by Gay Gaddis
We all know it is best to negotiate from a position of strength. You can find strength if you change your perception about what personal power is.
Let me give you an example. There is a guy at my company who has invited every new employee to lunch during their first week on the job for over ten years. No one ever asked him to do it, he just did. He had no authority, no direct reports. But by his act of kindness and genuine interest in people, he became one of the most respected, powerful people in our company. He always knew more about what was going on than anyone else. There is an old saying in Texas, “If an owl tells you something, you can take it to the bank.” He earned that same authority.
Someone told me recently that personal power is all the things you do at work that are not in your job description. That sums it up pretty well.
Cowgirl power is about developing what already exists in you. It is not a quick or easy answer. It does not get around hard work and dealing with tough issues. It is not a shortcut. But it is about taking personal responsibility for yourself and not being too reliant on others. It is about methodically building your skills and knowledge so that you get better and better. Growing your competencies is the only authentic way to become authentically assertive.
I am not advocating that all women should pursue challenging business careers. I admire moms who choose to stay at home and focus their energy on their kids. Some of those moms start their own small businesses that give them a lot of flexibility. Many are the backbone of our communities, serving as volunteers across so many worthy organizations that could not exist without them. Still other women enjoy their jobs without having aspirations of taking on executive leadership responsibilities. Many of them have different values that are not compatible with the C-suite. I get it.
Building your personal power increases your options. What you want to do with your life is your decision. I want you to have many wonderful choices at every stage of your life.
Three girls and Mandy, second from left, riding sidesaddle
(Gaddis Family Photo Collection)
Chapter 2
Finding My Own Power—The Early Days
My husband’s grandmother, Florence Chiles, was a cowgirl. This photograph is from about 1885. Florence is the little girl third from the left. The older woman next to her was a beloved ranch employee named Mandy. She was part African American and part Native American. Everyone in the photograph is riding sidesaddle, the proper thing to do, and they are all dressed in petticoats and bonnets to protect them from the harsh South Texas sun.
Mandy took care of the little girls and took them riding often. They would ride out of sight from the house, and Mandy would let them climb down, unsaddle their horses, take off their petticoats and bonnets, and ride the horses bareback like circus performers. They did tricks, raced each other, and developed into accomplished cowgirls. When they were done, they would put on their saddles and petticoats and ride demurely home. They never got caught.
Florence died at seventy-five years old, but all her life she told stories about Mandy and how much the girls loved her. Florence wrote down the many stories of her life growing up that have been passed down like fine heirlooms. We cherish and learn from them still today. Mandy helped those three little girls find their personal power.
This chapter is about my true stories of some of the high points and low points of my life. I take you through them because I want to show you how and where I began to develop my personal power. It is an important perspective because, as you will see, success is not a straight line. You will see how I formed the principles that have guided my life, step-by-step. I hope they help you realize when you reach a pivotal point in your life.
Growing Up in East Texas
I grew up in Liberty, a small town in East Texas, where I learned a very powerful value system of ethics, honesty, hard work, and a remarkable sense of community. I was a cowgirl as a little girl and have always loved cowgirls’ power, strength, determination, and courage. Their values and spirit are my inspiration for this book.
My mother, Dottie Warren, was a cowgirl herself. But at twelve years old, she lost her right arm to cancer. She had always been right-handed. After the operation her parents babied her and everyone felt sorry for her. One day, after she recovered from the surgery, her high school typing teacher called her out into the hall and said, “Dorothy, it is your choice. You can be depressed and be a cripple all your life, or you can put yourself out there and be all you can be.” That advice had a major effect on her, and probably even more on me.
Mother put herself out there and never looked back. Now as I look at her life, I only remember her being unable to do two things because of her arm: She could not cook large holiday meals and could not sew. But she found a solution for both.
She could do almost anything. (Her college roommates said she rolled her own hair and tied her shoes.) She typed, played the piano and tennis, and had a set of “one” golf club. She played cards, taught embroidery classes to little girls, and never, never complained. Most people didn’t even notice her missing arm until perhaps weeks or years after they met her, because she would cleverly and casually throw a sweater or jacket around her shoulders. She was an incredibly strong and powerful person, and coming across as an invalid just wasn’t who she was. Any power and strength I have today comes from my mother. Dottie Warren was a cowgirl.
My dad, Gene Warren, was in World War II and saw combat in the South Pacific. After the war he got a civil engineering degree and moved to Texas with my mom to find opportunity in the booming Texas oil fields. After a few years he opened his own land surveying business, Warren Engineering. He wore a Stetson hat, a pair of khaki pants, and cowboy boots to his office. When he was in the field doing survey work, the Stetson came off and cowboy boots were replaced by rubber boots. He would come home covered in mud and would undress outside and then head to the bathroom in his underwear. He would draw a hot bath and then pour in some Pine-Sol to kill the ticks and chiggers. He’d soak there with his cigarettes and beer and listen to St. Louis Cardinals baseball games on the radio.
