I Think You’d Be Proud of Who I’ve Become, Dad

Originally posted on March 20, 2020 on LinkedIn.

My father, Arnold Stanley Karol, was born 71 years ago today in Philadelphia.

At age 13, he tried to commit suicide.

He failed.

At age 18, after being kicked out of Emory University for hitting on his male roommate, he tried again. Again he failed.

A few years later, he went down to Cuba to help Castro with the sugar harvests. He came back to the States and landed in Urbana, Illinois.

He met a 17-year-old girl ready to get the fuck out of the house.

A year later, they married.

A year later, I was born.

Two years later, they divorced.

My dad was finally able to tell the world – and himself – he was gay.

He moved to San Francisco, became HIV+, had a successful career as a technical writer, and died of AIDS on September 29, 2000.

Along the way, he taught me a whole bunch about people, culture, politics, perspectives, inclusion, history, art, photography. In short, about life.

Stuff that I initially snubbed because I was embarrassed to have a gay dad. I was ignorant and naive and dismissive.

But you could say I came around. Yeah, I came around alright.

I wrote this piece eight years ago today. I reread it every year. I cry every year. I miss him every year – and all the days in between.

My writing style has changed, but the sentiment hasn't.

This is why I do the work.

You're Afraid of Love and All That Comes With It

You may not realize that your entire worldview is based on fear. 

You're afraid of the other. People who don't look like you. People who have different lived experiences.

You're afraid of diversity because it threatens your safe cozy position atop the social capital food chain.

You're afraid of vulnerability because people will think you're a wuss.

You're afraid of equity because you're not willing to give up your power or privilege and create access and opportunity for people who have been marginalized.

You're afraid of empathy because it will damage your tough guy status.

You're afraid of inclusion because you're worried what your friends will think if you associate too frequently with "those people."

You're afraid of listening because you don't want to be burdened with all the things you'd hear.

You're afraid of social justice because the unjust world you dominate is too favorable to relinquish.

You're afraid of curiosity because of the uncertainty of what you might discover.

You're afraid of self-awareness because it's easier to be aloof.

You're afraid of humility because it's easier to be a dick.

You're afraid to be human because that would require building connection and trust.

You're afraid of love and all that comes with it.

Read more #secondpersonstories here.

Be Mindful of How You're Showing Up

"When we respond from a more dispassionate perspective, and are not just caught in the game of defending or promoting our ego, it is as though a different world opens up. We begin to see how our limited focus has prevented us from developing a bigger vision of what is going on and how best to respond to it."

– Judy Lief

As leaders, when we become attached to our opinions and perspectives, we are often doing considerable harm to ourselves and others in our spheres of influence.

This is especially true in times of stress and uncertainty.

And often the people most impacted are the people who are already marginalized. People already on the downside of power.

When we lack self-awareness, choose not to self-reflect, and fail to slow down and observe our own thoughts, we unwittingly foster a reactive, chaotic culture where people don't feel psychologically safe. 

In unsettled times, leaders need to be very intentional about cultivating a culture of respect, humility, and inclusion. 

Values such as equanimity, empathy, and curiosity are not nice-to-haves. They're essential.

People are depending on leaders to model the poise and humanity that will guide us through these difficult and unpredictable circumstances. 

Please be mindful of how you are showing up. It matters.

The People I Trust

A few years ago, a friend asked me:

"What do you value more – trust or loyalty?”

I'd never thought about it.

A small business owner, she said she had to fire her most loyal employee because she no longer trusted him.

She didn't doubt his loyalty. He showed up for work, performed his duties well, put in extra hours.

But she no longer trusted him to model the company values of respect and collaboration and integrity. He treated colleagues poorly, and he was unreliable in client-facing situations.

The anguish as she told this story was plain to see. He was committed, excellent at his job, and had been there almost since the beginning.

But it was time to let him go.

So she did.

Since that conversation, I've thought more about trust.

I like this definition from Charles Feldman:

Trust is “choosing to make something important to you vulnerable to the actions of someone else.”

In my friend's case, her business was her life, her baby, her creation. She was no longer willing to make it vulnerable to the actions of this person.

The people I trust are the people who hear me, celebrate me, include me, and love me for who I am.

The people who challenge me to do better. Who allows me to thrive. Who makes me feel like I belong.

