Pour Your Heart Into It (2 page)

These policies and attitudes run counter to conventional business wisdom. A company that is managed only for the benefit of shareholders treats its employees as a line item, a cost to be contained. Executives who cut jobs aggressively are often rewarded with a temporary run-up in their stock price. But in the long run, they are not only undermining morale but sacrificing the innovation, the entrepreneurial spirit, and the heartfelt commitment of the very people who could elevate the company to greater heights.

What many in business don’t realize is that it’s not a zero-sum game. Treating employees benevolently shouldn’t be viewed as an added cost that cuts into profits, but as a powerful energizer that can grow the enterprise into something far greater than one leader could envision. With pride in their work, Starbucks people are less likely to leave. Our turnover rate is less than half the industry average, which not only saves money but strengthens our bond with customers.

But the benefits run even deeper. If people relate to the company they work for, if they form an emotional tie to it and buy into its dreams, they will pour their heart into making it better. When employees have self-esteem and self-respect they can contribute so much more: to their company, to their family, to the world.

Although I didn’t consciously plan it that way, Starbucks has become a living legacy of my dad.

Because not everyone can take charge of his or her destiny, those who do rise to positions of authority have a responsibility to those whose daily work keeps the enterprise running, not only to steer the correct course but to make sure no one is left behind.

I never planned to write a book, at least not this early in my career. I firmly believe that the greatest part of Starbucks’ achievement lies in the future, not the past. If Starbucks is a twenty-chapter book, we’re only in Chapter Three.

But for several reasons, I decided that now was a good time to tell the Starbucks story.

First, I want to inspire people to pursue their dreams. I come from common roots, with no silver spoon, no pedigree, no early mentors. I dared to dream big dreams, and then I willed them to happen. I’m convinced that most people can achieve their dreams and beyond if they have the determination to keep trying.

Second, and more profoundly, I hope to inspire leaders of enterprises to aim high. Success is empty if you arrive at the finish line alone. The best reward is to get there surrounded by winners. The more winners you can bring with you—whether they’re employees, customers, shareholders, or readers—the more gratifying the victory.

I’m not writing this book to make money. All my earnings from it will go to the newly formed Starbucks Foundation, which will allocate the proceeds to philanthropic work on behalf of Starbucks and its partners.

This is the story of Starbucks, but it is not a conventional business book. Its purpose is not to share my life’s story, or to offer advice on how to fix broken companies, or to document a corporate history. It contains no executive summaries, no bulleted lists of action points, no theoretical framework for analyzing why some enterprises succeed and others fail.

Instead, it’s the story of a team of people who built a successful enterprise based on values and guiding principles seldom encountered in corporate America. It tells how, along the way, we learned some important lessons about business and about life. These insights, I hope, will help others who are building a business or pursuing a life’s dream.

My ultimate aim in writing
Pour Your Heart into It
is to reassure people to have the courage to persevere, to keep following their hearts even when others scoff. Don’t be beaten down by naysayers. Don’t let the odds scare you from even trying. What were the odds against me, a kid from the Projects?

A company can grow big without losing the passion and personality that built it, but only if it’s driven not by profits but by values and by people.

The key is heart. I pour my heart into every cup of coffee, and so do my partners at Starbucks. When customers sense that, they respond in kind.

If you pour your heart into your work, or into any worthy enterprise, you can achieve dreams others may think impossible. That’s what makes life rewarding.

There’s a Jewish tradition called the
yahrzeit.
On the eve of the anniversary of a loved one’s death, close relatives light a candle and keep it burning for twenty-four hours. I light that candle every year, for my father.

I just don’t want that light to go out.

CHAPTER 1
Imagination, Dreams, and Humble Origins

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.

—A
NTOINE
DE
S
AINT
-E
XUPÉRY,
T
HE
L
ITTLE
P
RINCE

Starbucks, as it is today, is actually the child of two parents.

One is the original Starbucks, founded in 1971, a company passionately committed to world-class coffee and dedicated to educating its customers, one on one, about what great coffee can be.

The other is the vision and values I brought to the company: the combination of competitive drive and a profound desire to make sure everyone in the organization could win together. I wanted to blend coffee with romance, to dare to achieve what others said was impossible, to defy the odds with innovative ideas, and to do all this with elegance and style.

In truth, Starbucks needed the influence of both parents to become what it is today.

Starbucks prospered for ten years before I discovered it. I learned of its early history from its founders, and I’ll retell that story in Chapter Two. In this book, I will relate the story the way I experienced it, starting with my early life, because many of the values that shaped the growth of the enterprise trace their roots back to a crowded apartment in Brooklyn, New York.

