Now let's talk about solidarity —what it means and how it looks in life and at work, again for better and for worse . 7
In contrast to sociability, solidarity is based not so much in the heart as in the mind. Solidaristic relationships are based on common tasks, mutual interests, and clearly understood shared goals that benefit all the involved parties, whether they personally like each other or not. Labor unions are an archetypal example of high-solidarity communities. So are police officers in pursuit of a criminal, surgeons around an operating table, or lawyers being threatened, say, by legislation that might curb their freedom to advertise on television. The members of these groups might dislike each other on a personal basis, but you would never know it to see them in action. They work together like a well-oiled machine, each piston spinning in unison to create the desired outcome no matter what—be it to make an arrest, save a patient's life, or beat back an attempt to curb financial gain. In fact, one of the hallmarks of high solidarity is a certain ruthlessness and piercing focus. Think about the community
that Andy Collins encountered at Tystar Industries. Initially, he found a community focused hard on a single goal: victory (As the CEO told him: "We view business as a zero-sum game. We win, they lose.") Meetings were devoid of chitchat; poor performers dispensed with. Indeed, when a senior manager left the company, no one was heard to utter, "Too bad Joe had to leave us, he was such a nice guy." One day, Joe was simply gone, as was his usefulness to the "cause." Next item.
As heartless as it may sound, solidarity in an organizational setting can be a very positive dynamic—especially for customers and shareholders! Most people about to undergo surgery (they are customers, too, albeit involuntarily) couldn't care less if their surgical team is composed of golfing partners. They want doctors ruthlessly committed to curing them, so committed that they would never, ever look the other way if one of the surgical team appeared to be, say, inebriated, dazed by the flu, or simply not up to the job. Or consider an industrial situation. If you are a customer expecting a large shipment of electric motors on Wednesday so that the factory can churn out washing machines on Thursday for delivery on Friday, do you want a supplier uncompromisingly focused on your needs no matter what—or one in which highly sociable employees brainstorm and forge consensus all the way past deadline?
Now imagine yourself an investor with some money you'd like to grow, sooner rather than later. Wouldn't you rather put it in a company where meetings fixated on goals and competitive strategies instead of one where they dissolved into friendly banter about football? Wouldn't you be more comfortable knowing that you'd placed your bet on a company where managers and employees alike know the competition and agree upon a battle plan to defeat it rather than one in which the same topic was open to good-natured debate?
This is not to say that solidarity is only good for customers and investors. Some people—indeed, many people—enjoy working
in environments of high clarity. They like—they need —to know their company's goals, the agreed-upon method of reaching them, and what professional behaviors will be rewarded.
Take, for example, Geoff Johns, who for many years worked as a reporter at a major city daily. In all his years at the newspaper, this man had never been told exactly what constituted excellent performance. Yes, he knew that his job was to find interesting news stories and report them accurately. But like many other reporters, he had no explicit idea what "management" considered interesting or in what direction his career should be moving. Should he be developing more articles about social trends—such as the plight of teenage mothers or the depleted fishing stocks off Georges Bank—or should he be devoting his time to scooping the competition on familiar territory, such as the governor's personal finances?
About a year ago, Johns took a new job as a professor of journalism at a large university. Soon after signing on, he decided to take advantage of one of the school's perks—he could attend classes in any graduate department. He'd long had an interest in business, so he enrolled in the evening MBA program. What surprised him most was not the Byzantine workings of the financial markets or mysteries of regression analysis but the whole notion that many large American corporations have a system by which employees and their bosses sit down together at the beginning of the year and set explicit performance goals, and at the end of the year sit down again and decide how close the employee has come to achieving those goals—a measure upon which a bonus is paid. That many people in business had such clear and direct guidance from above absolutely amazed him.
Interestingly, Johns soon had a chance to see this practice in action. About two weeks after he started his job at the university, the department head called him in for a meeting. "Your performance will be judged on two dimensions," he was informed. "We expect your teaching evaluations from students to be in the 4.5 to 5.0 range in the first semester, and above 5.5 in the second.
and we expect you to produce at least three peer-reviewed articles for scholarly journals by next September. Achievement of these goals will mean you receive between 80 to 100 percent of your possible bonus of $11,000."
Somewhat jokingly, Johns responded, "And what if I receive student evaluations of 3.4 and write two articles?"
"Then you will receive 10 to 12 percent of your possible bonus," came the reply.
Geoff Johns's reaction? In a word, relief. "The whole idea of clear goals and performance measures sort of stunned me when I learned about it in concept, but in practice, I loved it," Geoff later told us. "After fifteen years of not really being sure of what hoops I had to jump through, I finally knew what the bosses wanted from me. No more guessing, no more mind-reading. No more whispering with my co-workers about who was going to get promoted and why. No more desperate feeling that I had to be schmoozing the right people or I wasn't going to get ahead. When I went to work every day, I knew what was expected of me. I knew where and how I should spend my time. At night, I went home without anxiety about whether I had done a good job or not. It was liberating."