Departures...Prescience

Ten days after my fifth birthday, my father died.

Joe Ozier was a test pilot. A former fighter pilot in the Air Force, he had become a civilian, working for Lockheed out of Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California; moving his young family first to a ranch, then later into a nice ranch-style house in then-remote Palmdale, he was testing the F-104 Starfighter - "the missile with a man in it."

With Dad at the controls, he piloted this jet to altitude and speed records (more than twice the speed of sound) for his time. He loved what he did, and he did it assiduously and passionately. My mother never wanted him to do anything else, and I must acknowledge that she instilled in me a like passion for and commitment to pursuing what fulfills me and striving to be the best at that thing no matter what the cost or consequences.

He used to leave for work, long before the rising of the sun, and drive through the high desert to the testing fields. He might fly to Iceland and back before we'd even had breakfast; or zoom up to get a clear look at the stars in the profound and airless, cold vacuum of subspace before rocketing back down into the desert heat for lunch and another run.

An engineer, he knew everything about how his craft worked, and he had a reputation that surpassed the other pilots for treating his support team with respect as peers; knowing much of how each man's job was done without presuming to tell him how to do it garnered him a deep respect and admiration from pretty much all who worked for and with him.

He always had time to chat with his crew members and remained naturally, eminently approachable. The result was a camaraderie amongst his team that became legendary, after his death.

I have come to realize a similarity, a parallel between us in our interactions with and motivation of the teams I build or on which I participate in the work that I do. I call it, "working on the same side of the table," though what it is is simply respectful, open and complete collaboration. Trusting others to do their best, maintain commitment, keep one's word and embrace responsibility and accountability. If we're all doing that, collaboration can become almost thrilling in its magic and in the results that are achieved. The buck stops where it stops; but when all are trusted to do their jobs the best they can be done, that buck stoppage simply becomes the team's safety net.

How did I learn this; was it from my father?

He used to come home at the end of his day, driving his 1955 Thunderbird, pick me up and we'd go for a Drive.

According to Mom, he'd drive off with me standing on the passenger side, one elbow on the dash, looking across at my Dad as we drove off to "...talk about things." I had a deep, deep bond with my father that I simply accepted as the Way Things Are.

I have no memory of what we talked about, only images and impressions of the turquoise-blue two-seater, my father's smiling profile and gentle, rumbling voice, of me standing and talking to him. Did I learn about being the best I can be, then? Is that when I began to understand the value of appreciating the inherent value in others, in bestowing respect, up front? Was that the moment when I came to understand that respect is not something that is earned, rather something that can only be lost?

As I write this, what comes to mind is my experience as I watched Jerry Mitchell build the choreography for the Gay Games in 1994. The job of Producer and Director of the Ceremonies, that year, was the biggest and most public and internationally visible project I'd undertaken, to date, and I could not have been more serious about it. Jerry was, already, a well-known and respected name on Broadway, and had graciously accepted the responsibility of building the choreography for the Ceremonies with a huge cast of dancers comprised of everything from broadway gypsies to dreamers with a bit of rhythm.

I vividly remember going to an early rehearsal and watching Jerry work. I had expected him to show up with all the choreography in his head and begin directing the dancers to conform to what he'd pre-conjured. That's not what happened. Rather, it was as though he opened up his virtual toolbox and gathered his team of talent around him and went to work on the realization of a concept he'd embraced and made his own.

"Let's try this..." "Let's try that..." he would say. Suggestions would come from his core corps of dancers and they'd try that. Gradually, inexorably, the show began to form. Jerry was in control, he stirred the pot, but all were welcome to offer ingredients or input until what seemed right to Jerry was decided and he moved forward.

I was startled, thrilled and enlightened to this revelation that one didn't need to have all the answers in advance to be successful at developing, at Directing an idea or show. Rather that it is the guiding of the collaborative process and taking responsibility for making the ultimate decisions but not being held back by preconception wherein lies the true magic of creating wonder, excitement and awe, successfully.

I suddenly realized how freeing it was to share one's process, openly; not defensive about how one gets to where one is going, confident in the sense that one is guiding a group or a process to the best possible goal or result. This moment of enlightenment I have kept with me, ever since. And, as I have written the above, I see the parallel between how I strive to build, inspire and manage teams toward the realization of a goal and the way my father treated, respected and worked with his own teams in his own context.

How did this become a part of me...?

His jet crashed the day after Valentine's Day, and he was 33; far younger than I now am. I remember awakening in the early morning, a bit before I usually did, and wandering into my parent's room.

I can see this as clearly, now, as though it were yesterday. My mother was lying on her back on the bed; clothed in a housedress and simply lying there, quietly, looking up at the ceiling... She was bathed in that golden glow of early morning, streaming through the sheer curtains on the far side of the bed; almost like a princess awaiting the kiss of her prince; now, a prince who shall kiss, no more.

I went over to the bed and, without saying a word, climbed up and crawled over to her; snuggling up and putting one arm across her clasped hands at her waist. She didn't look at me, and it was very, very quiet for a few moments...

Then, I looked up at her and said, "...has Daddy flown up to Heaven?"