How I discovered my leadership identity in the age of COVID and the Black Lives Matter movement
This article was originally published by Kalllion Leadership, Inc., in 2021. I am grateful to them for letting me tell my story.
In 2020 I assumed an IT Leadership position at Duke University as part of a centralization of IT services under the Office of Information Technology. In my new role, I lead a small team of IT professionals who provide customer support across a number of academic departments. I have four direct reports plus six colleagues from other teams who attend my team meetings and receive daily communications from me. I also collaborate frequently with a number of IT professionals across campus. I am now part of a large, centralized campus organization of over 200 people.
Previously I’d been an IT Team Lead for a single academic department, and had far fewer managerial duties. Now I manage a West Campus team and am getting to know new people and departments. Since organizational silos are breaking down and people are learning to support new units, a big part of my job has been improving communication and facilitating better information sharing. I am also doing a lot of team-building and personal mentoring.
For all of these new job duties of mine, I am grateful for my background in the humanities. I see my background like a long-term investment that is currently paying off for me. It took me a while to get to where I am today, but I’m here, and doing OK!
Over the years, I sometimes questioned whether I should have majored in computer science instead of English. But I always come back to the fact that had I been a computer science major back then, I would have learned a few computer languages that are obsolete now. Great literature is timeless. I’d rather be able to quote the poetry of Robert Frost, or the opening lines of Beowulf in Old English, than code in Pascal.
I have a B.A. in English (1994) and an M.S. in Information Science (1997), both from The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. I went to college thinking I would be a teacher or a professor, but also had a backup plan to be a writer.
My dad is a professor emeritus of Education at Appalachian State University. My mom is a retired school teacher. My sister is a Dean’s Professor of English at the University of Kansas. Of my four grandparents, one was a professor and the other three taught public school at one time or another.
I grew up in the college town of Boone, N.C., quite literally on campus. Some of my earliest memories are going to the university-run daycare and living in faculty housing. Later, after I’d entered public school, we often missed weeks of school every year due to snow and ice. Many of those snow days were spent in the ASU Library, hanging out in my dad’s office, or running around campus buildings.
In public school, I had wonderful teachers in subjects like music, art, social studies and English. I immersed myself in these classes, sometimes at the expense of other subjects like math or chemistry.
I was then, as I am now, a generalist with a lot of hobbies. I still enjoy making music, art and writing. I have a nature and gardening blog. I have played in punk bands and jazz bands and done performance art. I am paradoxically shy but enjoy performance, and typically have kept my work life and artistic life separate, usually playing under aliases. I bought a piano right before Covid hit, and started playing at least an hour a day, usually right before bed time. Turns out it is one of the most rewarding things I’ve done in recent memory. not only for my mental health, but because I’ve made significant progress. Currently I am plotting my next band.
As you can tell, I’m all over the place…
My undergraduate years were a struggle, not being sure of what I wanted to do with myself. I became depressed, even dropping out of school for a semester. Looking back, I think I always wanted to work in Higher Education, because of my family and fond memories of campus life. In my youth it never occurred to me that there were jobs in Higher Ed besides teaching. At least not ones that seemed right for me. I had it in my head that I should be a Professor of Something but I just didn’t know what. It was hard to think about specializing in one thing.
After I finished my undergraduate degree, I started doing some freelance writing. I had an internship at the North Carolina Writers Network and my supervisor asked me if I wanted to do a column about writers and technology. While I was doing some research for the column, I came across a story about the “World Wide Web” which fascinated me. This was 1994. I had no idea what the Internet was. I had a moment of clarity, thinking, this is going to be huge. My dad suggested that I might want to consider Library School, which seemed like a natural bridge between my humanities background and my new-found interest in technology.
I started out graduate school thinking I was going to be an academic librarian, but by the time I finished school I had become a programmer and web developer. Creating an application, web page or database gave me the same sense of satisfaction I felt when I wrote something or made a work of art. It also paid a good salary.
When I came to Duke in 2002, my career shifted again, this time in the realm of user services and desktop support. After 5 years, I was tired of programming. I had not intended on staying at Duke very long, but I soon found that I really enjoyed working with customers and being in a helping profession. After all, wasn’t that one of the reasons I had gone to Library School in the first place?
When I assumed the new role in 2020, we were in the middle of the Pandemic and it was undeniable to me that there were things happening that were changing Higher Education forever. People were worried about their jobs and their future. The changes in workplace culture seemed significant and I wondered how they needed to be addressed. I had colleagues struggling with work-life balances like keeping children at home while trying to work, or taking care of relatives. Around the globe, thousands of people were dying every day.
On top of that, the Black Lives Matter Movement and the national reckoning in our country reopened pain and trauma for some of my staff members. The pain, stress and trauma were real and palpable for them.
