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Some schools are so infected it can only lead one to believe that this arrogance is actually bred within the core curriculum. While it lurks within the halls of all MBA programs from the privileged classes of the top-ranked schools to the mail order MBAs, my recent experiences have led me to judge the prevalence of this perception at Carnegie Mellon University (CMU) and Harvard Business School (HBS).
I was introduced to CMU students at my first summer associate lunch with the number three person in the company. (I worked in banking this summer.) The CMU student instructed us on how his vast experience in this industry, now going on two weeks, had led him to the obvious conclusion that the Executive Vice President's (EVP) segmentation jeopardized the long-term profitability of the bank. Even after the executive politely refuted his claims with facts that the associate was unaware of, he still forged on with his claims. Not to be outdone, though, another CMU associate quickly chimed in to critique the future plans of the EVP.
Well, these escapades were not limited to one lunch, nor one event. They became the highlight of what would otherwise be boring, stiff meals in the rare air of the executive dining room. I do have to credit them with their persistence, though. Regardless of how many times senior management would politely make them look foolish, they would still forge ahead with their unsubstantiated claims.
HBS, on the other hand ... well, enough said. Maybe its students have earned the right to be arrogant? They do have the uncanny ability to simplify complex issues into well-managed, two dimensional tables, which undoubtedly incorporates all the pertinent issues.
Regardless, this arrogance is dangerous. Arrogance impedes learning and will inevitably result in a vulnerability. Granted: confidence is an important trait of "future leaders," but there is a fine line between being confident and being cocky. Arrogance is annoying noise pollution, like a Harley muffler. However hard you try, the noise of arrogant MBAs cannot be ignored. Nor can you convince them to change their mufflers. It is only until they cannot hear anymore, and they get into a fender bender, that their hope for humility arrives.
UMBS, on the other hand, if I can be so arrogant to say, has rightfully achieved a reputation of grounded students. But as we climb into the ranks of the upper echelon of schools, we must not become plagued by this social ill, even as we gloat when our MBA program joins our BBA program atop the polls.
Before all my HBS friends so eloquently jam my e-mail, I respect all of you dearly. Remember: I only said it was more prevalent at HBS. Why should you care anyway? These thoughts are coming from a Michigan MBA who was not HBS material. By writing this editorial, however, it is now clear that this ill has been noticed by this humble, sincere, and un-opinionated writer.
Last May, Thomas Pynchon's new novel, Mason & Dixon, was released. This was not your ordinary book-publishing event. Pynchon's new book was one of the most eagerly awaited literary works (sorry, Colin Powell's biography doesn't count as a literary happening). To drum up excitement and sales, the publisher contractually obligated all booksellers to not sell the book until midnight May 15. I, not knowing of the midnight sales stipulation, stepped into Shaman Drum Books (Ann Arbor's great independent bookstore) on May 15 and eagerly requested my copy of Mason & Dixon. I was expecting the usual friendly salesperson to hand me a shiny new copy along with the knowing glance that all lovers of Pynchon share. Instead I got the following: "What am I supposed to do? I play by the rules, I work hard, I run a great bookstore . . . go by your @xx&$$* book at Borders, I don't care anymore! I do everything I can, what else can I do?" Knowing that something strange was afoot, I politely inquired, "What's up?'
As it turns out, Borders had begun selling the book that day, thereby ignoring the publisher's contract that sales should begin at midnight. (Many stores actually opened at midnight, á la Windows 95). Because I am an understanding soul, I could forgive Borders if corporate headquarters had forgotten to inform a store in a remote location about this unusual contract. Memos get lost all the time--no big deal. I'm not looking for a fight. But the Ann Arbor retail store shares the same building with its parent firm's worldwide headquarters! How did that memo get lost?
Good corporate citizenship means much more than paying lip service to some fluffy corporate credo. It means playing by the rules, respecting contracts, and righting a wrong behavior when it is pointed out (when I walked across the street to Borders and pointed out to the piles of Mason & Dixon for sale, all I got was a shrug). As I sipped my double cappuccino, the whole thing left me so annoyed that I formulated a plan for storming into Border's headquarters and demanding that they stop selling the book. Of course, by the time the caffeine worked its way into my system, I settled on devoting my first Rant to the subject, letting Border's survive if for no other reason than to thwart its less literate rival Barnes & Noble. For those of you who care . . . I haven't read the book yet.