NEW YORK (AP) 鈥� As if Scott Pelley鈥檚 years in a glamorous, globetrotting, seven-figure dream job weren鈥檛 enough, he鈥檚 pulled off one more thing to stir your envy: a cutting takedown of his boss that went loudly public.
The 鈥�60 Minutes鈥� correspondent鈥檚 searing rebuke of CBS management this week, in which he questioned his bosses鈥� credentials and motives, , but amounted to the sort of mouthing-off that workplace peons typically only fantasize about.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 the American dream 鈥� to be able to tell off your boss and walk out the door,鈥� says Zach Tyra, a 40-year-old data analyst from Jones, Oklahoma, who found a kindred spirit in the newsman, recalling his own experience with a former boss he said was clueless. 鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 do what Scott Pelley did because I didn鈥檛 have the safety net or the resources or the network that he has. I couldn鈥檛 tell my boss to stick it. I just had to sit there and eat it.鈥�
Pelley’s message may have been delivered in the measured baritone of someone polished by decades on the airwaves. But his backtalk stirred many who鈥檝e felt the simmering rage of feeling a clueless boss was turning their days into a nightmare.
鈥淚t鈥檚 also kind of weird, like, Pelley isn鈥檛 some blue-collar hero. There鈥檚 a wide gap between, like, Pelley and your local everyday guy down at the hardware store,鈥� Tyra says. 鈥淏ut I think everyone can relate to standing up for what they believe.鈥�
A staff meeting that went deeply awry
came in a Monday staff meeting with Nick Bilton, brought aboard by Bari Weiss, who became CBS News鈥� editor-in-chief in October. The correspondent reportedly grilled Bilton about the firings last week of Bilton鈥檚 predecessor, Tanya Simon, and correspondents Sharyn Alfonsi and Cecilia Vega, accusing management of 鈥渕urdering鈥� the program, and a mainstay of Sunday nights for nearly six decades.
鈥淪he has no qualifications for her job,鈥� Pelley said of Weiss, according to the media news site Status, which reported he then turned his ire at Bilton. 鈥淵ou have slender qualifications for this job.鈥�
In firing Pelley, Bilton called his outburst an 鈥渁mbush鈥� of 鈥渞emarkable incivility and contempt.鈥� But, with Pelley becoming a proxy for the American worker, others cheered.
Parry Headrick, who runs a public relations firm in Boston, was immediately transported to his days as a young reporter at a small newspaper, where he had been carefully chronicling the trials of people who fell ill from what was believed to be exposure to toxic waste.
He had earned the trust of one family only to find editors plastered a headline on the story that reduced the sick child to a 鈥渢oxic boy鈥� and caused Headrick to lose all faith in his bosses. He screamed at the paper鈥檚 publisher and editor-in-chief before quitting.
鈥淚 lost my goddamn mind when they did that. And the story with Pelley resonated so hard specifically because of that,鈥� says 57-year-old Headrick, who thinks many people can see Pelley鈥檚 point of view. 鈥淭here exists in most Americans the desire to speak truth to power.鈥�
That such an outburst arose in the news business may be no surprise; journalists pride themselves as a truth-to-power, voice-for-the-voiceless bunch. Staff meetings with reporters sassing editors are common, and in newsrooms everywhere, managers have been subjected to the type of tough questions they pay their people to ask others.
The threshold for dismissal varies from place to place
The line separating acceptable discourse with fireable offense is as different in each workplace as the settings themselves, whether a dive bar or diocesan chancery.
鈥淚n the real world, there are layers of politeness and cordiality that don鈥檛 really exist in journalism,鈥� says Headrick, who cheered Pelley 鈥減ushing back on something larger.鈥�
Clare Haynes had a middle-management role at a nonprofit when she had her Pelley moment two decades ago. She was three weeks into a job where she thought she鈥檇 been brought aboard to institute changes that would achieve an innovative work culture. But every suggestion she made was dismissed. Her boss said his boss wouldn鈥檛 buy the idea.
鈥淎re you saying you鈥檙e too weak to ask?鈥� she snapped. His mouth fell open. He stared at her silently for a full minute.
Haynes survived, lasting three more years at the firm, but things were never the same.
鈥淚 didn鈥檛 lose my job, but I paid the price, being seen as maverick,鈥� says 55-year-old Haynes, of Royal Leamington Spa, England, who now runs a coaching firm that trains executives how to handle difficult workplace conversations.
Johan Konst was working at a Swedish media company when he felt pushed to the limit seven years ago. After years of high-stress, hard-selling days pushing advertising he didn鈥檛 believe in, he finally said his piece, delivering a blunt, profanity-dotted message to his boss.
He was promptly shown the door.
鈥淚t鈥檚 the best thing that ever happened to me,鈥� says 34-year-old Konst, of Amsterdam, who walked away with a nice severance check. 鈥淎t some point, this had to happen.鈥�
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Matt Sedensky can be reached at msedensky@ap.org and
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