I had heard about “team-building” in my coursework, but I think I downplayed its importance. Now I saw it as mandatory, especially since we were forming a new team with some members who had worked on other parts of campus.
I started getting up earlier in the morning and writing to my team every day just to say “hello,” and check-in. I still do that. In February, I decided to write something every day to my team in celebration of Black History Month. I gave myself a challenge by only focusing on history in North Carolina. The next month was national poetry month, and I would share a poem every morning—which prompted poem-sharing by other staff members!
These posts started discussions that were sometimes serious, sometimes funny, sometimes amazing. One week during our celebration of Black History in NC, I featured musicians born in North Carolina, including jazz greats Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane and Nina Simone. Going from jazz to funk, I featured George Clinton, who was born in Kannapolis, NC. To my astonishment, one of my staff members told me that Clinton was his cousin, raised by his grandmother alongside his mom, aunts and uncles. In the same thread, we discovered that another colleague was related to Tyrone Johnson, who played sax with Sam & Dave.
I read a lot of history, and if I ever went back to graduate school that is what I would study. During my month of writing about Black History in NC, one of my colleagues taught me how to be a better historian. My first post was about an enslaved man named Burrell who showed Daniel Boone the way up the Blue Ridge escarpment from the Yadkin Valley via an old buffalo trail. My hometown of Boone, NC is named after Daniel Boone, who built a cabin in the area. My colleague in IT, who is passionate about genealogy and happens to be the CEO of My Roots Foundation, wrote back to tell our team more things about Burrell–that he was enslaved by the Howard family, that he was a cow herder, and a couple of other facts that helped paint a picture of him. My colleague did something similar in at least two more posts, and it really impressed upon me that part of being a historian is bringing the dead and forgotten back to life.
It was one of those chilly February days when I had an “a-ha” moment where I realized how my background in the humanities had prepared me for leadership. Getting up early in the morning to write and do research and sip coffee and enjoy a sunrise view from my little home office seemed fun, even effortless sometimes. I was getting good feedback and colleagues from other teams were coming to our team meetings. Later that day, things got really hectic, and I realized that I was doing a lot of rapid communication with numerous individuals across the university and managing multiple projects. I was spending a lot of my time writing, communicating, and explaining things. I remember thinking “how could I even do this job well, and sanely, without these abilities?” I realized I’d taken some things for granted over the last 25 years, especially my ability to write and communicate. I feel like my creativity, as someone who makes art, allows me to communicate big ideas and sometimes think outside the box. My long-time interest in history has helped me synthesize information and make connections between things.
One of the most satisfying parts of my job is mentoring and coaching my colleagues. When we formed our team, I found out that some of my employees needed one-on-one training to become comfortable performing certain tasks and procedures. Others needed feedback and encouragement. Some only needed me to delegate the task to them. This required from me a situational leadership paradigm, tailored to the need of the employee. I realize now that mentoring/coaching and teaching are really the same thing. Although I’ve always felt too introverted to teach in a classroom setting, I have tried teaching before, and it is draining. But coaching and mentoring, one-one-one, energize me.
In my approach, I tend to ask a lot of questions. I really want my employees to have a professional development plan, and I try to give them some time each week to put aside other duties and focus on learning and training. Everyone has different needs, different aspirations. I will ask things like, “Do you want to be in leadership, do you want to be in project management, or do you want to be in systems administration?” and encourage them to focus on the next task to get there.
This week I have been thinking about the classical roots of mentorship, which took me back to Greek Mythology. Mentor, of course, was Odysseus’s trusted counselor, and in whose guise Athena became Telemachus’s guardian and teacher. In some ways, given the past year, we are all trying to get back home, just like the characters in the Odyssey.
One of my favorite writers is the Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy, particularly his work “The Kingdom of God Is Within You.” Tolstoy is also regarded as the father of Christian Anarchism, and was an influence on Mahatma Gandhi.
In 1908, Indian revolutionary Taraknath Das wrote Tolstoy, asking for his support in liberating India from British colonial rule. Tolstoy wrote him a moving letter, which caught Gandhi’s attention. The two began a correspondence. Tolstoy wrote:
Love is the only way to rescue humanity from all ills, and in it you too have the only method of saving your people from enslavement… Love, and forcible resistance to evil-doers, involve such a mutual contradiction as to destroy utterly the whole sense and meaning of the conception of love.
Gandhi went on to influence on Martin Luther King, Jr. To me it is a wonderful example of how all it takes is one writer or artist, through a Big Idea, piece of literature, song or work of art, to help change the world. And that mentorship often implies co-mentorship. When you mentor someone, often they are teaching you as much as you are teaching them. The ripple effect is real. As a leader and mentor, my sincerest desire is that my actions have some kind of ripple effect for good, however big or small.
Christmas on the Creeper
The day after Christmas I took my bike up to the Virginia Highlands. My destination was the Virginia Creeper Trail, an old railroad line that was turned into a 33-mile trail back in the 80s. It is one of the best bike trails in America in one of the most beautiful places on earth. My mom’s family settled in the region hundreds of years ago, so it always feels like home to me.

