"Footloose" was a Documentary, Y'all

                Just like Kevin Bacon’s character in Footloose, I have been dealt harsh punishments from good Christians related to dancing in a place thought to be inappropriate.  It was a cook-out at a lake.  Allow me to explain.

                My aunt and uncle had a ranch just outside the bustling metropolis of Bogata, TX, population (allegedly) 1,100.  I’m unsure who or what was deemed as ‘population’, but based on my time living there, this included dogs, blackbirds and, when necessary to get up the numbers back up due to someone’s death, tractor tires. 

The specific location of the ranch was Rosalie, an even tinier community as far away from the Bogata Baptist Church as it takes for someone (usually me) to sing the country super-group Alabama’s hit “Love in the First Degree”, if you held the last note for a good 30 beats or so.  This must be done from either the open bed of a pickup (Ford or Chevy depending on your inclinations) or the open truck of a Lincoln Town Car, depending on who was driving.  Those who are surprised must not be familiar with my background as the lead singer of The Pine Branch Boys, when I was in the 8^th Grade.  I have carried the baggage of celebrity for a long time, y’all.

As there isn’t much to do in Bogata, much less Rosalie, there were often activities planned for the youth at church that included inventing new reasons to eat outside at night.  I don’t know if this particular cookout was to celebrate the fact that it gets dark at night or that it was summer or something equally mundane, but cookout we did, on the banks of Lake Providence West. The original Lake Providence was in Northeast Louisiana, where my parents grew up and met and I and my sister were born, after an appropriate lapse in time, thank you.  This body of water was much, much smaller but we were homesick, I suppose.

Once we started the fire, ate our hot dogs and s’mores (in which the chocolate never melted from the heat of the marshmallows, regardless of how hard those commercials try to convince you is possible), most of the adults retired to my aunt and uncle’s home, about a mile away, on the other side of the Irby Dairy Farm, possibly to escape the noise and Christian antics of a baker’s dozen Baptist youth.  I never saw an aerial view or drawing of my relative’s ranch but, based on the fact that we had to drive through the dairy farm to go from one side of the ranch to the other, the Irby’s land was the hole in the center of the donut of my extended family’s acreage.

Someone had brought their jambox that also had a radio (remember those?) and we found a station playing what we had been told was the devil’s music.  You may remember them as The Go-Gos. 

As heathens are wont to do, some of us started dancing, only two of us with any rhythm.  Baptists are not known for being rhythmic in any capacity and rarely use the word as it sounds ‘dirty’.  It was innocent fun and ended rather quickly due to God being omnipresent and, therefore, lurking somewhere nearby we assumed, but I had seen a new dance move by one of my cousins that intrigued me.  I saved her from recrimination then and I am steadfastly loyal even now.  As all innocents do, right before their undoing, I asked for and received a quick lesson and mastered the rudiments if not the dance itself. 

The next morning, after breakfast back at the house, the adults were in the living room chatting.  The teens and really tall 12-year-olds were in the kitchen performing some sort of child labor and singing, I assume, Hard Knock Life (from Annie) as you do when you are feeling overworked and underappreciated, when something came over me.  I don’t know if it was the devil himself or too much socializing with The Methodists, but I took my new dance step out for a test drive.  Any sin committed in the dark is quickly exposed in the light and I was caught red-handed or rather red-footed by one of my aunts.  When she asked, heatedly, what I was doing, I said, “Dancing” as ashamed as an Amish teenager on Rumspringa, y’all.

I was summoned before the tribunal, otherwise known as my mother, grandmother, other aunt and uncle.  They demanded I give a full account of the activities including, if possible, at which point we had headed down the path of unrighteousness, a demonstration of the sinful movements and a list of fellow sinners and/or witnesses.  My crazy aunt tried not to laugh; the other members were as serious as a spelling bee, people.  I felt like someone on trial, which I most assuredly was.    

