Car Stories 2: Near Death Experiences with Ice Cream

                When I shared about the cars of my youth, I initially shared only those cars which caused embarrassment.  There were other cars both cool and quirky.  Anyone who has driven a used car (clunker or otherwise) knows that each mile you drive is a borrowed mile and eventually your car just stops working, unable to be resuscitated even by the most talented of shade tree mechanics. 

                Based on the slight uptick in the quality of the cars once we moved to Paris (in Texas, which I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you, but I guess you’re just not paying enough attention) the management of a motel seemed to be a reasonably consistent money-maker.  Whether acute embarrassment, engine failure or the incongruity of owning an Estate Wagon without said Estate around which to drive it, was the cause of us relinquishing ownership of the previously mentioned behemoth of a ’76 Caprice Classic, we quickly shifted gears and found ourselves the operators of a 1983 Mazda GLC Hatchback!

 It was red and very, very cool and had custom speakers that were encased inside little black wooden boxes that sat in the back window and would be flung into the back of the head of anyone sitting in the back seat if the hatch were opened or the brakes were slammed, or the car swerved suddenly.  You wouldn’t think these events would happen very often, but you would be wrong, especially the swerving.  My sister is not one to brake when necessary, she simply changes her route around the slowing object without reducing her speed, whether the new terrain is paved or not.

One of the things that my parents never knew was how dangerously this particular car was operated on the 60-mile round trip from Paris proper to the boons of Bogata to the 1A Rivercrest High School.  My sister, unlike me, was not a conscientious student and was prone to leave things like homework, book reports, and the like until the last minute, leaving her scrambling most every day.  Honor student that I have always been (sarcastic comments that I often made from the back row of my classes notwithstanding) I was never unprepared for each school day.  Other than monumentally impressive Farrah-hair that could withstand hurricane force winds, my sister was typically unprepared for most school days, especially book reports.

A fan of romance novels and Gone with the Wind, my sister was a voracious reader but only of the topics she chose.  Unfortunately for her, LaVyrle Spencer and Debbie Macomber were never part of the English curriculum of public schools in Texas.  This left my sister to either threaten or cajole me to read the book and write the report for her or read the book under duress and procrastinate on the writing of the book report in the hopes that some tragedy would befall our community and the school would be forced to close on that particular day.  Mind you, she didn’t actually pray for anyone to be hurt in order for her to avoid writing the report, but she was willing to deal with the psychological situation should someone’s sacrifice be required.

On those days, when the morning news did not carry any word on the destruction of the school, she would maneuver the car from within the parking lot of our home (at the motel) all the way to the outskirts of town, paying as much attention as one can when rocking out to Tears for Fears or (King) George Strait, with earrings large enough to serve up some chips and salsa, y’all.   

Once we hit the city limits and the traffic on Highway 271 reduced considerably, she would turn over the steering to me, while she wrote the book report in her notebook propped on the steering wheel.  Note that I didn’t mention that we had changed seats…because we had not.  I’ll let that sink in for a minute. 

Oh yes, dear readers, I steered from the passenger side of a little red hatchback while my sister wrote a book report in a notebook propped on the steering wheel of her car, speeding up and slowing down at my directions, including passing “pawpaws and mawmaws” and the occasional tractor, who committed the sin of enjoying their leisurely morning drive.  Where they were going is beyond me.  Didn’t they have chickens to feed or cows to milk? 

And that wasn’t the only thing that happened in that particular car that was nerve-wracking.  One time, on the way home from an away game during football season (we were both in band; I, a way-cool trumpet player, she the Captain of the flag corps), somewhere in the neighborhood of 11:00 pm, we ran out of gas before we made it home.  In those days, in that geographic area, there was no 24-hour anything, so finding late night petrol was an exercise in futility.  When we assessed our situation, stranded on an empty highway right in front of a cemetery, actually Meadowbrook Memorial Park as I believe it was called, with no cell phone and no inclination to walk the distance remaining to our home, we decided to sleep in the car until our parents and the search party they would have formed could find us. 

Mind you I got no sleep as I was awaiting death via stylized zombie dancing as Michael Jackson’s Thriller had invaded our world and embedded fear in anyone’s brain who had MTV.  We lived in a real town and, therefore, had cable.  We didn’t have to pay the rich guy in town to “steal” his satellite service like some people who shall remain unnamed. 

