I was cleaning out some old files when I came across a small blue address book – the kind we used before iPhones had contact lists, or even before we had iPhones. It dates from 2003. When I looked at the listings, I realized I was holding an artifact of my career.
Between October of 2003 and May of 2004, I was Director of Communications for St. Louis Public Schools. The school district, with many of the problems of an urban school district, had been in upheaval since June. A reform board had been elected, and it had promptly hired an outside management firm from New York to design and implement a total overhaul. It wasn’t a simple reorganization; instead, think Elon Musk’s Department of Governmental Efficiency without the charm.
On its first day, the outside firm discovered that the district wasn’t technically, but actually, bankrupt. Suddenly, change came. Schools were closed and consolidated. Hundreds of staff positions had been eliminated. Operations were outsourced. Chaos and protests were the watchwords. As in, daily chaos and protests.
I was distanced from all of it. I was working from home in a St. Louis suburb as a freelance consultant, having been one of many white males in their late 40s or early 50s who’d been downsized. I saw the newspaper stories, but they didn’t affect my kids, my school district, or my world.
But they soon would.
By September, the chaos in St. Louis Public Schools had intensified. Layoffs were continuing. Board meetings had to be held in the largest school auditorium available, one that held 400. Another thousand would be outside, unable to get in. Arrests during board meetings were not uncommon.
That month, a friend called me. At least, I think he was a friend. He sent me a job posting – Director of Communications for St. Louis Public Schools. The former director had resigned, and the district was looking for a replacement. The previous position had managed a team of 12. The new position managed a team of one-half person, which provides some idea of how extensive the downsizing had been.
When I read the listing, I called the friend back. And I laughed. “You can’t be serious,” I said. But he was, explaining that the district desperately needed someone who could talk with opponents and protesters like they were real people and would be unflappable in the fact of hundreds screaming at you. He said I had that exact experience, reminding me of the time with a previous employer that I’d had corporate security keeping my house under surveillance because of threats from people associated with a Greenpeace protest.
We talked some more. I said I’d think about it. I did. And then I did something that most people would consider stupid. I filled out the application and sent it in. I had zero experience with working for a school district.
And heard nothing. For weeks.
I’d almost forgotten about it when a district secretary called and told me the interview was set for a day the following week at 9 a.m. I was to park in the district’s headquarters parking building and give my name to the security officers at the entrance.
And thus began the strangest job interview I have ever had.
But before the interview, another friend called and asked a strange question. Was I applying for a job in the St. Louis mayor’s office? When I said no, but I had applied for the school district job, he simply said, “Ah.” He told me that a consultant to the mayor had been calling around and connected to him, looking for background on me. The weirdest thing he’d been asked was if I attended church, and if so, which one. He happened to know, and he provided the information.
The mayor’s office was closely, if unofficially, tied to what was happening in the school district.
The interview day arrived. I drove to downtown St. Louis and parked. I gave my name to the security officer. I was escorted to a conference room to wait. With nine other candidates for the job.
Ten of us. Not only was I the only white male in the room, but I was also the only male. I was wearing a suit. I smiled and told the others hello. No one spoke. They stared at me like I was a triceratops that had accidentally wandered in from the street.
One by one, we were called to the interview in another nearby conference room. The intervals between each varied, from five minutes to 25. You could almost guess who was getting the most favorable reactions by the length of time that passed.
I was the last to be called.
Waiting in the conference room were the lead for the management team, who was serving as acting superintendent; one of the team associates; and a vice president who was the theoretical manager for the communications function. She would be my boss, if I got the job.
For about 10 minutes, the interview questions were perfunctory. Tell us about yourself. What would you consider your greatest achievement. Your biggest failure. Your background. A couple of questions about specific things on my resume.
I could tell the acting superintendent was getting antsy. He was seated to my left, and the other two interviewers were next to each other on my right. He was fidgeting, almost like someone who couldn’t keep still (my oldest son was like that; I recognized the behavior). Suddenly, he cut off a question from across the table, stood, and almost exploded as he shouted.
“Why the hell would you want a job like this?”
The room went silent. The other two looked down, as if this was and wasn’t a surprise.
For a moment, I said nothing. And then I said, “Because you need me.”
Whatever he expected me to say, that wasn’t it. He looked surprised and then sat down. I went on to explain that the protests were unlikely to stop, and the district needed someone who could deal with that. They needed someone who was comfortable in front of a news camera. They needed someone who understood internal as well as external communications. And they needed someone who would treat critics and protesters with respect and empathy.
They listened, asked a few more questions, and the interview ended. I drove the 16 miles home, finding my wife waiting in the driveway. A member of the school board and former St. Louis mayor had called, and I was supposed to meet him at his office now. I turned around and headed back toward mid-town St. Louis.
The office was in a building near the St. Louis Symphony; I parked in the symphony’s parking lot and made my way to the top floor of the building next door. It was lunchtime, and the offices and desks were empty. I could hear a voice down the hall and followed the sound.
The man was on the phone and waved me into the office. He handed me a binder, indicating that I should start reading it. It was a report on the problems in the school district, and it was about two inches thick. When he finished his call, he turned to me and said, “Tomorrow, I need you with me at a meeting with a group of teachers from the high school. It’s at 4 p.m., and about a dozen people will be there.” The meeting would be at an Italian restaurant in the part of St. Louis known as the Hill, still a largely Italian American area (Joe Garigiola and Yogi Berra grew up there). He continued talking while I wondered whether the teachers’ meeting was part of the interview process.
As he talked, I began to realize that this wasn’t an interview; I was getting my first assignment. I finally asked, “I’m assuming I’m hired?”
He waved almost impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll work out the other stuff like salary. Just be there at 4.” And with that, the conversation was over.
And that is how I was hired as Director of Communication for St. Louis Public Schools. I didn’t know the official start date, my salary, benefits, or anything else. But I was hired.
Top photograph by Chelaxy Designs via Unsplash. Used with permission.
