I’ve never been the kind of person to talk about how much money I make; at least since I became part of the corporate workforce. Because that’s where differentiation happens. More on that in a second.
But let me tell you about my first job.
When I was in high school, I worked at a golf course. I cleaned golf clubs and motorized golf carts. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it was close to home, got me free golf every Monday, and the minimum wage hourly salary was augmented with tips. (This golf course was, in fact, a private country club.)
It was also much better than working in fast food or retail.
At that job and other hourly jobs I’ve held down, how much people make is not much of a mystery. There’s an hourly rate — everyone knows it — and everyone gets it. There’s no differentiation. Yes, seniority exists, and I suppose it’s possible that the older golf cart and golf club cleaners could’ve been paid more. But I’m pretty sure that wasn’t how this job worked. Everyone knew how much everyone else made. And because tips were pooled at the end of a shift, everyone knew that, too.
During shift change, tips were always a topic of conversation.
This transparency was helpful, but it also changed our behaviors significantly. No longer was it simply enough to be employed — we had to work the right shifts. Weekday mornings? Even though it was the summer, few people wanted to work them. It meant arriving to the golf course at dawn and usually sitting around waiting for golfers to show up — and then play a full round of golf, so that you could get tipped when they came in. Yes, it was summer, but the members of the country club all had day jobs — how do you think they afforded their country club membership?
Weekday evening shifts were much more desirable. The after work crowd liked to hit the links, down a few beers, and often left decent tips when they were the last off the course at sundown. Yeah, the evening shift ate into your high school social schedule, but it fattened up your wallet in a way that working the morning just didn’t do.
The last bit of pay transparency came on payday. We were paid with physical paychecks every two weeks. Those paychecks sat in the clubhouse in plain view. They may have been in envelopes, but it didn’t much matter. Most of us ripped them open the minute we got them to inspect the totals. We couldn’t help but see how much each other made.
Talking about money was natural and expected at that place. And it was persistent. In fact, if you didn’t talk about money with your colleagues, you’d quickly be expected to have done the unthinkable (i.e., taking money from the tip jar, or keeping a tip for yourself).
When I made it to corporate America in my early 20s, I was in for a huge change when it came to talking about money in the workplace. I was hired as an hourly employee at my first company — but I don’t remember anyone ever sharing anything financial with each other. My assumption was always that I was lowest on the salary scale, since I’d just graduated college and was desperate to have gotten the job at all.
The persistent secrecy about money didn’t help the culture at all as the company went through change in the form of acquisition. These were the days before remote work was a realistic thing. So when the company I worked for bought out companies in big cities like Chicago and New York City, those employees were given a choice — move to Cleveland or become unemployed. There was undoubtedly a lot of math involved in the discussion — how much they were getting paid, the cost of living in Cleveland, the time it would take them to get back to their big city for the weekend, and the amount of time they had left before retirement.
A few people from those acquisitions did end up moving to Cleveland, and that immediately set off rumors about how exponentially more those folks were probably getting paid. It didn’t help that most of them weren’t really what anyone would call an “A player.” It also didn’t help matters when one of the secretaries accidentally left a printout of everyone’s salaries on the copier.
I don’t remember the numbers that those people were making, but I do remember how I felt after learning just how much more one of those folks was making than I was. Yes, he’d moved to Cleveland from New York City, and he had more tenure at the company than I did; but the company had let him keep his New York City compensation. I didn’t have many opportunities to work directly with him, but when I did it was always an opportunity for me to measure my performance against his. And I always won out.
Fast forward about 15 years. I was in my mid-thirties and working at a different firm. I’d been hired into the company in a role that was compensated at a low level. I’d since moved to a new role in the same company that was compensated at a much higher level. I received a bit of a pay bump when taking the new role, and received some sizable increases as the years went on. My performance was excellent and I still was trying to be “caught up” — my boss’ words, not mine. But I still wasn’t at the level I wanted to be. Similar to my first corporate job, I expected that I was compensated the lowest in my group; and by a wide margin.
I’d spent some time investigating the market to determine how much a person in my role should expect to make. It was about 30% more than I was making at the time.
I desperately wanted to change my compensation, but didn’t know how. I wasn’t interested in searching for a new employer; but I also wanted to be fairly compensated.
At roughly the same time, I was preparing to attend a conference in a different city with my direct manager. Because the conference wasn’t that far away, we were going to rent a car and drive. It was just going to be the two of us. I was going to have a captive audience. With my boss.
I planned to talk about money with him during the trip.
I still remember that car ride. Lots of conversation the whole way — whether it was about work, or our personal lives, or the music on the radio. At some point, the conversation turned to money and I mentioned the number that I thought I should be making, and that I couldn’t see how I would make that number. My boss didn’t flinch and reassured me that I’d get there. The conversation shifted to something else. I felt like I’d been heard and our journey continued.
Subsequent years yielded solid merit increases and I eventually hit that number. But getting to that number took longer than I’d hoped.
But once I got to that number, another thing happened. During a staff meeting, the topic of hiring came up and the whole meeting got a glimpse of a spreadsheet that showed how much the firm was offering new employees at different levels.
The number that I once held as something I could never have was now the number that we were offering new employees in roles less senior than mine.
That was the moment I decided to find a new job in a different company.
This was a change I didn’t want to make, but felt forced to pursue.
Looking back on this example, there’s a larger lesson about the pace of change.
When it comes to change, we see where we currently are and where we want to get to. We often see both incredibly clearly. But what we often don’t see clearly is how to get from where we currently are to where we want to be. We can’t always see the steps in the process of change. And we often underestimate just how long change can take.
In my example, I knew what I was currently making and where I wanted to get to. But I couldn’t see the steps to getting there. I also didn’t recognize that the steps were going to be slow and gradual — each year, a little more money. Yes, I ultimately got to my desired number — which was the change I wanted to make — but I didn’t foresee it taking as long. I also didn’t foresee the changes in the compensation for other roles. Yes, I was making more money — but so was everyone else. Even though my performance was acclaimed, we all were probably moving along at roughly the same pace.
Change was happening to all of us; not just me.
When I reflect back on this particular example, I wish I could go back and ask myself whether I would be content having to wait years for my desired compensation number to arrive. I understood my current state and where I wanted to get to, but I was completely oblivious to the pace of the eventual change.
I’ll never make that mistake again.
Pink Floyd — “Money”
We all have a tailismin that we chase. Ensure that the tailismin delivers the satisfaction you desire in a manner that expands your life rather than narrows it.