So, I Asked Her, "What Do You Think It Is About You...That Makes You...Want to Make ME Want What YOU Want?

That question essentially ended the conversation — except for the usual response, “What do you mean?” For whatever reason, on this day this all-too-typical diversionary “answer” caused me to instantly exchange my happy pants for my cranky pants.

Instead of explaining or rephrasing, I put the question back on her. With a teeny weeny smile, I cocked my head ever so slightly and with as even a tone as I could muster, I replied,

“What do you mean what do I mean? I mean exactly what those English words — used in that order — mean. Did you not hear me or do you not understand the meaning of those words?”

Sixty some odd years before the above exchange, I came into the world. My birth followed the at-birth death of my parents’ third son. Devastating heartbreak for them. My mother took it especially hard — understandably. Perfectly healthy pregnancy, delivery happening when expected, no complications. And yet?

That “perfect little boy,” as my mother referred to him — Robert, she would have named him — somehow, for some reason, was unable to breathe on his own. Two people instead of three left Brooklyn Hospital, heartbroken. Two big brothers waiting at home learned they had no little brother or sister. My mother, to cope and because I believe she believed it, declared that they all had an angel in heaven watching over them now.

Against her doctor’s advice, my mother set about another pregnancy. Fourteen months later, voilá! Moi. I took my time breathing on my own too, apparently, scaring my mother yet again, but I did eventually. There I was — breathing — and I was a girl in a family known for its boys. (My father’s favorite older brother had four boys at that time.) I was the first baby after the one that died. I lived and I was a girl. I think my father went a little soft in the head. ❤️

I had two big brothers. Irish twins they were. The eldest was slightly over six years my elder and the other five and a half years. Eventually I would become the only girl among three brothers. Add to this the coincidence of who our neighbors were and I grew up a girl amidst a “sea” of boys. For example, in just the two houses directly across the street there were eight kids — seven of them boys.

I was to become — or was it my nature anyway — an observer. And, oddly, a defender. Of myself and others. Had to in that crowd. Boys are fun, but they can be tough, too. Speaking of, one of my earliest observations? Are you ready? I learned early on — sometimes the hard way — that boys are definitely not girls. And they definitely do stupid stuff along the way that — for the most part — girls just don’t do. I would often watch them play or argue and wonder…I’d sometimes ask my mother, my ally, about this. She’d raise her eyebrows, purse her lips, and nod. Yup. Boys. :)

Anyway.

One of the advantages of the age difference between my brothers and me was that I got to watch their experiences as much older kids. Sitting at the dinner table (Yup…we sat at the dinner table as a family), I would listen to the back and forth between “the boys” and my parents. As I got older, I would chime in with my own “stuff,” to the eye rolls often times of my brothers. “Girl” stuff.

I got to hear what was going on with their friends. During the early 70’s, I learned through them about life in high school. I heard about kids doing drugs and some dying as a result. I heard about girls getting pregnant. I saw some of their friends go into the military. Some went to Viet Nam. Most came back, some didn’t. One of my brother’s friends came back a completely different person. Broken, as I thought of it. Thankfully, both of my brothers, while “eligible” for that grotesque Viet Nam “draft lottery,” “lost.”

I learned a lot by listening back then, especially about what I did not want to happen to me.

An unwritten rule, but one strictly enforced in our house — especially by my eldest brother — was not to be stupid. A complement to that was that you answered questions. You didn’t deflect or go around the bend, yakking aimlessly. “Answer the question!” They were a tough crowd.

My eldest brother might see it differently, but he was tough, and I was just a little afraid of him. He suffered no fools — from a very early age. Since he was smart, (He really actually is…very.) disciplined, and physically competent, I wanted to make sure I did not disappoint. So. I watched. I listened. When I opened my mouth — especially around him — I did my darnedest to not be stupid. Said differently, I did my best to have my ducks in a row — even at a tender age. I just wanted to avoid being unable to explain what I thought and why. Of course, I often missed that mark, but I got better with practice. I carried that with me.

When it came to the events of the day, and there were many in the 60’s and 70’s, I remember — more than the events themselves — the conversations my parents had about them. Too young to fully understand everything, I did sense, feel, and see my parents’ reactions. JFK’s assassination and his brother’s five years later, of course, were major ones. I don’t remember the JFK assassination; I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, home from kindergarten, for the funeral. I don’t remember the funeral. I remember my mother crying…

On the Viet Nam War debacle, too many discussions to count and both parents adamantly opposed. Martin Luther King’s assassination and my father’s certainty that “they” had to take him out. The Kent State massacre. The debacle of Vatican II and my mother’s discussion with her younger brother during one of his regular visits. Both predicted a disaster for the Church and Catholics.

Another conversation that had a large and lasting effect on me — the one between my parents regarding Israel’s attack on the U.S.S. Liberty. I can still see my parents in the kitchen, both furious. My father, though. My father, WWII and Korea Navy vet. A rage, an indignation, and using words one does not repeat in polite company. Memorable? I’ll say.

