Educators (and others) often tell people they can be anything they want to be - or even more audaciously - that they should reach for the very stars. Sometimes it's just as important to tell people to be content with the modest role that they have been given in life and to be happy with that.
To be sure, there are some who are ambitious and who carry their ambition to a very lofty level. Some become very successful in life and achieved exactly what they set out to achieve. But there are many others who are ground into bits of flotsam on the shoals of adversity because of their misplaced and foolish ambition. Perhaps the words of Koheleth in Ecclesiastes are apt: “Better is a handful of quietness than two hands full of toil and a striving after wind” (Ec. 4:6).
At one time in my life I was just such an ambitious person. I spent a number of years watching supervisors in the factory where I worked. Somehow, I had come to the notion that I could do the job they were doing, and that I could do it just as well - perhaps even better - than they could. Believe me, this is a common fantasy in many industrial workplaces: "Hey, I'm just as good as the boss." Hah! The real truth might be that the person isn't "just as good as the supervisor over there." Sometimes it's necessary to put on Superman's cape to find out that you really can't fly.
I’ve spent a number of years in industrial maintenance management; actually, far more than any sensible person should. Stated in its simplest terms, I was ultimately responsible for keeping everything running properly. And I mean everything. That included supervising thirty-some people, in a large facility, filled with massive machine tools and equipment. The technical challenges of the job were almost insurmountable because of the enormous variety of control systems on those machine tools. Most of the equipment had modern electrical controls. But several of those older machines had vacuum tubes (Thyristors) in the electrical control cabinets - curious relics left over from World War II. It was very difficult to find any technician who was capable of working on those ancient controls. One time, I called a vendor to arrange to get a serviceman to come to our plant to work on one of those machines. When I gave him the model and serial number for the control, he laughed at me. "The last person who knew anything about those kinds of controls died fifteen years ago," he told me. Strange as it may seem, my high school amateur radio experience served me well working with those vacuum tubes. Almost by default, I became the person who did the troubleshooting on those controls.
But I digress. The real problem with ambition is the Ceiling of Stupidity that one often bumps into out there. True, one can stumble and learn on the job, and eventually become more-or-less competent in that job. Sooner or later, however, one will encounter a screaming boss who cannot understand why that World War II machine isn't running right now. And even when I opened the control cabinet doors and showed him those big vacuum tubes glowing with that weird purple color, he waved his hand impatiently and said, "Just fix it." I looked him right straight in the eye and I told him, "I'm a plant engineer. I'm not God."
Of course, that was exactly the wrong thing to tell a supervisor. You must never say, "I can't." Instead, you must always say, "I'll try." And I can't (sorry, that slipped out) tell you how many times I struggled to resurrect one of those old machine tool controls, with an unsympathetic boss breathing down my neck, and with the words "I can't" right there on my lips. I really think that sometimes I fixed more machine tools with prayer than I did with spare parts.
Then, too, there were those encounters with managers who became angry when I did just what they told me to do. I remember meeting the plant manager in the aisle in the office early in the morning. He asked me why a certain machine tool was "down." I told him that we needed a new table ballscrew. "Get on the horn," he said, "and order one." I told him that our vendor was an hour behind us on Central Time and that I was just waiting until nine o'clock call them. "You do that," he said, "and you have them air-freight the part to us." Okey-dokey. I called my man and gave him a purchase order for the ball screw. The next morning, the ballscrew arrived, and by noon, the machine was back up and running again. All in all, it was a pretty routine repair job. It was something that I had done many times before.
But two weeks later, when that same plant manager caught me in the aisle again, he grabbed me by the lapels and said, "Just who the hell do you think you are?" Moi? I told him that I didn't understand his question. "You purchased an $8,000 ballscrew without a capital expenditure request," he said. I didn't even know what a capital expenditure request was. I was fairly new with the company at the time, and no one had bothered to tell me that I couldn't spend more than $300 without "holding someone's hand." He glared at me. "You spent $8,000 without authorization, do you understand?" Yes, of course, I understood. But then I reminded him that he ordered me to purchase that ballscrew. "You told me to get on the horn and order a ballscrew and fly in from Milwaukee," I said. "Didn't you tell me that?" He looked at the floor. "Well, yes, I did tell you that,” he said. “But get with Accounting and fill out a capital expenditure request form and turn it into my office."
