the magical muffin cart, or, optimize upstream, ya knucklehead
One of the most memorable, literally resonant, leadership lessons I’ve ever experienced came from a muffin cart. I was teaching US History to 11th graders at GW Carver High School in New Orleans. After several years in FEMA trailers, we were finally holding classes in a proper building.
This place was beautiful and brand spanking new. Lots of polished concrete and gleaming steel. A test kitchen, a second-floor gym, a real science lab, the works. There was also an atrium-style hallway that spilled out from the front entrance and toward a staircase that led to the second floor classrooms.
For many weeks, we served breakfast to our beloved juniors from a rolling cart stationed in that atrium. It was unpleasant for everyone involved. Every sound echoed from all the hard surfaces and the super high ceiling. To be heard, you had to match or exceed the surrounding din with your own volume. An innocuous comment sounded like a challenge or a threat because you were yelling it. Teachers were constantly shushing and consoling and cajoling kids so that homerooms nearby weren’t victims of the thunderdome. It was sonic chaos. Ugly and stressful.
In my diligent ignorance, I strove to solve this problem with ever subtler attacks right at the point of impact. I tried whispering to kids to get them to whisper back; I de-escalated teenage skirmishes with every move I knew; I wore sneakers instead of loafers so my heels wouldn’t clack on the floor.
Things only got worse. The space became one where kids and adults expected things to go badly. That prophecy fulfilled itself over and over, Monday to Friday. Kids started skipping breakfast to avoid the cacophony and the hail of demerits hapless teachers unleashed.
This carried on until one man, the indomitable James Lukens, solved the problem after observing for approximately 19 seconds.
“Why don’t you move the cart?”
This was the answer. It was so much more effective than all of my psycho-emotional wizardry and dutiful coaching and earnest code-switching.
We moved the cart 50 yards away into a hallway with a normal 10 foot ceiling, right near the door where kids came in off the bus. This eliminated the echo-y race to the top. You could say, “Hey Jimmie, what’s up?” and it didn’t sound like an inaugural address. Suddenly kids could happily collect breakfast, whisper to their friends, dap off a favorite teacher and get to homeroom in a good mood.
For a long time, I thought of this Lukens lesson as “move the muffin cart.” That advice only carries you so far. (Most places I’ve worked since haven’t had muffins, much less carts to convey them. I regret this. I love a muffin cart.)
These days, my shorthand for this lesson is “optimize upstream.” You can spend (waste) a ton of energy getting really good, genuinely really good, at solving problems that wouldn’t even exist if you put your attention on solving an upstream problem first.
Instead of becoming an amazing firefighter who leaps through windows and rescues babies and skillfully wields a hose and ax while breathing toxic smoke, install a smoke detector. Instead of practicing high-stress communication techniques in a super-loud hallway with teenagers who have suffered multiple acute traumas…move the muffin cart.
Solve the problem that prevents other problems.
Sometimes, as with the muffin cart, this upstream problem is actually way easier to solve. There are fewer people and systems involved. You may be able to do it by fiat instead of having to achieve some kind of high-friction consensus.
If you don’t see what the muffin cart is in your situation, invite an observer who gets your end goal but hasn’t been in the mix every day. Chances are, something will seem weird or useful to them that you haven’t even considered. That weird or useful thing is probably your muffin cart.
-Eric