Speaking of my father, we developed a ritual of early morning breakfast together. These breakfasts caused my coffee addiction starting at a very early age. My father talked about all kinds of things with me. I remember many of them, but two in particular.

The first — the JFK assassination. I have forgotten exactly when he talked to me about it. What I remember is that he had brought to the table an old copy of The New York Times. It was yellow at that point and had a tear in it. I can still the the headline, “Warren Commission…”

Patting the top of the fold, he said something along the lines of, “This is the story of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. I’m going to explain to you why the story is a lie.”

A story in the newspaper is false? In The New York Times?

Well, yes, Kathleen. There is no Santa Claus, but newspapers do lie.

Really?

Do I remember the facts that my father explained? No. I remember the feeling. I remember my father carefully explaining. I remember the feeling of realizing that people could tell stories that were untrue — and some of those stories actually made it into the newspaper. I mean, I knew about telling the truth vs. lying, but I thought that if something were in the newspaper..? Well, you know the rest.

I think that was my father’s point…

A few years after this “teaching moment,” my father and I are still having our “just the two us breakfasts before everybody else is up” tête-à-têtes. The weekend following President Nixon’s announcement “closing the gold window,” ending the U.S. dollar’s direct convertibility into gold, my father has his own announcement: He is going to explain to me over our coffee how the U.S. government just defaulted on its debt.

What? (I’m 13.)

To clarify, he went on to explain that the weekend before, President Nixon told the French they couldn’t have their gold back. Essentially, my father said, “the President of the United States just gave the French government the middle finger. “ He raised his middle finger to demonstrate.

The President can give another country the middle finger?

Oh, yes, Kathleen. The middle finger…and much, much worse.

Do I remember the details? Not really. The U.S. was storing gold in the U.S. for the French government. They asked for it back, and “we” said, “Nah.”

Again, I remember the feeling I had hearing my father say that one “leader” gave another “leader” the “middle finger.” (As a young Catholic girl who never used a foul word herself, witnessing my father’s “show and tell” had lasting impact. In fact, it made me gasp. It’s bad for anyone to give anyone the middle finger, but my country’s government just did that to another country? That’s what I remember.)

Years later, as I gained some little insight into how the world really works — especially its money interests — it’s impossible to say how many times I recalled my father’s lesson about default. Not all the details, but his middle finger — what it symbolized and the importance of understanding the U.S. government’s actual default decades before.

So, growing up being taught and witnessing healthy skepticism? Absolutely. The importance of listening, not taking everything one sees or reads at face value? Required. Asking questions? Make it a habit. Answering questions? Better be forthright and truthful — especially and always before your parents. Question official history? Yup. All of it. For example, if you were to ask my Irish mother about the “official history” of Ireland, the “potato ‘famine,’ and Ireland’s 700-year subjugation under the English? Better hold on to your hats…

As critical, if not more so, were the complementary principles of truth, freedom, and good conduct that formed the foundation for all the lessons taught in that household. This assuredly came most explicitly from my mother. “Tell the truth and shame the Devil!” she said more times than I can count. (I wonder if my mother knew she was quoting an Englishman..? 😂)

Live and let live. Mind your own business. Do not meddle or gossip. On this topic, I remember my mother’s firm rebuke. Again, I forget what I was talking about, but it was about what somebody else was doing — I was gossiping. When she’d heard just about enough of that, she looked at me and said — I quote — “Never mind, Kathleen. You mind your own business. You have enough to do to keep your own backyard clean.”

Don’t we all?

Ouch.

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Years later, I finally end up in a profession (recruiting) that when done well lends itself wholly to observation, listening, asking follow-up questions, and answering questions. To give you an idea of the scale of what I mean, let me share a quick example.

At my last company, I led its domestic and international recruiting function. During our summer intern program, I would deliver a presentation on resume writing and interviewing. To establish credibility with the students (college juniors, mostly) I would paint a picture of the number of resumes and interviews I’d conducted to that point.

At the white board, I’d do a quick, step-by-step calculation. Years recruiting times number of weeks of work times weekly average of resumes reviewed. (I made this a very low number — 25. Recruiters review that many in an hour some days.)

Conservatively, this calculation revealed that I had reviewed upwards of 20,000 resumes. From that number, I would go on to calculate the number of people I had interviewed — over the phone and in-person.

Thousands and thousands.

I got the same reaction in every instance — a bit of shock and interns turning their heads to look at one another. And these were very conservative estimates.

Formulating (the right) questions, listening, asking follow-up questions, and reporting back to hiring partners were my bread and butter. In addition to the U.S., I’ve interviewed people in Canada, the U.K., Germany, France, India, China, Singapore, Australia, Mexico. On a few of our more complex international searches, I researched and negotiated contracts with some of the world’s leading search firms, headquartered domestically and overseas. Listen, take notes, negotiate, hold your ground, come to agreement. Or not.

