Failure is Not an Option - But it's OK.

Former Virginia Governor Mark Warner is one of the few politicians I actually like, probably because he is a good public speaker and someone who can talk intelligently about leadership. So, I went to hear him speak on behalf of the Sorensen Institute for Political Leadership at the Institute for Advanced Learning and Research (Geez! all these institutes!).

The gist of his message was that failure is not only okay, it usually paves the path to success. He told stories of his failures in two different business ventures before succeeding as the co-founder of Nextel. He remind us that he lost his first U.S. Senate bid before becoming Virginia's very popular governor. And as an effective speaker always does, he got me thinking about my own failures as a leader.

I have been both a student and a teacher of leadership for a number of years. I chair the Leadership Development Council for the Danville-Pittsylvania County Chamber of Commerce. I serve as adjunct faculty for the Center for Community Leadership in Alexandria, VA. I have been through leadership development programs from Harvard Business School to Fortune 500 CEO coaching. I'll read a good leadership book long before I will read fiction. I love leadership.

When I reflect on my career as a leader (good or bad), I try to focus on my successes. But listening to Gov. Warner got me thinking again about my failures:

- Like the time I ran my first printing shop, but had no clue about the difference between leadership and management. I failed to impress the owners, and got “laid off.”

- Or the time I blew off an important appointment as an advertising rep for a small-town newspaper, and lost an account we had been trying to snag for years. I was “downsized.” Organization, follow-through, responsibility … damn those details!

- Then there was the time I was “let go” for making too many typos as a typographer for a college printing firm. That’s when I learned about having others review your work and tell you what you don’t want to hear, so that the wrong people don’t tell you with greater repercussions!

I can’t say I am any big success like Mark Warner, but I feel successful. I enjoy what I do, and feel rewarded for it. I am not sure what that has to do with life in Danville, except that…well…I live in Danville!

Rude Awakening

Mattie was tired. It took until now for her to realize it. She had just ended forty-five straight minutes of wrestling with her dad, laughing until her gut was so tight it drowned out her hunger for a snack. She already had her pajamas on, so it was right off to bed. It didn't take her long to get to sleep.

Joe was tired too. Playing with Mattie was the most relaxing thing in his day. Hard labor was catching up to him, but he was still years from retirement. He was buff to be sure, but it didn't take him long to get to sleep either. He adjusted his large head on his pillow about four times, and he was out. His wife of nineteen years was now just three hours into her graveyard shift as a nurse. He and Mattie were fast asleep, both dreaming pleasantly.

At 3:22 a.m. the alarm went off. Joe normally got up early, but this morning he felt like he had only been asleep for ten minutes when he heard the alarm. He awoke in one of those completely disoriented states. He sat up and looked left, but didn't know which way he was looking, or where he was. He couldn't find the alarm clock. It was much louder than usual, but someone had moved it. He stood to his feet, his eyes not yet acclimated to being awake. He found it hard to breath. His lungs burned, then his eyes. This wasn't the alarm clock, he thought, though he hadn't yet concluded what the piercing noise was.

Joe and Mattie both slept with their doors open when Keisha was at work. By the time Joe figured out the source of the piercing annoyance, the fire had run past Mattie's door. It hadn't yet reached his, so he was able to stand in the hallway and shout toward the flames. "Mattie! Go out your window!" he screamed. "Mattie, do you hear me? Go out your window right now! Go! Go baby!"

Hoping against hope that she had heard him, he ran the opposite direction and bolted out the back door of the house. He ran straight to her window, still closed, and looked in. He saw smoke and didn't know if she would get hit with glass if he broke the window, but his hammer fist went straight through the pane, frames and all. He didn't feel the damage he did to his arm. He had many fleeting thoughts. Where is everybody? Why aren't the neighbors all up? Where are the fire trucks, the sirens? It had all happened so fast, neighbors were only now beginning to wake up, as disoriented as Joe was when he regained consciousness.

