Please accept the following conflict case study review as
part of my application for the position of “Ministry Complaints Officer.” In
keeping with our confidentiality policy all names have been altered.
I came into my office at the Ministry of “Work” fifteen
minutes early as I do each and every morning. If I am not the first into the
department I am almost always the second. One of my junior staff likes to show
up before me when everything is quiet to get through her paperwork and do her
breathing exercises before the phone starts ringing. She is also the one who
turns off the alarm, a bit of a relief really because I often forget my
passkey.
The situation in question occurred on the day of January 12th,
2011. If I recall correctly the day was crisp and cold with a heavy bank of
cloud looming just to the west. I wore galoshes and a dark grey overcoat. I
like the sound of the word ga-losh-es and so that is what I call my mid-calf
rubber boots (“ga-losh-es”). My papers were packed haphazardly in my briefcase
along with my laptop and breakfast wrap.
As I walked past Ms. Doilah’s desk I said good morning and
made my way to the door separating my office from the secretary pool, otherwise
known as “the tank”. When my blinds are open I can see the backs and sides of
three secretaries and an auditor. In my office I always hang my coat on the
second hook so that room is made for a visitor or my divisional head if he
wants to meet. My brown loafers are left each night. I occasionally polish them
while drinking coffee and pretending my pencil is a cigarette.
On my desk I check for notes and my morning mail.
Occasionally I bring a newspaper. I always leaf through the sports section and
obituaries first. Like Ms. Doilah I like time to think in peace before the day
begins. I am tidy and I need to be ready for anything. This day would prove to
be both long and very difficult, testing every negotiation, mediation and
anger management tool I learned after years of intense training at the Justice
Institute of Mediation.
I have a good memory and can recall details with ease. There
were precisely three yellow sticky notes on the desk beside my daybook. One of
the notes was folded in half. I could feel my neck swelling slightly, a
condition I have that has a name sounding like thrombosis but in truth has
nothing to do with blood clots or arteries. It is a nervous reaction to
potentially stressful situations. Folded notes stress me out. Like my
sandwiches, I prefer my notes to be open-faced. They are honest, conceal
nothing and invite immediate consumption. Folded notes mean complaints,
closed-door meetings and lengthy reports. But this is what I am trained to
do, for I am a skilled complaints officer with years of experience.
I sat down with a new pencil in hand, nervously lighting it
with the butt end of the pencil I imagined I had just finished smoking.
Open-faced note number one asked me to sign up for three more kitchen cleaning
days next month. I never volunteer my time because I never use that fetid
hellhole of a fridge to store my lunch. In the morning it smells as though
something warm-blooded crawled into the lettuce crisper drawer to die a slow
cryogenic death. But I digress. In truth
I am a team player, I go out of my way to help others and volunteer
readily when I see a problem situation. My colleagues think of me as a
“go-to-guy!”
Open-faced note number two referred to an impending training
seminar that I was supposed to lead. I do these often. A bit of a song-and-pony
dance that has me finessing power point stats, projected up-turns, new HR
matrix standards, diametric analyses of recent policy addendums and so on. You
know the drill. I always receive warm applause when the lights are turned on
and invite questions with a measure of enthusiasm. The dates for the seminar
have changed, now conflicting with my three-day heli-skiing trip with friends
to celebrate my fiftieth birthday. I adjust to scheduling changes with ease
and am able to work towards a positive outcome no matter how inconvenient such
changes may be.
Things weren’t looking good. Open-faced note number two
almost qualified as a fold-over, at least as far as I was concerned. My manager
knew I was planning on going away then. There was a ray of hope. I saw him do
something he shouldn’t have at the annual Christmas breakfast, something that
breaches section 11a of the “Respect Others, Respect Yourself” Office Code and
Guidelines Manual (aka RORY). I am adept at reading, studying and
remembering policy and procedure manuals and as an office head I implement
rules and regulations strategically to ensure all staff needs are met.
I was sweating a bit then and noticed I was chain smoking.
Pencils were lying everywhere. I
picked up the final notes and opened it up. Written in Ms. Doilah’s ever so
elegant script were the words:
You have a meeting scheduled for 9:00 am this
morning. Two accountants from HR require reconciliation treatment. Please meet in rm. 205
fifteen minutes early for briefing.
A.