Part of the magic has to do with the geology of the region, which creates some stunning scenery. Just looking at the rocks takes you back almost a billion years. The whole region is underlain by hard volcanic bedrock. This erosion-resistant rock, known as rhyolite, comes from melted continiental crust, which takes you back to the time of the continental rift. In addition to the large rocks, I noticed lots of little colorful rocks with beautiful patterns on them, which are also some kind of volcanic matter.
I met up with my cousin Pat near Damascus, Virginia, a convenient point between the trailhead, 17 miles up Whitetop Mountain, and Abingdon, Virginia, 16 miles in the other direction. We decided to skip the mountain climb and head towards Abingdon. Our leisurely ride took us around the south fork of the Holston River. We’d stop occasionally to check out some of the more interesting geological features and massive icicle formations.


We passed through a lot of pasture land on our ride. Next time, I’ll bring more apples for the horses.
As we rode along the south fork of the Holston, we noticed a number of cabins for rent. My favorites were the tree houses. Maybe we’ll stay there next time.
After a bend in the woods, we passed a cave. I couldn’t resist checking it out. Although it seemed fairly cozy, I had already made plans to crash on the couch at the house my aunts had rented for our family gathering.

As the sun faded, the temperature dropped rapidly. We cooked a quick cup of hot
chocolate and then headed back to Damascus. That evening I stayed with my aunts, uncle and cousins. We got up the next morning and hit the trail again.
Nothing could have been more beautiful than mist rising off a waterfall in the morning sun.

Of course, with the beautiful, there is also the ugly. We found the head of a goat as well as a well-eaten wild turkey carcass. The coyotes must be hungry this year, and there must be lots of them. It made me remember that the original name of Abingdon was “Wolf Hills,” after Daniel Boone and his party were confronted by a pack of wild wolves.
I’d like to come back to the Creeper in 2014. Next time we’ll see if we can stay in one of the tree houses.