Have you ever had to complete a brand-new dance move with no accompanying music, while crying, on a Saturday morning in the living room of a single-wide trailer in Northeast Texas?  No?  Trust me when I tell you this is humiliation on an epic scale, especially when there is the very Biblical wailing and gnashing of teeth inside your head.  Silent, internal flagellation will throw off your rhythm something fierce, y’all, especially when you are trying to modify the dance move into whatever is least likely to get you cast into the Lake of Fire. 

Apparently, I felt stomping my foot really hard in one spot, like I was either ‘pitching a fit’ or squishing a bug, was the least offensive move I could make.  The tribunal scoffed and peppered me with more questions, demanding to know if that was really all that happened and instructing me to reveal my co-sinners.  Tearfully, and with a confidence I did not feel, I lied; like the heathen that I was.  I started wondering what it would be like in the Outer Darkness, where I was about to be cast.  I hoped there would be at least a night light as I was scared of the dark, y’all.  For real. 

Based on every After-School Special I had ever seen, starring unknown British kids with bad haircuts, I knew I had only tasted the sinful freedom of dance.  My punishment was the tried and true ‘whooping and solitary confinement’, which in a single-wide trailer was more akin to ‘don’t you dare look at anybody or have fun in any way’.  Even though I was unused to much punishment, being as close to Jesus as one can be wearing Husky-sized Tuffskins and hand-me-down cowboy boots, I was able to cope with the repercussions of my mistake.  But, in my heart-of-hearts, where all my secrets were kept, I knew I had to keep dancing; not so much for the love of movement, but for the opportunity to excel.  If dancing was to be my ultimate downfall (as was verbalized by someone in the tribunal – I was too teary-eyed to make out who), I wanted it to be for something a bit more decadent and/or impressive than the Electric Slide.

Can I get an Amen up in here?

Definitely Fast, Not Necessarily Furious

              As we have previously discussed, on an average day the Light of Jesus shines from my face, y’all.  It’s true.  However, when you put me behind the wheel of a conveyance, be it automobile, moped, roller skate, bean truck, you’d be hard-pressed to believe I have ever entered a place of worship, much less have a relationship with God.  This is apparently genetic as The Dad and The Sister are aggressive drivers.  Even my sainted Mother, while never actually angry, drove with a heavy foot.  And I mean heavy; she once got a speeding ticket in Oklahoma on a highway with no posted speed limits.
                My recent trip to Red River County (TX) brought to mind an astonishing number of car-related memories with my sister considering she had her driver’s license for only the two years we lived in Paris.  In her defense, in those two years, we did commute 60 miles round trip from our home in Paris (TX) to the high school in Bogata, as my parents promised each of us that we could finish high school where we started, in direct conflict with our gypsy ways.  Let it be noted here that my sister was able to attend the same school for all four years of high school.  My brother was able to attend the same school for junior high and high school.  I, however, had to change in the middle of high school, even though I swear I’m not bitter or anything. 
                Once we had moved to Paris proper, I desperately wanted to go to Paris High; people there wore argyle and penny loafers; I had seen them at Mirabeau Square (or Malibu Square according to the Strawn Twins of Bogata proper), the local shopping center, home of Belk and JC Penney, where I was to procure my first pair of Reeboks, parachute pants and monogrammed button-downs. I was convinced there were many Blaines (from Pretty in Pink) at Paris High, knowing full well that I was more like a chubby Ducky than anyone else in that movie.  I preferred to think of myself as a male version of Molly Ringwald’s Andy, but we all know I used to suffer from delusions.
             My parents reply to my plea was, “Your sister wants to go to Rivercrest and you have to ride with her because it’s unsafe for a girl to drive that far alone.”  To Rivercrest we went, never once seeing the river or the crest for which the school was supposedly named.
              During those commutes, we had every sort of incident you could imagine while commandeering an array of used cars, which were replaced with alarming frequency.  I’m not sure if my parents accepted old cars as a form of payment for the apartments my mother managed, but we had a different car every couple of months, it seemed.  During this time, we drove a 1974 Buick Regal whose tailpipe would pop and spit flames if you punched the accelerator to pass someone, which happened every couple of miles as my sister’s goal was seemingly to be “ahead”; of everyone, I assumed. 
            This same car was what my sister was driving when we were pulled over for going 92 in a 55 MPH Zone and she cried her way out of a ticket, being told only, “Slow down, now.”  This will work only for women, dudes.  Trust me. I say that because I tried to cry my way out of a ticket once in Mississippi and the trooper accused me of being drunk and threatened me with arrest.  As it was 1989, I guess they didn’t have tasers, yet.  I’m sure he would have used his had the technology been available to him.
            Not long after that, we changed to a 1968 Oldsmobile Delta 88 with faulty brakes; a fact unknown to us at the time; at least until we tried to stop at that little store/lawn mower repair shop near Deport one morning.  When we attempted to slow down to turn, I was riding shotgun (in the front seat) while my sister drove, and my brother sat in the back seat.  
             I feel sure at least I wasn’t wearing a seat belt as, when the brakes failed, and my sister sailed through their little parking lot, skidding to a stop sideways, almost in the ditch, I sat up and found myself to be in the back seat with my brother as if we were being chauffeured to school.  I was lucky the Oldsmobile company had created a car so large you could host a Potluck Luncheon in the back seat and covered everything in thickly padded “leather”; I had no visible bruises other than to my ego as it was obvious that I was the source of the majority of the screeching sounds, not the brakes as you would guess, because my screeches didn’t stop as quickly as the cars.
             We also drove, at one point, a 1976 Caprice Classic Estate wagon, the size of which cannot be understated.  It was literally the size of a Winnebago or an 18-wheeler from JW Hunt.  You can Google it, I’ll wait.  We had no interesting adventures in this particular car, it was just embarrassing to own.  Really?  You’re expecting a mature attitude from a teenager in the 80s wearing three Swatches, parachute pants and a pair of double-tie Kaepa tennis shoes?  Ducky is dramatic, y’all.  It’s a thing.