My mom had her own kindergarten, Warren Kindergarten. She was a beloved teacher who taught thousands of kids how to read. She was everyone’s favorite teacher and had a unique way of connecting with kids, regardless of their status in life.
The Cowgirl Way
Almost as soon as I could walk, my dad would dress me up in a cowgirl outfit with boots and a hat and a little leather coat trimmed with fringe. He would take me downtown and show off his little cowgirl at Layl’s diner, where some of the biggest oil deals in Texas were made. I, of course, was the center of attention and took full advantage of it!
It was my godfather, Felton Dennison, who made me a real cowgirl. He put me on a horse, and by the time I was six I was riding with him working cattle. I called him Uncle Felton, and he and I would ride for hours through the rice fields checking on the livestock. He always treated me as a grown-up, never as a little girl. His respect toward me has stayed with me all my life and gave me much of my confidence. He taught me so much. In Texas, we call people like Felton Dennison “the salt of the earth.”
My godmother and Felton’s wife, Elouise, was a saint. She stepped in for Dottie when it came time to prepare the big holiday meals. (I still use her recipe for Thanksgiving dressing to this day.) And she could sew like nobody’s business. One of her greatest acts of love for me was hand-sewing thousands of sequins on my ballerina tutus. You would have thought we were doing Broadway productions right there in Liberty, Texas! She never complained. Not once. I loved her dearly.
My mother always said that when you have a small family or no family, you get to pick them out for yourself. The Dennison family certainly filled that role, and Elouise and Felton’s daughter, Ann, was and is like a true sister to me. Fourteen years older than me, she built my creativity and curiosity through fun and games, sometimes on horseback. I will never forget the day she left for college. I sat in my mother’s kind
ergarten classroom and cried my eyes out, saying, “My bestest friend ever is leaving me.” She never really left me, and has always been like my sister as we navigate life.
It was a different time for sure. We didn’t know anything about what was politically correct. And we certainly had no concept of privacy. People thought nothing of just “dropping by”—arriving unannounced, just to see what was going on. People casually wandered in and out of each other’s homes. These impromptu meetings kept things interesting. Everyone knew everyone and everything about you. If you had visitors from out of town, the news would be covered in the local paper a couple of days later. If you “snuck out” of your house as a teenager to toilet paper the quarterback’s front yard, inevitably the neighbor who had insomnia would see the whole thing, and as they poured the first cup of coffee in the morning at Layl’s diner, it would be the main topic of conversation.
It was a wonderful life on the surface. Liberty was in the middle of an oil boom; it was an exciting time. Deals were being made, a new country club was built, and fortunes were won and lost overnight. My dad was right in the middle of it all and, by all appearances, everything was fine.
Suddenly He Was Gone
My dad was haunted with nightmares about his combat experiences in World War II. He would scream from his dreams at night. In retrospect, I’m sure he had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), but people did not understand it at the time. He drank too much. There were horrible arguments that I witnessed and fights between my parents, mainly over money. Eventually, he was prescribed Valium, a powerful tranquilizer. The medical community at the time did not understand the dangers of Valium. One night the combination of alcohol and the prescription medication killed him. I was thirteen.
Suddenly, he was gone.
A guy who had served with my dad in the Navy showed up from California to attend his funeral. After the ceremony was over and we were all visiting, he told Mother and me why my dad had a scar on his neck. He told us that he was with my dad in the Philippines and that my dad was left on the beach as a casualty. He was stabbed in the throat by a Japanese soldier. The medics were putting him in a body bag when he found his last bit of energy and courage and reached out and said, “Let’s give it the old college try.” They were able to save his life that day.
My mom and I had never heard that story before. We could not believe it. As strange as it may seem, the men and women who served in World War II were told, “Go back to work or go to college and move on with your lives; leave it behind.” Rarely did anyone talk about the atrocities of the war. But many, like my dad, were not able to leave it behind.
“Never Be Afraid to Talk about Your Dad”
Mother’s friends, like mine, tried to get things back to “normal” for us after his death, but they allowed us to grieve. My mother said right off the bat, “Never be afraid to talk about your dad. As long as we talk about him, we will keep him alive in our lives and hearts.” We did talk about my dad a lot, and because of it, I remember to use his sharp wit, intellect, and compassion for people every day of my life. He is always with me.
Dottie Warren was not long wounded after being left a widow at the age of forty-three. She somehow recovered. Dottie was tough, resilient, and independent. Asking for help just wasn’t in her DNA. However, she didn’t have to ask for help when Dad died in May 1969. The people of Liberty didn’t let us down, and supported us with love, advice, and just pure human kindness. Sure, I was terribly sad at times, but I never felt alone. Everyone knew exactly what was going on and helped the best way they could. That sense of community, filled with homespun humor, helped my mom and me to move on.