He turned and started to walk away, and then just as suddenly he stopped and turned back to face me. "It's not fair," he said. "What's not fair?" I asked him. "I'm the plant manager at this plant, and I can spend up to $5,000 on my own signature. If I want to spend more than that, I have to go to division headquarters with the request. You're a plant engineer and you just spent $8,000. You can spend more than I can. And that's not fair."
Hey, live with it, pal. Get used to the fact that life is not fair. Try walking around in my moccasins for a while. Then you'll find out that it's much easier to sit in your office with the Comptroller and tell golf stories to each other than it is to actually do something to make this factory put product out the back door.
To be sure, there are some who are ambitious and who carry their ambition to a very lofty level. Some become very successful in life and achieved exactly what they set out to achieve. But there are many others who are ground into bits of flotsam on the shoals of adversity because of their misplaced and foolish ambition. Perhaps the words of Koheleth in Ecclesiastes are apt: “Better is a handful of quietness than two hands full of toil and a striving after wind” (Ec. 4:6).
At one time in my life I was just such an ambitious person. I spent a number of years watching supervisors in the factory where I worked. Somehow, I had come to the notion that I could do the job they were doing, and that I could do it just as well - perhaps even better - than they could. Believe me, this is a common fantasy in many industrial workplaces: "Hey, I'm just as good as the boss." Hah! The real truth might be that the person isn't "just as good as the supervisor over there." Sometimes it's necessary to put on Superman's cape to find out that you really can't fly.
I’ve spent a number of years in industrial maintenance management; actually, far more than any sensible person should. Stated in its simplest terms, I was ultimately responsible for keeping everything running properly. And I mean everything. That included supervising thirty-some people, in a large facility, filled with massive machine tools and equipment. The technical challenges of the job were almost insurmountable because of the enormous variety of control systems on those machine tools. Most of the equipment had modern electrical controls. But several of those older machines had vacuum tubes (Thyristors) in the electrical control cabinets - curious relics left over from World War II. It was very difficult to find any technician who was capable of working on those ancient controls. One time, I called a vendor to arrange to get a serviceman to come to our plant to work on one of those machines. When I gave him the model and serial number for the control, he laughed at me. "The last person who knew anything about those kinds of controls died fifteen years ago," he told me. Strange as it may seem, my high school amateur radio experience served me well working with those vacuum tubes. Almost by default, I became the person who did the troubleshooting on those controls.
But I digress. The real problem with ambition is the Ceiling of Stupidity that one often bumps into out there. True, one can stumble and learn on the job, and eventually become more-or-less competent in that job. Sooner or later, however, one will encounter a screaming boss who cannot understand why that World War II machine isn't running right now. And even when I opened the control cabinet doors and showed him those big vacuum tubes glowing with that weird purple color, he waved his hand impatiently and said, "Just fix it." I looked him right straight in the eye and I told him, "I'm a plant engineer. I'm not God."
Of course, that was exactly the wrong thing to tell a supervisor. You must never say, "I can't." Instead, you must always say, "I'll try." And I can't (sorry, that slipped out) tell you how many times I struggled to resurrect one of those old machine tool controls, with an unsympathetic boss breathing down my neck, and with the words "I can't" right there on my lips. I really think that sometimes I fixed more machine tools with prayer than I did with spare parts.
Then, too, there were those encounters with managers who became angry when I did just what they told me to do. I remember meeting the plant manager in the aisle in the office early in the morning. He asked me why a certain machine tool was "down." I told him that we needed a new table ballscrew. "Get on the horn," he said, "and order one." I told him that our vendor was an hour behind us on Central Time and that I was just waiting until nine o'clock call them. "You do that," he said, "and you have them air-freight the part to us." Okey-dokey. I called my man and gave him a purchase order for the ball screw. The next morning, the ballscrew arrived, and by noon, the machine was back up and running again. All in all, it was a pretty routine repair job. It was something that I had done many times before.
