The Playhouse

Built by H.B. Mok in 2005.

It's initials

Having initials for a name means a little extra work when making reservations or ordering a latte. “What’s the name?” they’ll ask. “H.B.,” I’ll say, and before they can give me that look, with the did-I-hear-that-correctly raised eyebrows, I’ll head them off at the pass, “it’s initials.”

I figure, on average over my lifetime I've met, what, four people a week? That's more than 8,000 explanations of my name to date. And everyone, I mean everyone, asks at some point. It may take them years before the inevitable “so, really, what does H.B. stand for, anyway?” I used to do a lot of “Handsome and Beautiful, can’t you tell?” but stopped because my wife thinks that's obnoxious (although, come to think of it, that worked on her).

People love making up names for me, and they'll laugh and laugh when they come up with “Hairy Butt” or “Home Boy,” oblivious to the fact that, believe it or not, I've heard that one before (or, like 644 times before, on average). For some reason that I can't quite figure out, "Herbert Bartholomule" comes up a lot. Not sure why that particularly weird name, but somehow people are drawn to it. Go figure.

Some people have actually asked me to spell it. Quite simple, really: "A-C-H B-E-E".

Once and for all, here's the story of my name, for posterity. A few hours after I was born, my parents were still undecided on my what to call me. They're both attorneys, you see, so briefs had to be written, motions filed, witnesses called.

My mother always liked the name Alexander, but my father didn't. So, naturally, they gave me Alexander for a first name with no intention of actually calling me that. It was the middle name that was the real conundrum for them. My mother liked Henri, after my paternal grandfather and my father liked Brian, his favorite name.

So, there we were, sitting with the nurse who was trying to fill out the birth certificate. The arguments went on and on, and I imagine that even though I was only a few hours old, with no ability to control any bodily function, I was able to muster up an eye roll to the poor nurse. "Really," I must have thought, "These people are freaks, don't leave me with them!"

Finally the nurse, who was just going off duty, said in a huff, “why don’t you just use both middle names?” Brilliant. They signed the certificate. Everyone was happy. A couple of hours later, they took little Alexander Henri Brian Mok home.

A few days later, they apparently had buyer’s remorse and didn’t want to use any of the names. My dad came up with H.B. as a final compromise.

Growing up, my mother thought it hilarious to tell people H.B. stood for “human being.”

“We were just so surprised,” she’d say. “It’s a human being! Whattya know? It really is a human being!” Not the best self-esteem boost for an 11-year-old with pimples and hand-me-down corduroy pants with knee patches.

Each start of a new school year was a treat too. The teacher would call out “Alexander? Alexander?” My friends would offer “It's H.B., he goes by H.B.” Usually in unison.

When I left California for MBA graduate school on the east coast, I decided it was now or never to try to go by Alex and leave my initials behind me. No one knew me, except my then girlfriend — now my wife — and she was game for trying, so I expected that while it would be an adjustment, it wouldn’t be so hard.

You must remember that I hadn't answered to any other name in 24 years. Plus I had no idea I was already at a disadvantage. The east coast graduate school was very conservative, and just being a native Californian gave me an automatic reputation for being a bit flaky. Add to that I wasn't responding to my own name and there you go.

People would come up to me, kneel down at eye level and say, “Alex, it's time to go, dear.” Great way to start Business School. After a couple of weeks I gave up, told everyone I was known by my initials “H.B.” and left it at that. The fact that Alexander didn't start with an H just made it more clear that, to everyone there, I must have been completely stoned.

For many of my friends, H.B. is simply too long a name to bother with. So, they shorten it to H. My wife is especially good at this, particularly at parties when we meet new people.

She'll tell a story about how “H” went somewhere or she did something with “H” or “H” said this. You can see the absolute confusion on people's faces immediately.

“What's this ‘H’ thing she keeps talking about?” they must wonder. “Did I hear that correctly? Did she just say the letter H? I can’t for the life of me understand what this woman is referring to.”

I get lots of J.B.’s and H.P.’s, which has even more entertainment value in Silicon Valley, home to Hewlett Packard. One person in high school liked to call me “B,” which was nice. Really, though, I'll answer to just about any two initials. It once took me two months to correct an executive who liked to call me A.B. No one else corrected him either, so I figured why rock the boat?