Career Geography, Part 5 (It is finished, y'all)

             In June 2011, I cruised into the Bay Area ready to take on an interesting new job.  My time conducting reviews of Prosthetic Services across the country had given me an idea of how to create “perfect” Prosthetic Service should I ever return to a facility to work.  Additionally, I was looking for what my next step would be as I had surpassed my 5-year and 10 -year plans as well as my ultimate career goals and truthfully did not know what direction I was headed.  I felt like I wanted to return to a facility where I could make meaningful change, but I wasn’t entirely convinced that I hadn’t romanticized working in the field as I had been removed from that environment for at least five years. 

                In 2008 when I was still in New England, I had applied for the Executive Career Field Candidate Development Program (ECFCDP) to train to become an executive in a medical facility, I wasn’t selected, and I was not happy about it.  I couldn’t understand what had happened as I had been on a roll, getting selected for programs and positions each time I applied.  My very wise friend, Marion Felix-Jenkins, told me to stop pouting about it and ask for feedback.  When I countered that I was not pouting, she reminded me that she was the mother of three teenagers and, therefore, familiar with what pouting looked like and literally pushed me out the door of her office, telling me to call the chair of the interview panel, who was the Director of the Boston VA, just down the road.

                I called him and he as kind enough to agree to give me feedback.  His first question was, “Dustin, why do you want to be an Associate Director?”  My seasoned reply was, “Um…what do you mean?”  He repeated, “Why do you want to be an Associate Director?”  It slowly dawned on me that I had no answer.  He said, “Is it because it’s the next level and it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?”  I replied, “Well…uh…”  He smiled and said, “That’s what we thought.  Listen, you’re very bright, your resume is impressive, you interviewed very well, you are an exceptional candidate.  We just didn’t feel as if you knew why you were there other than that’s where you thought you were supposed to be.”

