Leading on the edge

Chapter 1

Leadership can be learned, and taught, early

My first memory of leadership is from Grade 1. I was an early reader; my parents had encouraged me to read the newspaper over their shoulder at breakfast on Saturday mornings. I was also the youngest in school — I started at the tender age of four so from the outset I felt ‘behind’. This was one reason Mum pushed me hard to learn how to read before I got there. She knew that I would be less developed physically and socially when I got to school and wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be behind intellectually. I quickly got the hang of it and by the time I reached Grade 1 I was topping the class.

Leader without a title

My teacher was the most beautiful woman, Miss Barton — who became Mrs Williamson later in the year, dashing the hopes and hearts of many young boys in my class. She quickly recognised that I was not only a great reader but also very encouraging with those around me. Rather than have me sitting bored at the back of the class and destined to distract others (a trait that came to the fore in secondary school), Miss Barton gave me a special job. I would no longer have ‘reading time’ — instead, I would be a reading coach. She gave me a small group of classmates to sit with, listen to and help with words they were stuck on as they developed their own reading skills. Through one small intervention, this very wise woman managed to keep me interested in school and improve the learning outcomes for the other kids, while allowing her to spend time with the kids who were a bit behind. Importantly, I think this was the first time I had been given a leadership role. I didn’t recognise it at the time, of course, but on reflection that year changed me. It let me see that you can lead people with, or without, a special title or a shiny badge.

Loz, my father, was a sales representative working the stores and supermarkets on behalf of big manufacturers. He was a pretty good one too, so I thought! Every week or so he’d come home with extra treats from work and delight us with a box of Wagon Wheels, Mint Patties or Golden Roughs (my favourite). Which, in hindsight, seems odd as he worked mostly in pharmaceuticals! But whenever he went on a country trip he always returned with some little treasure. He still knows where every factory outlet is located and to this day will say to me, ‘If you’re heading to Bendigo don’t forget to drop in to the Ardmona factory for some cheap canned food’. Sure Dad, will do.

His own father died when Dad was only four years old and he grew up in a household of women. All of his parenting skills were home grown and intuitive — fatherhood books didn’t exist then, and I doubt he would have read them anyway. The idea of being the ‘stern patriarch’, which was still popular at the time, would have never entered his mind. We didn’t even call him Dad — he was just ‘Loz’, short for Lawrie, which we were astounded to find out later was short for Lawrence!

He was, and still is, a gorgeous, fun-loving father, now grandfather to six grandchildren. We went where Loz worked, and during the mid seventies Loz tried out a few jobs in different locations. What this meant for me was that I attended three different primary schools in the three years from Year 4 to Year 6. Thankfully, he was able to time his moves so they occurred over the long summer holidays.

Starting a new school is tough. And starting a new school every year, at the stage in your life when you are just starting to understand your world and that you are an individual, distinct from those around you, was particularly hard. I don’t remember being coached but I found a method of assimilation that worked for me — a method I had to quickly unlearn when I entered the workforce. I would survive by being a chameleon. I would blend in, try not to attract the spotlight, keep a reserved distance and hope that somehow I would make a friend. It was pure self-preservation.

To a large extent this worked and by the time I entered Grade 5 at Waverley Park Primary School I had it down to a fine art. Such a fine art that by week four of the first term I had been voted Red house captain. Taking on this leadership role a good year or so younger than my peers didn’t faze me. I was a big sister to two siblings, I had survived two changes of school and the kids had voted for me!

It was at this time that my gorgeous mum, Sharon, went back to work full-time. My little brother Ben (later an AFL player for Carlton) was in Year 4 and my sister Jane (who we called and still call Sparky for her extremely energetic mind, crazy curly hair and unshakeable optimism) was just starting school. Straight away I was shouldering a great responsibility. From 3.30 pm, when we walked home from school together, to around 5 pm, when Mum would arrive home, I was in charge. Sounds awesome, doesn’t it? And at first I was very excited. I enjoyed the responsibility and the chance to boss my younger brother and sister around without the watchful eye of Mum and Dad. Quickly, though, I started to learn what it was really like to be a ‘mum’. Making afternoon tea, constantly bugging Ben to ‘stop kicking that football on the road and come inside now’, playing with Jane for an hour.

