6. Their husbands were supportive
7. Mentors were found quickly at work.
In stark contrast, he found that males shared two traits:
1. Their fathers were professionals
2. Their mothers stayed home
And, very frequently they captained their school’s football teams — thus developing goals, strategy, leadership and teamwork.
Thought you might be interested in his findings.
Love Mum”
[Source: “Navigating CEO Appointments: Do Australia’s Top Male and Female CEOs Differ in How They Made It to the Top?” Doctoral thesis by Terrance William Fitzsimmons, University of Queensland, September 2011]
I recently found myself asking how much is enough? I actually asked myself aloud: “When will I have given enough to the Salt Mine? When will I be able to participate in the lives of my children?”
I have no burning desire to be the CEO but it appears that I have most, if not all, of the “necessary traits.” It is those very traits that haunt me and make me wonder when enough really is enough and whether I am good enough.
Food for thought, as my friend’s Mum put it . . . food for thought.
45 Minutes in Beijing
October 2012
Beijing, China
The following is written in the third person because, at this point in time, I often found myself sitting in the dark examining my life. On a few occasions, I captured those thoughts on paper as though I was looking at myself and my life from the outside.
She left her hotel at 6:15 that morning. It had already been a long week. Beijing is much harder for Westerners than Shanghai, and she was certainly having a harder time in Beijing than she ever did in Shanghai. The days were long and the nights seemed longer, particularly without her husband. She’d been going at this pace for months now and it was beginning to take its toll.
Like most days, she finally shut down her computer at 9:15 p.m. Everyone else had long ago left the office. She shut the lights off and headed for the elevator. She knew it would be tough to get a taxi; it had been difficult all week. But she had struck up a bit of a friendship with the building’s doorman and he had taken pity on her. A smile can go a long way she had learned and when required, she could pull it out and make it work. Getting home at the end of a long day seemed worth the extra dose of “charm.”
On Monday, she was able to get a taxi after waving down four or five and agreeing to pay 100 RMB for a trip that should cost 20 RMB at most. But tonight she was rushing out the door — if leaving at 9:15 p.m. can be called rushing. Her family had flown in that evening and checked into the suite she had arranged for them. She wanted to see them.
As she left the building, she smiled at the doorman and he escorted her out the door to the gathering of taxis at the side of the building. Not surprisingly, no taxi wanted the short trip to her hotel. Even with her inconsequential knowledge of Chinese, she knew they wouldn’t take her because it “wasn’t on their way home.” This is a common excuse used to avoid unwanted fares in Beijing, particularly with Westerners.
But, she just wanted to go to the hotel and fall into bed with her husband. So she held up 200 RMB, smiled and waited. The doorman laughed and shouted something in Chinese that she didn’t understand but made clear that this woman was willing to pay big for the 12-minute ride to the Park Plaza Hotel next to Tiananmen Square, where her children were jumping on the beds and her husband was checking whether the Club Level bar was still open.
Minutes later, she was in the back seat of a black sedan headed to her hotel. She leaned her head back and shut her eyes. It really had been a long week and she knew exactly how she wanted to unwind. He was just 12 minutes away. His warm, strong arms. Their soft little kisses and hugs. She missed them. “Travel sucks,” she thought to herself. She needed a break. Or maybe she was just starting to break. She pushed the thought from her mind and replaced it with a vision of the man who makes her feel warm every time he turns the corner.
She was pulled violently from her reverie before she even realized that the car had stopped. The door suddenly swung open, an arm reached in and tore her bag from her arms, then her purse and, finally, wrestled her out of the car. There were people everywhere screaming in Chinese. “What the hell?!” she thought. The taxi driver had been yanked from the vehicle as well. Her head was spinning. Was this her hotel? What was happening?
As they opened her purse and grabbed her passport, her senses kicked in. These were undercover Chinese police officers and something was wrong, very wrong. They had her belongings, her computer, her passport and her. The taxi driver was being interrogated on the other side of the car. No one spoke a word of English.
Three of them kept screaming at her in Chinese. She called and waved frantically to the hotel concierge, to no avail. She clearly needed a translator. Was she being arrested? This was her hotel. If she could only move inside, she would feel more comfortable. She felt vulnerable in the open with these officers, which she now realized also included uniformed men. A crowd was gathering.
Desperately trying to get the concierge’s attention but failing, she yelled into the lobby to the closest guest she could see and asked them to find the manager. “I’m a hotel guest.” She was calm but nervous.
He was just 13 floors above her sitting comfortably in the suite she’d arranged for the children earlier that morning. She had a room — much smaller — but a nice room for them to share. She still had business to complete in Beijing while they would be touring. She just wanted them close.
After what seemed like hours but was surely only minutes, the hotel manager appeared. He seemed more concerned with the chaos in front of his building than helping her. But, then, Chinese police action in front of your establishment is not likely the image you want presented to your guests.
Still, she was a guest and she wanted some damn help. He wasn’t getting the smile. He got the glare. The glare is universal too, and when he turned his attention to her he suddenly recognized her. She wasn’t just any guest. She stayed there for a week almost every month and this time she also had booked a suite for her family. He took control and things began to calm down.
