How Are the Waves?

An ex-friend of mine once said: 


"I get asked, 'How are the waves?' all the time. But I just get over it."


This was a response to a conversation about microaggressions.

I was trying to help him understand the concept. How the daily seemingly minor things people from underrepresented backgrounds have to endure add up, lead to mental exhaustion, and continued marginalization. 


The Black woman who regularly is asked by White women if they can touch her hair. 

The American man of Asian descent who's repeatedly told that he "speaks excellent English."

The person from the dominant group who chooses to not sit next to the person from the underrepresented group at the meeting. 

The mansplaining.

My ex-friend didn't grasp the concept fully.

He – a tall, White, blonde man with longish hair who lives in a 90% White beachside surf community but doesn't surf – insisted that if all those other things were microaggressions, then surely being asked about the waves was a microaggression. 

No. 

It may be annoying. And biased. And ignorant. 

But what's missing is the power imbalance. What's missing is the historical context. 

He moves on with no psychological or social consequences.

And continues to enjoy his dominant group superiority. 

And learns to surf if he chooses.

We All Have Different Lived Experiences

Think of what we lose when we don't intentionally create inclusive cultures of belonging.

The loss of creativity and innovation and productivity and collaboration and. . .

When people use extra energy to cover part or all of who they are because they don't feel safe bringing their full selves to work. 

When managers don't show that they care and that they understand we have interests and needs and lives outside of the office. 

When the gay man doesn't come out because he's heard too many homophobic slurs in the break room. 

When the single woman downplays her motherhood because she doesn't want people to think she's not dedicated when she leaves early to take her son to soccer practice. 

When the Black man doesn't speak up in meetings because there are no other people of color on the team and his White colleagues talk over him.  

When the person with invisible disabilities acts as if everything's normal because it's just too hard to explain. 

We all have different lived experiences that we bring to work. 

If we don't feel our lived experiences are validated and valued, we suppress them. 

When we suppress who we are, our mental energy is taken away from our work. 

When our mental energy is taken away from our work, our work suffers. 

And that hurts us all.

Redistributing the Emotional Labor

So much of inclusion, equity, and belonging work is about redistributing the emotional labor. 

Far too often people from marginalized and underrepresented groups take on most, if not all, of the emotional labor of educating others, righting wrongs, correcting inaccuracies, and pointing out offensive language and actions. 

For there to be change, people from dominant groups need to step up and take on more of this emotional labor. 

Dominant group members need to work to remove that burden. 

They need to educate themselves on the lived experience of others. They need to read. And listen. Be humble. And courageous. 

They need to get over their fragility and privilege. They need to step out of their comfort zone. 

And they need to act. 

White people need to relieve the emotional labor of Black people. 

Straight people need to relieve the emotional labor of gay people. 

Cis people need to relieve the emotional labor of trans people. 

Etc.

If you are a member of one or more dominant groups, what are you doing to be a true ally, advocate, or accomplice? 

How are you challenging the status quo? Disrupting the norm? 

How are you driving impact and affecting change? 

Are you doing your part to redistribute the emotional labor?

Your Experiences Have Shaped You

What are your origin stories? And how have they inspired your current values? 

I grew up with a single mom who worked all the time to pay the bills and a dad who I only saw three times a year because he lived far away. 

That's why I value connection. 

When I was fifteen my dad called and told me his partner died of AIDS. While he was crying I was watching Family Ties and I didn't give him my attention. 

That's why I value empathy. 

As a kid almost all my friends were White. I didn't think much about it or seek to change it. It was just the way it was. It was. . .normal. 

That's why I value curiosity.

One of my first teaching jobs was at a boys' school in a wealthy neighborhood of San Francisco. There were three Black kids in the entire second grade of 48 students. Their parents demanded that they all be in the same class. 

That's why I value belonging. 

I was at a wedding in Portland, Maine. When I told the hotel bartender where I was from, he said, "Aren't you the wrong color to be from Oakland?"

That's why I value self-awareness. 

I recently ended a 35-year relationship with a friend who knows my personal story and the work I do, yet still insisted with his racist and homophobic views. 

That's why I value trust. 

My experiences have shaped me. How about you?

