Stories that Lead:  A Call to the Commons

by Dan Leahy and Catherine Johnson

 

So often these days we hear about the need for leaders in education.  The Wallace-Reader's Digest Foundation is currently in the process of launching a multi-million dollar commitment aimed at placing leadership at the forefront of educational reform.  But what techniques or theories does a school leader really need?  Where do we begin?  This article suggests we begin with stories, with listening.

William Isaacs, founder of the Dialogue Project at MIT, provides a useful framework from which to build more conscious conversations.  He proposes that there are four basic pathologies to thinking, which can be remedied by four corresponding practices, the first of which is listening.  By developing these practices, one develops an increased capacity for dialogue.  And, out of dialogue emerge new stories, stories we can steer by.

 

Pathology of Thought	Practices for Building Capacity
Abstraction	Listening
Idolatry	Voicing
Certainty	Suspending
Violence	Respecting

 

There are those who say that we can know and be known through our stories.  The ancient Greek word:  logos, suggests we can be led by the word.  But which stories should we follow?  Woven into the tapestry of our language, its rhythms and rhymes, its metaphors and myths are both the threads of our dilemmas as well as our solutions.  Within the library of our collective stories there are those that speak of limits, that seem to place a straight-jacket around our potential.  There are also those that evoke, that call forth the best in us.  These stories are the ones discovered as they are written, the authors learning from one another, finding common values in the text of very different lives.  These are the stories that can provide a compass heading in difficult times.  These are the stories that can lead to us.

According to Isaacs, "Dialogue is about a shared inquiry, a way of thinking and reflecting together.  It is not something you do to another person.  It is something you do with people . . . Dialogue is a living experience of inquiry within and between  people."[1]

What follows is our attempt to present four different stories from recent events occurring in local school districts.  Each, embodies one of Isaac's principles.

Abstraction/Participation/Listening

In a small rural community, tragedy hits hard.  When it's a high school senior who is killed in a car wreck, a few weeks before graduation, everyone grieves.  Within hours of the young man's death his friends and family created a shrine beside the highway, at the base of the tree his car had struck.  To their simple structure, a wooden cross holding his senior picture, passers by began adding offerings of their own.  There were votive candles and flowers placed around, a tie-dyed T-shirt draped over one of the cross-arms, a baseball mitt placed on top.  Someone left a notebook, for the poems, letters and lamentations that the young man would never hear.  In the weeks that followed young people clustered at the shrine at all times of the day , and often through the long night.  A few older people stopped briefly, but mostly this was a high school place, a makeshift commons on the shoulder of the highway leading from town.  Whenever anyone drove by, young people were there, sitting in silence or talking quietly.  Some wept, many looked confused.  Yet there was also something good happening there.  It was the one place where feelings were welcome, where everyone understood and no one had to explain that which was so unexplainable.

Days passed and graduation approached.  The students looked forward to hearing the young man's name called as a member of their class, and of seeing his cousin walk to the stage and accept his diploma.  Meanwhile, the school principal and some of the staff became worried about the amount of attention the students were giving their despair.  Perhaps parents voiced their concern as well, insisted that the "school" should do something to intervene.  Out of love, concern and perhaps duty the principal suggested to a group of influential seniors that they dismantle the shrine, or at least convince other students to spend less time there.  Not soon after, word leaked out that the principal had also decided that the young man's diploma would be mailed to his parents instead of being given at the graduation ceremony.  Upon hearing this, the students became incensed.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to reason with the concerned and well-intended officials at the high school, a group of seniors went to the superintendent's office to make their case.  by the time they stood before the man whose job it is to guide the district, they were filled with outrage and anger.  The opening of the meeting resembled a frontal assault more than a conversation.  There were moments when the superintendent wanted to defend himself, the principal, his staff, but instead listened with the ear of a therapist, asked questions with the kindness of a healer and responded with a parent's heart.  Beneath the insulting and abusive comments of the young students, he could hear the pain of their grief.  What seemed an arbitrary and unfair decision to the young students reflected the arbitrary and unfair loss of their friend's life.  As the superintendent listened, the students' fire subsided.  A few began to cry, and he was deeply touched by what he saw.  He told them so.  He reassured them that the shrine belonged to the whole community, not just the students.  "No one," he said, "could keep them away."  He also realized that much of that same community would be sitting in the bleachers on the following Saturday afternoon.  Some of those people had not been able to attend the young man's memorial or his funeral; graduation might be their last chance to publicly remember him or say goodbye.  The superintendent told the students that the young man's name would be read and his diploma given.

I was there on that late May afternoon, sitting in the stands, under a hot sun, looking down at the row of graduates; the young men in their green robes and mortar boards, the young women in white.  When the principal finally called the name of the young man who had died, there was the rough shuffle of a large crowd coming to its feet followed by almost four minutes of applause.  Many cried as they clapped, not bitter tears of pain, but sweet tears of sorrow, a sorrow that could somehow be carried more lightly now.

