Hemmingway Version of "The Imposter Syndrome"

Did you ever buy a car or a house only to lie awake nights wondering how you were going to pay for it? Or talk yourself into a situation and then immediately look for a way out? So have I.

The Imposter Syndrome

In 1981, after spending all of my adult life as an air traffic controller, I was fired for participating in a strike. Fortunately I had a degree in Business Management but zero job skills other than controlling air traffic. And the insurmountable problem with that was there was only one employer for air traffic controllers, the federal government, the very same government that had just sent me packing. It took about a year to realize that I was not going to be rehired and had best be about the business of making a living. During that first year I worked for a few weeks as a cab driver and for several months as a pest control technician. The one advantage of the pest control gig was the uniform I wore. Twas a red jump suit, that's right, a fat guy with a white beard wearing a red jump suit. Those were the times.

One day as I was walking through the Broward County Governmental Center in Fort Lauderdale I saw a job bulletin board. On the board was a listing for an entry level professional position as a Personnel Specialist. The job was in the Human Resources Department. The person selected would work in the recruitment and training division. The qualifications required a four year degree, experience as a trainer and a written test. Hmmm. let's see, I had worked in the training department for the Federal Aviation Administration, I had a degree, I have always done well on tests and best of all, if selected, goodbye red jump suit.

I applied, submitted my resume, took the test and miracle of miracles was selected.
(Unabashed bragging here folks, one hundred and thirty seven took the written test, most with degrees in human resources, guess who finished first?) Anyhow, back to my tale. After being hired, I worked for Broward County as a training specialist for a while, then became a recruiter and ended up three years later as the Broward County Training Officer. As such, I made a about half what I had previously made as an air traffic controller, but hey, no red suit. After about three and a half years with Broward County I was solicited for the position of Deputy Personnel Director for the City of Pompano Beach, Florida. One year earlier my former supervisor at the county had been selected for the position of Personnel Director in Pompano Beach. Shortly after being hired, her Deputy resigned and she advertised the position. She had asked that I look at the applications and tell her who I thought the three finalists should be. (I had not applied) I reviewed their qualifications and ranked the applicants. She and I had lunch to discuss her selection. In the course of our discussion she asked what I thought what was the most important quality in a deputy director. I replied, "personal loyalty" not to the City, not to the organization, but to the person who hires you. We ended our lunch and she set up interviews for her finalists. Somewhere around three weeks later she called me and said, "Larry, I want you to be my Deputy Director." Up until Janice Adams, the Pompano Beach Personnel Director, said those words I had given zero thought to leaving my job with Broward County. I was paid fairly well, didn't do a hell of a lot and was located just a few blocks from Ft. Lauderdale Beach where I spent my lunch hours looking at the...uhh..."scenery." As I recall our conversation, there was a lengthy pause and then I told Janice I would think about it. Broward County had 5,000 employees, Pompano Beach had approximately 900, so I was not sure the job was a step up. More importantly, Pompano Beach was a notoriously politically unstable city. Department heads served at the pleasure of the City Council and City Manager. One local election could change the whole landscape and endanger a lot of jobs. After wearing that damned red jump suit, I did not want to be fired again. I talked with a lot of folks in my field for advice. The Broward County Personnel Director was the most persuasive, he said I had to take the job if I ever wanted to progress in human resources, I was not at all sure that I wanted to move up the career ladder but I could not tell him that, so with a great deal of trepidation, I accepted the job and went to Pompano Beach.

The City had active, and somewhat militant, unions in both their Fire and Police departments. The Public Works Division had a separate and somewhat more passive union. I am not sure how I got so involved in grievances, appeals and equal employment opportunity issues, but I did. Maybe it was because of my background as a union representative or that the Personnel Director knew that I would not "give away the farm" during collective bargaining negotiations. I learned a great deal in Pompano Beach about local governments and even more about elected officials. My four years in Pompano Beach constituted an invaluable seminar in the world of civic activists and public management. Ahh yes, City Council meetings than ran into the early morning hours while we debated whether or not senior citizens feeding ducks and the subsequent waste byproducts constituted a health hazard. One constituency screaming "duck killers" while the other side shouted back "duck dung lovers." What great memories!