Another 30 minutes passed before she understood what had happened. The car she hired was not a legal taxi. She was not under arrest but she was a foreigner, which made the driver’s crime worse or, more accurately, more expensive for him. The hotel manager translated the police documents for her, she signed them and retrieved her passport. She finally made her way up to her room on the 5th floor to drop off her bags. Then she hurried off to the 13th floor where her three children and husband were waiting.
“Mom, what took you so long . . . ”
It was just 45 minutes in Beijing . . . unfortunately, it was my 45 minutes.
Tomorrow is another day . . .
If It’s Forbidden
October 2012
Beijing, China
After the United Nations skirmish outside our hotel, Jack and I made our way to the bar for a few drinks. As we are nearing the mid-point of our China experience, I am nearing my college-level drinking experience or worse, Jack’s college-level drinking experience. Frankly, I don’t think it has anything to do with China. The source is surely North American, but that is another blog entirely.
In truth, Jack and the kids joined me in Beijing mid-week because I’ve been traveling and working so much that I only see them on Sunday night and then not again until Friday night. I almost never make dinner with the family during the week. When I do, it’s only for a few minutes before I have to start doing conference calls. It’s a very common expat experience but one that has consequences for all of us. So the big guy, in his infinite wisdom, said “screw it” and pulled the kids out of school a few days early and got on a plane to Beijing. Good man!
I arranged my day so I could work early and very late and do a few calls while still finding time to be with the kids and Jack. I was nearing complete exhaustion trying to be “wonde
r woman” but I wasn’t going to miss out on this experience with them, even if it killed me — or turned me into a hard drinking woman — as the country song goes. And, let’s face it, my life is sometimes just like those country songs. My dog won’t even greet me at the door anymore!
After putting in a few hours of work while Jack and The Terrible Trio had breakfast in the “Club,” we were finally off to Tiananmen Square with our lovely and line-skipping guide, Sunny. (Ah, yes, the line-skipping guide, I am never without one these days.) Because the national Mid-Autumn Festival holiday was upon us, the Square was in full dress uniform. All of Beijing was decked out in its “holiday best.” Absolutely gorgeous.
Unlike most of my visits to Beijing, we had blue skies. Blue skies are so rare in Beijing that you could likely count the number of sunny days in a year on your fingers. It is seriously “foggy” in the words of the Chinese government (that’s smog to you and me). The opportunity to see The Forbidden City in full color was really exciting. My last visit there was a 60-minute sprint through the 980-room complex, a race to find a cab back to the hotel and off to the airport, in December — BRRR COLD!
Our guide explained the different bridges that offered entry to The Forbidden City and that your rank in life determined which bridge you would take. The central bridge was reserved for the Emperor (much like today’s Executive Elevator). Even the Emperor’s wife had to use one of the outer bridges. (I won’t comment.)
Each bridge further from the center denoted your lowering status. We took the center bridge and that is when I said, “I really can’t believe we are here and walking where the Emperors walked . . . here in the Forbidden City.” The slap came fast and furious: “Mom, if it’s so forbidden, then why is it so easy to get in?” Jane dead panned.
Jane gets her sarcasm and smart ass attitude straight from her Dad. They are both reserved, quiet individuals, so you never see the verbal slap coming, which makes it even better. The two of them can really go at each other, it’s hysterical. She smiled broadly, which is rare these days. Have I mentioned she’s a soon-to-be 15-year-old mystery woman?
Allow me to digress for a moment. One of my favorite areas of The Forbidden City is the building of rooms for the “retired concubines.” No leftovers for the next Emperor, and no one outside the City wants a “used concubine” either. What’s an Emperor to do? Build a retirement center, of course. When I picture all the “retired” concubines running around The Forbidden City, I just can’t help but smile. I am sure Jack would have been trying to climb the wall!
After making our pilgrimage to one of Beijing’s best-known sites — The Temple of Heaven — Jane suggested we ask for a refund. “This is false advertising. This isn’t a temple, it’s a platform.” Technically, she may be right. There is no actual building; instead, it is a very high “platform.” I did not ask for a refund.
We had a great time in Beijing. We walked ancient streets, climbed to the top of the “Drum Tower” that was used to tell time in ancient China, visited the Summer Palace and learned the history of the Dragon Lady. “Mom, I didn’t know you lived here.” She is quick.
After two days of Beijing, we headed 65 miles outside the City into the villages surrounding the Ming Dynasty Era of the Great Wall. The kids traded in their hotel suite for the “Barracks.” Jane got out of the car, looked around the “barracks” and remarked, “I told you, I don’t like nature.”
Yep, the next couple of days should be fun . . . so glad I am not missing this!
Banging Our Heads On The Wall . . .
October 2012
Outside Beijing, China
The following is written in the third person because, at this point in time, I often found myself sitting in the dark examining my life. On a few occasions, I captured those thoughts on paper as though I was looking at myself and my life from the outside.
