My secret corporate angst

Parts of this entry were originally an e-mail to my teammates in P&G Brand Operations, sent to them a few days after my last day at work. I edited it a bit for public consumption a few days ago. I’m posting this from Narita while waiting for my flight to Chicago; and though the timing may seem weird, well, it’s already done and ready for posting, so what the hell; and who knows, it may actually be indicative of something coming. ;)

I’ll let you in on a secret that I used to tell only my closest friends: for the first ten years of my twelve-plus years in corporate life, I struggled to reconcile the ideals of "goodness",  "giving", "service", and "others" with the capitalist world.  

Just as a bit of background: I emerged from college extremely idealistic. When I graduated in 1999, after 15 years of Ateneo education, I wholeheartedly embraced Ateneo’s “man for others” and “magis” mantras. Blame it on taking Philosophy of the Human Person, Philosophy of Religion, and Theology of Liberation way too seriously; on being an active member of religious and socially-oriented school orgs (and not a single business org); on playing, singing and writing inspirational music for retreats and Masses throughout half of high school and all of college; and coming from a family that’s not at all corporate, barely entrepreneurial, and big on social change. To tell the truth, if circumstances had been different in 1999, I would have attended the seniors’ eight-day silent retreat, tried out for the Jesuit Volunteers of the Philippines, and even undergone the Jesuit vocation seminar.

Instead, in a need to be practical (i.e., no more allowance from my parents after graduation and a future to build for my then-partner and myself), I chose to conform to the typical Atenean route and pursue the typical Atenean model of success by carving out a name for myself in the corporate realm (“maybe just for a few years”, I told myself). What surprises awaited me and my idealism there! At my first company, a corporate foundation, the managing director was so intent on making the foundation self-sustaining that she emphasized revenue-generation over the social development and arts and culture programs that were the heart of the foundation’s mission. At my first real corporate job at a company under one of the country’s most prestigious conglomerates, “home-grown talent” was a misnomer: entering at low levels was a dead end, and the best way to advance was to be pirated from a multinational company, qualifications and competence notwithstanding. At my third company, P&G, though employee practices and corporate social responsibility were much more robust and conscientious, everything still boiled down to growing sales volume and market share. And when I moved to a local company in bright-eyed hopes of bringing some of what I had learned from working with a multinational, imagine my dismay when I fought for salary adjustments for my grossly underpaid staff, arguing that they might leave because their rates were way below industry rates, and management’s response was: “That’s okay, if they leave, then we can hire fresh new blood." (Interestingly, both the second and fourth companies I described listed “primacy of employees”, or something to that effect, among their precious corporate values.)

And so, over the ten years I was with these four companies, I wondered: how did making a better life, whether for employees or for the world in general, fit into the agenda of big business, beyond organizational brainwashing, pretty corporate newsletters and posters in office lobbies, tax exemptions, and glowing PR? Was “caring for employees” just a manipulative means to an end? Was it even possible to be a corporate individual and do genuine and meaningful good in one’s work? How did the intent of authentically making life better fit into a milieu where the bottom line was the bottom line?  

Not to say I was totally unhappy. I had lots of great friends among my colleagues, I enjoyed most of what I did on a day-to-day basis, I learned a tremendous lot, and I can’t deny that I enjoyed the money and other perks. But at every retreat or recollection I attended, my existentialist side would emerge, point an accusing finger at me, and ask: Is this all there is? “You’re funding your passion,” were the words from a colleague, in reference to doing corporate work alongside making music with Hangad, that I usually used to quiet the guilt and restlessness. It worked, at times; though I can’t deny that the guilt and restlessness, quiet as they were, were still there.

But things were different when I rejoined P&G, to lead the in-store sales force—commonly known as “promoters”, “promodisers”, or “push-girls” for brands ranging from Olay to Tide to Downy to Pantene to Safeguard to Pampers, and in retail environments ranging from department store beauty sections to provincial wholesalers—which was undergoing significant expansion and hence receiving lots of management attention and scrutiny. Sure, my first order of business was to ensure the sales force generated enough growth to make financial sense. But month after month, as I became more and more immersed in the program, I learned that this first order of business, on paper, did not have to be the final order of business.

Now one may think that managing promoters is as simple as putting a warm body at a supermarket shelf and making her stand there for eight hours a day, six days a week. But that’s just the surface. The challenge emerges in enabling these individuals to dialogue with shoppers about their brands, assertively and convincingly but still likably; and more than that, ensuring that these sellers do their work with the same level of proficiency and quality, whether they’re in Rustan’s Shangri-La or Mindpro Supermarket Zamboanga. Factor in the size and dispersion of the sales force, the frequency at which they have to learn about new products, the need to control costs, and the fact that no two shoppers, retailers, stores, or promoters are exactly alike—and there you have a huge complex equation.

Yet we worked to build and strengthen the program into a recognized success. And as we did so, we saw, first, that as the program expanded and extended, it was creating jobs and giving more and more people a steady livelihood. Next, as program design became more sophisticated, the bar was raised and the program started to challenge people to stretch themselves beyond their comfort zones—and hence, learn more, be more, and surprise everyone, including themselves. At the same time, we found areas with some flexibility in cost, and with this, were able to introduce variable compensation and recognition programs that meaningfully rewarded individuals for their achievements, giving them additional livelihood on one hand, but also a huge feeling of personal value. And lastly, as the organization grew and needed more layers, with more and more emphasis being placed on leadership and ownership at all levels, there came the realization that we were creating not only jobs but also careers—ways for people to advance.

And out of all this came the fulfillment in what I’ve never been ashamed to call the most fulfilling job I’ve ever had. More than the program’s business results, the recognition it received from P&G’s regional and global officers, the creativity and attention to detail I was able to put into it, and the power I wielded, fulfillment came from leading a program that made a difference in the lives of over 1,000 people.

If people repeatedly described me and my work as “passionate”, it was exactly because of this. Passion was fueled by the knowledge that this program was giving over a thousand individuals a chance at an honest, steady living; by seeing individuals go beyond themselves and get better and better at what they did; by seeing people moving up; by helping people feel valued and appreciated, not only as cogs in a money-making machine but as individuals; by simply entertaining people, giving them a good time at what could easily have been just another boring meeting; and yes, even by learning that individuals were leaving the program because they had earned enough money to go back to school, or had grown their skills enough to find a better job. Tiring and frustrating as things would get at times, all this kept me going.

  

So, finally, in my last two years in the corporate world, my long-running inner turmoil was finally put to rest, and a month ago I left the corporate world with a heart light and full. Hopefully corporate readers who have the same restlessness in their hearts as I did—maybe they took Philosophy and Theology too seriously, too—will take heart knowing that, yes, successfully caring for others is possible alongside successful corporate results, as better business becomes a vehicle to help more and more people. On any CEO’s financial sheet, people is the means and profit is the end—but in how you do your own work, you really have the power to flip it around.