After four years in Pompano Beach I was leafing through a publication of the International Personnel Management Association and saw a job advertised for a Management Services Director for the city of Miami Beach, Florida. I read over the qualifications and thought I might be minimally eligible. More importantly, I had been interviewing job applicants for a little over seven years or so but I had not been interviewed. I thought it may help to improve my own skills by sitting across the desk and answering questions instead of asking them. Not really knowing if I would rank high enough to qualify for an interview, I submitted my resume. Weeks passed and I heard nothing, I had actually forgotten about the job when I received a call from their City Manager's secretary to schedule an interview. I learned there were seven finalists and all would be interviewed by a panel consisting of the City Manager, City Attorney and the Police Chief. On the agreed upon date, I jumped into my car and headed south down I-95.

After reporting in and going up to the waiting room, I nervously looked around. There were a couple of other folks in the room all waiting their turn to interview. man, did these guys look good. Tailored suits, razor cut hair, wing tipped shoes shined to a high gloss, these people looked like human resource professionals. Me? I was hoping my tie was straight and that both shoes were the same color. Immediately I thought, why in hell am I here? what was I thinking about? I wonder if I could still get my red jump suit back. OK, OK I didn't wish I could get the red suit back. But, I did have a feeling of being completely out of place and completely out-classed by my competition. The interview itself was a blur. Like all structured interviews, I was asked "probing" questions designed to give the interview panel some insight into my background and an idea of how I would function as a department director. I finished the interview and drove back north on I-95 with a sense of relief. I had not embarrassed myself too badly, didn't think I had stammered too much and I knew, given the competition, I had absolutely no chance for the job. A week later, the City Manager, Michael Roberto, called and offered me the job.

To say I was astounded did not begin to describe my surprise. initially, I assumed he had confused me with one of the other finalists but he assured me I was the unanimous choice of the interview panel. he said they were all impressed with my willingness to make quick decisions and give unequivocal answers. I recalled the old rule of air traffic control, "you may be wrong, however always answer immediately and never, ever sound uncertain." I was completely taken aback to learn the panel had actually thought I knew what I was talking about. He closed the conversation by asking me to lunch to discuss salary, benefits and when I could report. After agreeing to meet within a few days, I hung up the phone, turned around in my chair, looked out my office window and thought, "What in hell have I done?"

Mike and I had lunch at a local eatery on the Inter-Coastal Waterway, as we ate he told me what my salary would be and in truth, it was not more than I was making. I was somewhat relieved because I could easily turn down such a modest increase, remain in Pompano, and tell myself I was waiting for a better opportunity. Then he explained the leave policy for department heads. I would receive ten (10) weeks of vacation each year. I said. "Mike how in hell can I take ten weeks off?" He replied, "you can't." He explained that just one week before the end of the year he would buy the leave back, dollar for dollar, and then, on the second day of January he would award me ten more weeks of annual leave. So, if I took two weeks vacation each year, I could still cash in an additional eight weeks of leave at my full salary. He used this methodology so that the listed salaries of city executives did not appear to be out of line. Michael Roberto was an innovative and audacious city manager. I accepted the job and agreed to report in three weeks.

Immediately, I went full blown into "buyer's remorse." Me, a human resources director? who was I kidding? I was a career civil service person, for most of my life I had been devoted to fooling people into thinking I knew what I was doing. Now, everyone else was happy for me, the folks I worked with in Pompano Beach told me how great it was that I got the job, my wife told all of her friends that I was going to be a department head and all the while I thought, what in hell have I done?

One day while still in Pompano, my new City Manager's secretary called and told me that Mike wanted me to go and pick out my office furniture. Pick out office furniture? I did not know a credenza from a hat rack. The secretary explained that I was moving into a new office and Mike thought I should have whatever I wanted. She said get a great chair and some nice pictures. Nice pictures? All I had on my office walls were Gator football pictures. But, my wife said she would go with me, so catalog in hand, we spent the city's money on new furniture and wall decorations.