I’m sure Shaz and Loz wouldn’t have organised it this way if they’d had a choice. We had just moved into a new house in a new suburb and like most Australian families we needed the second income to support our simple suburban lifestyle. If Shaz hadn’t had to go back to work, would I be a different person? Sure. I’m convinced I would be less resilient and resourceful. I learned a lot during that time about responsibility, remaining calm in tricky situations and settling disputes. All skills I would need in Antarctica, more than two decades later.

A code to live by

By the time I hit Year 9 at school I had a reputation, and not a great one. I was, or was always close to, achieving straight A’s, but not through application or hard work. I think early on I learned how to work the system. My report cards were unanimous: ‘Can do better. More focus and effort required.’ I was fast and accurate when I wanted to be, and would often finish my work before my classmates. At which time I would whip out a Rubik’s cube (my record was 1 minute 46 seconds for the complete cube; I even used silicon lubricant to speed up my spins), pull out a copy of Dolly magazine or do something generally annoying and disruptive, just to signal that I had finished. I wouldn’t explicitly interrupt or disrupt the kids around me, but just the fact that I was amusing myself while they were still plugging away at their work was enough for the teachers to take note.

And take note they did. At the end of Year 10 I was called into the deputy principal’s office. ‘Do you really want to go on to years 11 and 12?’ she asked me. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to go and get a job? You would love the freedom to be able to do what you want, when you want and the way you want. Your teachers all say you are bored with school.’ I looked at Sister Mary in silent disbelief. Are you throwing me out?

Two of my best friends had left school after Year 10. Both were a month into their ‘retail careers’, working at Woolworths full-time, with all the money they could spend. I was seriously thinking about joining them, mainly for the lucrative income. Oh the glamour! What I could do with the princely wage of $150 a week! I went home and told Shaz. Now, Shaz was totally gorgeous and glamorous. Think about the late ’80s — Oscar de la Renta perfume, red lippy and permed blond hair. She was stunning. But she was also very wise. She said, ‘Darling, why don’t you just finish Year 10, then try out working at Woolworths over the summer? You’ll earn lots of money and you’ll get to see what it’s like working on the checkout all day, every day. If you still love it after two months, chances are it will make you happy. But if you don’t like it, then you can go back to school and do your Higher School Certificate’.

What a great response. She affirmed my concerns, outlined the options and, importantly, gave me an ‘out’ if my chosen course didn’t work out. Giving people an ‘out’ is a key leadership skill, and like many parents, Shaz intuitively knew that if she laid down the law either way I would have rebelled. Better to give me some options and let me choose; after all, I was 16 years old and like most teenagers there wasn’t much I didn’t know.

Mrs Purcell, my English teacher, steered me through years 11 and 12. She consistently reminded me that raw intelligence alone is not enough for success. It needed to be married with dedication and application. Intelligence alone would make for a waste of school, and the choices I made now would affect me for life. While she adhered to the curriculum and taught us the usual classics, one particular project stayed with me all my life and really set the scene for my home life, career and relationships.

After closing Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, Mrs Purcell turned to the class and said, ‘I want you to choose a popular song. A song that you love, a song with strong lyrics. Then we’re going to deconstruct it and find out what is at the heart of it. We’re going to explore what drove the lyricist to create this song, the message the writer was trying to get across’. It was an English Literature class in sentence structure, prose and rhythm dressed up as something quite exciting and even a bit daring! Perfect for bored teenagers like me.