The Harvest
This week we brought our fingerling sweet potatoes up from the basement where they’d been curing after this fall’s harvest. Unfortunately, our basement wasn’t as cool as we’d thought, so they were a little soft. Next year we’ll need to keep them under the fan.
This hasn’t made our little babies any less tasty, though—they are delicious–but it does mean we need to eat them up in a short amount of time. Of course, I’ve been binging on them from the moment I brought them up from the basement. It’s been a few days now, and my skin now has a nice, orange glow.
A couple of nights ago while peeling a bunch of them in front of the television, I discovered that our bobcat, Franklin, loves sweet potatoes almost as much as his daddy. He’s become quite a discerning herbivore with a sophisticated palate.
He loves the stringy ends of the fingerlings, usually slinging them around before crunching down on the delicious orange center. I gave him a few of the smaller ones. He seems to like the peeled skin too, which makes me wonder if he’s looking for nutrients. I did a little wikipedia research to find out about cats and vegetables. Apparently when cats kill a bird they eat the vegetable matter out of its stomach. Kind of gross, huh? Gives me an idea for a cat toy with a sweet potato center.
The coming plague
Triangle friends, I hope today’s headline scares you into reading this post. If you haven’t wrapped your oak trees yet, you’re running out of time. In December the female moths, after mating, will crawl up the tops of these trees and birth hundreds of green caterpillars unless they are stopped in their tracks. If you’re not scared yet, read my lamentful post from the spring.
This year I wrapped each tree with a band of cheap insulation covered by a second layer of tar paper. Yesterday I coated each tree-band with a ring of sticky Tanglefoot Glue, the adhesive that catches the moths.
I thought every store in the Triangle was sold out of this stuff, but it turns out Stone Brothers had family-sized tubs of it. Just like butter in a skillet, the glue went on better once it was heated up a little bit. I slopped it on with a stiff brush, learning after-the-fact that a putty knife would have been better.
The tree of greatest concern was “Old Cyclops,” the massive oak tree in our front yard that blots out the entire block from a Google-earth perspective.

He’s so named because of his one eye and small, gaping mouth. He’s so enormous that I used half a tub of glue on him.
Let’s hope this helps curb the worm infestation.
The rogue squash
This year we had some butternut squash (Cucurbita moschata) grow up out of nowhere in our backyard. I’m sure a kindly bird dropped the seeds off for us (unless there is a Squash Fairy.)

I cut off a piece and tasted it; it was the most delicious piece of raw squash I’ve ever had. Later that afternoon I discovered a little secret, though: squash tastes even better when cooked with cream and sherry. That evening we dined on squash soup!
To prepare the soup, I had to cut the squash in half. This turned out to be an excruciating task. For a minute I thought about getting the electric saw out of the basement, but that thing scares me. Thankfully, Shawnna suggested heating the squash in the oven for 10 minutes or so, which made it easier to cut through.
Once I’d cut the squash in half, I placed the pieces in a baking dish with a little bit of water and cooked at 300 degrees for about 30 minutes. After letting it cool for a couple of minutes, I took out the remaining seeds and peeled the skin away. Throwing in some ginger, salt and pepper, I chopped up the pieces and mixed them in the food processor. Meanwhile, I sauteed some onions with butter, nutmeg and allspice. Everything then got thrown into the dutch oven with vegetable stock, cream and sherry.

I turned it up to a boil, and then let it simmer for a while. It was probably some of the best soup I’ve ever made.
Squash is a New World Native and was growing in Mesoamerica before the arrival of any humans. It was part of the diet for many indigenous people from South American to Canada, who started cultivating it between 8 and 10,000 years ago. I wonder if they had any soup recipes?
Flying chickens (and sweet potatoes)
The vagrant chickens of Farthing Street have been reunited with their owner, who has vowed to clip their wings.

Who knew that chickens could fly? I sure didn’t.
Of course, their flying acumen is akin to the Wright Brothers first flight. These things aren’t ready to make a transatlantic voyage yet, but they were able to clear a fence and glide happily across another neighbor’s yard before landing in our tomato patch. (I’ve heard that chickens in the wild actually nest in trees. I’m sure the life of a wild chicken is “nasty, brutish and short” though.)
I had shooed one of the little darlings out of our sweet potato patch. It turns out she knew before I did that the sweet potatoes were ripe for harvest. When I went out to water the patch yesterday, I discovered a little dug-out area with the orange end of a sweet potato peeking through. They are Covington sweet potatoes, which are a little smaller than your run-of-the-mill sweet potatoes, but still just as tasty. Hooray!

