Authors: Colin Powell
It Worked For Me (21 page)
I
have been a professional public speaker for most of my adult life. From my first day in my first unit as an Army officer, I had to speak to and teach troops. Over time I learned how to reach them, how to make the subject interesting, and how to persuade them that they had an interest in learning what I was teaching. Since they bored easily, a kit bag of attention-grabbing techniques was essential. You had to have a stable of jokes, and in those raw, male-only infantry days, the dirtier, the better.
In 1966, I was assigned to be an instructor at the Infantry School at Fort Benning. Before you’re allowed in a classroom to teach two hundred officer students, you had to complete a several-week-long Instructor Training Course. There you learned thorough preparation of the subject material. You were taught eye contact, how not to cough, stammer, put your hands in your pocket, pick your nose, or scratch your itches. You were taught to stride across the stage, use a pointer, slides, and hand gestures, and how to raise and lower your voice to keep the students awake.
I graduated with honors and was turned loose to teach. But even after passing through the tough training course, I wasn’t left on my own. The large classrooms in Infantry Hall had one-way glass windows in the back where your boss could watch your performance without your knowing it. Teaching there was hard work.
The most demanding class I taught was on filling out a Unit Readiness Report (where you measure the readiness of your troops by filling in blanks about the status of training, equipment, weapons, supplies, and so on). Nothing could be more boring. Worse, I had to teach it to officer candidates who had reached the end of the officer training program and were about to be commissioned. Most of them would be sent off to Vietnam. When they came to me, they had just returned from their graduation field exercise, three sleepless days in the Georgia pine woods, where it was either too hot or too cold. Mine was their last course, given at 4 p.m. on their last day. They came in from the field, took a hot shower to wash off the dirt, had a late spaghetti-and-meatball lunch, and then were turned over to me for fifty minutes in an air-conditioned classroom to learn how to fill out a readiness form they knew they wouldn’t see again for years . . . and maybe ever.
The first couple of minutes always went okay. But then they started to drop. They tried to stay awake. They punched each other. Their tactical officers prowled the aisles, giving sharp stares and sharper pokes. Fifteen minutes in, the sound of heads hitting tables meant it was time for a good joke. At twenty minutes I warned them they could get killed in Vietnam if they didn’t know how to fill out a readiness form. That bought me five minutes as they questioned whether or not I was nuts.
At about thirty minutes in, those who were totally lost to sleep were made to stand up and lean against the side walls. At forty minutes almost all of them were out of play. I had one gimmick left. I would pose a question and ask who wanted to answer it. Before they could duck that, I reached under the lectern and pulled out a very lifelike plucked rubber chicken. Swinging it over my head by the neck I launched it into the class. All two hundred pairs of eyes were wide open, watching the arc. Whoever it hit was directed to answer the question. The place broke up.
That gave me just the time I needed to summarize the class, congratulate them on the gold bars that would be pinned on them the next day, and wish them all the best as they headed overseas. Too many, sadly, did not return alive. To this day, I run into guys who say to me, “Hey, General, I’ll never forget that damn chicken.”
I also taught at Benning a class on amphibious warfare, alongside Marine Lieutenant Colonel P. X. Kelly (who went on to become the Commandant of the Marine Corps). Kelly was considered the best instructor at the school, and he taught me a lot. During the forty-five years since my instructor days, I’ve had fun telling Marines that I taught P.X. everything he knows about amphibious warfare.
What I learned in school and on the job at Benning stuck with me, and all I’ve done over the years is to build on that base. In my public life I have spoken to presidents and kings; I have spoken to large audiences and to small intimate groups. I have spoken at two Republican nominating conventions, and at too many congressional hearings to count.
When I left government in 1993, I embarked on a new career as a professional speaker, both here and abroad. Except for the four years when I was Secretary of State, public speaking has been my chief business activity and source of income. On my tax forms, I list my occupation as “Speaker”—or, if space permits, “Author/Speaker.”