I had just closed my eyes, pretending to sleep after Shontyl had mocked my fear of an impending, albeit rhythmic, attack, when someone knocked on the window of the car.  We both screamed as loud as Drew Barrymore the first time she saw E.T.   The screams turned to joy, when we realized the face belonged to TJ, one of the residents of the motel who happened to be on her way home from a night of doing whatever you do when you are out late and smell of alcohol.  What?  I was Baptist and 13, my idea of nefarious nocturnal activities involved the secretive eating of pilfered food or trying to watch MTV after bedtime.  I made Mother Teresa seem like a wanton hussy, y’all.  Seriously.

On another occasion, we were tailgating an 18-wheeler (because that’s what yu do when your main goal in piloting a vehicle is to be “in the front”) and when he stopped suddenly, we almost hit him and Shontyl had to veer off the highway and into the grassy ditch.  Never one to allow a change of terrain to keep her from her goal of being “in the front”, she didn’t apply the brakes, even when we saw what appeared to be a six-foot long metal cylinder of acetylene.  As the offspring of a welder, we could identify these things quickly.  When it became clear we would hit it, my immediate thought was “I can’t die!  I’ve never met Madonna!”

Before you start rolling your eyes, remember this was 1986 and Madonna was white hot, people.  White hot!  And don’t act like you didn’t like her.  I didn’t single-handedly make her famous.  There were plenty of other people Material-girling across America.  I felt as strongly about Madonna as I did about my chances of being selected to appear on The Real World, Season 2, back in the early 90s.  Apparently my DUSTY:  THE BOXED SET wasn’t as clever (or desperate) as I thought.  Thank the Lord for small favors, y’all.  If I had ever been on TV I would be unemployable. Just sayin’.

Luckily the “acetylene tank” was actually one of those really long punching bags from a gym and we hit it, rolled right over it, got back on the road in front of the 18-wheeler and headed right on our way home.  Of course, we had to stop at Braum’s for a treat.  Nothing takes the edge off almost dying like chicken-fried steak sandwich with a two-scoop sundae on the side.  You wouldn’t think almost dying in a car was a frequent event, but you would be wrong.  I’m not saying going to Braum’s after every vehicular near-miss was the main reason I was chubby during my time at Rivercrest but it’s as good an excuse as anything else.  Am I right?

"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? 

Career Geography, Part 3

Once I made it to DC, I entered a world that was part old school boy’s club government and part cutting-edge government.  It was an interesting time.  My boss told me he wanted me to get married, buy a house and start a family, so I wouldn’t be tempted to leave.  He really did want me for the long haul. It made me feel secure, but I also made a joke about not realizing I was supposed to get married already and I apologized for the delay and promised to “get right on that”.  I was used to being in the closet and had no problem simply pretending that I was either too fat or too ugly to find a girlfriend.  It’s what you do, when you are of a particular persuasion.

My first task was to train my co-worker Neal in all things Prosthetics.  We spent the first month or so, in side-by-side cubicles (waiting for our offices to be remodeled) while I regaled him with my abundant knowledge.  Not really.  We did become fast friends, bonding over fried foods and Star Wars. At one point I sarcastically referred to him as ‘Junior’, since he was eight years younger than me.  He responded by calling me ‘Scooter’, for reasons known only to him.  I laughed, but when he introduced me to his girlfriend, Jenn, as Scooter, it became my official east coast nickname.  In DC, as well as Central TX and Central PA, I was (and still am) called Scooter.  So much so, that at their wedding in Savannah, GA in 2011, Jenn’s mother (the incomparable Toni Montgomery Grupp) heard someone call me by my name and asked me, “Who’s Dustin?”

I was suddenly thrust into a position where I was making presentations to large groups of people across the country as well as working directly with people who had been in the VA longer than I had been alive.  The speeches caused me no concern; however, I struggled with the one-on-one interactions with people who didn’t think I had “paid (my) dues”.  A talent for self-deprecating humor, while not necessarily great for my confidence level, gave me an edge over my fellow youth with these Baby Boomer, especially when it was coupled with my middle-aged body shape. 

During this time, I was diagnosed with sarcoidosis, the lung condition that had led to my mother’s death in 2000.  In my initial shock, I never questioned my doctor’s prescription of 60 mg of Prednisone (a steroid) per day.  It caused my physical state to crumble at an astonishing rate.  I began to gain weight almost daily.  The weight gain exacerbated my already painful arthritis.  I had flashes of heat (like I was experiencing menopause) and of anger.  My best friend, Christopher, was my roommate and de facto nurse, having changed his mind about a career as a chef in France, opting to move to DC instead of returning to Mississippi.  I also became diabetic but as my doctor had tested me before the steroids (and I was not diabetic), he didn’t treat it as he assured me it wasn’t diabetes causing my symptoms.  When I finally visited the emergency room after a particularly brutal day, they tested my blood sugar and it was 600.  To give you a frame of reference, Patti LaBelle went into a coma when her blood sugar was 500. 

