1. (excerpt) "From the Bureau to the Boardroom: 30 Management Lessons from the FBI" AMACOM 2008

Why would a top performer not want to go into management? The answer is simple: his experiences of being managed have not been particularly inspiring. In fact, it is very possible that a company’s best front line employees have a low opinion of their managers, if not outright contempt. Why would they want to become one?

 Let’s examine some of the possible associations a high-performance employee may harbor towards management: a) they are the “suits” who were nowhere to be found during the trials and tribulations of the project, but who suddenly appear at its successful conclusion to take the credit; b) they push from behind a desk, instead of “pulling” their subordinates in the wake of their leadership; c) sequestered in their offices, they are out of touch with the customer, with the marketplace, and with their own subordinates; d) they are a hindrance, not a help; e) they are the “office weenies” who couldn’t make a living on the front lines of the economy if they had to; f) they do not produce; they live off the production of others; g) they are empire builders; h) they are ass kissers.

 Furthermore, the duties of a manager are seen as antithetical to personal achievement. The happy warriors on the front lines see their own managers as paper shufflers who spend most of their time filling out reports to send upline. They see a position in management as stressful, without the “flight or fight” opportunities available in the field. Managers, to them, sit on the “hot seat” and must answer to the even more industrious empire builders at the executive levels above. Many top performers would not deign to volunteer for what they consider to be a useless and ultimately humiliating post. And, in the case of a hot shot salesperson, a move into management may very well mean a drop in income.

The senior leadership of an organization must realize there is another, competing, and equally exclusive club in the organization—the “anti management” cadre of doers, who are frankly admired by the rank and file for their charisma and ability, and who take pride in not being part of the administrative chain of command. They are the achievers—the life’s blood of the organization; self consciously rebellious, and proud of their accomplishments—most of which, they feel, were concluded in spite of management. To the rank and file, these go-getters are the modern embodiments of Robin Hood, who take the stolen credit from the aristocracy of the organization and return it to the rightful owners—the workers. These respected top performers are privately—and sometimes openly—contemptuous of management.

 But what if it were different? What if these front line achievers so respected management that they couldn’t wait to join its ranks—not for personal aggrandizement, but for the opportunity to help lead the organization to greater heights?

 If management were associated with action; and if being a manager meant the opportunity to continue to slay dragons, but even bigger ones, the top performer couldn’t wait for the promotion. If “management” meant being able to help one’s associates, still fighting on the front line, to get their job done more efficiently; and if it meant the chance to build a stronger company, then the top performer would see it as his or her duty to accept the position. And if he or she felt that a post in management would be part of a self-actualizing process that would increase their own professional capacity, the transition into management would seem natural, right, and inevitable.

 The best way to attract the organization’s best into management is to fill the ranks of management with the organization’s best. The siphon of talent into management would be self perpetuating; because like attracts like. If a top performer idolized his/her boss—and if that boss had an equally high opinion of his/her own supervisor—leaders would circulate from the feet, through the heart, to the brain of the organization in no time. Just like in the FBI.

 But so often there is a management corps, and a corps of performers, and never the twain shall meet. It’s almost as if the company has two leadership structures, one formal, the other informal. And, in some organizations, this dichotomy can deteriorate into a kind of schizophrenia. Senior leadership can avoid this “illness” by welcoming into the ranks of management only those who have walked the walk—proven, front line achievers with years of experience, who already command the respect of their associates. Sadly, this philosophy is less apt to be implemented in the era of Sarbanes-Oxley, when more and more leaders are selected for their knowledge of regulatory compliance issues, corporate law, and accounting procedures, rather than their company-core expertise. When bean counters, attorneys and ethics officers lead the rank and file, the top performers will form their own group—a sub culture of mutually respected achievers. While tolerating management, they will never enter it ranks. Worse for the organization, they will not pass the benefit of their considerable experience upline. The organization will continue to be led by those who have not, and cannot, walk the walk.

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2. From an article profiling James Van Praagh (creator and executive producer of  the Ghost Whisperer television series) Journal of Longevity 2007

The hostess of the evening séance surveyed her lovely home for any last-minute detail she might have overlooked. The famous medium, James Van Praagh, was due to arrive any moment! But everything, she noticed with approval, seemed to be in order. The grand rectangular dining room table had been replaced with a more intimate circular table, covered now with a dark green velvet cloth. A candle had been placed in the center, should Mr. Van Praagh require its flickering light, once the room had been darkened. Seven chairs had been arranged cozily around the magic circle so that her small party of guests could hold hands through the strange journey they were about to embark upon.

 Only one person in the room, her husband, was not caught up in the general fervor of anticipation. A practical, hard headed businessman, he was indulging his wife, who had been interested in the occult since the recent passing of her mother. In deference to her, he tried not to show a cynical smile.

 When the doorbell rang, there was a moment’s hesitation, as hostess and guests conjured up once again their imaginary images of the renowned medium. Would he be as mysterious as his profession, with a grave physical demeanor, and mesmerizing eyes that could see far, far into the distance? Would he wear a cape?

 “Hi, I’m James,” said the cheerfully smiling, unimposing person in the doorway.

 Somewhat taken aback by the less than grandiose appearance of the man they hoped would guide them into the unknown, the hostess graciously led the way into the atmospheric dining room, followed by the shrewd eyes of her husband.

 After a glance at the carefully prepared séance table, the guest of honor explained, “Oh, we don’t need to sit here. Your living room is fine.”

 “But,” asked the hostess uncertainly, “don’t we all need to hold hands?”

 
 “No, in fact I’d rather we didn’t.”

 
 At a loss, she led the party into the living room and, after everyone had taken their seats, inquired, “Shall I turn down the lights now?”

 “Please leave them on, nice and bright,” was the chipper reply.

 Really disconcerted now, the hostess sat next to her husband, who had been watching the medium with grudging approval. Relaxed and chatty in his chair, this “man of mystery” seemed so normal, so unpretentious—and completely unwilling to play the role obviously expected and desired of him. He hated to admit it, but he found himself liking this guy.

 “I must warn you,” the spiritual guide advised the lady of the house, “that I can’t guarantee we will contact your mother. Another spirit may come forth, or none at all. But we’ll see.”

 He then asked the assembled guests to join him in a brief meditation. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, the medium seemed suddenly oblivious to the company—but they followed his lead, so as not to be left behind. Breathing cycles lengthened, pulses slowed, faces calmed, and minds opened to possibilities. Even the cynical husband began to relax, despite himself. Outside the night had fallen. The brightly lit room seemed to float alone in the darkness of the surrounding neighborhood, like a beacon on the dark sea, beckoning.

 With his eyes closed, James Van Praagh now seemed to take on mannerisms that were not his own. His smile curved slightly, in a wry, self deprecatory grin tantalizingly familiar to only one person in the room. It was not the spirit of the hostess’s mother who came through, but the departed uncle of her husband, who had taught him how to hit a baseball, pitch a tent, fly a kite, and all sorts of wondrous things when he was a lonely little boy without a father in the house. In a voice slightly inflected, the medium began to speak, at first in fragments, then in whole sentences, which were uncannily rich in detail. In fact, the husband had actually forgotten over the decades some of the specific references being relayed, and now recalled them. His memory rejoiced in the secret jokes and code words shared only between his uncle and himself. He felt a sudden rush of welcoming love. There could be no doubt! This was the glorious certainty of reunion—but here on earth, now—not to be postponed until his own passing. The husband looked at the unassuming man who had made this reunion possible—who still sat with his eyes closed, smiling broadly, as if he, too, were full of joy—and he felt an inexpressible rush of gratitude.

3. From an executive speech (names of companies changed)