The cold was just outside the blanket. It was cold, dark and cold. It was also dark, cold and dark. All bundled together in one bed, they looked so peaceful, it seemed almost cruel to wake them. Although she was nearly gleeful at the thought of it, she wouldn’t wake them yet. She wanted just a few more minutes to herself, clinging to the darkness and the cold — it was becoming her blanket. She felt it to her bones and it was oddly comforting.
The sleeping quarters were dubbed the “Barracks” by our host, William Lindesay. He is a Great Wall historian and an archaeologist. He described the barracks accommodations as “basic” and, by any definition, they were. Each room was equipped with a table to place your pack upon, a platform bed (think concrete covered in a thin “mattress”), a blanket and a pillow. No sink. No toilet. No shower.
There was a communal sink that accommodated up to five at one time. The toilets weren’t exactly outhouses but they were outside. And if you wanted a shower, there was a basin you could fill up and a wash cloth left on your bed. Perfect.
The single platform bed held three to five people, so she and her husband snuggled with the three children until they were warm and nearly asleep. Magic, she thought. The food was authentic and prepared by local village people who helped at the barracks. It was perfect, honest and simple, which was everything her life was not at that moment.
The Barracks were intentionally basic. This was merely the launching point for the real attraction — The Great Wall. And, not the restored and repaved Wall that most Beijing visitors see, but The Wall as it exists centuries after being abandoned. The Wall is wild and untamed and visitors must prepare to sacrifice a little bit to conquer just a small slice of it. That sacrifice began with a 4 a.m. wake up call and 20 minutes to get ready.
She stepped outside her room and breathed deeply, filling her lungs and her soul with the cold air and dark night. She could sense a change in herself but couldn’t place it yet.
It felt a bit like camp all over again. Camp was more than 30 years ago. Had it really been that long since she’d gone on a serious hike? Where did the time go?
By rights, at 4 a.m. she should have been exhausted. But she was inexplicably invigorated. She couldn’t wait to get started.
As they began the walk, William explained that if everyone in the six surrounding villages was home that early morning, the inhabitants numbered 600 people. With the five interlopers, tally up to 605. In a country with more than 1.3 billion people, this was pretty isolated. She looked again at the black early morning sky, speckled with stars so white and bright that she could imagine navigators of long ago finding their way home by the stars alone.
“Could I find my way home?” she wondered aloud to no one in particular. “What is home?” she thought as they walked through the village — not where, but what.
With the Mid-Autumn Festival moon full and bright, they didn’t need their torches (aka flashlights) as they made their way through the small village. It was quiet, and they walked with reverence. They turned on their torches as they approached the hillside and the woods to help guide their footsteps over rocks, tree roots and wet leaves. She’d given up her belief in a “higher power” years earlier but these were the kind of moments that always made her wonder. The tranquil beauty of the dawn. The majesty of the mountains. She was a sunrise girl; she liked the sunrise because at sunrise anything was still possible. She wondered if she still believed even that . . .
The hike was rigorous. Steep, unstable rock challenging every step. Narrow pathways through thick brush and woods forcing you back as you moved forward. Ledges with such steep drops she wondered if it was too much for the children, especially Bella at only 10. But, never did she consider abandoning the hike. Never.
She knew they could do it and she felt she had to do it. This wasn’t about hiking The Great Wall of China anymore, this was about clearing her head, leaving it all behind and focusing on a task that had nothing to do with her career but everything to do with who she was or maybe still could be.
The sunrise seemed to lift the darkness in her head. The world was falling away — the world of deadlines, expectations,
and unfulfilled promise — and she could feel herself breathe again.
It took more than an hour to reach the jumping on point of The Wall. Her husband went first and helped each of the children move up and onto The Wall. Expectation filled her as she climbed up and took his hand. He smiled at her and said, “It’s worth it.” What he really meant was “you’re worth it.” He hated heights and, yet, here he was climbing thousands of meters in the dark on steep and unsteady slopes because she told him she thought it would “help.”
Time stood still as the pink and orange hued sky revealed the waking villages below them. Smoke rose slowly from burning stoves. The air was so clear and bright that the buildings of Beijing were visible in the distance paled amidst the amazing landscape in the foreground.
As she looked out over the vista, she felt it slowly creep away. The haze in her head and the darkness in her soul were drifting away. She hugged her girls and even her son allowed her one public hug on the mountain. Then she found him, waiting for her as he always has. He smiled and put his arm around her. “This helps?” he quipped.
She’d been banging her head against a wall for years, or so it seemed. Maybe she just needed to trek a wall instead of bang her head on one to remember why she had done all of this.
She knew it wouldn’t last; it couldn’t last. It was, however, a wonderful reminder that she still existed inside somewhere. A reminder that she was, in fact, “worth it.”
Maybe middle age in the Middle Kingdom was exactly what she needed.
Another Year Older & Deeper In Debt
October 2012
Shanghai
One morning I got up and went to work and when I came home my baby had turned 15. Sound familiar?
For me, that morning was this morning. My “sunshine” is 15. Fifteen. That’s a 1 with a 5 after it. She is a high school freshman, which you can easily miss here in China because of the way the International School is set up. Jane is on the same campus as the primary students but in a different building.
Sheryl Sandberg, China & Me Page 10