Mom went on to do great things, enjoy life, and was the best cheerleader I could have ever dreamed of. I naturally became the center of her life. And she wanted me to be the center of everyone’s life. I half jumped and she half pushed me onto the drill team, debate teams, student council, National Honor Society, plays, parades, and trail rides. I was in everything and excelled. In fact, if I did not have my picture in the Liberty Vindicator newspaper once a week, she would be outraged. I had so many opportunities to perform at an early age in front of amazing crowds and people. I was confident and poised, but along the way I felt that I had to do all of this to please the people who loved me. They counted on me to win. They were all deeply invested in my success. Sometimes I pushed myself so hard to win and be loved—to make the people who adored me proud. After my father died it got even worse. As an only child, I had to please my mom. I was all she had in this world. This put daily pressure on me to add to my list of accomplishments. My mother was caring and loving but a very demanding taskmaster. She believed it was all for my own good, but now I understand that a lot of her worth was tied up in my success. It was tough to live up to such standards. No matter how high I jumped, there was always a new hurdle facing me.
Tamales in My Life
I collect tamale stories, so indulge me one here: In Texas, tamales are part of the traditional Mexican celebration of las posadas, which commemorates Mary and Joseph’s search for shelter before the birth of Jesus. The steamed, husk-wrapped bundles of masa (corn dough) and meat are a part of our culture. Throughout the years the labor-intensive process of making tamales became a social event for ranch women. Rhett Rushing, folklorist at San Antonio’s Institute of Texan Cultures, said, “By the time the day was over and the tamales were made, the family would be caught up, the arguments resolved, differences aired. It wasn’t just about the masa and the meat. It was the love and tears.”3
For me, the significance of tamales dates back to my childhood and my dad’s introduction of them to me. Every year my dad would go to Del Rio, on the Texas side of the border with Mexico, to deer hunt with his buddies. To prepare to meet and greet some of the Mexicans in Villa Acuña, on the Mexico side, he would listen to Spanish records before turning in at night in my parents’ bedroom in Liberty. He would lie on the bed in the dark, repeating Spanish phrases, and all you could see was the burning ember of his cigarette.
One year he insisted that my mother and I go with him to the deer lease. Not so much to hunt deer, but to meet some of his new friends. I remember driving over to Acuña one evening and coming upon a very modest dwelling. My dad jumped out of the car and knocked on the door, and out came a man with a big smile on his face and a hug for my dad. Dad motioned for us to come in.
Once inside all that was spoken was Spanish. My dad was so excited to be able to practice all he had learned. Mother and I were a bit out of the loop, but felt welcome. They served us a typical Mexican meal of refried beans, rice, and tamales. I had never had a tamale before, but they sure were good!
In 1964, there was only one Hispanic family living in Liberty, and certainly no Mexican restaurants. But that same year after our taste of tamales in Mexico, my dad decided he would ask Mrs. Garcia in Liberty to make tamales for us. Her son, James, delivered them to us, and my dad paid him and gave him a nice tip. This tradition went on until my father’s death in 1969. Mother and I had enjoyed the tamales, but never knew that my generous father was also encouraging and helping James.
Like many others, James made the walk up our stepping-stone to our house the day my dad died. With tears in his eyes, he confided in us how much my dad had meant to him because Dad had gone out of his way to treat him with kindness and respect.
And to think, it all started with a dozen tamales.
For years after his death, people would tell me stories of acts of kindness Dad did that my mother and I never knew about. Some were simple; some were pretty big efforts to help people. He never asked for any credit or told us about his desire to help people. Today, I am still in awe of his profound acts of kindness in that little East Texas town.
Living Beyond Our Means
My mother always lived above her means. It was important to her to appear affluent. She bought me lavish gifts and ran up big bills at Neiman Marcus and other Houston department stores. She accepted money from her parents, w
hich made my dad angry because she was spending too much. And it embarrassed him that she was always trying to appear more upper class than we really were.
I began to realize that our financial resources were limited and that my mom was not very good about managing money. I took over my own finances at fourteen years old. I got a monthly support check from the Veterans Administration and Social Security. I opened my own checking and savings accounts. I got a job doing engraving in a jewelry store. Mother was always wanting to buy me something, and I was usually able to slow her down.
My father had taken a partial interest in some of the land he surveyed instead of charging the owners fees. When my mom needed extra money, she would sell a piece of land. I did not know about this until I was a senior in high school.
I got an art scholarship to the University of Texas at Austin. Felton Dennison helped pay my sorority dues and loaned me a Jeep to drive back and forth to Austin. I was able to get a job as a teaching assistant in the art department. I got by but just barely.
One Saturday morning, Dottie drove to Austin accompanied by one of her friends, who was driving his big shiny Rolls-Royce. She waltzed into the University of Texas Pi Beta Phi sorority house with a gift box in hand. I heard a page go through the house, and I was summoned to the front foyer. When I got downstairs I was delighted to see my mother, until I looked at the rather large box. I thought, “Oh my, what has she bought for me now?” Imagine my reaction when I opened the box and found a chinchilla coat.