A crucial corollary to hearing how people answer your questions is observing when they don’t. And they don’t — quite a bit. Sometimes it is due to a misunderstanding. I was especially sensitive to this when speaking with international candidates and most especially with those whose native tongue was other than English.

Thus, explaining what I meant by a question or rephrasing it was a normal part of what I did. This was especially true over the phone and especially with a person who might be 12 time zones away or speaking in a language other than his/her native one.

So. What caused me to jump into my “cranky pants” that day?

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This conversation took place one morning between me and a woman on my team. Yes, at work. She was a contractor and an exceptional recruiter. She hailed from a country very different from the U.S. Her experience both personal and professional was impressive. For whatever reason, she seemed to really like me and when time allowed would often come to my desk to chat.

This day, as she stood leaning up against my desk, the topic of healthcare some how came up. She advocated for the “right” of people to “free” healthcare. Because I wanted to be polite and with my recruiter hat on, I asked her if she could help me understand how this was a “right.” People have a right to the goods or services of another person? Well, no, but healthcare is different, she averred. It is? Yes. Because lives are at stake.

Oh.

Of course, you know that this “right,” according to this line of thinking, includes the right of women to have their pregnancies terminated and have, if necessary, taxpayers pay for it. It does? Yes…

(What about, “Lives at stake..?”)

I pressed on with as neutral a questioning voice as I could manage. (That, too, is the hallmark of a good recruiter, a good interviewer.) What about those people for whom this act represents one of the most egregious on earth? What about the impact on them? Spiritually, psychologically knowing that they have no choice but to have a part of their income pay for that which they believe deeply is a grave sin? Do we withhold compassion for their POV and make them pay anyway?

Yes, because everyone needs healthcare.

Yes, you’ve already said that. I’m trying to get at how you address the spiritual and moral impact on those for whom this represents an unconscionable sin. They would never do it, but they’re made to pay for others to have this procedure. Can you admit that this causes harm to many people?

Essentially, the answer was “Too bad, too sad.” (She was nicer than that, but that’s essentially where she came out.)

The conversation went on like this.

Nothing I said made any difference.

Sound familiar?

I finally said something along the lines of, “It seems that regardless of the moral issues I raise or the real objections to this, you manage to find some way to justify your point of view as the superior one and the opposing one wholly invalid. You make light of the use of force required to manifest your preferences. To get your way. To try to convince me and/or others of the “rightness” of your stance and the refusal to find a way for others to exercise their right to opt out. All without so much as a nod toward the implications of conduct that go beyond the “mere” point of who pays for it. So, let me ask you,

"What Do You Think It Is About You That Makes You Want to Make ME Want What YOU Want?”

She finally had no comeback. Except for (the maddening), “What do you mean?” which is what so many say when they have no answer. I refused the bait and put it back on her…“I mean exactly what those English words…etc., etc.”

She heard me. Of course, she heard me. And she knew what I’d asked her. I pursued. “What does it say about you or anyone who would force their way on others — mostly through proxy, of course. Is this the way to peace? Or is it the way to unending conflict and ill will?”

She mumbled something, pushing herself off the edge of my desk and walked back to her cube. That was the last time the subject came up.

This woman was still working for me when the Covid® operators announced their Covid® crime. Believe it or not, she actually told me before we all left our beautiful office to “work from home” that she knew exactly where I came out on it.

Hmm. Funny that.

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A part of me feels badly for unloading on this woman. What I said “out loud” to her I’ve tossed around in my head for decades, so it just came out. For whatever reason that day, in that moment, I’d just had it. Same ol’, same ol’ — all in the guise of “being a nice person.” The wonderful Thomas Sowell in his excellent book, “The Vision of the Anointed. Self-congratulation As a Basis for Social Policy,” put it so well when he said,

“Despite Hamlet’s warning against self-flattery, the vision of the anointed is not simply a vision of the world and its functioning in a causal sense, but is also a vision of themselves and of their moral role in the world. It is a vision of differential rectitude. It is not a vision of the tragedy of the human condition: Problems exist because others are not as wise or as virtuous as the anointed.” (Sowell, Page 5.)

Differential rectitude. What a great line! How do you compete with that — those convinced of their moral superiority? Have not the last three years proven that in spades? Wanting to go out means you want to kill grandma…Refusing a mask makes one “selfish.” Etc., etc.

Questions are Mirrors

Perhaps instead of battling back and forth pleading our case with facts and defending our position, we slow down. When data and/or a moral argument are lost on the other, maybe that’s the time for us to ask a fundamental question. Like the one I asked. The one that I’d thought for so long looking out at the world: What makes so many want to make others conform to their will?? How many examples, large and small, do people need before they see what misery this brings?

It shocked me for finally asking it out loud. It shocked its recipient, my colleague, into momentary silence and no answer, but it obviously had an impact on her.

Will questions work every time? Who knows? Some minds are just well and truly shut. Yet, the right question at the right time can change a mind or at the very least get someone to start thinking in a way that maybe gets them to think about what they think…and why and what it reveals about them.

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