This was 1986, and I had one particular song constantly running through my head. The writer, Peter Garrett, was at that time particularly critical of US military activity in Australia. He was passionate about the environment and social justice. Over the course of a month I pulled apart the incredible Midnight Oil song ‘Power and the Passion’, a classic rock anthem from 1982 (I’m sure many 40+ readers will now have the chorus resonating in their heads!). One particular line hit me and hit me hard: ‘It’s better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.’

Truly.

As I thought about this I realised I had two choices: I could continue to meander through life, putting in minimum effort, taking no chances and accepting whatever was dished out to me as if it was my preordained destiny; or I could live by a new code, one that could take me well out of my comfort zone, make life much more risky — but also open the world up to me. As I shaped and then wrote out my new code, I made the personal commitment to live by it as much as I could. My new motto as a 16-year-old high-school student, which changed my life forever and set me on a course of adventure, excitement and challenge was: ‘I would rather regret the things I did than regret the things I didn’t do.’

Rather than saying, ‘Oh, Mark Twain and Emiliano Zapata — not very original . . .’, Mrs Purcell offered me affirmation and the licence to make this pledge my own. The first true test of this personal commitment came at the end of Year 12.

By now, thanks to my teacher’s wonderful guidance, I was passionate about words and people. Writing was easy and I was good at it. Maths was a whole other story. I loved to understand what made people tick and put this into words, so I chose to study either public relations or journalism. I thought these occupations might enable me to exercise my love of writing but in such a way as to create broad influence for the people I worked with. My Higher School Certificate score (the primary assessment criterion for entry to university) was good enough to afford me the choice of enrolling at Melbourne University (arguably the best in Australia), or at one or two other universities in Melbourne, or taking a leap into the unknown by moving 300 kilometres out into the bush and enrolling in a new degree that combined journalism and public relations.

Melbourne University had lots going for it. Several friends were going, transport was easy, and there were many, many excellent cafés, student digs, parties and extracurricular activities in and around the Carlton campus. I was tempted, but as I weighed up the options I thought, I can go to Melbourne, get a great degree, stay in my comfort zone and end up with a good job; or . . . I could go right out on a limb, leave all my friends and family, and study for an untested degree but one that was a better fit for what I wanted to do. I would live in the ‘bush’ and learn a whole lot more about myself while building critical life skills.

To the dismay of those closest to me, I changed my university admission preferences at the last possible moment and chose to attend Deakin University, Warrnambool campus. I vividly remember the day Shaz and Loz drove away from my student accommodation. I felt a mixture of dread and excitement for what lay ahead! I knew nobody in Warrnambool, not a soul. I had no way of getting to university from my rented student accommodation (a 10-kilometre round trip), no job, and even coming home for the weekend would involve nearly five hours’ travel on public transport.

I started university at age 17. No driver’s licence, unable to legally drink, many miles from home. It was a very difficult introduction to university life. But two part-time jobs, one as a waitress and the other working in a supermarket, a gaggle of new, similarly displaced friends, and the charms of a blue-eyed blond local surfer called Chris who became my first real boyfriend, made university fun and interesting. My part-time work was predominantly on the weekends, which meant that I stayed and played in and around Warrnambool and really got to know and love this little city on the big coast.

Of my six best friends at university, two of us made it into the final year and I was the only one who graduated. Some found the work too hard or uninteresting; others simply missed their family and friends too much. Two things helped me persevere through the loneliness and complete my degree without dropping a subject and with reasonable grades. The first was my motto. The second was a conversation with a stranger on the long, boring train ride home one day. Her pivotal advice was that a future employer wouldn’t look so much at grades, prescribed learning and tuition. A future employer would look for the ability to finish something you started. Stickability, resilience and perseverance against the odds would be accounted more highly than the academic transcript and conferral of the degree. So I stuck it out, made my sister spend her sixteenth birthday driving down to Warrnambool and back with Mum and Dad for my graduation ceremony (she still reminds me of this quite often), moved back to Melbourne and went looking for work.