Doilah
My desk clock showed 8:40 am. I had less than three minutes
to get prepared. There is a routine I have to prepare for any conflict
resolution session. It is a technique I learned at a team spirit workshop last
summer. I finished the last of my coffee. I took a few deep breaths. I massaged
my neck. I took out my ten-pound weight and did a few pumps upward as if I was
pushing against the ceiling. This represents reaching for the heavens. It means
hopefulness. I did a few outward pumps as if I was boxing with my shadow. This
means fearlessness or warding off your opponents energy I think. Finally I
brought both of my hands together around the neck of the weight and brought it
forcefully downward as if I was chopping my manager’s head off with an axe. I
repeated this ten times.
It was now 8:42 am. I gathered my notebook and a fresh pack
of pencils and bolted out of my door. Other staff members were arriving now. I
tried to look serious and self-important. As I darted around the desks I could
feel that all eyes were on me and perhaps just a glimmer of envious admiration
hovered in the wake of my advance. One of these paeans wanted my job but I
couldn’t quite figure out which one yet. David (kiss my ass) B. was a
candidate. So was Ron W., Mr. Matchbox MBA himself. Over my dead body is all I
can say. I readily identify the talents and strengths of others and delegate
tasks that will encourage both individual and team growth.
When I reached the door of Rm 205 I stopped briefly to tuck
my shirttails in and adjust my glasses. I knocked twice before turning the knob
and seeing my way in. My manager was seated in his normal chair in the corner.
A counselor from HR had arranged herself around the table to his right. Two
chairs remained empty but I knew it was expected that I would face the door
along with the others. This was a classic seating strategy to instill trust
and confidence in the complainant and might
have been suggested in that copy of Feng Shui for the Office and
Home: Western Edition that was passed
around a few years back. I assumed a grave yet relaxed pose facing them and
greeted the others as I sat down.
For whatever reason my attention was immediately drawn to a
large stain on the chair which the counselor was seated on. When she crossed
her legs the stain was fully visible- a cookie-sized opaque smear. When she
shifted her body towards me the stain disappeared. Somehow this stain,
no-stain, there it is again, situation was bound to distract me throughout the
course of the two-hour meeting that lay before me. There is a good reason
eating in this room is prohibited. I often focus on an unusual detail like
this. It relaxes me and gives me time to collect my thoughts so that I can
respond to the emotional nuances of the conflict tactfully. I am able to
find inner calm when faced with difficult decisions. Training and life
experience have prepared me to handle sensitive inter-personal conflicts
professionally.
We spent some time quietly studying the grievance dossiers
that had been waiting for us on the table. This could be intense. When conflict
between employees involves personal strife from outside the office we hear
about problems that are better left on the welcome mat. I never understood this
about people I work with. I have always felt this is what makes the workplace
bearable- it is a retreat from everything we assume life is worth living for
which s nothing more than the predictability of desire and disappointment. As
soon as I pass through those revolving doors on the mezzanine I am released
from the daily numbness of home- an indifference to food, pruning in the
garden, the tepid warmth of my cat. What really turned me on was solving the
Sudoku-like algorithms of human incompatibility. It was soon clear that the
story unfolding on my lap was going to make my day.
Two forensic accountants from HR weren’t getting along.
Their cubicles shared a wall and they kept shorting out their surge protectors.
They routinely exceeded their plug-in capacities with a mélange of chargers for
phones, blue tooth devices and even portable espresso makers. Amazingly, both
staff members had worked in a similar office back east for the same supervisor
and had been dismissed for the same reason. They were incompetently competent-
thorough and hard working but belligerent and narrow minded, like high-strung
foals getting ready for their first race out of the gate. As we tend to joke in
the senior management circle, these guys were products of the same Ritalin
popping business school honor rolls we see more and more of these days. I
sighed as I read on and wondered how we could keep these two as far apart as
possible. The last thing we needed was for morale to dip among the bean
counters only months before tax statements and ministry audits were due.
The infraction occurred last week. John M., the taller of
the two, alleged that Angus C. had been spreading rumors about his shortcomings
as a logistical SWOT facilitator. While piecing together a strategic planning
retreat for staffers to review departmental “strengths, weaknesses,
opportunities, and threats” it is relatively easy for someone of John’s caliber
to let the proceedings fall apart as boredom seeps in after hours of arguing
and navel gazing. Add to this the endless mound of crust free ham sandwiches
and fruity pastries and a collective malaise will set in big time.
The bottom line is that nobody really wants to be at those
meetings and so it can be real hell for the facilitator to keep the momentum
going. A former SWOT leader I know put it this way, “imagine holding an auction
in a palliative care ward and you’ll know what it’s like to come in and
motivate staffers about the future of the public service.” I always laugh aloud
when I remember that line. I think of myself as someone who has a good sense
of humor and a sunny disposition. I believe that laughter is a useful tool to
help relieve tension, particularly when there are extended periods of awkward
silence.