I quickly switched doctors and he began to slowly wean me off the steroids, but he told me I needed to move somewhere with better air quality; less pollution.  He repeatedly told me, “DC is a tidal basin, swirling with pollution, Dustin, you’ve got to move.”  I mean, what do you do with this information?  I couldn’t just tell my boss, “Thanks for the life-changing opportunity.  Remember when you said you didn’t want us to be tempted to leave?  Well, I’ve got this doctor’s note…” 

But, you do what you have to do and when I explained to Mr. Downs the situation, he was very supportive and told me there was an available position in VISN 1, in New England.  VISNs, you remember from the last post, are like regions.  VISN 1 comprised eight medical centers in six New England states; the main office being housed on the campus of the Bedford, Massachusetts VA, about 25 miles north of Boston.  So, I traveled to Bedford, interviewed and was selected for the position of VISN Prosthetics Manager.  In between the five hour-long interviews required for the position, over the course of one day, I chatted (and bonded) with Marion Felix-Jenkins, who would become a very close friend.  Several people told me I should live in Nashua, New Hampshire, because they had no state tax and no sales tax. 

Nashua is called the “Gateway to NH” because it literally sits on the border, at Exit 1.  It is so close to Massachusetts that the southern-most section of the parking lot of Nashua’s Pheasant Lane Mall is actually in Massachusetts.  My commute would be about 15 miles each way, which took about 20 minutes, if you left early enough.  Much, much better than DC traffic to be sure, but as it was January in New England, there was snow; lots and lots of snow.  So much snow that a little over a month after we arrived, Valentine’s Day weekend, there was a blizzard. 

No one seemed to be bothered by what I considered to be very heavy snowfall.  I guess it was the trauma from the Lake Effect Snow in Cleveland, but when my car was almost covered by noon, I said, “I’m from Mississippi and this snow is crazy and I’m going home!”  The commute that normally took 20-30 minutes, took 3 hours that day, including the 10 minutes or so it took to loosen my fingers from the death-grip I had on the steering wheel as I was determined to avoid the ditch like so many others I saw. 

One of the things I have learned in my career is that if you want to find out how to improve things, ask the people who are doing the work.  So, I made a quick tour of the eight facilities, meeting my new staff and asking what they needed from me, what plans they had to improve their metrics (I had researched their data and knew there were significant challenges) and where they saw themselves in the next five years.  I listened and learned and let them try their ideas.  Most weren’t successful.  I had some ideas myself and introduced them at a joint meeting.  Not everyone liked my ideas, so I made them a deal.  I would give them one month to make improvements in their metrics using their ideas and if there wasn’t any improvement, they would agree to try my ideas for one month.

When only on facility showed any improvements, we implemented my ideas which I based on the reviews I had made at all facilities within my first month.  I put together a program that focused on standardizing work processes, redesigning their compliance systems and focusing on face-to-face training for the staff) and had immediate improvements.  We went from one of the worst performing VISNs to one of the best in a span of three months.  We even had one facility (Togus, Maine) that was selected as Prosthetics Service of the Year for the entire VA nationwide. 

These results caught the attention of my VISN’s leadership who selected my program as a Best Practice.  They submitted my ideas and results to Central Office and I made a presentation to a whole lot of important people via teleconference, including the Deputy Under Secretary for Health for Operations and Management, who named me a Best of the Best Practices for VA.  I then made another presentation to even more important people in DC.  While I was succeeding in my career, my health was continuing to spiral.  I was trying to manage my diabetes, but my weight had ballooned to 400 pounds and I developed neuropathy.  I also developed sleep apnea.  I was physically exhausted many days and would nod off each time I stopped at a red light when I was driving.  This was not going to end well.

Fortunately, a taping of 60 Minutes in the offices of the guys who accidentally invented the Segway, would change my life in unforeseen ways.

Career Geography, Part 2

              I landed in Anchorage, Alaska, on November 2, 2002, to start my new job.  I remember the exact date as the very next afternoon, while I was enjoying a potluck lunch at my new church (Hillside Baptist, which was recommended by Ms. Natalie Atkins, from my church in Biloxi), the ground began to shake.  No one seemed concerned and I wondered for a minute if I was imagining it.  I turned to my new friend, Lori Rucksdashel and asked, “Is it just me or is the earth moving?”  She grinned and said, “Oh, it’s just an earthquake.  No big deal.”  Since no one was freaking out, I decided to remain calm as well and tucked back into my delicious meal.  I had always been taught, ‘when in doubt, eat’.  I don’t know if that’s biblical, but I can assure you, it’s spiritual, y’all.