                It was hard to hear, and I pushed back a little, saying, “What’s wrong with taking the next step?”  He smiled again and said, “Listen, Dustin, you’re how old?  38? And you’re already a GS-14 and working in a VISN-level position.  Let’s say we sent you forward and you were selected and then appointed to be an Associate Director before you’re 40, what then?  You’ll have at least 20 years before you can retire.  There are only a few levels after this.  What’s your hurry?  Why don’t you enjoy where you are?  You should focus on becoming so proficient in your job that the next level will present itself in due time.  What are you trying to prove?”  Well, he had me pegged six ways to Sunday and I thanked him for his honesty.  I took his advice.  After working with Associate Directors through the review program we created, I felt like I needed to return to a facility to have an impact.  Palo Alto is where I decided to put my plan into action.

                When I got to Palo Alto, I knew they had issues in their Prosthetic Service, with delayed orders (orders that were more than five days old) and orders trapped in a pending status sometimes for months on end.  On my first day, we ran the report and they had about 400 delayed orders and 1800 pending orders (some of which had been in pending status for 18 months).  I started with talking to each of my staff, asking them what they expected from me, telling them what I expected from them and assuring them we could create a program where not only were there no delayed orders but where most orders could be fulfilled within 24 hours.  They looked at me like I was crazy, but it was a look I had gotten used to seeing, so we just boogied on. 

                I won’t bore you with the details of the procurement process but within 30 days we had no delayed orders and within 6 months we had cleared up all the pending orders as well, while at the same time receiving around 350 new orders every day.  And we did this with the exact same staff that was there when I got there, minus my deputy chief who retired after only three days with me when I shared my expectations for someone in his position.  By the end of the first year, we had gone from one of the worst programs in the country to being selected as the 2012 Prosthetic and Sensory Aids Service of the Year for the entire nation! Can I tell you we celebrated?  I don’t think I have ever been prouder of myself or other people.

                Once my service was ‘fixed’ and running well, I asked for the opportunity to get experience as Acting Associate or Deputy Director.  I was granted the opportunity on a regular basis and I really enjoyed the operational aspects of the job and the ability to have an influence across many services as opposed to just my own.  In January 2013, I was offered the opportunity to serve a detail as Acting Associate Director for almost 3 months.  The Deputy Director had left to become Director at another facility and the Associate Director became the Deputy Director.  During this time, I turned over the running of my service to my Deputy and functioned as an executive, overseeing a number of different services and programs.  I really thrived in that work and by the end of my detail, I knew I wanted to move into an executive position. 

I applied for the job and made it to the Top Three, but ultimately did not get selected.  When the Director brought me in to let me know I hadn’t been selected, I asked for feedback on what I needed to work on to be the successful candidate should I apply for other positions.  She gave me great feedback, but I initially had a little case of ‘sour grapes’ thinking, "Who is this yahoo that stole my job?"  Admittedly it wasn’t a mature line of thinking, but it’s what I thought in my deepest heart.

Of course, when I eventually met the man who was selected (Walt Dannenberg) and who would ultimately be my new boss, I understood why I wasn’t selected; he had a skill set that I did not.  I literally went to the Director after the first month and said, “I totally understand why you chose him.  I would have done the very same thing.”  I am able to admit when I am bested and over the next year I learned much under his mentorship.  Fortunately, I was still asked to act whenever I was needed, and I felt good to have his trust.

I didn’t apply for any further executive positions, unsure of what to do about moving forward.  It had thrown me for a loop and The Dad’s second-guessing my abilities (due to not getting the job) wasn’t helping me stay in a positive head-space.  I kept working with my service and was selected for a national leadership program called the Excellence in Government Fellowship, a multi-agency program sponsored through the Partnership for Public Service.  I gained many new insights into my leadership style as well as how to continue to grow as a leader.  I felt re-invigorated by this program and the changes I was seeing in myself and I started applying for positions again in the spring of 2014. 

I had decided to be very pragmatic about the job search and to not apply for positions in a location where I didn’t think I would be happy living.  I wasn’t going to apply for every position in the system.  I knew as a gay man, who hoped to one day marry, that I needed to steer clear of the South and parts of the Midwest.  As someone who had experienced enough snow to last a lifetime, I also avoided New England, the northern parts of the Midwest and whatever it is we call Colorado/Wyoming/Utah.  That didn’t leave too many locations, but there were enough opportunities that I was able to apply for several positions (Nashville, San Diego) but came in second to the Executive Assistant to the Director at both locations.