Although I had a number of other employment opportunities, I chose speaking over sitting on lots of corporate boards, working for a defense contractor, or taking a full-time job in academia or business. Since I have the freedom to decide how much speaking I want to do, I have the flexibility to take on less time-consuming business activities, engaging in nonprofit work, or just sitting around. At my age, the absolutely last thing I want is a full-time job that requires me to be at the same place every day, morning to night. No matter how exciting the work may be or how important the position, it’s not for me anymore.
I love speaking for more reasons than time flexibility. For starters, it’s great fun, and more important, it opens up new experiences and new learning. It allows me to plunge into worlds I never imagined. My audiences are businesses, trade associations, universities, or large motivational events. Every audience is different, and every one requires study. Who are they? What do they do? What’s their purpose? What do they need from me? I have to orient my speech to them. I read annual reports, research organizations endlessly, and end up knowing enough about them to apply for a job. I let clients know I can do whatever they want me to do; I can pitch content square or round.
It’s always important to remember that a speaker has more than one responsibility. To begin with, he has a responsibility to his audience to give them what they need to hear. Sometimes it’s what they expect; sometimes they may need to be shaken up. Second, if the speaker is on the podium representing an organization, he has a responsibility to the organization. He can’t just go off on his own. When I was Secretary of State, I was speaking for the government of the United States. Most of my official State Department speeches were written, cleared, approved, and blessed. But I did extemporize from time to time. And finally, a speaker has a responsibility to himself. He owns whatever comes out of his mouth. He should never let himself speak words that he can’t stand behind. When I spoke to the 1996 and 2000 Republican National Conventions, I wrote my own speeches. Nobody in the Republican National Committee told me what I was going to say. Of course I worked with an RNC representative and showed my speeches to the RNC the day before I gave them. They had no problems. But in both cases, the words were mine, not theirs.
I seldom use a text. But I have in my head lots of speech modules. I bring down for each audience the ones I need, modified when needed. I can pitch my speech at whatever level of sophistication the client wants.
Speech modules change over time. I drop or add elements to keep them fresh; or a new audience or a new need will require me to compose a new module.
Each speech follows a basic pattern. I start out talking about myself and what’s going on in my life. Earlier in my speechmaking career, I told lots of jokes. I don’t do that anymore. Instead, I tell self-deprecating stories about myself or my family, where Alma is often a central feature. My audiences don’t expect casual, personal stories from a four-star general, and they welcome them. The stories warm up the audience and show a far more human person than the formal image I had to project when I was Chairman or Secretary of State. I open the door and let them into my real world for a little while.
In my speeches, I always include a segment on leadership. Drawing once again from my time at Fort Benning, I talk about mission, a sense of purpose, and the necessary connection between leadership and followership. I focus on taking care of the troops, on communicating selfless passion and intensity about the purpose of the organization, and on basic honor and honesty. Troops—followers—will only go up the hill for leaders who have character, integrity, and moral and physical courage.
Next, I broaden the presentation to talk about how the world has evolved and what forces are shaping the future. I then move into current events that are of interest to the audience. Though my ending changes constantly, I always end on a positive note. I want to leave audiences upbeat and encouraged.
I could relate a hundred anecdotes from my speaking experiences. Here are some of the most memorable—and that I learned the most from.
There was the evening in 2007 when I flew to Puerto Rico and drove to the Conquistador Hotel at the eastern end of the island. My client was the Bradford White water heater company, and I was to be a surprise speaker for a couple of hundred of the company’s salespeople. Bradford White had been owned by an Australian holding company, but in 1992 the employees had bought the company and its Michigan factory from the foreign parent and had become independent. They are now proud to make all-American products whose high quality means they can successfully compete against anyone.
The company was run by Bob Carnevale, a street kid like me. We became instant friends. Just before going onstage, I asked him why he had dragged me all the way out here to be a surprise speaker.
“I didn’t want any of my salespeople getting excited just to come here to meet and listen to you,” he said. “I wanted them here so I could teach them how to sell more water heaters. You are just dessert.”