                I had been selected as the Chief of Prosthetics for the Alaska VA Healthcare System, which was a giant clinic, not a hospital.  I had a grand total of two employees, but it was an awesome opportunity and I was excited.  I spent a few days acclimating to the facility and my employees and then got straight to work revamping the program, ensuring we met all our metrics, provided great customer service, all while being a collaborator with my staff.  I was determined to be universally loved in Alaska, or at least tolerated and/or respected by Tanya and Rocky, my staff.

                Alaska offered some interesting work scenarios I was not prepared for, like paying to barge a year’s worth of oxygen bottles to a veteran who lived in the Aleutians, a 1,200-mile chain of islands and home to the ironically named city of Unalaska.  I was also presented an invoice that I initially thought was a prank as it involved delivery by airplane and dog sled.  It was real; something I didn’t discover until after I shredded the bill.  Mea culpa, little Alaskan delivery company.

                Alaska was interesting, awesome and a little surreal.  Being in Anchorage, it felt like any other large city.  It had two malls, the downtown one included a Nordstrom, Hot Dog on a Stick and a JC Penney where I sold jewelry as a part-time job for about three months, just to see if I liked it.  I didn’t.  You only realized you were somewhere different if, when you were outside, you paid attention to the Chugach Mountains embracing the city on three sides, like an Inuit trying to hug you.  Do NOT call them Eskimos. 

                Anchorage had most every convenience, but once you left the city limits of Anchorage, you were in the wilderness, y’all.  And I mean wilderness, like caribou bounding across the road and once, on a weekend trip to Valdez to go camping, literally stopping our car on the highway, getting out and having a picnic on the roof and hood of the car without encountering any traffic for at least an hour.  You could start to feel that you’re the only people left in the world.  It’s like West Texas or the Utah Salt Flats, except pretty. 

                One of the things you experience being so far north is the really long days in the summer and long nights in the winter.  The Arctic Circle cuts the state in half, but Anchorage is far enough south that even on the day of the Summer Solstice (June 21), you don’t actually get 24 hours of sunshine; it’s more like 21.  The winters with the sun coming up around 10:30 am and going down around 2:00 pm, I could deal with.  The summers, with the sun coming up around 3:00 am and not going down until after midnight, wore me out.  Even though I had blackout shades on the windows in my basement apartment, your body knows when the sun is up, and it wants you to go outside.  By August, I knew I couldn’t remain in Alaska long term.  I needed sleep, y’all.  And God had a plan for me to leave a place of beautiful white snow to experience the exact opposite; ugly brown snow. 

                Drew Carey lied to us.  Cleveland does, in fact, NOT rock.  I wasn’t aware of this when Jackie Collins (again, not the author) called me to ask if I wanted to come help her fix another Prosthetic department.  After I had left Alaska, she had been promoted to a VISN (Veteran Integrated Service Network) Manager’s position, somewhat like a Regional Manager for VISN 10, which was the entire state of Ohio (including the tiny bits of Pennsylvania and West Virginia that bordered), except Toledo, for some strange reason.  She had been asked to find someone to be the Chief in Cleveland, a GS-12/13 position with about 24 employees and a $27 million budget.  The previous Chief had been removed from the position and the service was in a bad state.  I was called by the Associate Director, who said, “I’ve been told you can fix this.  Will you come help us?”  “Yes, ma’am!”  And so, I left Alaska, headed to Ohio on November 2, 2003, exactly one year after I had arrived. 

                  When I got to Cleveland, I found a lively city with great shopping, great food, irritated citizens and angry brown snow on the banks of Lake Erie.  It literally snowed every day from Halloween until Easter.  I had never heard the term ‘Lake Effect Snow’ until I moved to metropolitan Cleveland, finding an apartment downtown in the theatre district.  Yes, they have a theatre district, with nine different places showing all sorts of things.  It’s where I saw ‘Mama Mia’ for the first time. 

I ventured outside of Cleveland proper to the suburbs of Parma Heights to find my Baptist home church; the properly, if unimaginatively, named Parma Heights Baptist Church.  Southern Baptists are nothing if not pragmatic.