Isaacs points out that the distinctions we make (teacher/student, parent/child) can become abstractions which lead to fragmentation, causing the parts to lose connection with the whole.  By truly listening into the other, we can recall the ways in which we are intimately linked to one another.  We can remember our common values, literally re-member ourselves to each other.

Violence/Coherence/Respect

It's a bleak morning.  Members of the cadre, building staff and teachers from this large elementary school north of Seattle, sit in small plastic chairs they've long outgrown, huddled round the desks their students will soon occupy.  Their purpose is to collectively address concerns that arise in their school and consensually agree on a course of action.

The problem before them is "decline in respect, caring, and tolerance of others" that has slowly crept into their hallways and playgrounds.  Their diagnosis is "poor communication," that virus infecting relationships as it erodes trust.  They focus their attention on one of their tools of communicating, the "Green Slip," the bearer of "bad news" when a student has done something that raises concerns.  Designed for efficiency, with several boxes to check to indicate the specific concern, it can be quickly filled out by staff and passed on to the next adult as the student travels through the day from class to playground to gym and to library.  But the rising concerns have called its effectiveness into question.  This limits the staff's capacity to take appropriate action to effectively deal with the concern.  The overall result is a growing sense that they are slipping away from the school's core value of being a learning community for all its students.  They are losing touch with that which gave them coherence.

As the conversation continues it begins to expand, outgrowing the limits of classroom, the playground, the students.  Before long it becomes clear that a similar pattern has begun to emerge among the adults.  They speak of moments where they feel disrespected by colleagues, by administrators, by parents, by politicians.  They acknowledge their disagreements about steps to take in response to the behaviors and needs of their students.  There is a sense of one's professional point of view being disrespected.  The "virus" has spread.  The issue is deeper than "poor communication" and more complex.  The pattern of the children is a mirror of the pattern of the adults.  Society as a whole is becoming less tolerant, less compassionate, and less respectful.

Their desire to address these issues brought them together.  Fights on the playground are not much different than fights between the adults.  Although they see this, it's easier to focus on the kids.  Not surprisingly, since this is the land of Microsoft, they focus on the hardware -- the tool -- in hopes that if the information is communicated clearly the other will understand and agree.  But hardware is not enough.  We need software to accomplish the task.  The information needs to be held with heart, and received with compassion.  We need to appreciate the differences that are contained in the whole.

Isaacs sees thought that imposes or defends as violent.  To impose our views on others or defend ourselves against their views, suggests a fragmentation which denies our common bond/concerns.  He suggests we use the eye of the artist in each of us to look for the coherence in our situation.  Opening these eyes requires that we hold each other as worthy of respect.

Certainty/Awareness/Suspending

Not long ago, I was invited to facilitate a meeting for some young people who attend an alternative high school program.  Their meeting space is located in a very popular building in the center of town which houses a gallery, a florist, a bookstore, and wearable art shop.  My job was to help the young people prepare for a second meeting, to be held later in the evening with the building's other tenants who were worried about their young neighbors' ability to maintain the space appropriately.  A list of concerns had been generated and the young people were uncertain how best to receive the list.

As we began there was a great deal of jostling, settling in, teasing and interrupting.  Finally, we began, "Tell me," I said, "what are you worried about?"

One young man in black leather said, "They're the ones that are worried."

"I know, but you must be worried about something, or else you wouldn't be here."

The young man was thoughtful and the room, quiet.  Then one of his friends spoke.  

"We could lose this space, if we can't get along."  You could have heard a pin drop  in that wildly painted room with the old sofas and cast off carpet, then everyone spoke at once in an eruption of concern.

"They can't do that."

"Wanna bet?"

"Sure they can."

"Hey, shut up."  The young man who had named the larger problem took the lead.  It was a breakthrough moment.  "They need to know that we care as much about this place as they do."

The whole group began to see how the surface issues, forgetting to stock the restroom, how they kept or didn't keep the parking lot swept, were really distractions from the heart of the matter.  Now everyone grasped that the business people must be worried about their business, about losing what had been wonderful about their spaces.  Quickly, with very little help from me, they planned the later event.  The first hour would be for snacks and socializing, but the socializing would have a purpose:  to share and inquire of others what they appreciated about being located in the building.  The second hour was set aside to be a formal meeting during which the students would listen to the list of the other tenants' grievances.  So successful was the socializing, that the list ended up being very short, the action plans easy.  The wearable art shop owner who had been one of the more anxious tenants ended up volunteering to give a workshop to the young people in making wearable art.

There is still tension from time to time in the building, but the common purpose, to keep the building well tended, seems to bring the misunderstandings back into alignment.