H
UMBLE
O
RIGINS
C
AN
I
NSTILL

B
OTH
D
RIVE
AND
C
OMPASSION

One thing I’ve noticed about romantics: They try to create a new and better world far from the drabness of everyday life. That is Starbucks’ aim, too. We try to create, in our stores, an oasis, a little neighborhood spot where you can take a break, listen to some jazz, and ponder universal or personal or even whimsical questions over a cup of coffee.

What kind of person dreams up such a place?

From my personal experience, I’d say that the more uninspiring your origins, the more likely you are to use your imagination and invent worlds where everything seems possible.

That’s certainly true of me.

I was three when my family moved out of my grandmother’s apartment into the Bayview Projects in 1956. They were in the heart of Canarsie, on Jamaica Bay, fifteen minutes from the airport, fifteen minutes from Coney Island. Back then, the Projects were not a frightening place but a friendly, large, leafy compound with a dozen eight-story brick buildings, all brand-new. The elementary school, P.S. 272, was right on the grounds of the Projects, complete with playground, basketball courts, and paved school yard. Still, no one was proud of living in the Projects; our parents were all what we now call “the working poor.”

Still, I had many happy moments during my childhood. Growing up in the Projects made for a well-balanced value system, as it forced me to get along with many different kinds of people. Our building alone housed about 150 families, and we all shared one tiny elevator. Each apartment was very small, and our family started off in a cramped two-bedroom unit.

Both my parents came from working-class families, residents of the East New York section of Brooklyn for two generations. My grandfather died young, so my dad had to quit school and start working as a teenager. During World War II, he was a medic in the Army in the South Pacific, in New Caledonia and Saipan, where he contracted yellow fever and malaria. As a result, his lungs were always weak, and he often got colds. After the war, he got a series of blue-collar jobs but never found himself, never had a plan for his life.

My mother was a strong-willed and powerful woman. Her name is Elaine, but she goes by the nickname Bobbie. Later, she worked as a receptionist, but when we were growing up, she took care of us three kids full time.

My sister, Ronnie, close to me in age, shared many of the same hard childhood experiences. But, to an extent, I was able to insulate my brother, Michael, from the economic hardship I felt and give him the kind of guidance my parents couldn’t offer. He tagged along with me wherever I went. I used to call him “The Shadow.” Despite the eight-year age gap, I developed an extremely close relationship with Michael, acting like a father to him when I could. I watched with pride as he became a good athlete, a strong student, and ultimately a success in his own business career.

I played sports with the neighborhood kids from dawn to dusk every day of my childhood. My dad joined us whenever he could, after work and on weekends. Each Saturday and Sunday morning, starting at 8
A.M.
, hundreds of us kids would gather in the school-yard. You had to be good there, because if you didn’t win, you’d be out of the game, forced to watch for hours before you could get back in. So I played to win.

Luckily for me, I was a natural athlete. Whether it was baseball, basketball, or football, I jumped right in and played hard till I got good at it. I used to organize pickup games of baseball and basketball with whatever kids lived in the neighborhood—Jewish kids, Italian kids, black kids. Nobody ever had to lecture us about diversity; we lived it.

It’s always been a part of my personality to develop an unbridled passion about things that interest me. My first passion was for baseball. At that time in the boroughs of New York, every conversation started and ended with baseball. Connections and barriers with other people were made not by race or religion but by the team you rooted for. The Dodgers had just left for Los Angeles (they broke my father’s heart, and he never forgave them), but we still had many of the baseball greats. I remember walking home and hearing play-by-play radio reports blaring out of open windows on every side of the courtyard.

I was a die-hard Yankees fan, and my dad took my brother and me to countless games. We never had good seats, but that didn’t matter. It was the thrill of just being there. Mickey Mantle was my idol. I had his number, 7, on my shirts, sneakers, everything I owned. When I played baseball, I mimicked Mickey Mantle’s stance and gestures.

When The Mick retired, the finality of it was hard to believe. How could he stop playing? My father took me to both Mickey Mantle Days at Yankee Stadium, September 18, 1968, and June 8, 1969. As I watched the tributes to him, and listened to the other players say good-bye, and heard him speak, I felt deeply sad. Baseball was never the same for me after that. The Mick was such an intense presence in our lives that years later, when he died, I got phone calls of consolation from childhood friends I hadn’t heard from in decades.

Coffee was not a big part of my childhood. My mother drank instant coffee. When company came over, she’d buy some canned coffee and take out her old percolator. I remember listening to it grumble and watching that little glass cap until finally the coffee popped up into it like a jumping bean.

It was only as I grew older that I began to realize how tight the family finances were. On rare occasions we’d go to a Chinese restaurant, and my parents would discuss what dishes to order, based solely on how much cash my dad had in his wallet that day. I felt angry and ashamed when I realized that the sleepaway camp I attended in the summer was a subsidized program for underprivileged kids. After that, I refused to go back.