Now I feel inspired to attend Durham’s own ChickenStock Festival this Saturday down at Bull City Burger and Brewery. (I told you the Bull City is crazy about chickens.) The fun starts at 4:00 p.m. and is described as a “free, fun and funky edu-party that brings the community together to learn about urban chicken-raising and sustainable living.” The Bulltown Strutters, Durham’s own New Orleans-style jazz band, will be providing the musical entertainment. Inspired I’m sure by Oktoberfest, they’ll be playing “The Chicken Dance.” That alone would be worth the price of admission, but happily, the event is free.
Peace out, chicken lovers.
A visit from the chickens
When I pulled open the curtains this morning, there were three enormous chickens in our backyard. I have no idea where they came from. I love Durham.

They are still in the backyard–consider this a live blog–and I still haven’t been able to find the owners. It’s very amusing. Of course, it’s all fun and games until they start eating your food. When I went inside for a few minutes, they descended on our ‘mater patch with a ravenous fury and started feasting on cherry tomatoes. So much for tonight’s salad. They seem interested in the sweet potatoes too.

The timing is uncanny. Those of you who read my last post know that I pretty much swore off chickens. I feel like they are asking me for a second chance.
The sun’s not yellow, it’s chicken
Before I die, I want to write a book called The Weird and Secret History of North Carolina. In it I’ll chronicle the strange, the beautiful, the little-known, and the god-awful things that have happened in this state, along with huge heapings of folklore.
In the meantime I have lots of reading and research to do. This week I’m reading volume 1 of The Frank C. Brown Collection of North Carolina Folklore. Brown was a professor at Trinity College (now Duke University) and founder of the North Carolina Folklore Society. The book is a fascinating read. Last night I was reading stories about voodoo and witchcraft in our state before stumbling across a chapter on plant and animal folklore. This section contains tiny little nuggets of advice, gleaned from multiple sources over a number of years. If there was a North Carolina Farmer’s Bible, this might be the Book of Proverbs. Here are just a few of them:
It is bad luck to thank anyone for plants or seeds.
Sage must not be gathered during the dog days.
To make hydrangeas blue, place indigo at their roots.
To my delight, there was a ton of advice about raising chickens.

Although I’m not the Chicken Man, I’ve been wanting to write an authoritative piece on chickens for some time now. (After all, I am the Nature Boy of Durham, and, as you might know, the Bull City has seen a near epidemic of Chicken Fever over the last few years. This is not to be confused with the Avian Flu. Chances are you know somebody in Durham, NC who has chickens in their backyard, or is talking about it. I’m thinking the “Durham Chicken” could be a good mascot for Durham Bulls games; a San Diego Chicken-like foil for Mr. Wool E. Bull, if you will.)
So here you go, my chicken farmers and wanna-be chicken farmers. Behold these pearls of wisdom. These were collected from a number of sources in North Carolina between the years 1912 and 1943:
If you set eggs when the wind is eastward, the chickens will “holler” themselves to death.
If you count chickens, turkeys, etc., they will die.
Hens should be set three weeks before the full of the moon.
If there are thunderstorms while eggs are “setting,” the eggs will not hatch.
To break a hen from setting, put an alarm clock in the nest and let it go off.
To break a hen from setting, put a pan of water in the nest when she leaves and let her get in it when she comes back.
Do not set eggs so that they will hatch during dog days.
Always set a hen on thirteen eggs.
Little turkeys thrive better with a hen than with a turkey.
If it rains on Valentine Day, your chickens will stop laying.
To ensure good luck with chickens, let a woman carry them from the nest to the coop.
Grease little chickens’ heads with lard and kerosene when you take them from the nest and lice will not bother them.
Sprinkle ashes on animals and fowls on Ash Wednesday and they will not be bothered with lice.
Put Epsom salts in the chicken’s water (one tablespoonful to a gallon) and it will make them healthy.
Boil smartweed and scald out the chicken house to kill any kind of insect.
Cover newly hatched chicks with a sieve and place them in the sunshine a little while, and they will live.
When you have killed a chicken, make a cross on the ground with your finger, lay the chicken on its back on this cross, and it will not flop.
To keep a chicken from flopping when killed, tuck the head under the wing, swing the chicken around in a little circle several times, and then lay its head on a block and chop it off.
Oh, and I’ve heard that raising chickens can be hard, dirty work. That’s not in the book.
Figgin’ out
It’s fig season on Farthing Street.