Those are the people I trust. How about you?

Respond Instead of React

"We don't sit in meditation to become good meditators. We sit in meditation to become more awake in our lives."

– Pema Chödrön

Every morning I come to the basement and sit in my favorite chair. I cover my legs with the wool blanket from the wicker basket. 

I set the dimmer to just a hint of light in the quiet, dark room. 

I settle in and get comfortable. On the table next to the chair is my meditation bowl and my wooden stick. 

I gently hit the bowl with the stick and close my eyes. I breathe in and out as the sound of the bowl fades to nothing. 

The sound of the bowl is replaced by the sound of the grandfather clock, the heater vent, the electricity from the cable box, a car door outside.  

I continue to breathe. I don't try to "clear my mind" or "reach enlightenment" or "relax."

No, I am intent on being present with where I am and what is around me. The stillness is luxurious. 

I sit for fifteen minutes. Thoughts come and go. Breaths come in and out. I remain still and listen to the sounds. 

I do this every morning. I meditate so I can be alive for the rest of my day. 

So I can be present in my conversations. 

So I can stay focused on my tasks. 

So I can be calm under pressure. 

So I can respond instead of react. 

So I can be my authentic self. 

Self-actualization Alone is Not Enough

“No level of individual self-actualization alone can sustain the marginalized and oppressed. We must be linked to collective struggle, to communities of resistance that move us outward, into the world.”

– bell hooks 

In my work helping folks from the dominant narrative do their part to create equitable and inclusive cultures of belonging, I stress the dual journeys of personal development and cultural competence. 

To drive impact and affect change you must be on a continual path toward self-actualization – understanding who you are, why you care, what you value, and how you show up. 

And, as bell hooks says, this journey cannot be undertaken in isolation. What good is your self-actualization if it is self-serving, disconnected from the lived realities and experiences of others? 

If you truly care about the marginalized and oppressed you will also commit to strengthening your cultural competence.

You will learn, read, listen, watch, grow, immerse yourself in contexts and environments that are beyond your comfort zone. 

You will do this without being asked, prompted, or told. 

You will elevate your cultural competence because your power and privilege are too great to go unrealized. 

You will elevate your cultural competence because the world demands that you do.

Remove the Shame

"If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can't survive."

– Brené Brown

This passage encapsulates why I center strategic storytelling in my diversity, equity, inclusion, and belonging work.

We don't tell enough stories in a workplace setting. 

We focus on business and results and efficiency and productivity and innovation and deadlines and deliverables and revenue and client acquisition and customer service. . .

But do we really know each other? Do we really trust each other? Are we really connected? 

Do we really appreciate and value and embrace our own and each other's unique lived experiences that have shaped our perspectives and how we navigate the world? 

I don't believe we do. 

We're afraid to be vulnerable. We're afraid of exposing our true selves because it's too revealing, too raw, too emotional, too damn scary. 

What if people judge me? Don't like me? Laugh at me? Hurt me? Demote me? Fire me? 

Senior leaders especially need to share their stories. Set the tone. Model public vulnerability. Explicitly give permission for a storytelling culture. 

Remove the stigma of bringing your true self to work. Remove the doubt and uncertainty and discomfort. 

Remove the shame.

Let's start telling our stories.

Maybe You're Taking Up All the Space

I play bass in a reggae band. 

Here's the thing about reggae: it's all about space. 

The muted guitar skank. The one drop of the snare and the kick drum on the three. The bass line weaving in and out. The lead keyboard riff slicing through.

One night we were rehearsing for an upcoming gig. After about four songs, I said to the band that something felt off. The sound was muddy. There wasn't enough space. 

Everyone agreed. We played another couple songs. 

No change. We were grooving all right, but the space wasn't there. What was going on? 

Then our keyboard player said, "It's you, dude! It's the bass."

Me? 

Yes, it was me. 

I was letting the end of each bass line ring out. A big, fuzzy boom was taking up all the space. 

My unnecessary extra bass sound was muddying everything up. Taking away the shine off the other instruments. Taking away the space. 

I started clipping the bass lines. I was more concise. The space opened up. The other instruments could be heard more clearly. The band as a unit sounded way better. 

When things aren't going right at work, when your team can't solve the problem, when your relationships seem to be lacking connection, maybe the problem is you. 