Isaacs explains that we tend to achieve partial understanding yet assume that this understanding is complete, which blinds us to the limits of our thinking.  "Life is not a noun," he says, but "rather a fluid process, a constant unfolding and refolding.  It is a verb."  Awareness of this can loosen the grip of certainty.  When we suspend "knowing" we can lean into possibilities.

Idolatry/Unfolding/Voicing

On a cool, moist spring evening, family and friends gather to witness another high school play.  Although many in the room have been here before, this moment is somehow different, fresh.  This play has somehow overflowed the boundaries of the school's respected drama department.  The librarian directs it and only some of the cast has drama experience.  As the lights dim, what unfolds is a story of idolatry and its devastation.  The youth on stage passionately portray their peers from another time of turbulent transition, a group of students in a Jewish Ghetto outside Prague as they awaited "transport" to Nazi concentration camps.  By play's end, only one survives to convey the stories of those who passed through.

The performance complete, the actors took no bows but rather sat on the edge of the stage facing the audience.  The director comes and apologizes, saying that the concentration camp survivor scheduled to come and share his personal story has not arrived.  Instead she invites a conversation.  Given the make-up of those in the room that night this meant an interchange between actors and audience, parent and child, student and teacher, Jews and Gentiles, friends and relatives, each playing multiple roles.  What emerged was an honest, sometimes poignant, exploration of the impact of the retelling of the story.  Several described changes brought about by their participation in this performance; life valued anew, jokes no longer funny, ancestry renewed, ancient grudges surprisingly and sometimes painfully revealed, and the importance of telling the story so that the lessons learned in brutality would not be lost.  The voices engaged in that unfolding conversation somehow enhanced the story enacted in the play, brought it to life.  As folks filed out into the cool of the evening there was something new in the air, a sense of healing.

Idolatry is defined as the "extreme admiration or fanatical devotion to somebody or something[2]".  It is often the response to stressful contexts where alternative responses are not examined.  This exploration requires thinking deeply.  According to Isaacs what we call thinking is often merely the reporting or acting out of patterns already in our memory, the ongoing performance of our life's script.  He was influenced by the work of physicist David Bohm, an early thinker in the art of dialogue, who held that thought is only the past of thinking, it is the product of thinking.  True thinking is fresh.  It catches us by surprise.  It is the result of connecting to the moment, becoming aware of the constantly unfolding of our thoughts and feelings.  And then learning to tell the truth about our experiences, being authentic, finding our own voice.  To find and speak our own voice.  To find and speak our own voice is to sense the potential that is present & waiting to unfold through us.

From the Authors, a Call to the Commons

We chose these stories primarily because of their evocative, rather than instructive, nature.  They point towards William Isaac's principles of Dialogue, and collaborative thinking.  In addition, these stories illustrate the nation that the creative answers to difficult leadership questions lie in the wisdom of  the collective that must be consciously elicited and compassionately cultivated.  Finally, these stories represent a call to the commons; that sacred space where intentional conversation can occur.  Sometimes it is virtual, created in the moment between people who are listening for coherence, the commonality of vision and values.  We continually create stories and live within their midst.  Isaac's principle can help us shape our stories into ones that can lead, not only us, but also those who will come after us.  The practice begins with the listening.  We invite your response.

---

Notes:  

[1] William Isaacs, dialogue and the Art of Thinking Together (New York: Currency, 1999), p.9.

[2]Encarta® World English Dictionary & (P) 1999 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. Developed for Microsoft by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.

---

About the Authors:

Dan Leahy, MA/ABS, Core Faculty, Leadership Institute of Seattle/Bastyr University School of Applied Behavioral Science.

Dan has been a faculty member in the School of Applied Science since 1991.  His roles as faculty have included lead of the winter and summer entry programs as well as Dean of the School.  Dan also has over 20 years of clinical experience as a Marriage and Family Therapist as well as a background in school counseling, at both the primary and the second levels.  A member of the task force that developed Bastyr University's Spirit, Health and Medicine Department, Dan taught community building in its inaugural year.  His current focus is developing leadership capacity in educational, corporate and community contexts.  Dan is known for his humor and passionate interest in creating and sustaining learning communities.

Catherine Johnson, MA/ABS, Core Faculty, Leadership Institute of Seattle/Bastyr University School of Applied Behavioral Science.

Catherine has been a faculty member at the Leadership Institute of Seattle since 1991.  Her work has focused on those skills and theories that increase self-awareness and interpersonal effectiveness, specifically as they serve and enhance group life.  With an extensive background in outdoor adventure programming and recreation management, Catherine has been leading groups of people for over twenty-five years.  As a writer, Catherine brings a love of story and language to her teaching and her leadership.

---

Copyright © July 2000 New Horizons for Learning, all rights reserved.

http://www.newhorizons.org
E-mail: info@newhorizons.org

For permission to redistribute, please go to:
New Horizons for Learning Copyright and Permission Information