But two weeks later, when that same plant manager caught me in the aisle again, he grabbed me by the lapels and said, "Just who the hell do you think you are?" Moi? I told him that I didn't understand his question. "You purchased an $8,000 ballscrew without a capital expenditure request," he said. I didn't even know what a capital expenditure request was. I was fairly new with the company at the time, and no one had bothered to tell me that I couldn't spend more than $300 without "holding someone's hand." He glared at me. "You spent $8,000 without authorization, do you understand?" Yes, of course, I understood. But then I reminded him that he ordered me to purchase that ballscrew. "You told me to get on the horn and order a ballscrew and fly in from Milwaukee," I said. "Didn't you tell me that?" He looked at the floor. "Well, yes, I did tell you that,” he said. “But get with Accounting and fill out a capital expenditure request form and turn it into my office."
He turned and started to walk away, and then just as suddenly he stopped and turned back to face me. "It's not fair," he said. "What's not fair?" I asked him. "I'm the plant manager at this plant, and I can spend up to $5,000 on my own signature. If I want to spend more than that, I have to go to division headquarters with the request. You're a plant engineer and you just spent $8,000. You can spend more than I can. And that's not fair."
Hey, live with it, pal. Get used to the fact that life is not fair. Try walking around in my moccasins for a while. Then you'll find out that it's much easier to sit in your office with the Comptroller and tell golf stories to each other than it is to actually do something to make this factory put product out the back door.
For me personally, the most difficult part of dealing with the difficulties of that job was the ingratitude of those on the receiving end. No one will ever call the County Highway Department, for example, to tell them how much they appreciate the fact that the roads are in good shape. But they won't hesitate for a second to call to complain about the potholes. And being a plant engineer is perhaps the most thankless job the entire world because no one will ever call to say that the temperature is just right in her office. She'll let you know immediately, however, when it's too hot or too cold. A plant engineer will face an endless line of complainers and it is unlikely that anyone will ever pat him on the back. In my last five years in that occupation - with two different companies no less - no one made any positive comment about my performance as a plant engineer. Not a single positive comment! In fact, one psychotic supervisor did just the opposite when he gave me a performance review. He said I had average technical knowledge of my job. But in every other category he marked me down as "marginal." Every category?
He sat there with a demonic smile on his face waiting for me to react to his review. When I didn't say anything to him, he asked me what I thought of his evaluation. I told him it was a damn lie. "Why do you say that?" he asked. I told him to look at the category called Communication Skills on the evaluation sheet. I asked him to see what kind of an evaluation he gave me in that category. He sat there and didn't say anything. I asked him, "What did you write down for communication skills? Didn't you check the 'Marginal' box?" He admitted that he did check that box. But then I asked him why he came to me day after day and asked me to write memos for him if he knew I was a marginal communicator. "Why would you have me write anything for you if you knew I was a marginal communicator?" He just sat there without answering. A slight smile graced his lips. When I told him he was a %@*#$! liar, he just smiled at me.
Yes, you can be anything you want to be in life. You can soar with the eagles. You can claw your way to the top. But if you’re looking for me, I’ll be over there dozing in that LA-Z-Boy. I’ve learned my lesson.
He sat there with a demonic smile on his face waiting for me to react to his review. When I didn't say anything to him, he asked me what I thought of his evaluation. I told him it was a damn lie. "Why do you say that?" he asked. I told him to look at the category called Communication Skills on the evaluation sheet. I asked him to see what kind of an evaluation he gave me in that category. He sat there and didn't say anything. I asked him, "What did you write down for communication skills? Didn't you check the 'Marginal' box?" He admitted that he did check that box. But then I asked him why he came to me day after day and asked me to write memos for him if he knew I was a marginal communicator. "Why would you have me write anything for you if you knew I was a marginal communicator?" He just sat there without answering. A slight smile graced his lips. When I told him he was a %@*#$! liar, he just smiled at me.
Yes, you can be anything you want to be in life. You can soar with the eagles. You can claw your way to the top. But if you’re looking for me, I’ll be over there dozing in that LA-Z-Boy. I’ve learned my lesson.
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