The Monday morning that I reported for duty I was as scared as I have ever been in my life. I was now the "Director of Management Services." Reporting to me were the Risk Management Division, the Purchasing Division, Communications and of course, Human Resources. I would be the "City Manager's Designee." As such I had final authority in all matters of hiring, firing and resolving grievances. There is one thing about being a "Deputy" or "Assistant" anything: You never have the last word, there is always someone else ultimately responsible for what happens. It is reassuring to know no matter how radical your solution, your boss has veto power, and if it turns out wrong, well they signed the order. Now I would be the one making the decision and signing the order. I did not feel even remotely qualified, I felt exactly like someone pretending to be what I knew I was not.

I vividly remember, sitting in my new office, at my new desk, in my new chair and thinking all of those people sitting in that large room just outside my door think I have a clue. I thought it would take about a week for them to figure out that nothing could be further from the truth. I wondered if that pest control company still had my red jump suit, I thought I might need it soon.

Over the next few years I was selected for several more jobs, each with increasing responsibilities, but never did I forget the loneliness of that first day or the absolute certainty someone was going to come into my office and ask what in hell I was doing there. I would have had no answer other than to say, a few weeks ago I answered this ad...and everything is fuzzy after that.

OK, Ok, I am leaving. Hey, could ya make that red suit an extra, extra large?

Money and Medicine

As most of you know, my politics tend to be a bit right of center. That is on most things, on others I may be more like Che Guevara. Some parts of the damned system are fatally broke, and like Che, I am ready to blow parts of it up. My health insurance is Blue Cross/Blue Shield Federal. It is as good as medical insurance gets and contrary to all the BS in the newspapers, it is not free for federal retirees. It costs me over four hundred dollars each month. I also have Medicare so one would think, that insurance wise at least, I am in good shape.

On August 17, 2009, I started having chest pains. Nine years ago I had a six way bypass, so any chest pain gets my undivided attention. I was driven to the North Florida Medical Center. I was there for less than sixteen hours. Thankfully, the medical staff determined that my pain was not cardiac related. I was not admitted to the hospital, had no invasive testing, no catherization lab, not even an MRI. Yet, my total hospital bill came to just over twenty two thousand dollars, ($22,000.00).
Thus far my out of pocket expenses have exceeded two thousand dollars.

Before going to the emergency room, I checked to see which hospital was covered by my insurance carrier. North Florida Medical Center was where I was directed to go. However, purely by chance, the emergency Room Physician on duty, was not a participating doctor. The guy on duty was Vietnamese, his English was heavily accented but from the part I understood, he seemed to be a pleasant man and a competent medical professional. He was with me for about ten minutes. Yesterday, I received a separate bill for his ten minutes of attention. In very clear English, the bill asked that I remit an additional $567.00. He had billed Blue Cross and they refused to pay. When I asked Blue Cross why they did not pay the bill they said, "Sorry but that particular doctor is not in our plan." I asked how in hell can a person know who might be on duty at any hospital on any given shift? Their response amounted to this, "Too bad chump, not a participant, payment responsibility is yours and yours alone." Damn, Damn, Damn! and double damn!

Listen, I do not want the government running our country's health care system. I have been in the military and I have also been to a V.A. facility, I know first hand what government ran medical care is, and trust me, it is not good. But, how in hell can any company of conscience charge more than twenty four thousand dollars for a hospital visit of sixteen hours? Think about it, I could have flown by private jet to the Mayo Clinic, stayed at the Four Seasons Hotel and saw a world renown cardiac specialist for less than half what I was charged.

In my opinion, the medical profession in general, and the insurance industry in particular, is driving this country to the edge of socialized medicine. Their current practices and charges are not just wrong, they are obscene.

