We Are Much More Dynamic Than That

A few things that sustain me:

People.

Connections with other people. Building relationships with other people. Getting to know other people. Learning about the lives and lived experiences and challenges and triumphs of other people. Love. Empathy. Compassion. Trust. The dynamism of the human condition.

Mindfulness.

Stillness. Observing without judging or reacting. Listening. Detachment from my perspectives and opinions. Dispassion. Knowing that everything is temporary. Constantly returning to a state of equanimity.

Music.

An intricately picked ragtime blues on an acoustic guitar. A bluegrass G run and a slapping standup double bass. A clipped, steady electric piano reggae skank with a crashing one drop on the three. A haunting a cappella slave song. A weaving, rhythmic, blistering, melodic Bird fluttering through the air.

Reading.

Stories. Fiction. Memoir. History. Current events. Black feminism. Cults. LGBTQ. Cuba. Africa. Gandhi and Thich Naht Hanh and Henry Miller and James Baldwin and Michelle Tea and Brené Brown and Chinua Achebe and Pema Chödrön and. . .

We are more than our work. Work pays the bills. But it only partially sustains us. Can only motivate and inspire and challenge us so much.

But it is not all of who we are. We are much more dynamic than that.

And the Band Plays On. . .

One of the main reasons White people don't actively support the uplifting of Black people is due to White solidarity.

The often unspoken agreement White people have with other White people to not destabilize the established racial order that firmly places White people on top.

The knee-jerk reaction to defend whiteness not based on the details of any given context but based on the coincidence that one happens to have a similarly colored skin tone.

The comfort of being affiliated with the winners. And the discomfort, uncertainty, and reluctance to be associated with the losers.

The unpredictability of how advocating for, aligning with, or defending a Black person, group, or cause may negatively impact the social capital and privilege attained with one's whiteness.

The lack of curiosity, and therefore fluency, in cultural, social, professional, and political issues that shape the lived experiences of Black people.

The failure to understand and appreciate the sometimes nuanced, sometimes blatant ways that Black people are systematically marginalized by institutions, policies, and laws designed to uphold White supremacy.

White solidarity is seductive. Irresistible to White people who have chosen to dismiss what they have been taught as if it doesn't exist.

And the band plays on. . .

What It Means to Be a Writer

I got my start as a writer in the sixth grade. I won third place in the "What does the flag mean to you?" Memorial Day contest at the El Cajon Elks Lodge.

I don't remember what I wrote – probably some jingoistic platitudes about freedom and liberty.

I do remember my mom made me wear a nice shirt and pants, even though it was 1000º in the late May suburban San Diego shade.

And, I won $25. Boo-yah!

I was supposed to use it for "education," but I'm sure I spent it at Tower Records on 45s by the Dazz Band, Musical Youth, and Hall & Oates.

As a Philosophy major in college I wrote a lot of bad papers. One time, I argued for a better grade and the professor reread my paper and said he'd lower my grade if he could.

Ouch.

But I carried on, experimenting with the written word in all kinds of contexts and with all kinds of subject matter and for all kinds of audiences.

Even now that I get paid to write, and teach storytelling, and coach people how to write, and edit writing that's written poorly, and encourage people to make their good writing totally fucking awesome, I still feel like I'm continually learning.

Still developing my voice. Still crafting my style. Still moving in and out of inspiration.

And, I'm okay with that. I guess that's what it means to be a writer.

I Share Regularly Because I Care

I share regularly not because of my ego.

I share regularly not because it's cathartic.

I share regularly not because I'm a writer.

I share regularly not because I'm an expert.

I share regularly not to get "likes" and "loves" and "light bulbs" and "hand claps" and "curious faces."

I share regularly not because I have verbal diarrhea.

I share regularly not to establish thought leadership.

I share regularly not because I'm narcissistic.

I share regularly not because I'm bored.

I share regularly not as a form of therapy.

I share regularly because I have something to say.

I share regularly because the something I have to say is the exact something someone needs to read at the exact time I say it and they read it.

I share regularly because I value human connection, and I know others value human connection, and I know I add to the collective human connection by sharing.

I share regularly to start conversations, spark discussion, encourage dialogue.

I share regularly to offer unique perspectives, to challenge the status quo, to advocate for people who are marginalized.

I share regularly because I believe more public vulnerability can address our biggest social, cultural, and political problems.

