What Are You Selling?
Bruce Turkel and I have been friends for his entire life and most of mine. Our parents were active in the civil rights movement in Miami in the 1950s. Bruce was born when I was already several months old and we have been hanging out ever since—learning to walk, going off to college, having children of our own; it goes by fast.
Bruce and I have run together for decades. We’re not keeping track, but it seems likely that we have put in enough miles, had we been more organized, to have run from Miami to Los Angeles. And back. We have long since stopped counting how many meals, late-night conversations, and Dad Jokes we’ve shared. Funerals too. You don’t stay friends with somebody for close to 70 years without good times and bad.
Bruce is a marketing genius. He travels the world speaking about branding, has billion-dollar clients. He has been beyond helpful to me in explaining the actual service that I provide to my students and families. I am apparently entitled to the concierge service in exchange for the occasional oatmeal raisin cookie and decades of friendship. When I started counseling 40 something years ago, I believed that it was my knowledge of colleges and universities that was of service to students trying to decide where to apply. I also assumed that my legendary understanding of grammar was useful to kids having trouble finding their voice, speaking their truth, in their admissions essays.
Bruce explained that both of those services are merely the cost of entry, the necessary but not sufficient condition for a truly first-rate practice.
The point was driven home to me recently when I fired my accountant and employed a different firm.
My previous guy was pleasant enough, polite, knowledgeable, up to date on tax codes. But it took days to get a return call. Emails to the portal were ignored. Leaving messages was like throwing a stone into a raging river. As a result of being ignored, I felt that at any moment six Jack booted thugs from the IRS could show up at my doorstep to drag me away because my 940s, 941s, 1120s, or some other arcane form were not filed in a timely fashion.
Just kidding. Six jackbooted thugs wouldn’t be necessary. Three or four muscular guys in dark sunglasses would be sufficient to cart me off to debtor’s prison. So as much as I liked my previous accountant, I fired him.
My new accountant isn’t selling knowledge of tax codes. My new account is selling peace of mind.
She assures me that my forms have been and will continue to be submitted in a timely way, that I have nothing to worry about, that the IRS is not interested in my consulting practice.
I don’t even know how much my new accountant charges. You can’t put a number on contentment. And unlike anti-anxiety medications, my new accountant has no side effects.
Which, as it turns out, is what I have been “selling” all these years as well. My contract for professional services states, “consultant will, to the best of his ability, dispel misconceptions and assuage anxiety.” How you do matters more than where you go has been my repeated refrain. Not just because it’s true, but because it’s reassuring. It you end up at this school rather than that one, you’ll be okay.
A student with a 1560 SAT was rejected last week from Georgia Tech, MIT, and Harvard. They’re going to end up studying engineering at Purdue—hardly a desolate wasteland. They will be fine.
It isn’t Bruce’s fault that it took me four decades of practice to make the connection, blindingly obvious in retrospect. What is true of accountants, what is true of college counselors, what is true of the best people in business and education is also true for parents. Helping our beloved children internalize that the world is a safe place is our sacred trust. Sure, we have to provide the skills and opportunities for our kids to be aware of and help them deal with bullies at school and insensitive superiors at work. But our homes have to be the safest of safe spaces, where our kids are loved unconditionally. Of course, there are sadnesses to come—the death of grandparents, disappointments of all kinds, the “heartache and the thousand natural shocks/that flesh is heir to.” (Although to be fair, Hamlet’s family was nothing to write home about.) The family home is the rock on which they can stand firmly.
It was easy for me to change accountants. I feel more comfortable with folks who take my calls and make me feel that it’s all going to be okay. (Honestly, I wonder how my previous accountant stays in business; when did ghosting your paying clients become a thing?) For parents, food, shelter, and education are merely the cost of entry, a necessary but not sufficient condition. We absotively, posalutely have to be there for our kids. We have to cuddle them when they have a bad dream; we have to “take their calls” throughout ages and stages. We help our kids build resilience by helping them figure it out. Bullies, bad grades, disappointments, prom refusals—are all coming. Nobody should have to walk those paths alone.
Making your kids feel connected, loved, valued, and heard is what it’s all about. Because if parents are not up for the job, someone else—an impaired driver, a cult leader, a drug dealer—will gladly step up. Because while I can choose whatever accountant I like, your children don’t have access to the marketplace for parents. Not even a marketing genius like Bruce can provide a proper substitute.