I Appreciate You

Words matter. 

Recently, I've changed from saying "I appreciate it" to "I appreciate you" when someone has done something nice for me. 

One word. One word that makes a whole lot of difference. 

One word that personalizes the communication. That humanizes the exchange. That shows an intentionality to connect. 

It's a microconnection. I think we underestimate the value of microconnections. The power they have to build relationships and trust and closeness. 

Saying, "I appreciate you" is more vulnerable than "I appreciate it."

You're putting yourself out there more. You're taking a risk of sounding too sentimental or intimate or melodramatic. 

But it's not any of those things. If you're sincere and genuine. If you truly appreciate the person for what they have done or said. 

No one has said anything to me about this, and I'd be lying if I could report any measurable difference in how people respond to me. 

No. It's not about that. It's about me. It's about how I feel. It's about the changes in how I interact and connect with people. 

But it's not selfish. Far from it. 

I'm putting out to the world – and to specific people – the vibe and energy and connection that I want us all to experience. 

And I appreciate all of you for receiving that energy from me.

You Cannot Check Out of the Conversation

Attention White men in senior leadership positions!

There is a big difference between de-centering yourself in the diversity, equity, and inclusion conversation.

And checking out of the conversation altogether. 

This difference is crucial. 

You are in a position of high visibility. You have major decision making power. You have authority and prestige and autonomy. 

People's careers and psychological safety and sense of belonging are depending on your leadership. 

You cannot check out of the conversation. 

Marginalization and discrimination and unfair hiring practices and old boys' networks and bro culture and daily microaggressions and systemic inequity and institutionalized biases and compounding privilege and intersectional disadvantages and othering aren't "their" problems. 

These realities aren't realities that only apply to "those people." 

These are everyone's realities to address. To change. To improve. To evolve. 

You cannot check out of the conversation. You have to be present. You have to educate yourself. You have to listen. You have to be humble.

You have to do better. 

You have to develop a point of view. You have to speak out. You have to be an ally. An advocate. An accomplice for change. 

People are depending on you. You have to step up.

How Do We Break The Cycle?

One of the reasons we don't have workplaces where everyone feels like they belong is because we don't really know each other. 

Sure, we work on projects, and we eat lunch, and we may even do some social stuff with select colleagues. 

But do we really share with each other more than the superficial traits about who we really are? 

Do we feel like we know – really know! – our boss, our direct reports, our coworkers? 

Do we know their pains and triumphs and dreams and fears?

Or, are we trapped in a realm of static "professionalism" and boring decorum? 

Why are we afraid to be vulnerable, to reveal truths about ourselves that show our deeper motivations and inspirations and reasons for living? 

It's that lack of vulnerability that makes us inaccessible, closed-off, mysterious. 

Every day – every hour! – we miss opportunities to deepen relationships, to deepen connections, to deepen trust. 

How do we break this cycle? 

Someone's gotta take the lead. Someone's gotta give permission to others to be vulnerable by being vulnerable themselves. 

Someone has to model the behaviors and mindsets that we need in the workplace. 

I try to be that person on a regular basis. Will you be that person with me?

A Bro Conversation

"Hey, bro, how's it hangin'?"

"Hey, bro, it's hangin' a little to the left."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. . ."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. . ."

"How late were you here last night, bro?"

"'Til about 1:00am, bro."

"Man, that sucks, bro. You missed an epic party, bro."

"Don't remind me, bro."

"So many hot chicks, bro. I was so effed up, bro. I could barely see straight." 

"Ha, ha! Well, I did three lines of coke just to stay awake and get this release out, bro."

"No way, bro. You're insane. Ha, ha! I haven't done that much coke since my senior year at Stanford, bro."

"I needed to do it, bro. Hey, bro, was _____ from HR at the party? I think she's got a thing for me."

"Yeah, she was there, bro. Oh, man, she was lookin' good, bro."

"Hey, bro. Cool it, here she comes. Hi, ____, how you feelin' this morning?"

[No response. Keeps walking.]

"Ha, ha, bro. I guess she doesn't have a thing for you, bro."

"It'll happen, bro. I just gotta be patient."

"Right on, bro. Well, I gotta get to work, bro." 

