The House Project

It all started with the House Project.

This particular book report involved us third-graders needing to build a house representing where the characters in a certain book lived. This was a legendary third-grade project that kids prepared and worked on for months, it seemed. The houses were displayed all throughout the school and the best ones were awarded prizes. Every student knew how important this project was. Every parent knew it too, which resulted in a few houses that looked a little too good to have been put together by kids alone, if you know what I mean.

They looked more like a professional architect or a mom with years of practice with X-Acto knives doing crafts projects would be able to put together over the course of a long weekend while the kids were at a basketball tournament. One year there was an entire tree house made for the project to represent where the Swiss Family Robinson lived. Third graders (boys mostly) are still just discovering boogers, not learning how to fashion dovetail joints or spin dowels on a lathe. I'm surely not bitter at all.

Just making an observation.

The day before

So imagine my surprise when Mrs. Zanni said, as we pushed our chairs in one day to go home, "I'm looking forward to seeing all of your beautiful houses tomorrow." My jaw dropped but I quickly looked away as I headed for the Dismissal line so no one could see my shocked expression. I had completely forgotten about the House Project until that very moment. Not really surprising for an urchin like me who prided himself in memorizing all the homework, page assignments, and problem numbers.

Mrs. Zanni was my favorite teacher in third grade. As a churlish know-it-all who'd pretend to sulk when bored, I was a handful, and her patience with me was noteworthy. She'd hold me back after assignments to ask for something extra in a way that made me feel understood.

All of that changed the day I lied to Mrs. Zanni.

The shoebox

The day the House Project was due, I came into school with the worst one of them all. To my left, a classmate (woefully unartistic, known to all of us as such) had a Lego castle spray-painted silver with crenellated walls and a meticulously-painted family crest on a working drawbridge. To my right, a more humble but still remarkable thatched roof cottage made with real straw to mimic The Sound of Music.

And then mine: a weathered shoebox taped cravenly upright on a flimsy piece of posterboard, both formerly white but now pallid gray from years in a closet. Two rectangular-ish holes for door and window. One lonely matchbox car hastily glued to the posterboard. A circular patch of gray marker for macadam. Green scribbles for grass.

The house was that of Professor Potts's, the protagonist in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, by Sir Ian Fleming, who is perhaps more famously known for his creation of James Bond.

There was no way around it — this piece of junk I had hacked together in one evening before the House Project was due was sure to land me a poor grade. And it felt like everyone around me was looking at me and whispering. Mrs. Zanni came over and contemplated my project with a look of surprise. She asked gingerly, "Which country is this house from, Michael?"

"England," I replied, looking down at my shoes and then up again at the shoebox, which had just toppled onto the posterboard as the masking tape began to audibly peel as it lost its previous stickiness from the night before. In that moment I was so embarrassed. I didn't know what to do.

So I lied.

"Mrs. Zanni," I cried, "my sister stepped on my house last night and it all broke. So I had to do this just last night. It's all my sister's fault."

"It's okay, sweetie," she said. "Why don't we talk about it at recess, okay?"

I sat down, pretending to look upset and meanwhile accepting consolations from my classmates. I grinned inside, having just fooled my teacher. She believed me. I was going to get away with it.

Recess

Recess came and I stayed behind in the classroom to speak with Mrs. Zanni. I sat down at my assigned desk. Mrs. Zanni sat at one diagonally in front of me and spun her chair around to face me. My mom walked in the room next with a forced smile. I don't really remember the full conversation or exactly what happened next, but I definitely started bawling to try to deflect attention from my lie. The moment Mrs. Zanni said, "I called your mom to ask about your book report and she wanted to come in and talk to me about it," I knew it was all over.

Needless to say, it was not my finest hour. I received the lowest marks in the class for my treachery. And well-deserved, I might add.

The grade was recoverable. The trust I had lost with my teacher was not. No longer was I awarded any extra attention or effort. I knew deep down Mrs. Zanni still had a soft spot in her heart for me, though she became stern towards me all the same.

The yearbook

At the end of the year, I asked Mrs. Zanni to sign my yearbook. It was a tradition that we always did on the last day of school. I thought that somehow this would be my moment of redemption and that she would forgive me and she would hug me and everything would be okay.

As she signed my yearbook, she asked, "Michael, remember that your friends look to you to be an example for them. You know that, don't you?"

"Mmhmm," I replied, averting my eyes from her gaze after this conversation had taken a decidedly different turn than I was expecting.

"If you ever need to ask yourself if what you're about to say is right or wrong, then you already know the answer."

She handed my yearbook back to me. I looked down. No extended message, no heart, no desperately-sought vindication. Just her name and a simple flourish.

Why I'm telling this story now

I thought about Mrs. Zanni a lot over the last few days.

Last week there was an article published on a Chinese education news platform about LearningLeaders that contained untrue information. Although this article was exceedingly complimentary of us and our work (as it should have been — we paid for the marketing), there was one sentence that was not true. Yes, just one sentence. It claimed that we (and more specifically, me) had accomplished something we hadn't actually accomplished. This single article undoubtedly could have increased sales, which we absolutely need right now. But allowing something that is not true to remain online when we had the power to set the correct course cannot be the way we do business.

We called this company and asked for them to correct the article with accurate information, even if it was not as flattering. When the response was that the edit could not be made since the piece was already published, we asked the article be deleted.

Prestige, leads, sales, revenue, profit — deleted.

Just last week I met with some of our senior team members during a Management Academy session. One of the focuses of the session was that 'Culture is the behavior you tolerate.' It's how people behave and make decisions, act, and speak when you're not around.

I, this company, and you, will not tolerate lying, false information, or untrue statements or marketing materials or communications. Even in times when we need sales. Especially in times when we need sales. Respecting our core values is even more important in times of crisis. When the going is easy, it's easy to follow your core values. When the going gets tough, we are truly tested.

To make myself crystal clear — publishing information about LearningLeaders that is not true and circulating it to the general public, even if trying to market our offerings, drive sales, or even help our general mission, is never okay.

If you ever need to ask yourself if what you're about to say is right or wrong, then you already know the answer.