My laughter did halt the silence, leading the other two to
stop and look at me with raised eyebrows. My neck began throbbing again ever so
softly. As I reached for a pencil I turned back to the report and remarked,
“This is fairly straight forward don’t you think? I mean,
here we have two very competitive mid-level junior accountants who are both
climbing on each other’s backs to get the ball in the hoop. I suggest we bring
Angus in for a chat, get this wrapped up before lunch and move on?”
David, my manager, either nodded in agreement or wasn’t
listening. Finally, he looked up at me and replied, “I had a pre-brief session
with Angus earlier this morning. There’s more, but you won’t believe it.”
At this point Marianne the counselor and I shifted in our
seats before putting our reports aside. The strange food smear on the seat was
plainly visible again. “Go ahead David, I’ll take notes,” she announced.
David passed around two photos. In the first picture I could
make out a hand holding a small object. It was a tool. This tool had a handle
resembling a chopstick. The shaft of the handle had a razor blade attached to
it with two small brass rivets. It looked potentially lethal, like something
used to help convince pilots to fly into buildings.
The second photo was of a bag lying on a table. David
explained that it was John’s “murse”, otherwise known as a “man bag”. It was
from Japan and made out of material recycled from old leather pants. It was
large enough for a laptop and files and had the same kind of stitching that
baseball gloves are constructed with. It was elegant, useful and ugly. When I
squinted I could make out three diagonal lines on the surface of the bag that
were not, as we were told, part of the original design.
David then elaborated on his meeting with Angus. It was
revealed that,
“He has been under a lot of stress over the past few months.
His contract is under review, he has a child on the way and there is a hefty
mortgage to pay on his west side condo. Work has been piling up and he has been
punching eleven-hour days. On top of this Angus has been taking night courses
at a cooking school, spending four hours a night learning how to make Danishes,
pretzels and bread. The night before the incident with John he had been told
his baguettes required work, especially his, uh, slashing!”
David then referred to a wiki document that described what
slashing is. When freshly proofed rolls of dough are ready for the oven it is
traditional for the head baker to walk by and slash a series of diagonal cuts
along the length of the baguettes to allow the crust to expand without
cracking. Fascinating stuff. John had a lot of difficulty with this and
foolishly carried his tool with him to work to practice. Apparently he had been
twirling it around during his early morning commute on the train, making mock
cuts on the arms of fellow commuters.
Somehow this frenzy went undetected until all hell broke
loose when he got to work. John had arrived at the office before Angus and had
“accidentally-on-purpose” plugged his Kindle charger into Angus’s power bar.
John’s murse happened to be dangling over the cubicle wall and before it could
be avoided the slasher was back in action. Delivering well-placed strokes,
Angus cut three fine lines into the leather bag at precisely 45 degrees, the
exact technique he had been asked to work on before his bread presentation that
night. Had this been bread, the murse would have risen to perfection alongside
the rest of the baguettes under examination.
I was rapidly taking notes at this point. I was filling out
Standard Resolution Form 2.a. for Internal Review. As unique as the dispute was
it fell into the same old category as every other issue that had come before
the committee this year. It was customary for conflict between staff to flare
up into a sudden, intense altercation that was physical in intent yet harmless
in effect. This was a case where “transference” was the modality by which
anger was directed at the target. In this case “the murse” had become a
stand-in for “the man.”
The counselor then took my notes. She would hold conflict
remediation sessions with Angus and John separately. I was further
recommending they do two weeks of group processing and that John M. be
compensated for the damage to his
property. If necessary the value of the “murse” is to be assessed and replaced
in full if the said damage is irreparable. Moving Angus C. to a different
cubicle was required immediately.
After David, Susan and I shared a few pleasantries I
returned to my office to look over a few documents. I felt good about the day
so far. So good in fact that I put the pack of pencils I had been clutching
back into the drawer. I was one step closer to quitting the habit for good. I
picked up the remaining pencil on the table and held it evenly between my two
hands. I placed both my thumbs along the pencil bridge and applied pressure
evenly, watching as the wood bowed under my force. I heard a soft crack just
before it exploded, the pieces flying across the room and landing just shy of
the wall. Yes, this had been a good start to the day.
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In short, I trust that I have submitted my application as
required. I look forward to your reply.
Sincerely,