However, this time, I reached out to the Director in San Diego and asked if he would mind giving me feedback.  I had asked my Director in Palo Alto for feedback, but only because I knew her.  I didn’t think it was something that could be asked of a Director who didn’t know me outside of the interview process.  Fortunately, Jeff Gehring (the Director) agreed and offered some excellent and unique advice, the most important being “Make sure you interview your interviewers at the same time they are interviewing you.  You aren’t there with your hand out begging for a job, you are there to see if the fit is the right one.  Sometimes it comes down to fit.  Do you want to work with this team and do they want to work for you?”  He explained that I wasn’t the right fit for San Diego, but I was talented, and he knew I would eventually find the right team.

When Long Beach was advertised, I thought it would be a great opportunity.  I hadn’t planned on moving to Southern California, but it just felt like the right fit after I researched the facility.  I remembered his advice to interview them.  I remembered the advice I had gotten on several occasions (keep your answers short) and was very efficient with my words.  I also, cut myself some slack and when I blanked on an answer in my interview, I didn’t panic and was honest and said, “My mind just went blank.  Will you let me start that answer again?” and then I nailed it. 

When I drove out of the parking lot of the facility, I noticed they were building a Dunkin’ Donuts almost across the street from the Long Beach VA, the first official DD in California.  I took it as a sign.  And I was right.  All my preparation and training and guidance from mentors was put to effective use and I was offered the job as Assistant Director of the Long Beach VA, a healthcare system with 3,000 employees, five campuses and a $600 million budget.  It was almost too much to process.  My redneck self was about to become an executive with the VA, only 16 years into my career, having far surpassed my wildest career goals and dreams from when I was a temporary summer intern.

Like the Beverly Hillbillies I moved to (just south of) Beverly Hills, on the edge of Orange County, in the shadow of Disney and about six inches from the Pacific Ocean. 

Career Geography, Part 4 (Almost Done, I Swear)

One of the things I’ve been most proud of working for the VA (Department of Veterans Affairs) is that our veterans have access to the most cutting-edge technology in the world.  There are many partnerships with research entities like DARPA and Rory Cooper and his cadre of geniuses at Brown University.  Oftentimes when the most advanced technology is released to the public, Prosthetics in the VA is the only customer as Medicare and private insurance companies are slow to respond.  If it’s approved by the FDA, the VA will provide it for veterans. A perfect example is the iBot, the wheelchair that climbs stairs. 

DEKA is a research and development founded by Dean Kamen, who invented the Segway, while trying to create the technology for this wheelchair that would raise the user to eye-level as well as help them maneuver up a flight of stairs.  It became available on the market in 2005 at a cost of $25,000.  The VA was the main customer as Medicare only covered 20% of the cost.  I refer to DEKA as a brain hive in New Hampshire.  The people working there are so smart you can hear a faint buzzing sound whenever you are in their midst.  You may know them as the people who created the gleaming silver skeleton of the bad guy in Terminator 2.

I know all this as I visited their main office when they were demonstrating their latest artificial arm technology.  My boss in DC, Fred Downs, is an arm amputee.  Even though there had been many developments in technology for artificial limbs, it was mostly with legs as arm amputees (especially from the Vietnam era) were less frequent, as most of the time a battlefield explosion that would take someone’s arm would also kill them.  As the body armor technology advanced, more and more arm amputees survived their injuries and the technology needed to catch up to that of legs.

DEKA was doing phenomenal things and had created an artificial arm that could be raised above shoulder level, a task previously unachievable.  It could also allow the user to grasp a bottle or can (without crushing it) and bring it to their lips to drink, another task we take for granted that was previously unavailable to the target audience. As Mr. Downs is a very well-known gentleman-about-DC, serving as the National Director of Prosthetics for the VA for more than 20 years and having written several novels and appeared both before Congress and in many movies and TV shows, Mr. Kamen asked him to demonstrate their latest achievement on an episode of 60 Minutes to be filmed at their offices less than 30 minutes from my office at the VA.  How could I not attend?

