Taming the Abrasive Manager. Laura Crawshaw

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caused by abrasive bosses. For those of you who need numbers, I offer these: A Gallup study of 2 million workers at 700 companies found that poor supervisory behavior was the main reason that employees quit or were less productive (Work & Family Connection, 2005). A study of superior-to-subordinate aggression in the United Kingdom concluded that close to 2.5 million UK employees considered themselves to have been victims of managerial aggression in the previous six months (Hoel & Cooper, 2000). Research conducted by the Center for Creative Leadership (Lombardo & McCall, 1984) reported that 74 percent of successful executives in three Fortune 100 corporations said they had had at least one intolerable boss, and another study (Spherion Corporation, 1999) showed that employees are four times more likely to leave bosses who are not considered ‘‘nice’’ (another word rarely used in a business context). Attrition of valued employees is just one of the prices paid. In the past decade researchers have explored other costs incurred by abrasive bosses: decreased morale and motivation resulting in absenteeism and lowered productivity (McCarthy, Sheehan, & Kearns, 1995), higher incidence of stress-related illnesses (Quine, 1999) and substance abuse (Richman, Rospenda, Flaherty, & Freels, 2001), increased number of legal actions alleging a hostile environment or discriminatory behavior (Leymann, 1990), and retaliatory responses, including sabotage (Laabs, 1999) and homicide (McLaughlin, 2000; Rayner, 1997).

      Enough of the hard stuff—let’s get back to my soft-hearted goal of reducing workplace suffering caused by abrasive bosses. As I read this, I realize that I may be giving the mistaken impression that I aspire to be the Mother Theresa of executive coaching, which is not the case. I don’t do what I do because I am divinely inspired or in the least bit noble. It’s my parents’ fault—I blame them.

      Too often parents are blamed for everything that we don’t like about ourselves, but I am pleased to blame my parents for teaching me that the most important use of one’s life lies in helping others. I learned about suffering from my psychiatrist father and hospital volunteer mother—not at their hands but through their hearts and eyes. I was blessed with a safe, loving home and only encountered suffering as I ventured out into the wider world.

      A later experience of intense suffering also involved animals. I must have been six or seven years old, and my father, founder of a local children’s mental health clinic, hosted a charity carnival to raise funds for the clinic. It was a typical rainy day in Oregon, and the carnival had a kiddy ride with ponies tied to a rotating frame. I remember the wet, downcast ponies, trudging around and around in a circle of mud, and to this day the memory cuts through me like a knife. I believed they wanted to be free (or at least loved) instead of being chained to a muddy merry-go-round for human entertainment. I felt terribly sad, knowing that I could do nothing to relieve their suffering. I believe this childhood experience of helplessness in the face of suffering formed the foundation for my adult wish to reduce suffering by eventually becoming a psychotherapist and, later, an executive coach.

      Intent on becoming a psychiatrist, I embarked on a premed track in college. As I wrestled with my courses, it gradually dawned on me that I was never going to succeed as a physician because, frankly, I didn’t have the patience or interest to memorize every bone, sinew, and organ of the human anatomy. I figured it would be pretty unethical to even consider the practice of medicine if I wasn’t willing to memorize everything (‘‘I’m sorry sir, but I’m hesitant to remove your appendix because I never bothered to learn what it’s connected to’’). I wanted to study psyche, not physique, and was fortunate enough to discover that I could become a psychotherapist without pursuing a medical degree. So I abandoned my medical pretensions and instead pursued a degree in clinical (or what was then called psychiatric) social work.

      The guns? I encountered the guns in the course of my counseling work. The typical scenario consisted of a call from an employee for a same-day appointment because he (they were always men) ‘‘needed to talk to someone right away.’’ We took these quiet, urgent calls seriously, reshuffling our schedules for such sudden requests. I would find myself seated across from the client, who was

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