Of all of the reasons postulated for Chicago losing the bid for the 2016 Olympics, one stood out above all the others for me–and, that was that the final pitch in Denmark by the Chicago bid team, with the exception of Mrs. Obama’s presentation, lacked “emotion”, or “passion”, according to various press accounts. (The press related that the First Lady made a very impassioned speech about her home town).

When I read this, I thought to myself, “How typical of Chicago’s business community. No emotion–no passion. We just don’t show that in this town, now do we?”

And, I have often wondered why. Why is it unprofessional to tell someone that you care for them–even love them? Do people think that, if you do this, you lack some sort of “control”? The best leaders that I have ever known have the ability to speak from their heart.

On November 3, 2005, Pat Ryan, the former chairman of AON Insurance in Chicago, and the chairman of Chicago’s 2016 Olympic bid team, made some very impassioned remarks at an Economic Club of Chicago forum luncheon on how he felt when AON lost so many members of its staff in the September 11th tragedy in New York. After his presentation, which was very moving and emotional, I went back to my office and wrote him the following email, which I retrieved from my archives:

Dear Pat—

As I mentioned to you briefly at the conclusion of the Economic Club forum luncheon, today, I think that you should write up the remarks that you gave today for publication. We are taught in business not to express any emotion—as if, somehow, to express our feelings is “unprofessional”. I think that is wrong. You were eloquent today, because it was obvious that you spoke from the heart about how you felt about the “9/11 crisis” and your company. You made quite an impact. The room fell absolutely silent, when you spoke.

Someone once told me not to be afraid to speak and write from the heart. It’s o.k. That’s what people really want in a leader, I have found—someone who speaks—and acts– from their heart. I would encourage you to do the same. When you write up the remarks that you gave today for publication, don’t hold back. Write what you feel. It will be terrific, and will be a learning piece for us all for years to come.

Good luck—and, let me know where I can read it, when it is published.

Very truly yours,

Paul A. Dillon

What a shame that he didn’t take my suggestion!

The great American poet, John Ciardi, was once asked by a  group of businessmen to speak at one of their functions. I guess that they thought that it would be a novelty to have a poet as their guest speaker. The story goes that Ciardi politely declined, stating “that there is no poetry for the practical man.”

In my more than thirty-five years in business, I have generally found this to be true. People who are overly concerned with the proverbial “bottom line”, and who think that business is soley concerned with making a profit, typically have no “poetry”,as it were, in their lives.

I also have found the opposite to be true. People who are solely “dreamers” generally have no idea how to actualize their dreams, turning them into reality.

I really think that you need to have a little of both–to be a “practical dreamer’, if you will. As the wise Zen master once said, “First enlightenment, then the laundry. Both are necessary.” ( A quote attributable to Dr. Michael Horowitz, the president of The Chicago School of Professional Psychology, in a speech several years ago to a breakfast group before the school’s commencement ceremony).

Ciardi’s actual quote is as follows:

There is no poetry for the practical man. There is poetry only for the mankind of the man that spends only a certain amount of time at the practical wheel. For if he spends too much of his time at the mechanics of practicality, he must become something less than a man, or be eaten up by the frustrations stored in his irrational personality. An ulcer is an unkissed imagination taking its revenge for having been jilted. It is an unwritten poem, un undanced dance, an unpainted watercolor. It is a declaration from the mankind of man that a clear spring of joy has not been tapped, and that it must break through, muddily on its own.

— John Ciardi (d. 1986)

We are programmed to think that our children will always outlive us, aren’t we? It is in the natural order of things to believe that our children will be around to bury us. In the white, upper middle class or middle class suburbs of Chicago, we can’t conceive of any other way–even though thoughtless and random violence claims the innocent lives of children in the inner city every day.

It just doesn’t happen to us.

But, let me tell you the story of a mother who lost her young son, not to violence, but to complications arising from the treatment of cancer. It is as equally a tragic story as if her child was taken from her by violent means, which, in a way, he was.

There was a woman that I worked with at the accounting firm that employed me, who I collaborated with in tallying up the votes for election to the National Radio Hall of Fame, a project which I led each year at the firm. That is basically the only time that I talked with her–several times during the course of this project once a year–to see that it got correctly done. She was an extremely competent accountant, who served as the project manager for this assignment.  She is a very quiet and private person–so, we didn’t “chit-chat” very much, other to say hello, as we passed each other in the corridors of the firm. Oh, we had a few conversations about “what’s the meaning of life”, and, “what’s going on at the firm”, as we’d walk to and from the Radio Hall of Fame site location–but, nothing out of the ordinary.

