Start With an Idea

"I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood."

– Audre Lorde

I write my posts directly into the LinkedIn "create a post" box. There's no draft. No shining up for primetime.

I start with an idea – from a list of ideas, from a book, from a conversation, from a comment someone made, from a community call, from the news, from politics, from personal experiences – and I write.

LinkedIn allows 1300 characters. I know about how long that is, but not exactly.

I write and I write, and I let the ideas flow. Stream of consciousness. The thesaurus app my only companion.

I see where it goes. Sometimes the flow is powerful and compelling. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes I scrap a post that doesn't come together.

But usually I know what I want to say, what needs to be said, and what others need to hear.

Often, I get on a roll. New ideas come to me as I write a current idea. Sometimes I go over the 1300 characters.

It's okay. I don't stop. I finish my thoughts. I find a way to wrap it up.

I go back and cull, edit, shorten, streamline, wordsmith.

This whole process takes no longer than ten minutes.

I press "post" and see what happens.

It’s Most Likely Not Too Risky

The general response from many White people when challenged to take action to stop the microaggressions, bullying, discrimination, and racism their Black colleagues face every day in the workplace?

Too risky.

"I'd say something but I'd get fired."

"I can't challenge my boss."

Or my favorite:

"When my boss makes a racist comment in a meeting, I can't stand up, walk across the table, jump down, yell in his face that he's a racist motherfucker, knee him in the nuts, break his nose with my fist while he's doubled over, take off his glasses and chew them into tiny shards, spit the bloody slivers back in his face, toss him over my back in a firefighter's carry, hurl him through the window, and watch him splatter on the streets 27 floors below."

Okay, I paraphrased that one.

And, no, in most cases, you can't do that.

The point is, as a White person your whiteness automatically puts you in a privileged, powerful, influential position.

There are myriad nuanced, strategic, impactful ways you can challenge other White people.

Ways that will not get you in trouble. Will not get you fired.

That will make a huge difference to your Black colleagues. That will change the workplace culture for the better.

You just have to be more subtle, more creative, more courageous.

And do it.

Back Before I Started Telling My Stories

"Can we trust each other with our true stories? That's where we find belonging."

– Jennifer Brown

Back when I was too embarrassed to tell anyone I had a gay dad.

Back when my family was too poor to afford cool clothes and I got bullied.

Back when I had a "job" stealing quarters out of newspaper racks because it paid more than minimum wage at Souplantation.

Back when I was ashamed to live in an apartment when most of my friends lived in houses.

Back when I was casually racist and sexist and homophobic – not out of malice, but out of ignorance.

Back when I judged people on whether they were good at sports.

Back when I chose my friends by the amount of beers they could shotgun.

Back when I almost flunked out of college because of aforementioned drinking and sports.

Back when I didn't read.

Back when I listened to A Tribe Called Quest and thought I had "culture".

Back when I mocked and dismissed and othered and ignored everything I didn't know or care about.

Back when I wasn't truly connected to anything, or anyone, or anywhere.

Back when I was lying and #covering and bullshitting.

Back when I was insecure and lonely and immature.

Back when I didn't know to whom or where or what I belonged.

Back when I was afraid to trust.

Back before I started telling my stories.

An Unwavering Commitment to Seeing People As Humans

I just finished reading Banker to the Poor, Muhammad Yunus's book about how he started Grameen, the micro-lending bank that fights poverty in his native Bangladesh.

Fascinating story of how it came to be. One thing that stood out to me was his unwavering commitment to seeing poor people as humans.

Humans with possibility. Skills. Needs. Intelligence. Dreams. Desires. Work ethic. Heart. Creativity.

Might seem like a no-brainer to most of us. But, sadly, to many people in power, it's not.

"Poverty is not created by the poor," he says. "It is created by the structures of society and the policies pursued by society."

And the mindsets and narratives that those structures and policies perpetuate.

Classism and racism often intersect.

Racism, too, is created by the structures of society and the policies pursued by society.

Slavery. Jim Crow. Blackface. Lynching. Disenfranchisement. Redlining. Police brutality. Sanctioned murder. Prison pipeline. Unfair sentencing. . .

In our organizations too. Name too Black on a resume. No interview. Not a culture fit. "Diversity" hire. Lower compensation. Fewer opportunities.

People in power need the powerless to stay in power.

To other. To blame. To marginalize. To dehumanize.

Let's reject that philosophy. Let's humanize. Like Yunus.

Be Courageous Until You No Longer Need to Be

People tell me I'm courageous for speaking up about the injustices that impact people on the downside of power.

That it's courageous for a White guy to amplify the voices of people of color.

And risk my social capital with other White people.

That it's courageous for a cis, straight guy to amplify the voices of members of the LGBTQ community.

And risk my privileged gender normative status.

That it's courageous to speak up on behalf of women who are marginalized.

And alienate my bros.

I suppose there's some merit to the praise. I humbly receive it, and it is part of what motivates me to keep speaking up.

And, it doesn't really feel that courageous anymore.

It just feels like – what I do.

When I didn't have confidence in my beliefs and values and principles. When I hadn't developed my cultural competence. When I was just a wee bud on the flower of self-actualization.

That’s when it felt more courageous. When it felt more like a risk.

It took more courage then because I didn't realize that I didn't care about the things that I might lose.

