The house lights dimmed, the stage lights on. To warm applause, I climb the two small steps on the stage and walk to the podium, my speech in hand. I know what to say; the written words but insurance. Seven long years I’ve waited to give this speech, not one glance will be wasted on this paper tonight.
“Konban wa” (Good evening) I begin, the sound techs instantly adjusting the mic level appropriate for this opulent ballroom. One hundred and sixty-five people waiting people. One hundred and fifty-eight voices respond. One of these will quietly translate my Japanese speech into English for my President, the vice presidents and family members are on their own.
“Thank you for coming tonight.” No justice is served by those words to my deep gratitude, but they service as a set up. I continue. “For the last several months, my greatest fear as the Japan Sales Manager is that I would be saying these words to an empty room.” Laughter. The joke works and I’m on a roll. Public speaking terrifies many, but not me.
I start with my dream; of making a US manufacturer successful in Japan. I don’t talk of the seven years since I began this adventure with nothing but a cell phone and a laptop and five customers. Most of those gathered know me, and they know our story and our growth.
I talk of our President, of his fierce loyalty to our dealers. He will soon talk of growing this company from two to 1,000 employees in just over 20 years, and of his history. A man I deeply respect for his abilities and fairness.
Tonight is not the time to talk of our difficulties. We were our worst enemy. The barriers to entry in this market were not set by the Japanese, they were set by us. They first dealt only in English and we first only sold only in dollars. The list goes on – it’s almost remarkable that companies actually bought from us.
The American corporate management is hindered by their cultural baggage and struggled to learn to thrive overseas. My job is as much to educate the US head office as to sell to our customers.
Corporations are creatures of habit and it’s taken seven years long years for our company to adopt business practices to entice the customers of this Oriental country. But many of the changes are made, and we’re ready to roll.
In a few minutes, our president will stand at this same mic and announce a new product, which, in his words, is unique to this market but indispensable for success here. Four years, seven months and six days (yup, I checked) have passed since I first requested this product. I mounted a one-man campaign longer than some wars to convince Product Development, Marketing, and Engineering. Turned down, then accepted, started, delayed, restarted and now in final development, we have a model for show.
I was my worst enemy. I created my own barriers to life. Beaten and terrorized by the man who was my father; the adult male who deserves not that title, and raped by my brother, love was a stranger to our family. People are creatures of habit, and hindered by my baggage, I struggled to learn how to thrive in this game of life. Crippled by days filled with anxiety and nights long with despair, not infrequent were the times when a knife cut seemed the least pain.
Resilient, my counselor said, was the trait he thought best fit. I won’t tell of the process, the struggle to learn to trust and accept love, but tonight I will stand, a new man.
A few jokes thrown in, my remarks are brief. Popular speakers never keep drinks from their guests. I raise mine to toast. One hundred and sixty five glasses are posed. “To success,” I cry, “For you and for us.” “Kampai!” One word thunders in response: “Kampai!”
The applause reverberates as I take my bow. Tonight is my night and this moment is mine. Success, in more ways than anyone else will know.
