In 1995, I moved from the East Coast to San Francisco to attend law school. And there I remained until 2016 when I returned home. And discovered that I had entirely missed my adult onboarding into my family and thus had no clue about our official corporate policies.
Of which there are many. Let me start with our Communications Policy. It's rather short but surprisingly difficult and non-intuitive to apply. It states:
In the event that any member of this organization experiences anger, frustration, or the harboring of negative sentiment toward any other member, said member shall be strictly prohibited from initiating direct communication with the offending party. All grievances shall be routed through one or more intermediary members of the organization, whose role shall be limited to validation of the aggrieved party's emotional position. Direct engagement with the subject of said grievance is hereby deemed a violation of this Policy and shall be subject to penalties as outlined in the Corporation's disciplinary framework.
So this is what I lovingly call the "game of telephone" policy. I was introduced to it shortly after my arrival in Manhattan, at a time that I did not yet appreciate the complete weirdness of my family dynamics. (I knew they were weird. Just not how weird.)
Thus I discovered third hand that a major family dispute was roiling beneath the surface. The dispute — how exactly did one pronounce the name of L5 (as noted in a prior post, with three sisters and two nieces with names starting with L, I am forced to use a numbering system to adhere to my own not naming names policy — my family is weird, but I'm not ready to be fired just yet).
Now, to be fair, L5's name can be pronounced in different ways. So fine, some confusion is acceptable. But I discovered that something far more important than her name was at stake. The real dilemma: just whose fault was it that there was any confusion at all? Now that's where the telephone lines were burning up.
To my mother, the answer was obvious. It was her daughter-in-law's fault. (That one was easy to see coming, yes?) My observation that her son likely knew his daughter's name and was probably my mother's direct contact on this sort of thing was not well taken. (Recall: I didn't really understand the rules yet.) My sisters — who did know the corporate policies — loyally repeated my mother's opinion. As for my brother, as the oldest male in an Italian family, he didn't care about the issue in the slightest. As is his birthright.
Unfortunately for me, I came home with what I call my "megaphone policy." Not yet understanding that violation of corporate policies come with severe penalties, I did the unthinkable. I asked L5 how to pronounce her name.
Poor L5. She understood the policies better than me and responded with a look of pure fear. "Well, you pronounce it… but it's okay that everyone says it…." At which point I noted that it was in fact her name and perhaps she had a right to people pronouncing it correctly. I advised her to just make an announcement at the next family gathering. Yes, I was shockingly naive. I understand that now. Stop shaking your head at me.
Needless to say, L5 did not take me up on my auntly guidance. Even as a young teen, she knew that although I was an adult, my advice on corporate communications was suspect. Smart girl. So everyone still mispronounces her name and she still says nothing, despite now being a young adult launching her own life (not really — her life belongs to the corporation. As, apparently, does mine).
As an amusing irony, part of my job as a senior vice president at a large public company was advising the communications department. I have learned that this is completely irrelevant to my family's corporate communications policy. Any attempt to port over my years of corporate expertise to the family corporation is itself a violation of the policy. I can only hope that Congress will get off its butt and call for some corporate transparency around here. Until then, the telephone game prevails.