"Okay, catch you later, bro."

"Hey, wait, bro. Happy hour today, bro?"

"Totally, bro. I'm down. Let's start the weekend off right, bro."

"I'll round up some of the girls from Marketing, bro."

"Right on, bro. Can't wait."

Rich White People Don't Have Germs

Here's what bias looks like: 

A long time ago I worked at a school in one of the richest neighborhoods in San Francisco. 

Top of the hill. Views of the bay, the bridges, the East Bay hills. 

400 boys. About 360 of them rich and White. 

To get to work, I rode the BART train from Oakland to downtown SF, and the MUNI bus up the hill to the school. 

I loved it. The reading time. The humanity. The dynamism. The urban serendipity. 

A colleague of mine lived in Marin. She drove across the Golden Gate Bridge. She would never take the train or the bus!

"All those germs! All those. . .people. Gross!"

The implication was clear. 

The germs from five-year-old rich White boys who have been picking their noses and then touching door knobs and railings and walls and desks and each other. . .

That's not gross. 

And fourteen-year-old rich White boys who have been touching who-knows-what parts of their bodies, and then shaking your hand and giving you high-fives. . .

No germs there. 

And the hundreds of other rich White boys touching. . . well, everything. 

Nothing to be concerned about there. 

Rich White people don't have germs. They're not gross. 

It's only gross and germ-y when the people are poor and Black and unsophisticated and unfortunately have to ride the bus.

Leaders Need to Be More Human

My grandma is 87. This summer, we're driving her Miata cross-country. 

I play bass in a reggae band. Come see us play. We know how to groove. 

My twins graduate from elementary school in a few months. I'm so proud I could cry. 

My friend's one man play is tonight in the Mission. No one could come with me, so I'm going by myself. 

My dad would have turned 71 in March. He died of AIDS twenty years ago. He's why I do what I do.

I meditate every morning. It helps me stay present and equanimous.

One of my best friends just became a father. I can't wait to meet his baby girl. 

I've had plantar fasciitis for five months. It's finally starting to feel better. I'm going to try to play soccer next week. 

Recently, I was one of four facilitators at an HR event on inclusive leadership. We split into four groups of ten, had a discussion, and came back to the big room. 

When asked to report out on what executives and senior leaders should do to be more inclusive, each group said the exact same thing.

They said leaders need to be more human. More vulnerable. More authentic. More personable. More accessible. 

They don't trust them because they don't know them. They can't connect. They're not inspired. Or motivated. 

I'm trying to change that. Are you with me?

A Matter of Survival

When confronted with the reality that they have homogeneous social and professional networks, White people often respond that it's no different than other racial groups. 

"All the Indian guys on the engineering team always hang around together after work."

"All the Black kids are sitting together in the cafeteria." (Beverly Tatum)

"Look at all the Mexican [even if they're not actually Mexican] guys sticking together on the corner."

These observations may be (mostly) visually accurate. But what's missing in the analysis are the reasons behind it. 

People from underrepresented groups have mostly same-race relationships to feel safe and heard. 

They have same-race relationships to protect themselves from the oppression and microaggressions they face on a daily basis from majority group members. 

White people, on the other hand, maintain same-race relationships to uphold the status quo. To protect their dominance and supremacy. 

We don't live in a meritocracy. Superficial observations of sameness don't wipe out centuries of oppression and marginalization. 

Things are not equal. 

Same-race relationships for White people are expected and accepted as "normal."

Same-race relationships for people from underrepresented groups are often a matter of survival.

The Honor Walk

Being inclusive is about intentionally reaching out to people to make them feel seen and heard. 

It’s about being interested in other people on purpose. 

It’s about recognizing our shared humanity. 

It’s about empathy and compassion and connection. 

This episode of the Reveal podcast is one of the most beautiful stories I have heard in recent memory.

It made me cry. It made me think. And it made me appreciate all the relationships I have in my life. 

I hope it has that effect on you as well.

Compounding Privilege and Intersectionality

I often share stories and perspectives about "people from the dominant narrative" and "people who are underrepresented."

It's actually more nuanced than that. Most of us don't fit neatly into one of those buckets. This is due to two main ideas: 

Compounding privilege and intersectionality.