During my time in New England, a new Deputy had been hired in the Prosthetics office where I used to work; Dr. Billie Jane Randolph.  She had been one of the important people who had seen my presentation about success we had been experiencing in our region.  She asked if I would meet them in New Hampshire, so we could talk about possibly creating a program based on my work.  We converged on the DEKA offices and were immediately told by the 60 Minutes producer that as we had not been cleared to appear on camera, we had to ensure that we avoided being filmed.  After 15 minutes of dodging a very busy cameraman, we decided to withdraw to the employee kitchen to eat and get to know each other. 

Just like Jackie, I was immediately enthralled as BJ and I clicked.  She was from the boonies of Kentucky but had risen through the ranks of the Army and serving as George W Bush’s physical therapist in the White House.  Armed with a PhD in Education, she was a force of nature, so when she asked me to come to DC to create an education-based review and audit program I was unable to say no.    So, in February 2009, I temporarily returned to my old job for what was to be a 90-day detail. 

Once there, I jumped in with both feet, creating an auditing tool, selecting and training team members from across the agency and planning weekly visits to all 153 VA hospitals over the course of three years.  We had ranked each facility’s Prosthetic Service based on our national metrics and started with the lower performers as they needed the most assistance.  Unlike other federal audits, ours was education based, meaning if we found a deficiency, we would immediately halt the audit and have a training session with all staff, followed by a meeting with the leadership to show them how we had found the deficiencies and how to proactively address them in the future. 

As the end of the 90 days neared, I was asked to extend another 30 days to lead the first two audits as a demonstration of how they should be accomplished; Tuscaloosa, Alabama and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania were selected, and the training commenced.  Over the next two years, my detail was extended in 30-day increments while our teams conducted audits at facilities, ranging from Alaska to Puerto Rico, Hawaii to Maryland and many states in between.  The plan was to complete an audit at every location, but after we had completed our 53^rd trip, we were asked to take a step back, review our findings and develop a national conference, sharing what we had learned, both areas of consistent concern as well as Best Practices.  We used this conference in Boston to highlight some of the best performing sites we had found, including San Diego and Fresno, California as well as Boise, Idaho. 

One of the locations I had personally audited was Palo Alto, California, one of the largest and most complex VAs in the country.  It was one of five Polytrauma Level One sites, which was the first stop in the VA for any veteran discharged with a significant injury such as spinal cord injuries, amputations, traumatic brain injuries and visual impairments.  The five were in disparate parts of the country to ensure proper triaging before being sent to their home facility.  Due to this designation and the integral piece Prosthetics plays in returning veterans to as close to normal function as is possible in their homes, these facilities (Richmond, Virginia; Tampa, Florida; Minneapolis, Minnesota; San Antonio, Texas; and Palo Alto) should have a stellar Prosthetic Service.                While there is no such thing as a perfect program, there were significant issues in Palo Alto and after my report was shared with facility leadership, I promised I would find them the right leader to take them to the level where they should be.  I tried to find the person with the right mix of subject matter expertise and leadership skills.  I reached out to those I felt would be successful, but most were unwilling to move for family or career reasons.  I couldn’t fault them for that.  I realized I knew of only one person who was both the perfect fit and a gypsy at heart; me.  I asked me if I was interested and, lo and behold, I was.  

             
               In June 2011, I packed up my life and drove across our great land, almost literally from sea to shining sea with my best friend Christopher and a 2006 Dodge Charger crammed to capacity with clothes, books and other belongings I didn’t trust the movers to deliver unscathed.

If you had told me, even six months before, that I would be living in California at any point in my future, I would have thought you were crazy, yet here I was.  Welcome to Silicon Valley, home to 15-year-old millionaire tech nerds, weirdly aggressive hippies, astonishingly over-priced tract homes and the trust fund babies of Stanford, the only university I know of with Louis Vuitton and Tiffany’s retail stores on its campus.  How would I fit in?