Sometime that afternoon, Joe and Mattie were released from the hospital with minor wounds. Eleven stitches in Joe's wrist was the worst of it. By the time they returned home, home was gone. Keisha was inconsolable. Mattie didn't understand. She just asked questions. Joe was strong, at least for now. He knew he had to be. He reassured his girls continuously.

------------------------

Something similar to the above story happened over twenty times last year in Danville. Every family has their unique story, and every house fire does its own level of damage. Every time I hear sirens, I am thankful for the services of the Danville Fire Department, the Danville Life-Saving Crew, and the American Red Cross.

Recently, our local Red Cross chapter was dissolved, and disaster services in our area were taken up by the chapters in Roanoke and Lynchburg. As they held ribbon-cutting ceremonies this week for the new Danville satellite office, many breathed a sigh of relief that their services would still be here, and probably better than ever.

The Red Cross finds temporary housing for displaced families, finds counseling when needed, serves as a liaison to insurance companies, and gives teddy bears to children. Of course, they do much more, but with little fanfare or gratitude -- except from the families they help.

End of an Era

It's hard to imagine how well 6 businessmen in 1882 envisioned their small cotton mill experiment to be 125 years later. After years of amazing growth and economic impact on a city that in 1882 had a population of 7,500, the dynasty has come to an end -- or at least a humble reversion to a small community presence.

As I photographed the ongoing, careful demolition of the Schoolfield Mill buildings, a site supervisor came over and asked about my motivation for taking the pictures. I explained about doing a school project, etc., and he began to share some interesting thoughts. One comment he made stood out to me. "It's been over a hundred years since anyone saw this view," he informed me (see photo above for the view).

My philosophical engines tried to fire, thinking up clever parallels and analogies about how our life vision is sometimes blocked for years by what we assume is a good thing, or how walls separate us from promising horizons, blah, blah, blah. But I concluded that he was simply expressing a sad emotion. He could have just told me to stay away from the site, or explained that they were destroying the buildings brick by brick to sell the historic pieces; but he felt compelled to frame a picture for me of his emotional attachment to the sacred grounds. He didn't say it with a proud tone, or even with a hint of reveling in the fact that he was the first to share this rare trivia with me. He spoke the words with a strain of resignation and loss.

Having lived in Danville for fewer than six years, I cannot begin to relate to the emotional connection this city has with its beloved Dan River, Inc. My instinct is to mutter under my breath, "Get over it!" when I read the latest article in the newspaper about the demise of the textile giant. But as one local native was careful to point out to me, chastising me for my insensitivity toward the thousands of people in mourning, my family doesn't have several generations of ties to Dan River. I can't say that working at Dan River is all I have known since the 10th grade.

I have thought about that rebuke I endured many times over the past couple of years, and I have to say that while I do believe we must move on, I sympathize more each day with the people who have experienced this amputation. Seeing the nice, new CVS Pharmacy where memories at the Schoolfield Recreation Center were made must sting to those who longed to see it saved. Having to drive by the slow demolition process at the mill every day has to be torture for those who spent the better part of their lives sheltered by the labyrinth that once existed behind those walls.

Some of the workers have moved on to other jobs. I have met the ones working at Hobby Lobby, or as couriers for Danville Regional Medical Center. I see them in class at Danville Community College, or at the Adult Education Center, seeking to rise to the challenge of finding new skills and new jobs. But I also have seen them at the Salvation Army seeking lunch. I have greeted some of them at the United Way doors, needing utility assistance. Some of them remain at home, feeling hopeless. I don't know the numbers, but I hope (and believe) that the latter category represents the smallest of the groups.

The bottom line for me is this: We must move on, but we must also allow time to mourn. Some need more time than others. As a community, we must rise to the challenge and create better days. The walls that have created a city sky scape of sorts have a promising horizon behind them, and the gifts and talents of the many former Dan River employees can make room for themselves in a new economy. 125 years from now, Danville will be a different place. How is up to us.