We weren’t particularly close. She left the firm a couple of years before I did to take another job in accounting that was closer to her home.  She had three young boys–and, her husband was leaving an engineering job to take a position teaching math in an elementary school–something, I understand, that he always wanted to do.

About a month after I left the firm, I was sitting a table in the library of the real estate consulting firm, where I have my office.  (It’s a firm that I helped to found some years ago–but, that’s another story). The library served as my temporary office, until they could move me into one of their more permanent offices. I had my computer on, and–lo and behold–an email pops up from this woman. That’s the interesting thing about email, you know. A message all of a sudden can pop up ( You’ve got mail!) that you never expected.

She politely asked me how my new consulting firm was doing (not very well at that point, thank you), and then told me that she had severe rheumatoid arthritis. But, but, then she dropped the bomb. She told me that her son, who was eleven years old, and an avid swimmer, had cancer, and asked me to pray for him.

It took me about five seconds after reading this to pick up the phone and call her at her office. (She laughed and said, “You don’t waste any time, do you)? I asked her all kinds of questions about her son. And, then, knowing that she was a devout Catholic, we talked a lot about the roll of faith in the face of crisis.

We talked quite frequently, sometimes daily, after that. I never saw her. But, as the days and weeks rolled by, our phone conversations became more deeply spiritual, even though, at times, I succeeded in making her laugh. We talked about the mystery of life, God’s plan for us, and how we were made to know, love, and serve God in this life, and be happy with Him in the next.  We talked an awful lot about God’s will, and how we, with our finite minds, can’t fathom why God, in His infinite wisdom,  would allow this terrible affliction to occur in an innocent child.

The Jesuitical theology and philosphy that I learned from those brilliant teachers and priests on the heights of the east side of Cleveland so many years ago was really flowing in me now. I could hear the terror in this woman’s voice. And, I was doing all that I could to conquer that terror with the comfort and wisdom of God’s words, as best as I could recall them.

Those of you who know me will laugh at this next statement. But, it was slowly dawning on me, as our conversations continued on, that I was, day-by-day, becoming this woman’s priest–a woman that I had not seen since she left the firm, and that I hardly knew.

The months came and went, and our conversations continued. And, then, one day, I got an early morning email from her personal email address (not her office, which seemed strange), saying that she couldn’t find my phone number, and to call her at home.

Fearing the worst, I called her, when I got into the office. Her mother answered the phone, and said that she was out for a bit, and that she would call me, when she returned.  Now, I knew that something was wrong. I left my cell phone number, saying that I was going to be out of the office at an appointment, but that she could call anytime. I said a silent prayer, and left for my appointment.

As I was coming back to the office after my appointment, my cell phone rang. I was on LaSalle St. but ducked into an office building lobby, so that I could hear better.  As I feared, it was her–sobbing. Her son had a heart attack while undergoing chemotherapy at the hospital, and died instantly. While it was difficult to talk (it was still noisy in the lobby), I told her that this was the ultimate test of her faith, and to put herself in God’s hands.  I tried to remind her that it is God’s will that’s important, not ours.

The words did not come easily. I felt very inadequate. I struggled that maybe I didn’t say the right words to comfort her. But, I tried my best–at least at that moment.

I went to the funeral, which, as you might guess, was a catastrophically sad event.  I sat in the back of the church, so that I could observe what was happening. It also seemed to be the beat place for quiet contemplation and prayer.

Soon, the procession arrived from the funeral home–family, friends, and the young man’s classmates. The woman who lost her son could not even walk up the church isle on her own. She had to lean on her mother, who propped her up, much as if a branch had tumbled from a tree, and was leaning against the trunk for support. Her husband followed behind, carrying their youngest son, while holding the hand of their middle son, who seemed perplexed by what was going on.

Mass started–and, the priest, who seemed like a kind and gentle man, tried to give the best homily (sermon) that he could, I supposed, but said basically the same things that I had been saying to this woman for months. I must admit that I was pleased about this. I had gotten my theology right–or, at lest according to this priest, I did.

At the conclusion of the service, the pall bearers escorted the casket from the church, followed by this woman, who, being totally grief stricken by this time, was literally being dragged by her mother back down the isle of the church. When she came to me, standing in the pew at the rear of the church, she lifted her head for what could have not been more than a second, and looked at me. In that instant, that second, I peered into her eyes, and saw something that I had never seen before–the untold, devastating sorrow of a mother who had lost her child.  That vision haunts me to this day.

