13 October 2004
A NOTE TO MY CO-WORKERS, FROM THEIR QA GUY
So you think I'm a tightass. You think I'm ridiculously picky. Yes, you're right. I am. And there's a reason for that. Because our biggest customer, our bread and butter, is just as picky. They are going to notice. They are going to notice your little mistakes and mercilessly mar our record for them. And if they see our work slip back to the way it was under the last inspector that we fired, they'll drop us like the dead weight that we will have become.
They are going to notice. Which means I have to notice. I can't let your mistakes get past me. I can't let it go "just this once." Everything I send out the door has to be either approved by the customer, or perfect. Period.
And yes, I think I'm justified in feeling a little underappreciated. I didn't ask for this position; I was thrust into it in a battlefield promotion, probably underqualified, definitely uncertain, and given far more responsibility than I thought I was ready for with no tangible benefits to myself. Many of you heard me say it, when news of the head inspector's resignation reached us (the one who turned our reputation around for the better), that I couldn't handle it. But I gave it a go, and I'm still going.
And now, here I am, the Inspector General, making it up as I go along. I am the Gatekeeper. I decide what our customers think of us. I decide what is good enough and what isn't. In short, I make us look good. I make all of you look good. And in a sense, I am all that stands between all of you and the line at the employment office.
Don't get me wrong. I would never say your jobs are easy, and I sure as hell wouldn't say that I could do better. This is difficult stuff. But if it didn't have to be right, it would be easy. It is not easy. Because it really does have to be right. That is not some personal preference of mine, or some childish vindictive streak in me. It is simply the reality of the situation. I don't have it out for you. And I'm really just the messenger, sent to show you exactly where the bar is set.
I know as well as you do how unforgiving that standard is. But it isn't my standard. It isn't my choice. And don't think that I enjoy bringing your work back to you and telling you that it doesn't make the cut. I don't. Imagine how it makes me feel to go up to someone who's been doing this for twenty years or more, and telling them that they made a mistake, that I know better than they do. Just imagine that.
Imagine, too, what it feels like to be the last man back, to know that if I don't notice a problem, there's no one standing between me and the proverbial executioner, no one to tell me when I've slipped up. Knowing that I alone will answer for anything that gets past me. Just a few months ago I was the shipper. I didn't even know how to read a micrometer. Now I'm expected to see the details a journeyman machinist might miss.
Tell me you wouldn't be just a little intimidated.
And now you call me a nazi for doing my job well. I must say it's a little disheartening. To do the best I can, to actually do a good job, and be berated for it. Stop it. You're not helping. If I come to you and tell you your work needs a little touching up, I'm not insulting your ability; I'm saving your ass.
Put yourself in my shoes for a moment, and you'll find yourself running like hell. Believe me when I say I'm just barely holding it together. And if you and I both drop the ball, I answer for it, not you.
So back off.
We clear?
Read Comments (6) | Add Comment
|