I immediately understood why he was successful.
Many clients provide specific guidance about what they are looking for, but in all my years of speaking, one company stands out: Safelite AutoGlass, whose business is repairing car windshields. Tom Feeney, the president and CEO, was determined to increase the company’s market share by showing their dealers how to get the best out of their people and their customer relations. For weeks they sent me notes, memos, and slides—eventually totaling an inch thick—about how they wanted me to talk about their leadership strategy at their Feed the Fire Leadership Meeting. I wish every company in America had their commitment to human resource development.
I didn’t know much about the ups and downs of the housing market until 2007, when I addressed the International Housewares Association, whose members make knives, forks, plates, glasses, pots, and other housewares. Their sales, they explained, are a leading indicator of the housing market. If fewer knives, forks, and glasses are sold, then fewer new houses are being built. (Divorces and new bachelors will slightly alter those numbers.) Housewares manufacturers could tell me what’s happening in housing before HUD, Fannie Mae, or Freddie Mac.
I’ll never forget the 2007 Century 21 Real Estate convention in Las Vegas. It was overwhelming. Backstage were six interpretation booths—more interpreters than I often saw at the UN.
That’s what it took to communicate with their worldwide corps of agents. Noticing a Chinese-language booth, I innocently asked my host if that was for Taiwan or the mainland. Both, I was told, and the greater presence was on the China mainland, with fifteen hundred sales offices and millions of property listings. “And, by the way,” he added, “we are encouraging our agents to go back to wearing our famous Gold Jackets. We want to reinforce our culture. The Gold Jacket image is iconic and holds us together as a team.”
Now that Century 21, Amway, Estée Lauder, and other consumer-oriented firms are penetrating China, the country will never be the same.
One of my happiest speaking engagements was at the 2011 Whataburger Family Convention in Dallas. Whataburger is a modestly sized, family-owned chain of burger restaurants, most of them located in the South, and now operated by the second generation of the Harmon Dobson family. Harmon started the chain half a century ago with a single store, and was determined to make the best burger possible. On day one a customer took a bite and exclaimed, “Whataburger!” The name stuck, and the chain grew to about seven hundred stores.
When I asked the current owners, three of Harmon’s children, why they didn’t have thousands of stores like the other burger chains launched about the same time, they answered, “We use the very freshest raw materials. We couldn’t keep up our quality standards if we grew any larger. Nothing wrong with those other guys, but that’s not our purpose.” All the employees are referred to as family members, and they are all treated that way.
A third generation of teenagers is waiting to take over and maintain their grandparents’ standards.
With some of my audiences, I’m shameless. In 1997, I was speaking to an American Trucking Association audience in Las Vegas, before heading to Salt Lake City for a youth event with Governor Mike Leavitt. During the Q&A I was asked what I would like to do in the next phase of my life. What a softball! I would love to be a trucker, I answered. A gentleman named Bill England jumped up and shouted, “That is going to happen today.” Turns out his family owned C.R. England trucking company, with headquarters in West Valley, Utah.
I flew on to Salt Lake City and the youth rally. Afterward, the governor escorted me back to the airport. Waiting was a beautiful, fire-engine-red truck with a very long trailer attached. The nervous driver invited me to take the wheel. Governor Leavitt jumped in and got in the sleeping bunk behind the driver . . . probably because he knew he had never seen a really big accident. To the driver’s evident relief, I managed to guide the rig around the airport grounds and back to the starting point without hitting anything or stripping any gears.
I might yet be a trucker in the next phase of my life.
I love this country. Everyplace I go to here gives me renewed energy. Every day and every client brings a new experience and a restorative dose of faith in America. Yes, we have troubles; we have always had troubles. But we have always overcome them. Traveling around the United States I see people hard at work, innovating, creating jobs, and believing they can succeed, just as they believe America will continue to succeed. They are good people, and as long as they are out there working away, I have no fear for our future.