Maybe you're taking up too much space and drowning everyone else out.

People Should Really Drive More Carefully

The nice thing about "not seeing color" is that I move through the world in an insulated, neutral space, totally ignorant of the variety of lived realities experienced by people from different backgrounds than me. 

But not seeing color does come with its complications. 

For example, the stop light at the busy intersection had a vertical row of gray dots. I didn't know what it meant, so I went through. Behind me I heard a huge bang. In my mirror I saw a three car pile up. People should really drive more carefully. 

That night I went to a basketball game. All ten players were wearing the same grayish uniform. How did they know who to pass to? Was it ten against none? It was really confusing. After the first quarter, I couldn't figure it out, so I left. 

The next day I went to the art museum. I'd been told the exhibit was full of vivid depictions of nature that would leave me awestruck. But all I saw was a bunch of gray trees and gray rivers and a big gray ball in the sky. Snoozer! Never going there again. 

This is what happens, I guess, when you don't see color. You miss out on a lot of what the world has to offer. 

The good news is that all my colleagues are just like me, and I don't have to keep talking about race and identity and underrepresentation all the time.

The Alternative Is Silence

As a cis, straight, White male doing doing diversity, equity, inclusion, and belonging work, absorbing criticism, skepticism, and cynicism is high on my list of skills. 

After all, who is this cis person to talk about transgender issues? If I were trans, I'd have my doubts about me. 

Who is this straight person to be a vocal advocate for gay and lesbian rights? WTF do I know about what it means to be gay? 

And, who the hell is this White dude to be carrying on about the Black experience? The guy who's as white as snow! 

And, here's another man coming to save all the women from marginalization. 

All of these (and more) are valid perspectives. I would be a fool to dismiss them. And I would lose my effectiveness. 

I put myself out there. I show up. I listen. I speak and write and persuade and argue and try to influence. 

And because I put myself out there, there are times when I make mistakes, when I miss nuances and subtleties, when I misrepresent facts, when I'm misinterpreted and misperceived, when I'm flat out wrong. 

My intentions aren't always in line with the impact of my words, thoughts, and actions.

And this is okay. As long as I'm humble enough to listen and learn and commit to improve. 

The alternative is silence. And then I'd be complicit.

He Was Nice, But He Was Black

Growing up I knew one Black kid. His name was Langston. We weren't really friends, but we played on the playground occasionally. 

It never occurred to me to invite him to my house to play. He was Black. He was nice, but he was Black. 

I didn't know any other Black people – kids or adults – so in my mind he was automatically an "other".

In middle and high school I had the occasional Black acquaintance, classmate, or teammate. But again, I never pursued deeper relationships. 

In college I had some Black teammates and drinking buddies. My relationships with them were deeper and more genuine, but I was acutely aware that they were "different". 

I share all this because most White people grew up in similar homogenous communities, with little to no interaction with Black people. 

Then, as adults we enter the workforce and bring our limited interactions and narrow perspectives to our relationships with our colleagues. 

Our homogenous childhood networks remain homogenous adult networks. 

They shape where we work, who we hire, who we promote, who we give stretch assignments to, who we sit with at lunch.

Unconscious bias training will not change this dynamic. 

Either will being nice. 

Intentionally expanding your network will.

Becoming self-aware will.

Not being fragile will.

I Don’t Regret It

"To regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny one's own experience is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul."

– Oscar Wilde

When I was fifteen my dad called and told me his partner died of AIDS. I wasn't really listening because I was watching Family Ties. 

I don't regret it. I now practice empathy regularly. 

My senior year in high school, I had a "job" stealing quarters out of newspaper racks. I justified it because I made more money in one night than in two weeks making soup at Souplantation. And the newspaper guy was an asshole. 

I don't regret it. I now value integrity and respect.

My freshman year in college, I told a class full of Asian American women I thought Filipino women were hot. I was thinking of the one Asian person I knew from high school who I had a crush on. I figured it was a compliment. 

I don't regret it. It's a vivid reminder to continually increase my cultural competence, that my norm is not the norm.

These are just a few examples of embarrassing, shameful incidents in my life. Experiences that I could have regretted.  

But instead of regret, I use them as learning experiences. 

They fuel my soul. 

All these years later.  