I share regularly to serve others.

I share regularly because I care.

Moving Beyond the Bomb Throwing Stage of the Revolution

"Some people get so absorbed in expressing their own opinions that they lose sight of how they affect others."

– Adam Grant

I used to be a jerk. Self-righteous. Sarcastic. Acerbic.

Firmly rooted in the bomb-throwing stage of the revolution.

I was so attached to my perspectives and ideas that when I hurdled them at others with vitriol a part of me was hurdled too.

People were put off. People didn't listen. People didn't care what I thought. I was ineffective.

I was easily dismissed, scoffed at, ignored, mocked, condescended to. Which just made me push ahead with the same approach with more vigor and determination.

More bitterness. More resentment.

I took this approach for a good seven or eight years.

But I don't go about it that way anymore.

I've come to realize that I took this approach because I was insecure. Immature. Undeveloped. Not grounded in my articulated values and principles. I was just winging it most of the time.

I was excited and politicized by what I was learning and before I let the knowledge sink in and become part of my essence, I threw it indiscriminately at others like a monkey flings its shit at the zoo.

Now, I'm much more effective. I still care just as much. I still have strong opinions.

I'm just more mindful of how I might be received.

The More Aware, More Culturally Competent Version of Yourself

"Black women are so angry."

"I just don't understand Black women."

"What are Black women always complaining about?"

"Why do Black women think they're owed something?"

"Don't Black women know we're post-racial?"

If you – or anyone you know or have heard – has uttered or thought these or similar phrases, you should read more books written by Black women.

Here is a short list of books I've read. You should read them too.

Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race by Reni Eddo-Lodge

Real American by Julie Lythcott-Haims

So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo

Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Beverly Daniel Tatum

A Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde

Eloquent Rage by Brittney Cooper

Black Macho and The Myth of the SuperWoman by Michelle Wallace

White Rage by Carol Anderson

The History of White People by Nell Irvin Painter

How to Be Less Stupid About Race by Crystal Fleming

This is not an exhaustive list. It's a start.

As you read these books, read with non-judgment, anti-fragility, an urgency to expand your understanding, and an intention to radically shift your perspective.

Then, enjoy the new more aware, more culturally competent version of yourself.

Living Life According to the Accordion Envelope

In elementary school, the short John Stockton-style shorts were fine.

But in middle school they became a problem. I was aware I was putting off a loser, nerdy vibe. And others were too. So they teased and bullied me.

To complicate the problem, we didn't have the money to buy the longer surfer shorts.

We had an accordion envelope at home with about twenty slots: groceries, rent, haircuts, gasoline, water bill, etc.

Every payday my mom divvied up the cash into the slots according to what was due.

We had a "spending money" slot, but it rarely had much in it. It took months to save up the $35 needed to buy the surfer shorts.

Then I wore them just about every day in seventh and eighth grade.

I don't know if they made me any cooler, but I must have been perceived to be cooler because I stopped getting teased.

We've all been excluded, othered, bullied, marginalized, oppressed, made to feel less than. 

And it sucks. Every single time.

It saps our motivation. It stifles our productivity. It destroys trust and connection. And it smashes our creativity with a sledgehammer, shattering it into a million useless pieces.

The worst part is that this behavior isn't confined to middle schoolers.

Adults with influence and power and visibility do it too.

That's why we do the work.

Dumping Oil on a Flaming Pyre of Biases

If you know me personally, and/or peruse my posts on LinkedIn, you know I'm an avid reader.

Furthermore, you know I believe that reading books written by and about people "not like you" is the best way to elevate your cultural competence.

And you also know I believe that a lack of cultural competence stems from a lack of curiosity, a lack of empathy, and a lack of connection to people you perceive to be different.

And of course you know that marginalizing, suppressing, or patronizing people you perceive to be different is the quickest and best way to maintain the perpetuity of the status quo, bro culture, and old boys' networks – to continue the normalization of dominant narratives.

And you no doubt also know that when dominant narratives are desperately clung to, the clinging hands are holding a barrel of oil and dumping it on the already flaming pyre of biases (conscious and unconscious), microaggressions, discrimination, and other majority-group-accepted everyday prejudices.

And I'm here to tell you – because you may not realize it – that your choice to not read books at all or to only read books by and about people like you is fueling the fire of social, political, legal, and professional inequities all around us.