                During my time there, I was able to fix the service, helping it become a top performer and even traveled to other VA’s in Ohio and helped them improve, whether they wanted to or not.  I know for certain the Chiefs in Dayton and Cincinnati, who were much older than me and had been in Prosthetics longer than me, did not appreciate this young upstart telling them how to run their service.  In my mind, I was simply helping; however, as I came to discover, not everyone finds me as charming as I find myself.  But I was asked to fix things, and I did.  Being a collaborator wasn’t really high on my list and Emotional Intelligence was something I didn’t know existed, much less that mine wasn’t very high.

                Luckily, Linda Smith, the Associate Director in Cleveland, took an interest in me and said, “I love that you tell the truth no matter what.  I do think you need to learn how to do that more effectively.”  When I expressed that I wasn’t sure what she meant, she said something along the same lines I had heard before; a variation on Jackie’s original thesis statement, “You’re kind of an ass, Dustin Terryll”.  With these two Mamas looking out for my future, I really focused on being a more collaborative leader.  I tried partnering with those whom I was helping, so they could see I just wanted to make things better; that it wasn’t about my ego.  I didn’t have one, although you couldn’t have convinced them of that.  I feel fairly certain, they felt the ego was strong with me; like a Jedi and The Force.

                During my time in Cleveland, Jackie also urged me to apply for a position in Central Office; what VA staff call our headquarters in DC.  I had only been a Chief for two years at this point and did not feel I was ready to move into one of those high-level positions.  Jackie was adamant that I was what they needed.  She assured me I would be a breath of fresh air, someone who had great writing skills, a good understanding of Prosthetics and the ability to speak my mind.  I truly felt she was off the mark; that her fondness for me was making her see me through the rose-colored glasses that John Conlee sang about.  I finally agreed to apply for a position as a Program Analyst which was a GS-13/14 position, just to get her to stop bugging me.  I figured, at the worst, it would be good practice seeing how well they responded to my resume and, in the off-chance I got an interview, how well I did when competing with everyone among the 300,000 VA employees nationwide.  Yes, I felt literally everyone was competing for this position.  You can take the boy out of the boonies…

                To my surprise I got an interview.  To my even bigger surprise, they wanted me to come to DC for a face-to-face final interview.  Then to my utter shock and disbelief, the man who would become my new boss (Fred Downs, who at this point had been nationally known for at least 20 years) called and said, “Do you want to come work for me?”  Of course, I said yes.  I’m sure I shouted it.  Jackie just smiled and say, “See, I told you.  You’re perfect for the job.”  I had no idea if she was right, but I was determined to not disappoint her or Mr. Downs or my family or the troops or America.

                So, in March of 2004, less than two years after I left Alaska, I was being called home by the mothership.  I was headed to Washington, DC to help shape the Prosthetic and Sensory Aids program at the national level.  I felt a little like Jethro from The Beverly Hillbillies, but without the rope belt or need to cipher out loud.  Little old country bumpkin me was about to be amongst the movers and shakers in the seat of power in America.  The VA’s headquarters is on the corner of Vermont and I (Eye) Street, directly across the park from The White House.  My office was about four blocks away on the corner of I (Eye) and 17^th Streets, not quite the seat of power, but close enough to watch from our office window when the fighter jets confronted the guy who said he got confused and off-course and flew his private plane over The White House in 2005.

                The first day at work I was excited and nervous to meet my colleagues.  Neal Eckrich, a native Texan, who had also traveled to a desolate wintry landscape for his first promotion (Pittsburgh, PA), started the same day as me with the same facial hair (a modified Van Dyke, popular at the time, which most everyone mislabels as a goatee).  One Day Two we both came in clean-shaven.  At 34, I was used to being one of the youngest people in any office where I worked.  Mr. Downs was putting together a remarkably young team, with his vision for program continuity and I suddenly became the oldest of the three Analysts, the other gentleman (Robert) being 33. 

While our team was relatively young, most of the Chiefs and VISN Managers across the country were at least 20 years older.  We were tasked with reviewing their programs and advising them on what and how to improve.  It’s one thing to be able to establish a relationship that over time turns to trust; it’s quite another not have the opportunity to establish a relationship of any depth to make the interactions pleasant or at least devoid of angst or stress.  I was hoping my personality had become infused with all the advice and leadership lessons from My Mamas, like sugar infuses (properly) sweet tea.

I remember the first time I used Splenda to sweeten my tea.  It was unfamiliar and unusual, but I enjoyed it just the same and actually found it preferable to Sweet ‘n’ Low.  I simply wanted to repeat this scenario but with strangers over the phone.  That sounds like a pathway to success, right?