I think Oscar would approve.

Transforming Your Guilt Into Knowledge

"Guilt is not a response to anger, it is a response to one's own actions or lack of action. If it leads to change, then it can be useful, since it is then no longer guilt, but the beginning of knowledge."

– Audrey Lorde

How are you transforming your guilt into knowledge? 

How are you reworking you into you 2.0? 

How are you evolving your consciousness? 

How is your reading, listening, and watching developing your appreciation for people who have different lived experiences than you? 

How are you elevating your self-awareness? How are you self-actualizing? 

How are you positively contributing to humanity? And not just for people who look, think, and act like you?

How are you inspiring others? Motivating others? Influencing others? 

How are you sharing your journey? How are you amplifying your authentic narrative? 

How are you changing for the better? How is your truth improving the lives of others?  

How are you seeking to understand the vast dynamism of the human condition? 

How are you building trust and connection and love and relationships and community?

How are you contributing to a world where everyone feels safe, accepted, and celebrated for who they are?

How are you overcoming your fear?

How are you transforming your guilt into knowledge?

It's Not a Pipeline Problem

"It's a pipeline problem."

No, it's not. 

You're just not doing enough work to discover talent from underrepresented backgrounds. 

It's not a pipeline problem. 

You just have homogenous networks and you don't feel comfortable interacting with individuals, groups, and organizations whose specific aim is to help people from underrepresented backgrounds find jobs. 

It's not a pipeline problem.

If I were a sourcer, recruiter, hiring manager, or anyone who plays a role in discovering talent from underrepresented backgrounds, I could reach out to about fifty people in my network, asking very specifically who they can connect me with so I can very intentionally find talent from underrepresented backgrounds. 

It's not a pipeline problem. 

Your biases and prejudices and assumptions – both unconscious and conscious – have led you to rely on the "it's a pipeline problem" narrative. 

It's not a pipeline problem. 

If you truly cared about creating more diverse and inclusive teams and companies, you would do your part. You would try harder. 

You would make it your stated aim to diversify your talent pools. You would stand firm on presenting diverse candidate slates. You would leverage the myriad of individuals, groups, and tools available to you. 

It's not a pipeline problem. Do better.

I Don't Like to Write

"I don't like to write. I like to have written."

This passage has been attributed to many writers, and it applies to me too. 

Not all the time, but some of the time. 

Like when I'm in a lull. When ideas aren't coming to me. When there's so much going on that I have a perspective on. When there's so much to comment on. 

But sometimes the words and ideas don't come. Sometimes the inspiration is lacking. Sometimes things are just off. 

My desire to share stories, perspectives, and ideas is strong. I believe that I inspire other people when I write. 

About my experiences. About inclusion and belonging. About empathy and connection. And relationships and culture and mindfulness and diversity. 

But sometimes the wordsmith in me gets buried underneath a pile of dirty laundry and I pass out from the smell and am unable to concoct a basic sentence. 

Or an interesting metaphor. 

Yet, the desire to contribute, to share my voice, to interact with others remains. 

So I carry on. I document, I don't create. 

I share what's going on in my head, both as a cathartic exercise, but also to model vulnerability and reflection and self-empathy. 

Because we've all felt stuck. With writing. With our careers. With our relationships. 

It's okay. Push on through. That's what I'm doing.

Afraid to Expand Our Definition of Normal

What are you doing to remove stigmas at work? 

The stigma of being a working parent.

The stigma of being a veteran. 

The stigma of being gay or trans or nonbinary. 

The stigma of having a mental health issue. 

The stigma of having been in prison. 

The stigma of being a religious minority. 

The stigma of living in a different part of town. 

The stigma of being on a lower rung of the socioeconomic ladder. 

The stigma of having a physical disability. 

These are just some of the stigmas I thought of off the top of my head. There are dozens – hundreds – more. 

Stigmas exist because the majority group doesn't actively support people with marginalized identities. 

Whether we say nothing, mock people in private, or discriminate openly, we contribute the perpetual stigmatization of people who we perceive to be different. 

Why do we do this? 

I suspect it's based in fear. Fear of the other. Fear of difference. Fear of unfamiliarity.

Fear of what we might discover if we led with curiosity and empathy and love. 

Fear of being vulnerable with ourselves and others. Fear of humanity. Fear of listening to the stories and truths and lived realities of other people.

