Younger, older workers have much to learn from each other

(istockphoto)

My first job out of college was at a young, creative nonprofit. Lunchtime brought lively discussions about who should win "American Idol" or where to find the best bargains on Newbury Street.

Even in a relaxed setting, people were productive because they liked coming to work and believed in the organization's mission. After that experience, I assumed every office let you listen to iPods and wear jeans on Fridays. I soon discovered that this was not the norm when I began working in an office where employees favored "American Bandstand" to Idol and Talbots to True Religion jeans.

At first, being the youngest person in my new office had its perks. My co-workers always made sure I had a steady supply of homemade jams and baked goods to supplement my Lean Cuisine lunches. They admired my computer prowess (the extent of which was using keyboard shortcuts, and rebooting) and they helpfully reminded me to wear a sweater or jacket when I went to off-site meetings (even in April).

There were some problems, too. The organization had hired me to help them reach a younger demographic. This was an admirable goal, but being the only employee in my department born after the Kennedy administration meant that my "young, radical suggestions" were generally overruled by my colleagues.

"This is how we've always done it," they said, pointing to the dozens of awards and successes they'd had over the years. "What if that new Internet thing doesn't work?" (Keep in mind that this was 2006, not 1996.)

Since Generation Y is generally perceived as tech-savvy but literacy-challenged, my first task was building trust in my ability to combine technology with traditional communications methods. In other words, prove that even though I like to send text messages, I still know how to string together correctly punctuated sentences.

I offered to help write marketing materials, occasionally slipping in a clever word or turn of phrase to lighten the formal tone. I designed mock-ups of brochures that would show the organization in a new light. But despite my best efforts to win over my colleagues, I still found myself struggling to communicate with them.

While choosing images for a print piece, an older co-worker noted that all of the people in our stock images were a bit too "robust-looking" for her taste, and I joked (perhaps a bit distastefully) that we should sign them up for "The Biggest Loser." She stared at me like I'd just spoken Swahili. I tried to qualify the joke by putting it into context, but she explained she only watched PBS. Clearly, we did not speak the same language.

Finding common vocabulary was a recurring issue for us. When someone handed me a schedule of educational events that included time for "journaling," I un derstood from years of progressive education that this meant free writing in a journal. But to this colleague, who had decades of experience editing high-level publications, it simply wasn't a word, regardless of what the Oxford English Dictionary said.

She had started editing well before I was born, so if a photo was just slightly askew, she'd notice. If there was an extra letter in a 30-page document, she'd find it. Even after several weeks of proofing, she was still circling mistakes in red pen (which I would then fix on the computer). Having grown up sending short, quick e-mails and relying on Microsoft spell check for writing assignments, I learned the importance of careful editing but wished news could get circulated before it got out of date.

Even though she was exacting in her editing, she did make an effort to show interest in my career and my life. Once she came to check on a project, then paused to ask if I had hit my head. "Your forehead is all red, have you been injured?" she asked in a tone that would have sounded sweet and concerned if I weren't already self-conscious about still having acne in my mid-20s.

"Actually, it's a pimple, but thanks for asking." I handed her a new draft, then fled to the kitchen, which was my refuge when I started to worry that I would always be the "young upstart" instead of a "young professional."

Often my colleague would be in the kitchen steeping her tea at the same time I was nuking fat-free popcorn. She'd eye my Orville Redenbacher and, having read every cautionary health article in "Reader's Digest" over the last 50 years, warn me that I'd die of cancer if I didn't give up artificial flavors. "Would death by popcorn really be so bad?" I'd wonder.

But when I gave my two weeks notice, the balance of power shifted instantly. My colleagues started asking me lots of questions on how to download attachments (which I'd usually done for them for the sake of expediency), what to do when the computer freezes, or how to format a brochure for printing.

"Remind me how to do that thing with text boxes," my co-worker asked as the days counted down. "Can we go over where to save EPS files?"

That's the thing about inter-generational offices: Older and younger workers get so stuck on generational stereotypes they don't realize they could learn a lot from each other.

If you want to write about the view from your cube, send e-mail to cube@globe.com.