This annual harvest is accompanied by a sense of urgency because there is always a very short window of time, sometimes just a day or two, when a fig is truly ripe and ready for consumption. Left on the tree too long, the fig will ferment and become food for wasps and bees.
For weeks I had waited, somewhat impatiently, for that special moment. Shawnna would come home from work and find me outside, my face buried in the branches of the tree, deftly squeezing the bulbous fruit for signs of “mushiness.” The mushiness means that the fig is sweet and juicy.

When that glorious day arrived, we had so many figs that I filled up a mixing bowl from the kitchen. I decided to try a recipe from our mediterranean cookbook, which involves wrapping the figs with pancetta and bay leaves, and then cooking them in the oven.

For you vegetarians or those of you on a kosher diet, pancetta is pork belly meat that is salt-cured and contains peppercorns. It is heavenly. I was caught off guard when I took it out of the package. It smelled so good that for a minute I lost the ability to concentrate. Fortunately I had already halved the figs, and the rest was easy. I gently wrapped my figs in the strips of pancetta, like little pigs-in-blankets. The bay leaves were the finishing touch. I placed them in a baking dish and set in the oven at 300 degrees for 20 minutes. Shawnna and I couldn’t get enough of them. Figs in the raw are tasty enough, but this was a culinary delight.

Fig trees, which thrive in mediterranean climates, are drought-tolerant plants. That means you don’t have to water them much, provided your yard gets a lot of sun. If you live in the Triangle, consider getting one. The leaves are tough and leathery (you may recall that Adam and Eve, in their postlapsarian shame, made clothes out of them.) I’ve noticed that the leaves seem to be impervious to the pests that like to chew up our fruit trees.
Plant a fig tree this fall! You won’t regret it.
City of comfrey, part 1
Listen up gardeners, it’s time to talk about the miracle plant, comfrey.
The plant, which has pretty pink or purple blossoms depending on the species, was called knitbone for thousands of years because of its ability to speed the healing of bone injuries. The ancient Greek historian Herodatus wrote about it, and it’s very name, symphytum, comes from the Greek symphyo which means to “make grow together.” In addition to healing fractures, the plant can been used to treat abrasions, skin irritations, insect bites and inflammation associated with rheumatoid arthritis. I’ve heard of people rubbing their arms and legs with comfrey leaves before working out in the garden. The secret ingredient is allantoin, which lives in both the leaves and the roots of the plant.

In the garden, comfrey can be grown as a living mulch. That’s because the plant is a root accumulator, sucking up nutrients into its roots and leaves. Hearing about orchardists who plant comfrey around their fruit trees, I decided to plant ring of it around our plum tree this summer. Not only does it fertilize the tree now, but it keeps the weeds out, and the bees love the pretty purple flowers.
Because the leaves contain minerals like potassium, calcium, and magnesium, they make a great fertilizer. Our potassium-hungry tomato plants especially enjoy a liquid fertilizer mix of comfrey leaves and water. We create this mixture by putting the leaves in our watering can, filling it with water and then letting it soak for a while.

Some of you might be smitten now, thinking Comfrey, where have you been all my life?
To those of you, heed this stern warning: comfrey grows very aggressively. I’ve been astounded at how quickly the comfrey patch has grown up around our plum tree.
I pictured it filling up our whole yard, then spilling out into the neighborhood and spreading across Durham. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. My legs get itchy riding my bike on the greenway, so having comfrey leaves available to me on the trail would be an added luxury.
Durham could then become the city of comfrey. Suddenly Tupac Shakur popped into my head…..In the citaaay, the city of Comfrey. This could be a really great track to perform next year at the Durham Hip-hop Summit. I’ll need to work on my flow, though.
Please stay tuned for part 2. I’m now working feverishly in the basement, like Grandpa Munster, to come up with a comfrey ointment. This could be big at the farmer’s market.