How would I be different if my name wasn’t H.B.? What if people called me Al. I don’t feel like an Al, or an Alex for that matter. I might make a good Joel, but would that have changed me in some way? Made me less, oh I don’t know, sarcastic? Snotty? Entertaining?

If you think about it, my initial impression on people is, in fact, initials. In the first few moments after meeting me, there is already a mystery to be solved. At various times, I’ve been defensive about it, angry, depressed — really the five stages of grief. I’m now at acceptance. And that’s A-O.K. with me.

A Garbage Man’s Story

One afternoon when I was five or six, I was playing with my favorite toy Matchbox cars on our front lawn when a large sanitation truck turned the corner and began to make its way up our street. I watched it with mild interest as it lumbered slowly toward our driveway (my cars where much more interesting).

It stopped right in front of me and a plump cheery man stepped out of the driver’s compartment, said hello and asked if I wanted to help him load and “squash” the garbage. Hell yes! I jumped right up and we had a blast throwing the garbage into the huge steel bin. Then he led me around the side and (with his help) I pushed over the red lever which activated the compactor. It was the biggest feeling of power I had ever had.

As soon as he left I ran into the house, shouting for my mom. “Mom, I know what I want to be when I grow up,” I declared. She smiled at me proudly with the words doctor, senator and president flashing through her mind.

“What?” she asked, smiling.

“I want to be a garbage man!!”

You could hear her screaming two blocks away.

When my father got home that night, I explained what happened. As is usual with my father, he sat me down and asked, “Why?” I told him it looked fun. “What looks fun?” he asked. “Throwing the garbage in and pulling the lever,” I replied.

He took me into the kitchen and said if I wanted to be a garbage man, he was behind me all the way. But, he said I should try it out first by gathering the trash from the entire house and putting it in the trash can outside.

As I made my way through the house, it occurred to me that I did not want to be a garbage man. Pulling the lever was fun, but the rest totally sucked.

History often repeats itself, as it did with me two years ago. As I prepared to come to Cornell, I met with a long time family friend who happened to be an investment banker. He told me how exciting the field was, how intellectually stimulating it all was and how much money I could make doing it. Another red lever was staring me in the face.

I began my job search almost the first day I arrived. I sent hundreds of letters and resumes to alumni throughout the investment banking field. I learned about the industry, read the Wall Street Journal religiously, became an officer of the Finance Club and drove to the city more times than I can remember. It was a tough time, especially since my heart wasn’t totally in it. But I kept going on, just as I walked through my house collecting garbage all those years ago. There was still the idea that I would meet and work with some of the smartest people in the world, putting together deals worth billions of dollars and making a decent living as well.

I went on more than 15 interviews. By interview 8, I realized investment banks weren’t for me. By interview 12, commercial banks were out. Interview 13 and on was in finance on the corporate side. Finally as May approached, things were looking mighty bad.

Then I spoke with a friend of mine who suggested I look at one of the large advertising firms. Perhaps with my background I could get in to the finance department. For the first time since I started the process, I really got excited. The thought of being around so much creativity was almost too much for me.

I targeted the largest agency in New York City, Grey Advertising, went on two interviews and got an offer. The whole thing took one week. The best part of my internship was that I rotated through finance, strategic services, media and account management. Everyone I spoke with said the job was perfect for me. No one ever said that when I interviewed with the investment banks.

By the time I left Grey, I was collecting no more garbage. I got more out of the marketing and advertising than I did out the finance. The moral? Don’t collect garbage only to pull the lever. If you like playing with Matchbox cars, play with Matchbox cars. The levers will come.

Originally published in the Johnson School Career Planner at Cornell University where H.B. got his MBA in 1995.

Show a little common courtesy, Silicon Valley

All I can think about is that kid. I can’t remember his name, but I remember his face. Young, energetic, confident. I remember he wore a really interesting tie to the interview. It wasn’t radical, just interesting enough to catch your eye, know what I mean? Some of the others who interviewed him found him a bit on the arrogant side. There were a few holes in his resume, nothing serious. But, overall he was a fine candidate.

I keep thinking about this guy, because when we decided to hire someone else for the position, no one called to tell him. Not the hiring manager, not HR, no one. The worst part is, I got a voicemail from this kid asking me if I had heard anything about the job that he so earnestly wanted…and I never called him back.

I was busy. It was HR’s job to call him. It wasn’t even my opening, the other manager should take the responsibility. Maybe I felt a little too important to deal with it? Whatever, I didn’t return his call. I don’t think anyone did.

