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. 

I don't care if Casper IS friendly...

                When last we spoke, we had discussed language, stemming from my father’s use of the term “haint”.  That post lead to a conversation with my sister where she reminded me another word we pronounce incorrectly was “mont-ner”; meaning monster. 

                Being a naturally jouvous person, I normally make an effort to avoid all mention of scary things lest I conjure up some creature in my head which will cause me to lose precious sleep.  I don’t know what happened to me during childhood but I have been afraid of the dark since somewhere in the neighborhood of birth and lasting up to and including last night.  I don’t know what makes me skittish in the darkness but if someone were to scare me with, say, a chainsaw, I could outrun any Olympic sprinter regardless if they used steroids or not.  Once, as a teen, I just about outran a car when I thought the Blue Lady of Humble Lake was trying to “git” me.  The unfortunate situation occurred when I attended my first teen bonfire, wearing my best corduroy pants.  I mention the wardrobe choice simply because, during my flight, said pantalones eventually started to smoke from the friction of my chubby legs pistoning me toward safety.  Now where I thought I was going to find safety in the boonies of East Texas with ‘Flock of Seagulls’ bangs and 3 Swatches was beyond me.  All I knew was I wanted to be elsewhere.

                And elsewhere was where I wanted to be recently when The Dad told me he had seen a ghost in my house.  Now, I realize I am a big strong man (well, a man anyway) but I did not need to hear this.  Before he could describe this recently sighted apparition, he turned to me and said, “All this talkin’ ‘bout spirits ‘n’ stuff had put me to mind the stories my mama told me.” 

While he reminisced and I pretended to listen, I thought of several occasions of my own where I lost any shred of coolness I, or my friends, imagined I had by possessing a lack of bravery which would have gotten me banished from most any Disney movie.  While my friends never abandoned me, per se, most certainly my date to the Junior Prom was less than thrilled when I abandoned her, faster than a celebrity breaks their wedding vows, at the breakfast afterwards. The brother (I won’t tell you his name but it rhymes with Scott Holliday) of the hostess decided to dress as Freddy Krueger and casually tap-tap-tap, on the French doors to my immediate right in the den while I was actively pretending to watch “A Nightmare on Elm Street, Part XVXVIII” along with 7-8 of my closest personal friends and their dates. 

When I ever so jouvously turned my head to the doors and saw this particular face, I screamed like a peacock set on fire, shoved past my date (I apologize again, Denise) and ran down the hall to the bedroom of the slumbering parents due, I can only imagine, to the overwhelming belief Mr. and/or Mrs. Holliday would save me through the use of gunfire or fisticuffs.  I don’t believe either of them were the same after experiencing the invasion of their inner sanctum by a chubby tuxedoed youth and a full 1/3 of the remaining guests alert enough to have noticed my flight, quickly following suit.  Now, I may be exaggerating these points; this was, after all, 1987 and it's a bit hazy, not due to alcohol or drug, mind you. I was a good Baptist youth, although I will cop to an addiction to Aqua Net;  something had to keep that hairdo in place, people.  All I know is the the following year, the Prom breakfast was held in a well-lit hotel suite with suitable chaperones and, for me, a mild sedative.

The most recent event I will share happened in Alaska, while camping.  Now, anyone who knows me is aware while I am not a ardent fan of the outdoors at night, I can be shamed into complying with the requests of the nature loving pseudo-hippies I have collected as friends.

This particular outing was Memorial Day weekend in 2003 and, being Alaska, it was a balmy 40 degrees.  As I was much larger then, the lack of heat was a plus.  Precious I may be, but most persons, places and things are not improved by the addition of moisture.  And underarm sweat stains large enough to effect local weather patterns are not a good look for anyone. 

I had watched the movie The Ring just prior to this trip.  Suffice it to say it was not a romantic comedy about a wedding.  Yes, I know, why on earth do I watch scary movies when they actually scare me?  I have no answer other than peer pressure.  What?  I have peers, in theory. 

We get to the campground and as there were 6 of us, I felt my odds of surviving the weekend without being murdered were fair to middlin'.  I wasn’t the slowest, did not have the largest breasts and was never interested enough to investigate the source of random snapping twigs . I felt pretty sure I wouldn’t be one of the first to die, per the typical plots of axe-murderer movies.  Once we scouted out the restrooms, however, I discovered the source of my pain for the weekend.  Even though they advertised toilets, they were actually toilet seats attached to the top of very deep wells.  Like “Journey to the Center of the Earth” deep.  And if you’ve seen The Ring you know that the girl mont-ner, at one point, climbs out of a deep well and comes to git the people.  Well, I can assure you I don’t need someone to git me whilst I am conducting my business.  The psychological repercussions I don’t want to imagine.  Needless to say I spent the weekend avoiding the bathroom which became increasingly difficult while trying to digest elk cooked in a skillet over an open fire.  TGI Friday’s this was not.

I had yet to feel uncomfortable in my new home even when living alone for almost 4 months, but when he told me he had seen a ghost, my first instinct was to flee.  The high cost of real estate in the Bay area held me in place, however, and I asked him to describe this ghost.  When he stated it was a woman with a large hat and veil and a parasol, I was both delighted she seemed fashionable and suspicious of the accuracy of the fashion as my house was built in 1929 and parasols haven’t been used in any manner since My Fair Lady. 

As I left to cleanse the house of evil through the recitation of any song I could remember with the most Jesuses in it, I noticed a figure alarmingly like the woman he described!  Right in my face!  It was the lovely lady in the painting I have over the buffet in my dining room; my first real piece of art.  My Daddy was either all out of conversational topics not involving bodily functions or he was trying to scare me.  Rude.  I told him if the phantom was well-dressed, then we could co-exist quite happily and I strode off to bed with the full knowledge he had simply fabricated the story and I had nothing to worry about.  Dustin does mean “strong hearted leader” according to the book of baby names.  My parents had chosen well.

Full disclosure:  I left the light on in the den for a couple of nights.  You know, just in case.