"Try the steak!" my professor says excitedly. His eyes sparkle with encouragement. I look from the glossy platter of meat, sitting a menacing two feet away from my plate, to the only tools at my disposal, a set of modest wooden chopsticks, and back again. Determined to impress him and the four Chinese students from Hangzhou University at the table, I swallow hard as I pick up the intimidating apparatus and stretch my arm toward the food, whispering to myself, "You can do it." I successfully grasp a piece and, with herculean concentration, guide it in an arc back towards my mouth. Less than an inch from my lips, and mere moments from triumph, it tumbles from my clutches and lands on the white tablecloth with an oily splat. In that moment my heart flattens, folds, and flattens again. I feel the wide, pitying eyes of my fellow diners. But when I look up, they have all shifted their gaze and are awkwardly staring at their food as if to say, "We didn't see a thing." In a flurry of anxious politeness, the waiter rushes across the room wielding a fork. "You can use it if you'd like," my professor adds, winking. I politely decline. I grew up surrounded by a sea of brown faces, my interactions with people of other cultures limited by race and class divides established long before I was born. My community, predominantly Black American, lacks the diversity most people imagine when they think of New York City. I, however, the product of a lonely childhood (it's hard to be popular when you love school as much as I did and are a few pounds overweight), always sought ways to distinguish myself and to seek out forms of acceptance that looked and felt different from what I knew. It was in this way that I started to explore, and ultimately immerse myself in, Chinese food, the Mandarin language and Mando-pop music. It was not enough to watch bouncing cartoons floating and singing on my computer screen; I needed to understand the words, tones and meaning. It was not enough to order standard Americanized Chinese food; I wanted to read the characters, choose the most authentic dish, and savor each bite. Eventually, though, my own research was not enough either; I wanted to meet people from China, to truly grasp the differences between us - and to understand in what ways we might be the same. A year after learning my first word of Mandarin, while attending a summer program at the University of Pennsylvania, I noticed a group of international students struggling to connect with their American counterparts. Though I had limited knowledge of their language, we connected through singing popular Chinese songs and speaking in a combination of English and Mandarin, laughing at one another's errors and supporting one another in continuing to learn. The next summer at Rose-Hulman, my lab partner, Mo, was also struggling to make American friends because of her limited English. Armed with even more Mandarin, I was able to connect with Mo, her international friends, and our professor over dinner. At the dinner, I made some mistakes, but I refused to make another's culture bend to my own. In friendly conversation, amidst laughter, a fellow diner told me in highly broken English that his English was far better than my Chinese; I also laughed but continued to try, hoping not to butcher the beautiful language in my determination to respect it. I did all of this out of the deepest esteem for my friends and the differences between us. I did not want to confine myself to the comfortable, American way nor

"Try the steak!" my professor says excitedly. His eyes sparkle with encouragement. I look from the glossy platter of meat, sitting a menacing two feet away from my plate, to the only tools at my disposal, a set of modest wooden chopsticks, and back again. Determined to impress him and the four Chinese students from Hangzhou University at the table, I swallow hard as I pick up the intimidating apparatus and stretch my arm toward the food, whispering to myself, "You can do it." I successfully grasp a piece and, with herculean concentration, guide it in an arc back towards my mouth. Less than an inch from my lips, and mere moments from triumph, it tumbles from my clutches and lands on the white tablecloth with an oily splat. In that moment my heart flattens, folds, and flattens again. I feel the wide, pitying eyes of my fellow diners. But when I look up, they have all shifted their gaze and are awkwardly staring at their food as if to say, "We didn't see a thing." In a flurry of anxious politeness, the waiter rushes across the room wielding a fork. "You can use it if you'd like," my professor adds, winking. I politely decline. I grew up surrounded by a sea of brown faces, my interactions with people of other cultures limited by race and class divides established long before I was born. My community, predominantly Black American, lacks the diversity most people imagine when they think of New York City. I, however, the product of a lonely childhood (it's hard to be popular when you love school as much as I did and are a few pounds overweight), always sought ways to distinguish myself and to seek out forms of acceptance that looked and felt different from what I knew. It was in this way that I started to explore, and ultimately immerse myself in, Chinese food, the Mandarin language and Mando-pop music. It was not enough to watch bouncing cartoons floating and singing on my computer screen; I needed to understand the words, tones and meaning. It was not enough to order standard Americanized Chinese food; I wanted to read the characters, choose the most authentic dish, and savor each bite. Eventually, though, my own research was not enough either; I wanted to meet people from China, to truly grasp the differences between us - and to understand in what ways we might be the same. A year after learning my first word of Mandarin, while attending a summer program at the University of Pennsylvania, I noticed a group of international students struggling to connect with their American counterparts. Though I had limited knowledge of their language, we connected through singing popular Chinese songs and speaking in a combination of English and Mandarin, laughing at one another's errors and supporting one another in continuing to learn. The next summer at Rose-Hulman, my lab partner, Mo, was also struggling to make American friends because of her limited English. Armed with even more Mandarin, I was able to connect with Mo, her international friends, and our professor over dinner. At the dinner, I made some mistakes, but I refused to make another's culture bend to my own. In friendly conversation, amidst laughter, a fellow diner told me in highly broken English that his English was far better than my Chinese; I also laughed but continued to try, hoping not to butcher the beautiful language in my determination to respect it. I did all of this out of the deepest esteem for my friends and the differences between us. I did not want to confine myself to the comfortable, American way nor

Management, Loose-Leaf Version

13th Edition

ISBN:9781305969308

Author:Richard L. Daft

Publisher:Richard L. Daft

Chapter10: Designing Organization Structure

Section: Chapter Questions

Problem 3ED

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