I went out to the cemetery. I walked over to the casket, suspended above the grave, and stood opposite this woman and her family. I looked this woman in the eyes, again, as if to say, “Be strong. You can do this now.”  The priest said some final prayers, with each family member placing a rose on top of the casket. The priest blessed the casket one final time–and, then it was over.

On the way back to my car, this woman’s husband came up to me. I said to him, “I’m so sorry.” And, he replied, “You know that she couldn’t have gone through this without you, don’t you? You got her through this. I’m so glad that you’re here.”

I was stunned by his comment, and said nothing.

As I approached my car, I saw this woman getting into her family’s van. I walked over to her–and, she held out her arms to embrace me. I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I whispered in her ear, “I’m so sorry.” She replied softly, “I know.” And, then I said, “We can talk, if you want.” She simply replied, “OK.”

But, we never did. I have neither spoken with her, nor seen her, since.

“The human heart is not always capable of regeneration after it has been torn apart by the loss of a loved one.”

–From a recent book review in The Wall Street Journal

“What made us dream that he could comb grey hair?”

–A quote from that great Irish poet, W. B. Yeats, in his poem, In Memory of Major Robert Gregory. (A paraphrase of this quote has been used recently in eulogies for Senator Edward Kennedy, who, alone among his brothers, “lived to comb grey hair.”

As readers of some of my previous posts know, I have a habit of trying to never pass a StreetWise vendor in downtown Chicago, without putting at least a buck in their hand, particularly if I already have bought a magazine for that week.  (For those who don’t know, StreetWise (http://www.streetwise.org) is a weekly magazine that is sold by the poor and homeless in Chicago to generate some income).

There is a middle-aged black man who sells StreetWise near the train station in the afternoon that I pass by on the way to the train that takes me home. I occasionally buy a magazine from him, if I haven’t purchased one from another vendor downtown that week. But, I always give him at least a buck, when I pass by him.

One day, I’m running to the train, and shove a dollar bill in his hand. He grabs me and yells, “Read this!” I was startled, to say the least, and just stood their dumbfounded and looked at him. He yells again, “No, I want you to read this!”

With that, he holds the magazine up to my face, and unfolds it to the back page. And, to my astonishment (and amusement), there he is, staring out of the last page of the magazine! It was his profile! And, he was so proud of it. He holds it up to his face, so that I can see that it is him, with his somewhat toothless grin. I burst out laughing and pulled another buck out of my wallet (the magazine is $2), took the magazine, slapped him on the back, called him by his name (his name is Standard), and scurried off to the train.

Everyone deserves their 15 minutes of fame. Even my new friend, Standard!

I had the distinct pleasure and honor of introducing Assistant Secretary of Veterans Affairs, Tammy Duckworth, at the June, 2009 commencement ceremony for The Chicago School of Professional Psychology, where I am privileged to serve as a trustee. You can view my introduction, and Assistant Secretary Duckworth’s terrific charge to the class, on the attached link to the video of the ceremony below. Both my introduction, and her presentation, occur at the beginning of the ceremony.

Intro of Tammy Duckworth and her Speech

July 19, 2009

The role of trustee

I am appalled and dismayed by the alleged behavior of certain University of Illinois trustees. The roles and responsibilities of trustees of institutions of higher learning are clear and unmistakable. Trustees, who are, in effect, the “board of directors” of a college or university, are charged with forming policy for that institution and ensuring that the college or university has the necessary resources to carry out that policy.

The college or university’s president and staff are charged with executing that policy. The line of demarcation is bright and clear. Trustees should never meddle in the operations of the school — and certainly not in its admission procedures. The board of trustees hires the president. And the president and his or her cabinet run the school. The trustees of a great public institution like the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign are the representatives of the people of this state to the school. They have no business interfering in the operations of the university.

— Paul A. Dillon, trustee, the Chicago School of Professional Psychology

My original submission is as follows:

Note: My contribution was part of a larger article authored by Laurel Delaney

Paul A. Dillon, CMC, President/Owner, Dillon Consulting Services LLC; United States:

Trust is not a one-night stand. — Paul Dillon

In my more than thirty-five years in business, government, the military, academia, and the non-profit sector, here is how I’ve earned the trust of companies, colleagues, and clients:

Do what you say you’re going to do. Nothing builds confidence in your trustworthiness more consistently and unfailingly than doing what you’ve said you’re going to do. And, conversely, nothing destroys people’s perceptions of how trustworthy you are than failing to live up to your commitments.

