“I’d unravel any riddle for any individdle
In trouble or in pain.
With the thoughts I’d be thinkin’
I could be another Lincoln
If I only had a brain!”
Sung by the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz
Music and Lyrics by Harold Arlen and E. Yip Harburg, 1939
Based on the novel by L. Frank Baum
In August of 2002 I started down the yellow brick road to Yellow Springs, Ohio, fat with hope of becoming my own wizard, namely a doctor of philosophy in the field of leadership and change. Inspired by the school’s legacy of social activism, I sought on the job training in the role of public intellectual from the brilliant faculty at Antioch University. What other school on earth can boast a t-shirt that finds rah-rah! in the words of founder Horace Mann: Be ashamed to die until you have done some good for humanity. By the end of three years of coursework and numerous “learning products” – a kind word for the nine scholarly papers that were the end result of numerous iterations of faculty feedback and anxious editing, the slogan became: Be ashamed to die until you have finished this *!@*! Ph.d.
When I graduate this Saturday I will be glad to revert to the prior standard for mortality: I have finished the Ph.D. and am now ensconced at a flagship university as a senior faculty member in an institute committed to leadership and change. My cousin Neil said, “Wow! You’re really lucky to find a job in your field.” I really am. At the same time, I also know that I’ve had a job in my field for the last twenty years: as an independent consultant and community leader working with nonprofit organizations on challenges of collaboration, I did this work every day of my professional and volunteer life. The only difference is now I have new letters behind my name.
Which brings me to the notion of scarecrow wisdom. Wizard of Oz fans will recall that the plot is basically a story of a pilgrimage down the Yellow Brick Road to the City of Oz, where the all powerful Wizard was known to solve every problem that came his way. The travelers included Dorothy and her dog Toto, whose heart’s wish was to return home; the Cowardly Lion, who desperately wanted some courage; the Tin Man who felt he needed a heart to feel what he needed; and the Scarecrow, who suffered mightily because his head was full of straw, instead of a brain. Miles down the road, many learning products later (example: how to stop a Wicked Witch in her tracks), the dog Toto outs the Wizard as a fraud, replete with smoke and mirrors that fooled folks into believing his reputation. Relieved to be free of his pretense and, thus enheartened, the Wizard was equally distressed by the pain of the pilgrims. True to his now debunked reputation, he offered common sense solace to each: Dorothy famously clicks together the ruby slippers and she and Toto return to Kansas, the lion gets a medal for courage, the tin man literally gets a new ticker in the form of an alarm clock, and the Scarecrow gets an advanced degree to demonstrate that he indeed has a brain.
Now that I am Dr. J, I know that my own transformation, like the scarecrow’s, had to do with making tacit knowledge explicit: translating deeply personal, intuitive knowledge into information that could be shared with others. As a practitioner, I used my tacit knowledge to help others shape strategic plans, resolve conflicts, and explore the benefits and limitations of collaboration. I still do exactly the same work. And, it seems, my clients have more confidence in me because of those initials after my name.
The other day I checked into a hotel in Baltimore (not hotl Baltimore) and the desk manager said, “Welcome, Dr. Rechtman.” It came at me out of the blue, a shocking splash of cold water, except this time the witch did not melt: I was Dr. Rechtman. I am Dr. Rechtman. Thanks to scarecrow wisdom, I at last have found my identity.
While I am grateful for my scarecrow wisdom, I also know that true wisdom requires no degree. Here is a story from the Plains Indians that my dear friend Shana Hormann tells: The animals who lived on the mountain dearly wanted to go to the top of the mountain to give thanks for their plenty. However, there were monsters at the timberline that frightened any being who dared ascend. One day, the deer, fat with child, wanted to cross the timberline so she could give birth at the top of the mountain, in direct appreciation for the gifts of life. She began her ascent and quickly found that all the stories were true: that the monsters were huge and horrible and threatened her very being. Determined as she was, she knew she could not cross that line. Instead, she stood there, watching, being present to the monsters, looking deeply into their souls, appreciating all they brought to the mountain community. Slowly, slowly, the monsters began to shrink until, at last, they became field mice and scampered away. The deer climbed to the mountain and had her fawn. The animals (including the field mice) joined her to celebrate the new life and give thanks for their plenty.
This story is a cautionary tale for those of us with scarecrow wisdom. Our advanced degrees equip us with the skill to name the monsters that beset our communities, the power to frighten and to encourage those who face them down, and the credibility to make ourselves heard. As we write and speak, we must also honor the intelligence that lives in unarticulated spaces, like the fear and cheer of the animals of the forest and in the heart of this deer who patiently, authentically, faced down the creatures that others had called monsters. Like the Scarecrow, I'm all smiles now that I have a Ph.D. and its attendant benefits, like a cool job and a thrill when people use my new title. I also know that this degree exponentially increases my ability to name what I see, to honor what is seen by others, and my personal obligation to do some good for humanity.