Similar concepts with very different manifestations. 

For example, I am a man. A straight man. A straight White man. A straight White cis man. All these identities represent the dominant narrative. 

My Whiteness, maleness, straightness, and cis-ness all give me privilege. 

Combined, that's a whole lot of compounding privilege.

A Black, transgender woman, conversely, has three identities that intersect and multiply her underrepresentation, which often leads to further marginalization and discrimination. 

And many of us have a combination of compounding privileges and intersectional identities that manifest differently in different contexts. 

A straight, White woman, for example. A gay, disabled man. 

I know this is all very pedantic. And I don't have a tidy formula to address it. 

I just want to raise awareness that issues around race, identity, privilege, and normative cultural values are complex and nuanced. And often messy.

And we have to be willing to talk about them.

People Are Depending On You

One of the main reasons people from the dominant culture (i.e., cis, straight, White men like me) don't get involved in conversations about diversity, race, identity, and other uncomfortable and unfamiliar (to them) topics is because they're afraid that they're going to make a mistake. 

They're afraid they don't have the subject matter expertise to contribute. They're afraid that they don't know what they're talking about. They're afraid that they'll be scolded for "doing it wrong."

You have to get over your fear. You have to absorb criticism. You have to be open to learning. You have to not take things personally. 

You have to do your personal development and your cultural competence work on your own time. 

And, while you're evolving your consciousness, you have to be an active ally, advocate, and accomplice in creating an inclusive culture where everyone feels like they belong. 

This isn't "their" problem. And it's not "your" problem. It's everyone's responsibility to educate themselves, learn from their mistakes, and stay present in the conversations that impact all of us. 

You can't wait to "arrive" before you start contributing. No one arrives. We're all here already. Now. Start doing the work. 

People are depending on you. 

You’ve Got So Much Value and Wisdom to Contribute

You've been around a while and you know what you're doing. 

But you still feel like you get the short end of the stick. 

People don't come to you for advice. You don't get the exciting projects. You've been passed up for raises and promotions too many times to count. 

Your colleagues don't think you're quick enough. They've typecast you as stuck in your ways, not agile, and all kinds of other stereotypes about people who are later in their careers. 

It got so bad at your last job that you finally up and quit. 

You couldn't handle being othered any longer. You weren't even invited to lunch or to happy hours. Your boss was thirty years younger than you and avoided you like you were her eccentric uncle. 

But now how are you going to land another job? You've applied to hundreds. You've got literally decades of experience, but more and more it seems like no one cares. 

You're not quite ready – financially or chronologically – to retire, and you're not sure what to do. 

You guess you'll just keep plugging away until you finally land something tolerable for your last few years.

It's too bad it has to be this way. You've got so much value and wisdom to contribute. 

If only people would open their eyes and recognize it. 

Read more #secondpersonstories here. 

*Your* Truth Will Set *Us* Free

A few years ago I went to a storytelling workshop put on by my friends Julian Mocine-McQueen and Heather Box, founders of The Million Person Project. 

So many good takeaways from that night (and their work in general). 

One overarching message that has stuck with me is this: 

Your truth will set us free. 

Your truth. 

Will set us free. 

The idea that sharing personal stories and being publicly vulnerable is decidedly not egotistic or narcissistic. 

In fact, just the opposite is true. Not telling your story is an act of selfishness. 

By not telling your story you're depriving others of the inspiration they may need to step into their full selves. 

Telling your personal story is one of the best ways to show inclusive leadership. To shape cultures of belonging. To build relationships and trust and connection.

I am very open with my story and how it has shaped me into the person I am today. This is very intentional and strategic. 

My truth may set you free. And you. And you. And who knows who else. 

That's the world I want to live in. A world where people feel safe to share their truth without fear of rebuke or social isolation. 

Will you help me create that world? Share your truth. It may just set someone free. 

Thanks for Calling the Tone Police

"Thanks for calling the Tone Police, how can I help you?"

"I'd like to report an incident."

"Yes."

"A Black woman was very rude to me in the break room after I complimented her hair and reached out to touch it."

"Oh my god, that's awful. What did she say?"

"She slapped my hand away, and said something about not being a pet. I don't remember exactly because I was so shocked by her tone."