Why don't you help put the fire out?

Read.

Not the Person I Used to Be

"Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards."

– Søren Kierkegaard

I used to be a jock and all I cared and talked about were sports. Oh, and drinking. I used to drink a lot too.

Then, I realized that I didn't want to be that guy anymore. I realized there were other things more interesting than sports and beer. Stuff I could learn about and endeavors I could contribute to.

So I expanded my horizons. I sought out new adventures, new communities, new relationships, new sources of inspiration, new ideas, new perspectives.

I grew and developed and explored and searched and wandered and traveled and all the other synonyms in the thesaurus.

I read. I listened. I watched. I immersed. I noticed.

I discovered my values and principles and ethics. And I cultivated them and nurtured them and honed them and began to live by them.

I examined who I used to be, who I am, and who I wanted to become.

I self-reflected. I contemplated. I became more self-aware. I self-actualized.

I learned from my mistakes. I evolved my consciousness. I discarded what didn't work. I borrowed and adopted and refined and elevated and added what I thought would make me a better version of myself.

I'm not the person I used to be. But I sure did learn a hell of a lot from that guy.

People Who Talk About Race Are Racists

Conventional wisdom tells us that people who talk about race are racists.

Duh. Hashtag obvious. 

It follows, then, naturally, that people who talk about sex are sexists.

I knew there was something fishy about Dr. Ruth.

And people who talk about misogyny are misogynists.

"Down with the matriarchy!"

And people who talk about the NBA are professional basketball players.

It's okay, even Steph Curry shoots airballs. Just not eight in a row.

And people who talk about music are professional musicians.

I couldn't find you on Spotify. Do you have a stage name?

And people who talk about books are professional authors.

I searched for you on Amazon, but nothing. Maybe you're using a bigger platform?

And people who talk about art are professional artists.

Right, your exhibit at the MOMA was last month. Shoot, missed it.

And people who talk about food are professional chefs.

This is yummy. Reminds me of Taco Bell.

And people who talk about wine are professional vintners.

Fruity, yet oaky. Crisp, yet refreshing.

And people who talk about exclusion are exclusionary.

And people who talk about injustice are unjust.

And people who talk about inequity are inequitable.

And people who talk about nonsense and absurdity are nonsensical absurdists.

Which sounds about right to me.

Inclusive Leaders Have an Abundance of Curiosity and Empathy

I'm suspicious of people who aren't curious.

I recently ended a 35-year relationship because of it.

I don't remember what we were discussing, but during one conversation with my ex-friend a few years ago, he interrupted me with an exclamatory: 

"Dude, I'm just not that curious."

Translation: 

"I don't give a shit about what you're talking about, or what you think. And, furthermore, the fact that you keep blabbing on about it is really pissing me off. Now, if you just shut the fuck up, we can go drink some beer."

Lack of curiosity is a key trait in poor leadership.

People who aren't interested in the lived experiences, truths, backgrounds, and perspectives of other people possess an alarming lack of empathy.

When you're not willing to spend even the tiniest bit of your emotional bandwidth to more fully understand and appreciate another person, it's pretty damn impossible to build trust and connection – the foundations of a sustainable relationship.

People notice that you don't care. People notice your superficiality. Your narcissism. Your callousness. 

People feel your indifference and judgment. And they don't like it.

People notice how you treat them, and how you treat others too.

Curiosity and empathy are intertwined. Inclusive leaders have both in abundance.

Creating Collective Vulnerability

When you show vulnerability it inspires others to show vulnerability.

It's how we create what Brené Brown calls collective vulnerability.

Where we're not afraid to share that we're scared. That we don't know what's going to happen. That we have no idea how long our individual and collective feelings of uncertainty and doubt will last.

When, as leaders, we don't posture and present a facade of assuredness and false confidence and misplaced conviction.

When we don't sweep our emotions under the rug. When we admit that we're bummed out. That we're worried for the people we love.

That we're concerned for our colleagues and the billions of people we don't know.

Our collective vulnerability builds trust. It builds connection. It surfaces our humanity that is buried deep down inside some of us.

I'm doing all right. My family is safe. My kids are good. My partner is working from home. I'm doing work. I'm reading books. I'm keeping Zoom in business. I'm meditating. I'm exercising.

I'm staying connected to myself. And to others as best I can.

