A Jungle is a Jungle is a Jungle…

“…hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Fall 2024

The first people I told at work about my writerly ambitions were those Business Assistants (BA). During our breaks, we would retreat to the file room behind the front desk, to momentarily forget we worked on the set of a dark workplace comedy for which none of us had auditioned for.

After coming out as a wannabe writer, one adorable BA’s face froze in wide-eyed shock, as if I had just confessed to moonlighting as a spy for HR. “Are you going to write about this place?” She asked, her brown eyes sparkling with the thrill of corporate betrayal. This cutie-patootie and I had worked together for over a decade—long enough to develop immunity to the standard-issue corporate chaos, and just enough trauma bonding to recognize the toxic management types within the two-story building by smell alone. If there were frequent flyer points for enduring managerial dysfunction, she and I would have been platinum members.

I scrunched up my face. “I think I’ve got better things to write about than this place.”

Fast forward to three years later, I can’t think of any other setting that has offered up more rich, absurd, and unintentionally hilarious material than that mismanaged power plant run by a leadership with grand delusions of professionalism.

In 2014, we were thrust onto the world stage as the chosen site of one of Canada’s first Clean Coal-fired power plants. At the height of its construction up to 2,500 contractors, employees, and delivery personnel moved in and out of the security gates on any given day. It was exciting. It was chaotic. It was the kind of environment where you either thrived, adapted… or hid under your desk.

When summoned for a “discussion” with my favorite HR Specialist along with my supervisor—and shockingly, the meeting was not about my mouth—I was handed an intriguing project assignment. A spreadsheet—two legal-sized pages long and double-sided—was slid across the table like a classified document by my then out-of-scope supervisor. A rare and dangerous breed of being part Mafia and part Peacock—a natural in emanating sincere fakeness. Who could easily teach a master class on how to perch high and steady on any fence that divided management and union issues, jumping off only when the winning side was made clear. 

As I sat uncomfortably at the end of that long conference table a confession was made. One that would have raised more than one executive eyebrow: despite the scale and visibility of the current plant status, there was no formal onboarding process on site. Nothing that would portray the company’s due diligence in supporting the health and safety of personal passing through the security gates each day. My newly assigned job task? 

Build one.

The corporate to do list transformed in front of my very eyes, from being a convoluted spreadsheet into a comprehensive, yet somewhat easy to follow, onboarding booklet—one that met corporate standards and included the essential safety absolutes—whether someone was swinging steel beams into place or dropping off a box of donuts in the front office.

Later, I would learn that that onboarding booklet I had cleverly authored and developed was well-received by the executive committee, when the plant’s director at the time presented it as his own.

What I didn’t disclose during that meeting that could never ever be presented in front of the executive committee was that I had already developed an informal onboarding process of my own within the business department—one I reviewed diligently with my staff and with each new hire. My department’s onboarding had no documentation/booklet to back it up, and no official records were kept in a file cabinet on site. Its sole purpose was clear: protecting the health and safety of every employee under my supervision—all of whom happened to be women.

Within the many many boxes of the management org chart, there were names of “decent” managers. But, like most organizations in the corporate jungle, there were also Mafia Managers, Sniffers, and those unforgettable Peacocks. (There was also one lunatic manager as well, but that is a whole other blog series.) Each unofficial title I assigned triggered exactly how the women in my department dealt with these managers on a daily basis.

Mafia Managers were professionally grown in-house and poorly aged from their many years of service. Life-long employees who had clawed their way up from the bottom of the corporate barrel, enduring professional hardship and corporate beat downs along the way. Eventually they would slump down into their hard-earned management high-back leather seats, only to then carrying themselves slanted from the weight of the chip on their shoulder. Mafia Manager were dictators, only pretending to collaborate if forced to in a public setting. Rather than lead with empathy, they used their corporate power to exact revenge for past grievances. Mafia Managers were not just manipulative and cunning, they were sly. Their reactions cleverly concealed behind corporate masks of sincere authority if ever they were openly challenged or caught off guard. They would just smile while mentally taking down names, planning their quiet corporate policy retaliation by denying training opportunities, rejecting time off, assigning shit job tasks, or the dreaded wait for any mistake… then pounce. They had no interest in coaching, mentoring, or professionally developing their team members. Their mission was simple: give back what they had so unfairly gotten throughout their career to the employees now under them—twofold.

Sniffers, on the other hand, were an entirely different type of hazard to check off on that daily risk assessment form. These leaders paid close attention to employees’ personal lives—not to offer the family assistance program, but to sniff out vulnerability. Particularly attuned to signs of relationship trouble, they sought opportunities to pursue inappropriate, sometimes extramarital relationships with any female employee who might be emotionally off balance or open to their attention. Their behavior blurred every line of professionalism, making them a persistent workplace hazard. Sniffers also had the potential to grow within their roles, graduating to using similar tactics of the Harvey Weinsteins in the world. They were natural born predators let loose as leaders in a corporate setting. The sniffers’ names at that power plant came with a constant warning—from my lips directly to my staff’s ears.

Peacocks were in a league of their own. These managers thrived on visibility. They needed to be heard, always fluffed, and—most importantly—seen. Whether it was in a meeting, on a safety tour on the operations floor, or in passing visits from upper management. A Peacock could always be found front and center, posturing for praise. Their bright feathers on full display, especially when persons of importance, executives, or VIPs wandered onto site.

Each of these managerial types left a lasting professional impression on me. The Mafia Managers taught me to just do what I was told while triple checking my work and to sit up straight while angling my head slightly to always watch my back (thanks to my mouth). The Sniffers taught me to be on high alert even in a professional setting, take notes when the hairs on the back of my neck slowly started to rise, and to never ever bend over to file one single piece of paper in their presence. And those Peacocks? Well, they ultimately taught me that being under cover in their shadow sometimes was the best offence— invisible and underestimated.

Working at that power plant for all those years eventually taught me to not stomp loudly but tread lightly through the hazards and risks of that corporate jungle. Recognizing when I was being dictated to instead of collaborated with, being on the lookout for those predators disguised as professionals and shut up and listen to that inner voice telling me to take a step back into their shadows.

So, why not report? Why not tell?

The reason behind the “What would be the point?” theory is deeply rooted in the past—my past experiences and the corporation’s past practices. I still have shake-my-head-moments recalling how the powers that be dealt with that lunatic manager by quietly tucking them away hidden in another department until they retired with a full pension. Oh, and not to mention—but if I must—if those Mafia Managers, Sniffers, and Peacocks could pull the wool over the eyes of those professionally trained Recruitment Specialists who were backed by an army of Human Resources Specialists, Labour Relations Personnel, Corporate Lawyers, Corporate Executives, and Vice Presidents who rarely, if ever, made mistakes then— we have come full circle—what would be the point?

It took many years of service to bid and be the successful applicant in my leadership position, but it took almost three decades of first hand experience to “know my place”.

By some miracle, I managed not to turn Mafia over those Business Assistants. Instead, I choose to look up and focus on all those decent managers while clinging to the belief that “the good managers would prevail” while maintaining my strong work ethic. From my many years of on-the-job training, I can still portray a certain level of professional respect if required—even when it’s blatantly undeserved. 

After surviving the corporate jungle and now as a self-declared wannabe writer—with no convoluted checklist or onboarding booklet to guide me— I am optimistic that I just might survive the publishing jungle as well.

Note to self: Here’s an elevator pitch for my next book called Corporate Survivor: That Damn Power Plant Edition.

Coming up next: Contractual Obligated (spoiler: Bound by my name only)