"I'm sorry this happened to you. Are you okay?"

"I'm a little shaken, to be honest. You just can't. . .treat people like that."

"I know. It's becoming an epidemic."

"Do you get a lot of calls like this?"

"Every day! And they're basically the same thing: An overreaction to a perceived injustice."

"Wow! When will people realize that rudeness will not solve their so-called problems?"

"I'm not sure. But that's why the Tone Police is here: to restore civility to the conversation."

"Thank you, Tone Police, for all your work. I feel better just knowing you exist."

"You're welcome. I've logged the incident and will be following up soon with her manager."

"Well, I hope she gets the message. Because things can't go on like this. I mean, how are we supposed to work together in this environment?"

"Rest assured. It will be handled. Thank you for calling the Tone Police. Have a great day."

How Not to Throw Up

Companies that hire a new Diversity and Inclusion person and expect things to change overnight are planning to fail. 

D&I initiatives don't work that way. They take time. They take conscious effort. Intentionality. Strategy. They take evolving mindsets and transforming culture.

Here's an analogy: 

I was out of shape. A bad foot meant I couldn't run or play soccer. I was lethargic and bummed out.

What I could do, though, was push ups and sit ups. 

On January 1, I committed to doing ten push ups and twenty sit ups. 

I did them. And almost threw up. 

On day six, I increased to fifteen push ups and thirty sit ups. 

Every five days, as I built my strength and stamina, I increased my numbers. 

I'm now up to fifty push ups and 100 sit ups. 

Every morning. 

I feel stronger. More fit. More confident. I see and feel the progress – physically and mentally. I feel good. Accomplished. 

I haven't thrown up once. 

I could never have done on January 1 what I did five minutes ago. I had to work up to it. I had a strategic plan. I had long term goals, and I worked toward reaching them. 

Intentionally. Unwaveringly. 

Don't hire a D&I person and expect them to do 100 sit ups on day one. 

They'll throw up. 

Your D&I program will stink. 

And you'll be left with a big mess to clean up.

Ten Minutes That Changed My Life

The 19 bus in San Francisco. Leaving Acorn Books on Polk St. near California St. 

Late night. The almost empty bus rumbles out of the Gulch into the Tenderloin. An older Black man gets on at Geary. 

And sits right next to me. 

On top of my stack of books is Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. 

He starts a conversation. He says that book changed his life. I say my dad recommended it. 

The man grew up in Harlem. The art. The segregation. The jazz. The racism. The culture. The struggle. The pride. 

I'm just out of college. Visiting my dad. Grew up in the suburbs. 

I listen to his stories. We trade anecdotes about San Francisco and New York and music and books and life. 

As he gets off the bus, he nods to Invisible Man. "Your dad's a smart man. More young White kids like you need to read books like that."

With a friendly smile, he steps off into the night. 

I am 24-years-old. I have just had my first intellectual conversation with a Black person. 

Ten minutes that changed my life forever. Ten minutes that popped the bubble I grew up in. Ten minutes that showed me how much I had to learn. Ten minutes that started my personal development and cultural competence journeys that continue to this day. 

I wonder how many White people have had similar transformational experiences.

The Vast Dynamism of the Human Condition

Even people who appreciate the art of storytelling to create inclusive workplace cultures of belonging still see it is a "nice-to-have".

As if storytelling were just a more fun, creative way to influence decision makers and create environments where everyone feels like they belong and can flourish. 

But, they say, it doesn't trump data and unconscious bias trainings and accountability metrics and quotas and telling people that if they don't hire X people from Y background by Z date, they're not gonna get their bonus.

No. Storytelling is a decidedly strategic approach to both achieve the statistical goals and results that look neat and shiny on quarterly reports, and actually change people's hearts and minds about the vast dynamism of the human condition. 

To be candid, most people don't care if there are X people from Y background in Z department. Not because they're jerks (although some are), but because they're focusing on other things. 

Numbers and charts and data don't motivate and inspire and break down barriers. People's stories do. 

When you share your own stories, and help other people share theirs, we realize that we all want the same things: 

To be seen and valued for who we are. To be our full selves. 

Stories matter. Let's start telling them more often.