It was an embarrassment to the
university, a sad omen for the future of corporate America. Those were perhaps the gentlest words that my professor used.
In the last year of my MBA program, I took a logistics seminar that felt easy. There were no quizzes or homework assignments. The lectures were loose and breezy, full of the professor's anecdotes about his consulting experiences. Our entire grade was based on two group projects, the first of which was to analyze a local company's supply chain.
My academic strategy involved waiting until the night before something was due, panicking, pulling an all-nighter, cranking out a few pages of stream-of-consciousness writing that I'd be too embarrassed to re-read later, and earning a B, or an A- if I was lucky.
My group included two guys like me: deadline driven (i.e., procrastinating), busy people with full-time jobs and a heavy courseload. One of them even had a kid. We split out the work: one guy would research shipping costs and times, I'd build a database to compare vendors and track the inventory, and our third teammate would work on our presentation. Divide and conquer. Easy. Done.
The day of our presentation, I arrived at class an hour early to meet my group, my data sheets still warm from the office printer, ready for that heroic feeling of delivering in the nick of time. My teammate said there was no PowerPoint, he had been busy, but he could wing it. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. It was titled "Things to talk about" with a few messily scrawled bullet points below.
What followed was the longest class of my academic career. For 5 hours, we watched each group present their supply chain recommendations to the local business owners and the professor. Mostly, they were the type of lightweight, surface-skimming presentations I had seen at work, at conferences, and in other business classes. Only this time, instead of the polite acknowledgement I was used to, the professor ripped them to shreds. He asked detailed questions and watched the students falter. He told them their presentations were boring, shallow, obviously thrown together at the last minute.
We went last. I nervously rambled through my database, and it was obvious I didn't really understand the data. When my teammate produced "Things to talk about" and started rambling, the professor interrupted us.
"That was the stupidest thing I have ever heard," he said. "Sit down. Your paper had better be f*ing brilliant."
Paper? We were supposed to write a paper?
The professor apologized to the business owner for wasting her time, excused her, and delivered an impassioned, obscenity-laden admonishment to us. Several students, myself included, were in tears by the end. I jotted down every insult and swear word so I could prepare a letter to the dean the next morning.
My first reaction was outrage. How could he talk to his students like this? Where was his professionalism? If every group failed, then didn't he share some accountability? The assignment wasn't clearly written, there weren't enough checkpoints, and the lectures didn't tie to the project.
The other feeling, the one that took longer to surface, was my knowledge that he was right. We had blown off the assignment. As MBA students, we should have had the intelligence to dive deep into the subject matter, the discipline to produce high-quality work in a loosely structured course, and the leadership skills to collaborate and hold our teammates accountable.
He let us redo the assignment. I set aside the database and volunteered for the part of the project that aligned with my strengths: I wrote the paper. And I wrote the hell out of that thing. I compiled my teammates’ detailed research, I did multiple revisions, I sent it to my team a week before the due date, I even made my husband read it as an objective third party. He needed a glass of scotch to get through it - well-written or not, supply chain management just isn't that fun to read about.
On a Saturday morning, we took another shot at our presentation. We had collaborated on the slides and practiced beforehand. We stood in front of the class and confidently shared our knowledge. We answered the professor's tough questions. We got an A. We immediately got to work on our final project and got an A on that, too.
I don't remember much about logistics, but I remember exactly what it felt like to be called out for performing below my potential. It was humiliating and it was physically uncomfortable (I can pinpoint the spot in my abdomen where I felt the shame) and it motivated me to do and be better. If he had politely applauded our presentation and given us a B-, we might have turned up our effort a little bit for the final, but probably not by much.
My professor gave me a gift wrapped in a rough, ugly package. He showed me the power of honest, critical feedback.
The hardest part of receiving feedback is rising above our natural, defensive reaction to criticism. If the criticism is delivered poorly - as it was in my classroom - it's easy to demonize the person who delivered it and brush it off altogether. We frame it as an either/or proposition: He was rude, and therefore his criticism of me was unwarranted. More often, it's both/and: He was rude, and I did a poor job on the assignment.
I wish I could say that I never procrastinated another assignment, or that I became a maestro of group work and team projects. It's not true. My professor shined a harsh, glaring light on a piece of myself that I am still working on, 10 years later.
This, I
learned: Applauding and accepting mediocre work perpetuates it. Giving honest
feedback in a respectful way is a skill that every leader must hone. And, if a
message is so hard to hear that it hits me in the stomach, I best sit up and
pay attention – because there’s something valuable in there.
