Paperclips

My friend Charles Adams Kelly contributes this story from his time at Ford.  It's a perfect illustration of how culture and habits dictate the success of organizations:

“None of us will ever speak or write the name of this [Japanese] company.  The investigation of a possible arrangement between us will simply be referred to as the Iowa Project.”

The speaker was Henry Ford II, and the year was 1980. This was the smallest, quickest, most intensely exciting meeting I would ever attend, because it led to secret negotiations in Tokyo. My executive, Robert E. Donley, was one of the cadre that Mr. Ford brought into the company with the legendary wiz kids following World War II. Thus, Donley was late in his career in 1980.

In order to prepare for meetings with the Iowa Company representatives, I made a point of reading up on Japanese business culture. Considering the “speed bumps” I encountered, I am certain an expert would have pointed out a few gaffs, but I went into the effort with goodwill.  Points I remember were the absolute politeness; the concept of saving face; and that even if several individuals on the Japanese side were somewhat fluent in English, all exchanges would nonetheless flow through an interpreter. Allegedly, a skillful interpreter could create and give shape to a social exchange if neither side seemed to be able to break the ice.

We hosted the first meeting, and as we gathered for our first dinner with our guests, the idea that the Iowa Company interpreter would be prepared to keep things moving was a relief.  I was aware that Donley had served in the Navy in World War II, and he had served in the Pacific. He was polite to a fault, but unfortunately, politeness to our Japanese guests did not flow naturally from him. Fourteen people sat on each side of the long table; near the center of the table was the interpreter, and opposite each other were Donley and one Yoshimizu, and across from me was my counterpart, Kuramoto.

In the silence that settled over the table, neither Yoshimizu nor Kuramoto ventured the first comment, that being the place of the senior host, Donley, who was content to sit like a stone.  Protocol demanded a welcoming comment from Donley, which wasn’t about to happen. For me to make a statement to Yoshimizu would be presumptuous. I caught the interpreter’s eye and quietly said that Mr. Donley and I hoped everyone would enjoy the unique dinner venue. After a cryptic exchange, the interpreter simply advised that it was their hope as well. As things resettled into the same painful silence, I ventured that I had enjoyed my work with Mr. Kuramoto to define parameters. Another cryptic exchange, and the interpreter’s confirmation in a single word, productive. Kuramoto did not seem pleased with the interpreter. More silence followed.

By this time I was desperately searching for possible subjects of conversation. Sensing that Kuramoto was sympathetic to my cause, I addressed my next attempt half to him and half to the interpreter, not yet knowing if Kuramoto spoke English. I noticed that the design on Mr. Yoshimizu’s necktie looked very much like a yacht club burgee (flag), and I inquired if it had a special meaning. In an instant which felt like flash bulbs and confetti, Kuramoto disregarded the useless interpreter and proclaimed in flawless English that indeed it was a yacht club burgee; it was the Nippon Ocean Racing Club, and Mr. Yoshimizu kept a 36-foot boat there. Mr. Yoshimizu chimed in excitedly in Japanese, his flourish ending with a name “Doug Peterson,” a well-known yacht designer.

The interpreter could not keep up with the chatter about Mr. Yoshimizu’s boat, his club, and his sailboat racing experiences. On the back of a napkin, I quickly drew a Doug Peterson style racing sailboat profile, including the deep, distinctively fin-shaped keel. Mr. Yoshimizu used the drawing to make some point to a few of his non-sailing associates, and Kuramoto explained that Mr. Yoshimizu was explaining the difference between this design and a shoal draft design.  Kuramoto seemed to be satisfied that if necessary, we could repeat this without the distraction of the interpreter. It turned out that Kuramoto’s wife had been an exchange student years earlier in Kansas City, and that he was considered the most “westernized” member of the Iowa group.

Part 2: Paperclips

An article in one of my latest business periodicals had outlined some curious practices that had become part of Japanese business culture. One of these practices was remarked upon in an unforgivable breach of protocol that occurred the next morning just as our Japanese guests arrived on the 18^th floor of the 300 Tower of the Renaissance Center in Detroit. We were standing near the entrance to our conference room when a voice could be heard from around the corner. It was faint enough that everyone could pretend they had not heard it, but clear enough that everyone most certainly did: “I just read that the Japanese save the paperclips. How dumb is that? You spend a hundred dollars’ worth of time to save eleven cents’ worth of paperclips.”

As the reader may imagine, we quickly gestured to the conference room, and our guests moved in briskly, both sides pretending not to have heard the comment and fearing what might further be said before the tactless oaf realized that our guests were on the floor. In any event, our discussions went very well, and our Iowa Project counterparts made no hint of a reference to the earlier blunder.

There was enough business interest on both sides that about six months later, Donley and I were invited to visit the Iowa Company in Tokyo. At the end of our first full day of successful discussions there, it was again confirmed, over a very pleasant dinner, that Kuramoto’s wife had been an exchange student in Kansas City, and that Kuramoto was considered the westernized one among the group.

Nonetheless, I was still caught completely off guard the next day as we completed our morning session and proceeded to lunch. Picture our 14 Japanese hosts, Donley, myself, and the interpreter in full stride down the carpeted and paneled hallway. Kuramoto was leading the group and had gestured for me to walk with him in order to continue whatever light conversation we were having. Donley and his senior counterpart in the host group were right behind us, with the balance of the group following closely. We hardly broke stride as we rounded a corner.

There it was, lying on the carpet five steps in front of us: a paperclip.  In an instant, I was certain the paperclip was not there by chance. Kuramoto, I had learned, was mischievous, but not malicious; I simply had to be ready for whatever was about to happen. All of this went through my mind more quickly that I can say it, because Kuramoto had already stopped. If I live to be 100, I will remember every word and every gesture:

Kuramoto knelt, picked up the paperclip with his right hand, and stood again, looking at it curiously, as if he had found it there by chance. “A paperclip.” He continued, in an absent tone, “We save the paperclips. Some people may think it is foolish.” This was my obvious cue, and I replied, “The state of mind that saves paperclips is the state of mind that is constantly alert to saving hundreds of thousands, sometimes millions, of dollars. Mr. Donley and I have profound respect for that state of mind.”  Kuramoto smiled serenely, the loop having been closed.

I always felt we would have been better-served with training in Japanese business culture other than with the books we found or were given (books my executive did not have time to read). Four decades later, as I look over photographs of Kuramoto on my racing sailboat, taken on a subsequent visit, I conclude that goodwill and respect must have somehow compensated.    

How about you?  Do you have a similar story?  What has worked best for you?  Comment below.