About Me — Timothy Sullivan
Cross-Cultural Curmudgeon and Bull in a Ramen Shop
Son of a pipe-fitter, third child of seven, raised in a middle class neighborhood on the north side of Chicago in the 1960s and half the 70s.
We weren’t rich, but my parents loved each other, kept us well-fed, sent us to private schools, and made sure we all got presents for Christmas. If that’s not a privileged childhood, I don’t know what is. (I make no apologies for my privilege. Good fortune happened to me, it wasn’t a choice; I simply won the cosmic lottery by being born in the right place at the right time. So no guilt feelings, but I am immensely grateful.)
Speaking of the right place and time, unlike today, the U.S. economy back then had ample opportunities and decent-paying jobs available to anyone willing to work. Hard to believe, but a pipe fitter’s income could support a family of nine. And did I mention that State colleges were virtually free back then? (The boomers’ dirty little secret. ;)
Stating the obvious, those days are long gone. And while things have gotten better in many ways, the middle class has since been decimated, and today’s dollar ain’t worth a dime.
And here I am today, on the back nine of life, a product of a bygone era that produced a large thriving middle class and the notorious boomer generation that today’s youngsters love to hate. Believe it or not, I can relate. Inter-generational conflict has been around since cavemen started grunting. Our generation was no different, and we still grunt.
Misadventures of a Disgruntled Delinquent
In my early teens, I went from good boy to juvenile delinquent almost overnight. My move to the dark side happened in the summer of 1972 when I was 14. My drugs of choice were nicotine and alcohol. My goal in life was to hang out with friends, get hammered, listen to rock music, and act like an idiot, the latter at which I excelled.
Surprise, surprise, I was not a fan of discipline. Unfortunately for me, dad was, so something had to give.
On the one hand, I feared my dad; on the other hand, I knew he loved me, the reason I was so damn confused. And while I hated my dad’s discipline, he was both a rascal and contrarian maverick, attributes that I found infinitely cool. My old man unwittingly created a monster in his own image and likeness.
So when he started cracking down on my partying, I rebelled, left home, dropped out of high school, and joined the Navy — all driven by my desire to buck his authority and keep on partying.
So out of the proverbial frying pan I leapt, into a raging fire. I showed him!
And that’s when shit got real.
My career as a fish out of water
In the Navy’s infinite wisdom, the powers that be decided it was a good idea to give this 17-year-old high-school dropout a top-secret clearance and a job as a cryptologic technician. What could go wrong?
Miraculously, nothing went wrong, I survived, and was eventually shipped off to Japan — kicking and screaming I might add.
At 19, I finally got my shit together and earned my high school diploma — at Atsugi base of all places! By then I already had eight college-level Japanese credits.
By the time my enlistment was up, I was thoroughly smitten with Japan, a complete turnaround in outlook. So I took my discharge in Japan and entered a Japanese university to continue my Japanese studies, yet more discomfort, but this time it was fun!
I survived by teaching English, but after seven years, I’d had enough. So when a non-teaching opportunity finally knocked, I jumped at the chance.
My new gig was way outside my comfort zone: manufacturing. If that wasn’t challenging enough, my Japanese employer assigned me to their startup team tasked with building and launching a new factory in America’s rural Deep South. I had no clue what challenges awaited me.
It’s one thing to get hired into an existing company, quite another to build one from scratch, and quite yet another to do it with two polar-opposite cultures clashing.
Since I was one of only two bilingual people in the company, I was involved in virtually every facet of the startup, including interpreting most of the key meetings. Fourteen-hour days were the norm.
My Japanese bosses, all factory-focused workaholics, couldn’t speak a lick of English, which means all my on-the-job training was conducted exclusively in the Japanese language. My Japanese-English dictionary didn’t help much since I didn’t even understand the equivalent words in my own language!
Manufacturing was so foreign to my artsy non-technical personality that, for the next two years, it was an ongoing struggle not to drown in the fire hose of new vocabulary and information being blasted at me.
Despite my limitations (not being a degreed engineer), I couldn’t help but pick up some knowledge, much of it by osmosis. This was an invaluable first step in my professional development. But I still needed to venture out and learn more about how American companies operated.
Once again, opportunity knocked and I opened that door.
My next position was as a sales manager at my very first U.S. employer in the custom molding manufacturing sector. My mission was to develop the Japanese automotive transplant market in the U.S.
At this primitive stage of my evolution, I’d never done sales before, never managed, and suddenly had to learn to think like an engineer. Pure torture. But I learned how to read blueprints, quote custom-engineered parts, develop processes, and negotiate highly-technical deals.
I also learned how Americans managed, as I’d only been exposed to Japanese-style management until then. But the most important lesson I learned was that sales didn’t float my boat. Turns out I’m a farmer, not a hunter — figuratively speaking, of course.
Next up, back into a Japanese company as a management consultant with a focus on Industrial Engineering and kaizen (continuous improvement). Two brutal years on the road living out of a suitcase, more pain, more tedious engineering work, imposter syndrome, and insanely compressed learning curves.
On the upside, I learned more during that two-year stint than the previous ten years combined. The job paid well, but life on the road wasn’t for me. And with my two sons on the cusp of their teens, my wife needed me at home more than ever. So I put out feelers for a new gig that would allow me to sleep in my own bed every night.
The stars aligned when my previous American employer invited me back into the fold, this time as plant manager.
In retrospect, I had no business taking this job but somehow made it work. I learned how to run a plant efficiently, and also how to manage a large group of people, most of whom were hard-working immigrants from countries across the globe, including China, Germany, India, Italy, Mexico, Pakistan, Philippines, Poland, and Taiwan.
This was another great learning experience, but I grew weary of corporate life and all the baked-in politics that came with it. The big takeaway for me was a newfound self-awareness that I’m a lone wolf at heart.
In search of greener pastures, I left that job to start my own business — exactly four months before the planes hit the towers.
Despite the inauspicious timing, the luck of the Irish was with me, and at the tender age of 43, I had finally found my dream job. My new gig entailed giving bilingual workshops in Japanese and English, and mediating intercultural conflicts, mostly in a workplace setting.
This was the job I was born to do! And yet, even after doing it for 18 years with high customer ratings, I never stopped getting butterflies right before administering a workshop in Japanese. That’s when an ominous voice in my head would whisper, “You are not worthy!” At which time, self-doubt would inevitably creep in: Do I have enough Japanese in my tiny brain to deliver this seminar for the next 8 hours!? Of course, I did, but that’s how imposter syndrome works, right?
Scary as it was, with bills to pay, I had no choice but to tell that ominous inner voice to fuck off. I would go on to conduct hundreds of these bilingual seminars over the years, so I couldn’t help but get better. Anyone would.
I sometimes wonder if my career choices are proof that I’m a masochist. Perhaps. But these experiences stretched me, rounded me, and opened new doors to opportunities I’d never have imagined would be available to me.
Not bad for a high school dropout.
The moral of the story: living outside your comfort zone can hurt sometimes, but personal growth is virtually guaranteed.
Bonus moral of the story: If a goof like me can do this, then anyone can.
Lastly, contrary to the work-focused vibe of this self-introduction, I am not “all work and no play.” In fact, since retiring, it’s mostly play now. My hobbies? Aside from playing with my sweet granddaughter, I write articles (mostly about Japan), and play and record music.
For more on this, check out my articles below, including a love song I recently wrote for my sweet tomboy Japanese wife of 40 years. (See Walnut Dream.)
More articles on Tim’s zany Japan-related adventures
© Tim Sullivan 2022
