want to know what I think of it, though in this instance I have also heard words of gratitude for Brexit taking the world’s gaze from American political discourse and becoming the number one global embarrassment at least for a little while.

If you are thinking that this is where Antony is going to talk about leadership, you would be correct.

Leaders must hold duality gently. The reality is that organizations, teams, even countries, are split in their opinions on many things. Brexit illustrates this for us. In any point in time, Britain is roughly 50-50 on the question of leaving or staying in the European Union. Nobody could have argued that if the vote had been to remain in the EU, it would have been an overwhelming position. Either way, the margin was thin.

Parker Palmer talked about holding people in ongoing disagreement and finding a path forward. When it comes to England, I hope we can get that back. We need to remember what the EU was all about in the first place. Underlying the context of the stock market or someone’s immediate vocational needs or currency, or a certain person’s comedic and endearing (right?) need to shoehorn exit into every word, is the idea of collectivism. People react viscerally to that term and associate it with socialism, which evokes an even more ingrained reaction on this side of the pond. The word is not always popular, but what the concept means is that we are doing something together. And that is a good thing.

The European Union came out of the simple commitment for nations not to kill each other again.

It was a promise not to encounter the horrors of millions of people killed as they were in the World Wars and the Holocaust because of the occupation of other countries and the threat to their cultures.

We’ve forgotten this.

Far from taking away a country’s ability to make decisions, the union was created so those decisions could be enjoyed more freely. The power of a dictator would never again quash individual nations and families.

Now is there any foreshadowing in American politics? I’m not sure. That’s something to parse in another blog post. But there is a lesson to be learned for all leaders at every level. What we judge to be best for one “side” or the other in a snapshot of time must be measured against the rolling movie of the history we share and the future we hope to create. Regardless of those things on which we are split 50-50, organizational leadership—and spiritual leadership—is about finding the path forward with duality.


You Say “Goodbye” and I Say “Hello”

I’ve been on a bit of a blog hiatus. It began when I broke my ankle and had a forced slow-down. Around the same time, other facets of my life were shifting along with my bones, and I write to you now from Methodist LeBonheur Healthcare System—still in Memphis.

I’m an emotional masochist. I like transitions. They hurt, but I like them. We all live through them, whether in the ages and stages of our personal lives, where we grieve what we leave behind while simultaneously inhaling the freshness of something new, or employment transitions that stretch us in new directions.

In my recent transition, circumstances whirled in a way that meant I could not say goodbye the way I meant to. That caused me a fair bit of anguish. It’s a little haunting. How can you fully move forward without saying goodbye in some way? Every transition, even exciting ones, bring loss in some form, and for me, not saying goodbye is a piece of that loss.

I worked with some incredible people. It was a wondrous thing watching them wrestle with deeper understandings of participating in bringing greater wellness to more people. They work hard and sincerely care for those they serve. When my family arrived in Memphis, they welcomed us and gave us a warm place of belonging as we settled into a community that we now think of as our own. Some of them learned to cheer for Manchester United and can even pronounce “Leicester”—and that is going the extra mile! I can think of no greater testimony to a group of people than that they make strangers feel welcome. A mosaic of faith expressions around a uniform core of commitment inspired me, and I will carry those colleagues in my heart.

And now, here I am at Methodist LeBonheur Healthcare System with an ambitious agenda that excites me, especially the opportunity to work on a primary care system for underserved populations and advise on developing a line of behavioral health services sustainable across the hospital system. “Goodbye” and “Hello.”

Transitions build a body of experience. I once said that someone had 25 years of experience, and a colleague rephrased to “one year of experience 25 times.” I like that angle. It highlights the cumulative effect of all the experiences we bring with us through the goodbyes and hellos of our lives. Personal life changes, working in different jobs, experiencing various environments, conquering challenges—it adds up to something bigger than simple chronology. Twenty-five years on the job multiplies into centuries of experience that we carry with us through all the goodbyes and hellos of our transitions.

I was speaking with a colleague whose job is to make care transitions better from a health perspective, with the goal that the person who needs care can move through each step of the process—each therapy or treatment, each consultation, each phase of rehabilitation—in a way that not only brings benefit from each individual piece but also creates an overall experience of care that feels beneficial.

Of course that is what we should be doing in healthcare. But we can also look at the transitions of our lives this way. Each piece contributes wholeness and meaning in a particular circumstance, but also the way the pieces weave together clothes us in care for one another and connections that allow us to look at our lives as whole piece of cloth and be grateful for the ways all the goodbyes and hellos have shaped us.