Fear of expanding our definition of normal.

We gotta get over our fears. What are you doing to that end?

You Live in a Bubble

You wake up from a long, restful night of sleep. 

Before you open your eyes, you stretch out your arm but you are unable to extend it fully. 

Your hand touches a gelatinous, gooey, stretchy material. 

Surprised, you open your eyes. Where are you? 

You sit up and look around, but you bump your head on something above you. 

But it doesn't hurt. It's the same gelatinous, gooey, stretchy material. 

You look around to orient yourself. You finally realize where you are. 

You're living in a bubble. 

At first this realization frightens you, but after a few seconds to regain your composure you feel reassured. 

You slow your breath. You look around and see all your possessions. You feel safe and comfortable. 

Your safe and comfortable bubble wraps you in a warm, secure cocoon and protects you from outside contaminants. 

You look outside your bubble and you see scary things. You see people who look different. You imagine that they have different opinions too. 

Your bubble is so small that you can't stand up straight. And even with a 360º window to the outside world, the bubble material is kind of filmy, so you can't see clearly what's going on out there in the big bad scary world.

It's okay though. You're safe. You lie back down and remain in your perpetual state of dormancy.

Tell Me More

I'd like to invite you to try an approach to your discussions that I use as consistently as possible.

Whenever someone shares something you disagree with, instead of counter-arguing immediately, say: "Tell me more. . ."

"Tell me more about why you think. . ."

"Tell me more about where you learned. . ."

"Tell me more about how you concluded that. . ." 

I use this approach even when what the other person has shared was intentionally meant to be challenging, aggressive, or provocative. 

Asking them to tell me more gives them the opportunity to expand on their initial statement, and for me to more fully understand where they're coming from. 

Asking them to tell me more shows that I will not be drawn into incivility. 

Asking them to tell me more provides them with the opportunity to choose how, or if, to proceed with their argument.  

If they respond, asking them to tell me more helps me understand how I might best respond, or if I should even respond at all. 

I have found this approach usually (but not always) to be disarming. It shows humility, equanimity, curiosity, and patience. It's not what people expect.

It may be easier to argue with people using "facts" and "data" and yelling and name calling. 

But is it more effective?

Break the Loop

The reason it's difficult for majority group members to be inclusive is that they simply don't believe the experiences of people from underrepresented groups. 

They view everyone's experience through the same lens – their own!

When they hear someone else's experience, they apply the perspective of their own lived experience, realize that the two experiences don't match up, then dismiss the other person's lived experience because it doesn't align with their own. 

One of the main reasons for this is that people don't consume content and media that provides a wide range of perspectives from people "not like them." 

If I'm a White man and I've never read a book by a Black person, listened to a podcast by a Black person, or go to an event centering Black people, I miss out on the dynamism and nuance and specificity of the Black experience. 

I then bring this lack of exposure and lack of understanding to my interactions with Black people in the workplace and I am unable to appreciate and empathize with the experiences that Black people share. 

It's an unending spiraling, devolving, perpetuating loop that always starts and ends in the same place. 

A place that centers White experiences, and marginalizes any and all Black experiences.

Break the loop. Educate yourself. Do better.

Let's Talk About Othering

Let's talk about othering. 

Who's doing it. Who's being othered. And why it matters. 

Othering is often intentional without being overtly malicious or spiteful. 

A group of White women sit down for lunch in the dining hall. They see their Black colleague sitting alone a few tables away. And they choose not to invite her to their table. 

Othering often rears its ugly head in casual banter. 

A group of straight men joking about a male colleague who they deem to be "different" because he wore a pink shirt to work yesterday. 

Othering happens when the majority group fails to recognize the lived experience of a person from an underrepresented group. 

Being othered sucks. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't inspire good work. It doesn't motivate people to create and innovate and collaborate.  

Why do we other? 

I suspect the main reason is because we don't feel wholly secure in who we are. 

We are afraid. 

Somehow we are threatened by anyone we perceive to be different than us – and therefore less than us. 

When we other we display a lack of curiosity, a lack of empathy, a lack of self-actualization and self-awareness. 

We show an alarming lack of understanding that our norm is not the norm. 

When we other, we fail spectacularly to appreciate our shared humanity.