I'm an extrovert, so I get bored at times. There are only so many dad jokes I can tell my kids. I've eaten 467 straight meals at home. But I'm doing okay.

Hope you are too. And, it's okay if you're not. Will you let me know either way?

The Fear of Losing Social Capital

My dad and his partner were visiting me my freshman year in college.

I was scared shitless.

No one knew my dad was gay. No one had ever met my dad. No one knew this other side of me.

I was a college athlete. I had a reputation to uphold. An image. A persona. None of which included having a gay dad.

I told my roommates and my teammates that my dad and his "friend" were stopping by for lunch. 

I hoped no one would be around. That the three of us could find an obscure place to have lunch, walk around campus for a bit, and then I'd send them on their way.

I did escape.

I don't remember if anyone met my dad and his partner. I was too petrified to recall such silly details. Either way, no one said anything.

In my mind my secret was safe. No harm done. Nothing to explain. No homophobic banter to navigate. No image to reconcile. No stigma.

It took me a long time to tell people my dad was gay. I desperately covered that part of me, limiting a core part of who I was.

I was unwilling to risk being my full self for fear of losing my precious social capital. 

And I know people who do this every day. They cover. They downplay. They hide. They lie.

For many, though, it's not about social capital. It's about discrimination and harassment.

For some, it's a matter of life and death.

Educate Yourself and Do Better

It's not the responsibility of Black people to educate White people about "the Black experience."

White people need to educate themselves and do better.

It's not the responsibility of gay people to educate straight people about what it's like to be gay.

Straight people need to educate themselves and do better.

It's not the responsibility of trans people to continually remind cis people of their cis-normative actions and behaviors.

Cis people need to educate themselves and do better.

It's not the responsibility of women to point out to men that their old boys' networks and bro culture are perpetually contributing to the continued scarcity of women in leadership positions.

Men need to educate themselves and do better.

It's not the responsibility of people with visible or invisible disabilities to educate non-disabled people on what it's like to not have access to what you need to succeed at your job.

Non-disabled people need to educate themselves and do better.

People whose dimensions of diversity place them wholly or partly in the dominant group need to take the responsibility of educating themselves about the lived experiences of people who are part of one or minority groups.

Ease the burden of responsibility and emotional labor.

Educate yourself.

Do better.

Scary Books Written by Black People

Last week I shared about the book I was reading: How To Be Less Stupid About Race.

It was written by a Black woman, Crystal Fleming.

I was saying how important it is for White people to read books by and about Black people.

I was wondering how many White people went out and bought that book and started reading it.

Probably not many, if any.

Because a lot of White people don't read any books, let alone books written by Black people.

Books by Black people who directly challenge the comfortable world view of White people.

Books that make White people think and self-reflect and grow and explore and self-examine and evolve their consciousness and change their perspective.

White people are afraid to be affiliated with books written by Black people.

"Why should I read it? What's in it for me? What will my friends think? 'You're reading that book?' The stigma!"

Books written by Black people are a threat to the established order of books written by White people.

White people don't feel comfortable engaging in intellectual activity where they are not in control of the narrative. White people feel they have little to learn.

Books written by Black people are scary. Hundreds of blank white pages covered in black ink.

It's much safer to watch reruns of Leave It to Beaver.

Brené Brown on Empathy

I love this Brené Brown video on empathy.

I love how she talks about empathy being a choice. A vulnerable choice.

We always choose whether or not to be empathetic.

And we often choose not to be empathetic. I suspect it's our fear of vulnerability that prevents us from choosing empathy.

We've made that choice so many times that our fear of vulnerability has established itself in the lead role of the movie of our life.

And empathy has been relegated to a permanent bit part role player.

Instead of assuming an inherent, intrinsic, natural empathetic disposition and world view, we have treated empathy like a water faucet – turning it on only in certain situations, and only with certain people, and only in times of uncertainty or despair or unfavorable circumstances.

We are quick to turn it off, mindful of conserving our precious resource, not wanting to waste it on undeserving recipients and in unnecessary situations.

But empathy doesn't (or shouldn't) work like that. 

Empathy is a state of mind.

A state of mind rooted in non-judgment, self-awareness, and a desire to connect with ourselves and other people.

Thankfully, during these times of uncertainty, I've witnessed a lot of empathy.

I just hope it continues when we're all a bit more settled.