Reality in a microsecond

Back in 1969, when I was just twenty six years old, I lived in a small village on the Alaskan Aleutian Chain. The village was aptly named Cold Bay. There were less than two hundred souls sharing our lonely outpost on that barren, windswept location between the Bering Sea and Northern Pacific Ocean. There was little to do, no movies, no television, sometimes Armed Forces Radio signals would reach us and we would catch up on week old news from the "Lower 48." The most popular recreational activity was drinking at our one bar ran by Flying Tiger Airlines. Cold bay was an important link in the airways system linking America to the Far East, particularly Vietnam and Japan. The Vietnam war was hot, and Cold bay had an instrument landing system and a ten thousand foot runway where transport and troop carrier aircraft could land and refuel on their way to and from Japan and/or Vietnam. Flying Tiger had several valuable contracts with the military so they had about forty maintenance and other technical personnel on site. I was there to do my part in the air traffic operation, although I think I believed my primary role to be to reduce any surplus of beer thereby preventing my fellow workers from drinking too much.

My most poignant memory of Cold bay began one evening in the Flying Tiger Bar. We had been having a going away party from someone who was returning to "The World" (anyplace not on the Aleutians) and leaving our happy band of misfits, refugees and never-do-wells. If I remember correctly it was mid March and as such the temperature would have been around zero with about a forty knot wind, I clearly remember everything being covered in snow. That doesn't mean it was snowing, in Cold Bay the wind was fierce and constant and continually moved the snow from place to place. We often awoke to find clear sky's but have eight foot drifts burying every vehicle on the station. This was one of those typical nights, wind squalls and a bone chilling wet cold.

Inside the bar all was well with the world. The young man leaving us was Jim Chivonney, a really good guy. He was a communications tech in his mid-twenties. Back in Ohio he had a young wife and a six month old child he had never seen. The next day he was to board the "Freedom Bird" and fly back to his family and to civilization. The bar tender was a Filipino fellow named Agrapino Lopez, we called him "A.G." A.G. was also a good guy, friendly, out going and with a smile for everyone, but more importantly, he served a hell of a drink. A.G. was a jet mechanic by day, but moonlighted for his employer, Flying Tiger, as our village bartender. As the celebration went on, Jim and A.G. begin to argue about something, I have no idea what, but I seem to think it was boxing. Each was ridiculing the other about their choice of who would win a hypothetical match between two fighters from different eras. In other words, it was a typical, nonsensical bar room argument that could never be settled. The two guys had been drinking together for over a year, fished together and had never had any animosity between them so everyone assumed it was just another drunken disagreement between friends.

Sometime around nine o'clock in the evening my wife and I decided to leave the party. We had came with another couple and they drove a Volkswagen Beetle. I had opened the door of the car and pushed the front seat back when I heard the deafening roar of a gunshot from about six feet behind me. A.G. had came out of the bar with a Ruger 357 magnum pistol, in a Crown Royal Whiskey bag, and shot Jim Chivonney in the chest. Jim was dead when his body hit the snow.

Last night, January 11, 2009, a young girl that worked at a bar I frequent, "Gator Tales," was shot dead. Her name was Stacey Brown, she was twenty years old and would have started to college the next day. Stacey had went to visit a friend, apparently a couple of animals posing as human beings, tried a home invasion robbery. Their take? sixty two dollars. And for that amount of money a young girl was murdered. Hell, She had never even had enough time to start to live. In a micro-second her life ended and for everyone that knew her, their life has also changed in ways they do not yet realize. Senseless, sudden death is incomprehensible. There is no answer to why? There is no way to change what happened. No amount of if's, could haves, or should haves, can alter or change the finality of a gun shot.

I hardly knew Stacy, she was a waitress, and sometimes a bartender in my favorite pub. In truth, I did not know Jim Chivonney that well. Although he worked in Cold Bay as I did, it was an insular world. Even in that smallest of small towns, Air Traffic folks lived in their own world and Flying Tiger personnel in another. These two tragedies are separated by almost forty years and I am far from the person I was then but the finality of it all is the same. Last night I saw the same looks of incomprehension that we all had in Cold Bay four decades ago. If I have learned one thing from these and other life lessons it it this; We control almost nothing, we have the present and not one micro-second more.