Many years ago, I was assigned to teach a class for my employer. After discussing the agenda with my boss, we decided to include one of my subordinates, Chuck, as an instructor. Chuck was fluent in the technology we would teach, and he would benefit from the process of preparing and teaching a portion of the class. My only reservation was that Chuck was difficult. To be honest, he was a jerk. He insisted on always being right and could off end nearly everyone in his path. Despite his impossible personality, however, he was a skilled technician. He could solve difficult problems and was respected by the company’s technical leaders. But putting him in front of an entire class would be risky; he would almost certainly off end someone.

On the day of the class, I hoped for the best, but my worst fears were realized. Rather than bridling his worst impulses, Chuck’s nerves seemed to amplify his displays of self-importance. He was self-righteous, arrogant, and condescending. I remember him responding to a student, “Are you asking me what Bash is? Are you serious? Does anybody else actually not know what Bash is?” I was horrified.

When the meeting ended, I was angry with Chuck and disappointed with myself for letting him teach. I asked Chuck to join me in my office to talk about the experience. My impulse was to correct Chuck harshly, but I held back. Instead, I simply asked, “How do you think the class went? How did we do?”

His response was immediate: “Not very well.”

"Why?" I responded, relieved that he probably recognized just how poorly he had performed and what a jerk he was."

“Well, Alan, you did awful." He then started telling me all the ways I had done a poor job of teaching.

I was furious but I listened. It was difficult to listen, but somehow, I did. He told me I missed key items, that I moved through the material too slowly, and that I wasted time on simple questions. He went on and on. He didn’t just talk about our experience that day. He talked about other situations as well. He talked about how I led meetings, how I communicated with customers, and how I made decisions. In retrospect, I am still surprised I had the patience for his corrections.

When Chuck finished, I said, "OK, Chuck, thanks for your feedback. What can I do to be a better instructor?" This gave Chuck the opportunity to repeat his criticisms, vent his frustrations, and tell me what I should be doing differently. To my disgust, he made some valid recommendations.

And then a miracle occurred. Chuck asked me, "Alan, now what do you think I could do to improve?" The question was entirely uncharacteristic. In the year that I had worked with him, I had never seen him express an openness to correction, not once. I could have told him a hundred things he was doing wrong, but I elected not to. Instead, I took the time to tell Chuck about several things he did well. I complimented his knowledge of the material and his high expectations for himself and others. I finally decided to correct him on just one thing. I said, "Chuck, I was puzzled by your reaction when someone said they don’t know Bash. It felt a bit harsh." We then talked for a few minutes about the principle of kindness and how it applies even to great technicians. We then jointly committed to do better: me when giving instruction and Chuck in his reaction to coworkers. We agreed that we both had things to improve on.

After that experience I saw faint expressions of kindness from Chuck. The change was slight and he still offended people, but he became easier to work with. He learned that he could be kind.

A few months later I was transferred to another area of the company. I would occasionally hear from colleagues about Chuck’s interaction with new leaders. I knew he was struggling. Eventually, I heard that he was leaving the company. I contacted him and took him out to lunch.

Afterward, I drove him back to his office. We sat in my car and Chuck said, "I hate this place. I can’t wait to get out of here."

"I am sorry," I responded.

"For years now," he continued, "I've been told over and over what an awful engineer I am. Over and over people tell me I do this wrong or that wrong, or something else wrong. All from people who are too stupid to do anything right themselves. I hate it. The only boss who didn’t correct me all the time was you."

"I am sorry,” I said again. “I’m sure you’ve had far better bosses."

"No," he snapped. "Do you remember the time we taught that class together and you asked me what we could do to improve?"

"Yes, I remember."

"That was the only time in my years here that anyone has ever talked with me like that."

I was sad to hear him say that. He fought back a tear, shook my hand, opened the door, and returned to his office. He departed the company a few days later. I never saw him again.