The truth shall set you free.  Speak the truth, as you see it, forcefully and clearly. Don’t pander. Don’t worry about not being politically correct. Don’t worry about what other people might think. You can do this without being offensive, and people will see that you are worthy of their trust.

It isn’t about you; it’s about them.  This is the hardest part. In all of my working years, I have met only a handful of people who are truly committed to the welfare of others, even at their own expense. Most people are much, much too selfish. But, demonstrating to people that you put them first is absolutely critical to building trust and confidence in your ability to lead. You want to be somebody people would follow to a place where they wouldn’t go by themselves.

Trust is not a one-night stand.  It takes years to convince people that you are truly worthy of their trust and confidence. It is something that is built up slowly and consistently over a long time. So, get started now.

LETTERS

April 22, 2009

In-Box

Tribune staff reporter

A haunting sight

ON A WARM, HUMID and rainy Sunday in late August of 2007, I was invited to go along on the Homeless Sandwich Run by a friend who was involved in this organization. I was not prepared for what I was about to experience. As one who served in a high-level position as an officer in the U.S. Army Reserve during the Vietnam War, I saw little of the trauma-producing battles that so affected my fellow comrades in arms. Yet it is estimated that some 35 to 40 percent of Chicago’s homeless are veterans. And there they were. On State Street, the homeless would sheepishly come out from alleys to grab a bag of sandwiches before retreating to their haunts. On lower Wacker, men and women came and asked for clothing, as well as food and drink. But what really startled me was, even on North Michigan Avenue–one of the wealthiest shopping districts in the world–homeless men and women would dart out from hiding places to grab a bag of sandwiches. I learned much about the homeless, my fellow veterans, and myself on that rainy Sunday afternoon.

Paul A. Dillon

Here was my original submission. You can see how they edit even letters to the editor:

I read with considerable interest your article entitled, “Relief Efforts” in the February 1, 2009 issue of the Chicago Tribune Magazine.

On a warm, humid and rainy Sunday in late August of 2007, I was invited to go along on the Homeless Sandwich Run (www.chicagosandwichrun.org) by a friend who was involved in this organization. Armed with my Vietnam Veteran baseball cap and a poncho to ward off the rain, I was placed in the “jump seat” next to the driver, so that I could hand the bags of sandwiches to the homeless, as the rickety truck trundled up and down the Loop’s busy streets.

I was not prepared for what I was about to experience.

As one who served in a high level position as an officer in the U.S. Army Reserve during the Vietnam War, I saw little of the trauma producing battles that so affected my fellow comrades in arms. Yet, it is estimated that some 35-40 % of Chicago’s homeless are veterans—many of them Vietnam Veterans, like me.

And, there they were. On State Street, the homeless would sheepishly come out from alleys to grab a bag of sandwiches, before retreating to their haunts. On lower Wacker, as the truck made its rounds, men and women came and asked for clothing, as well as food and drink. On Van Buren, just outside the library, more than 80 men lined up single file, military style, to get their sandwiches, coffee, or juice. But, what really startled me was, even on north Michigan Avenue—arguably one of the wealthiest shopping districts in the world—homeless men and women would dart out from hiding places to grab a bag of sandwiches, before retreating back into the crowd.

I learned much about the homeless, my fellow veterans, and myself on that rainy Sunday afternoon. I thought, “there, but for the grace of God, go I.”  It was a solemn drive home to my suburban home.

The Chicago Homeless Sandwich Run‘s motto is “We don’t judge ’em. We just feed ’em.” That they do–and, they do it well. It is a wonderful organization that deserves to be supported by all who care about our homeless—and, about our veterans.

Paul A. Dillon

P.S.

The web site for the Chicago Homeless Sandwich Run is: http://www.chicagosandwichrun.org

IN-BOX

July 22, 2007

A son’s bumpy ride

I read with interest your article on Tom Creal Jr. and his Chopper College (“Going whole hog,” June 17). I worked with this young man’s father, Tom Sr., at a Chicago-based accounting firm, where he headed our forensic accounting and financial fraud investigating unit. He was the ultimate straight-laced accountant who even looked the part of a financial crimes investigator, with slightly graying hair and riveting cold-steel blue eyes–an Eliot Ness/Kevin Costner lookalike, indeed. How difficult it must have been for him to watch his son go through his many travails on his road to success, and how wise of him to recognize that “all kinds of minds” can succeed in this world.

PAUL A. DILLON