I keep thinking about this kid, because I can now clearly imagine what he must have been thinking about me. On the one hand, he thought my company was stellar, sitting at the top of a hot market floating on a sea of venture capital. He thought we were very interested in him, since he a already made it to a second round of interviews. So, why on earth was nobody making the simple common courtesy of calling him back to tell him he didn’t get the job? He probably felt confused, then angry, then glad that he didn’t have to find out what a bunch of losers we were three months into the job.

I keep thinking about him, because I just went through the exact same thing a couple of months ago. Karma is a four letter word in my dictionary.

The first time it happened to me, I ignored it. I got a call from a company saying they were interested in talking to me. Great. I spoke to the recruiter, then to the hiring manager. I was then told that I would be getting a call the next day to set up an in-person interview. I never heard from them again.

The second time it happened, the CEO herself left a message to set up an interview. Her assistant followed up to arrange the details. It was set for 2 p.m. and I made it a point to be near the phone. I never heard from the woman. That’s understandable, given the typical CEO’s schedule in Silicon Valley. I phoned the assistant and left a message explaining that there may have been some crossed wires. Should we reschedule? Never heard back from her either. I let that one go too.

By the third time, I was getting angry. I felt a column coming on.

I could ask the question, what the hell is the matter with all you people? But, I know the answer, since I was just like you a short time ago. You’re busy. You’ve got a million things going and calling back some schmuck just doesn’t get a priority in the go-go valley. No matter how much you committed to him or her.

But, think about this: if your company can’t accomplish the simplest task of meeting their most trivial commitments, then they’re either not prioritizing properly or they’re morons. Either way, it’s bad business and it will cost you in the long run. What if that next call they drop is from that nobody sales rep who just happens to know a certain VP of Marketing you’ve been trying to ink a contract with for the last six months? Believe me, it can happen. It did to my previous company and we spent weeks trying to get back our credibility with the VP.

I’ve got no high-horse to sit on, so I’ll use a soap box. Stop for a moment and think about what you’re doing. Honor your commitments. I’m not talking about calling candidates back anymore. That’s a symptom of a larger issue. I’m talking about taking the fundamentals of operating a winning company. Get to your appointments on time. Respect your customers by turning off your cell phone when you’re in a meeting with them. Call people back when you say you will — don’t return every call (that’s impossible), just call people when you say you’ll call them. Think of it as part of your Total Quality Management program: every single person is a PR rep for your company so make sure every interaction is a positive and productive one. Start with calling folks back.

A friend of mine’s younger sister accepted a position recently in a company out of Santa Cruz. On her first day of work, in what she thought was a permanent job, she was informed that she was there on a “trial” basis only for one day. They just wanted to try her out. You know, take a test drive, kick the tires. At end of the day, her manager said that he would call her the next day to discuss the permanent position. She got no call. The following day, she called the manager herself, and he said — get this — that he couldn’t recall her name and would she refresh his memory on who she was? She hung up, of course, realizing that the firm would probably be out of business within six months if they had idiots like that working there.

If I could turn back the clock to last November and could do only one thing, it would not be to save my job and my company from hitting the skids. Instead, I would pick up the damn phone, call that kid back, explain that he was a fine candidate and a good person, but that someone else got the job instead. I’d wish him the best and then send him on his way with some closure.

Oh, and then I’d try to save my job. I feel guilty, not crazy.

This was originally published in Silicon Valley Biz Ink on Aug. 19, 2002.

Why a blog?

My husband, H.B., is a storyteller.

Anyone who has sat around a dining room table with him, read our annual holiday card or seen some of his published work knows this.

A few years ago, our dear friend Shawn Dufraine, suggested that we start a blog.

Actually here’s exactly what he said:

“well, with a great sense of relief I got my Mok Card in the mail today, it was getting so close to Christmas and it hadn't shown up, I was afraid I had been dropped from the list, and I had that sort of year work-wise so I thought maybe it had been a total sweep, phew.

Once again awesome card … anyhow I think you should do a blog, not daily because then it seems like work, but with a promise of a bi-weekly or at least monthly update, and it could be like the cards, briefly highlighting events but sprinkled with words of wisdom and humanity, I mean a couple of paragraphs once a year is lovely, but your audience wants, nay demands, more.”

Well Shawn and anyone else who's interested, here tis. . .