Observe Without Judging or Reacting

In the spring of 1999 I had my first experience with mindfulness meditation.

My dad, sick with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, joined a small meditation circle in the Duboce Triangle area of San Francisco.

I tagged along about a half dozen times when I visited the city.

Karen Van Dine led the circle in a yoga studio on Sanchez Street – a huge room with hardwood floors and big skylights.

At first I found it boring and uncomfortable – and funny that my dad always fell asleep.

But when he died in the fall of 2000, I realized that the calmness, stillness, and awareness I experienced in those meditation circles helped me stay present with my emotions.

The equanimity allowed me to more fully experience the sadness and loss and uncertainty – without getting attached to those emotions.

I have cultivated a mindfulness practice ever since. I constantly strive to be in a state of equanimity so I can more fully experience and better understand all that is happening around me, and to me. 

So I can observe without reacting or judging.

So I can be more empathetic, curious, inclusive.

So I can stay human, awake, connected to myself and others. 

I practice mindfulness not as a response to uncertainty, but as preparation for its inevitability.

It sure is coming in handy right now.

Leaders Show Vulnerability in Times of Uncertainty

As a leader, one simple way you can be more inclusive in times of uncertainty is to show vulnerability.

A strategic way to do that is to share personal stories in your communications to your team, company, clients, and customers.

Stories, when told well, build trust and connection.

Stories illuminate our common humanity.

Stories build community across diverse backgrounds because the personal is universal.

The feelings and emotions you're experiencing? I'm experiencing them too.

If I feel like you get me, and genuinely care about my well-being, I'll be a lot more forgiving of your mistakes and flaws. 

If you can tap into how we're more similar than different, I will have more confidence in, and commitment to, our shared goals. 

When you show public vulnerability, when you reveal who you are, when you are accessible and relatable, when you convince me that you're a real human being with real emotions and doubts and uncertainties and hopes and dreams, then I'm more likely to believe what you say.

If you share what personally inspires and motivates you, I will be more inspired and motivated by you.

On the other hand, if you go all robotic and drop corporate jargon filled with trite platitudes, I'm going to think you're a dick and ignore everything you say.

Your choice.

Listen to Black Women

In Crystal Fleming's book How To Be Less Stupid About Race she has a chapter entitled "Listen to Black Women."

The opening sentence says this:

"White (male) supremacy socializes us to devalue the critical insights of Black women and girls."

So, if I'm a White male, which I am, I have a choice.

I can play my part to take this truth seriously. And I can work to reverse it.

I can stand up to White male hegemony. I can disrupt old boys' networks. I can challenge bro culture.

I can speak out when I witness or hear about Black women and girls not being given credit for their insights and intellectual contributions.

I can proactively and intentionally center the perspectives of Black women and girls.

I can challenge my White male colleagues (and anyone else) who regularly dismiss, discourage, and disregard the efforts of Black women and girls.

I can read books and articles written by Black women. I can follow Black women on LinkedIn and Twitter. I can listen to podcasts centering Black women's perspectives. 

I can evolve my consciousness and expand my understanding of "normal."

Or, I can shrug off that statement, not reflect on its truth, and continue to not care about the inequitable and oppressive world that I have contributed to.

I know what I'm doing. What about you?

Choose to Be Less Stupid About Race

"Dominant discourses of individualism, exceptionalism, and meritocracy work to sustain collective denial about racism and other forms of injustice." 

– Crystal Fleming

Most White people are really stupid about race.

So stupid that Crystal Fleming wrote the book How To Be Less Stupid About Race.

I'm almost done with it. It's fucking awesome. 

I'm a White dude. I don't claim to be an expert on race.

I do claim to be less stupid about race than most people.

And a lot less stupid about race than I used to be. 

You know why? 

Because I read books like this. No one tells me to read them. No one forces me to read them. No one expects me to read them. 

I choose to read them. 

I intentionally seek books like this out. And then I very intentionally read them. 

I take notes. I highlight. I absorb concepts and frameworks and perspectives. I perpetually get less stupid about race. 

I don't say things like "I don't see color," or "Not all White people are racist," or "My dentist is Black so I get it," or "That's reverse racism." 

Instead I STFU and listen. 

This isn't about me bragging.

This is about me doing the work so I can be less stupid about race.

This is me demanding you do the same.

Don't tell me you're doing the work. Just do it.

And be less stupid about race.