So, as you travel on your own journey: Be courageous. Share your power. Risk your social capital. Risk your privilege.

Until it's no longer courageous. Until it's no longer a risk.

Because you don't care about what you might lose.

Practicing Self Empathy

Sometimes I choose to disengage. When there is a fundamental disagreement of perspectives and worldviews.

When there is a clear clash of sensibilities. When there is no effort made to find even the smallest points of shared understanding.

Those types of discussions never end well. In fact, are they even discussions?

Two battling rams butting heads over and over again hoping that your opponent's skull will crack while yours remains intact.

And we're not even wearing helmets! No thanks.

It's not worth it. The mental energy. The psychological burden. The intellectual bandwidth.

It's exhausting, depleting, draining the strength I could be using to drive impact and affect change.

Many people disagree with me. Some fundamentally; some subtly. Some with my approach. Or my writing style. Or my world view.

I'm comfortable with that. I'm not here to convince people I'm right. I'm here to share stories, perspectives, learnings, ideas, insights, experiences – with the hope of inspiring and connecting and uplifting underrepresented voices.

Challenging the status quo. Disrupting the dominant narrative.

I'm also here to learn from others, to be challenged, to change, to expand, to explore, to discover new perspectives.

And practicing self-empathy. By picking my battles.

Be Part of the Conversation

I've said it before, and I'll say it again:

We need more White people actively participating in conversations about race, power, privilege, equity, inclusion, belonging, diversity, and other myriad interrelated topics we like to avoid.

Our silence is complicity.

Our lack of self-education, curiosity, awareness, cultural competency, and empathy is harmful to people we don't see and may never know.

Conversely, our advocacy and amplification of marginalized voices drives impact and affects change.

Yesterday I received a message from a Black woman thanking me for my post about the unwillingness of White people to be part of the conversation.

Thanking me for not dismissing her "very real experience."

She was afraid to comment publicly because she couldn't risk being associated with the content.

Some of her clients wouldn't approve, as they "are a bit like those described in your post."

So, yes, it takes courage. Yes, it may seem like a never-ending battle. Yes, you'll get trolls and aggressive disagreers. Yes, your friends and colleagues will question you and tease you and wonder why you're doing it.

And, yes, you have to weather all of that. And do it anyway.

Be part of the conversation. People appreciate it more than you may ever know.

Dear White People

Dear White people,

I get it. You don't like to talk about racism. It makes you feel uncomfortable. You wish it would just go away – the racism, sure, but mostly the talking about it.

You think the talking about racism is why there's still racism.

Which is totally fucking stupid and illogical – not to mention disrespectful and dismissive and harmful.

But, hey, it's easier to say things like:

"Slavery happened a long time ago," and "We had a Black president," and "It's a meritocracy," and "I believe in personal responsibility," and all kinds of other ignorant stuff.

Then it is to actually believe the experiences of people who are harmed by racism every day.

You avoid conversations that talk about your privilege and power and social capital because, hey, you've worked hard, or you grew up poor, or you've been rejected, or look at Oprah, or – "Mommy, they're bullying me!"

If you examined your beliefs a fraction as often as you expressed them, you'd discover you don't actually believe them.

But you're not that self-aware. You don't read. You're not curious. Empathy? Not so much.

You know why I know all this about you? Because I'm White and I used to believe all this stupid shit too.

Until I got over myself, woke the fuck up, and changed.

So when are you gonna do the same?

The Danger of the Single Story

"The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story."

– Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Over the last 20 years, I have evolved my consciousness along two entwined journeys of development.

The personal development journey – rooted in mindfulness, presence, self-awareness, equanimity.

Grounded in empathy, curiosity, possibility, connection.

And the cultural competence journey – based in social justice, inclusion, equity.

Reading. Learning. Listening. Expanding my normal. Immersing in new social, cultural, political, and professional situations. Stretching my appreciation and understanding of others' lived experiences.

These threads of development – while unique and separate – overlap and interconnect regularly. They form a more dynamic, more authentic, more complete representation of who I am.

You too have multiple storylines that make up who you are.

Sometimes they may be difficult to reconcile. Sometimes they feel at odds. Sometimes there is tension. Sometimes a single action is criticized by one person and praised by another.

The work is to stay on the path. To honor the totality of the journey.

So we can find true belonging. For ourselves. And for others.

The Rules of the Game

First game of a double header. Black man at the plate. Full count, bottom of the ninth, bases empty, two outs, down by one run.

Team depending on him.

Pitcher winds up. Fastball down the middle. Smacks it to the gap in right center.

Rounds first base. Heading to second. Decides to stretch it to a triple. Sprinting. Hoping to beat the throw.

Dives head first. Creates a cloud of dust.

Risky move to go for a triple. Safe and his team has a chance. Out and the game is over.

Waiting to hear the umpire's call. Safe or out?

But all he hears is a crying baby. The dust settles and he sees doctors and nurses and a White woman in a hospital bed holding a newborn baby boy screaming his first breaths.

WTF?

The mom beaming at her son: "Congratulations, Jimmy. You hit a triple. In your first minute of life, you hit a triple."

The crowd cheers.

The Black man is physically blocked from reaching third base. Tagged out. His team loses the game.

The Black man sulks off to the losing dugout. The White mom continues to praise her White son.

"You hit a triple! You hit a triple! You're so talented. Such strong genes. I knew you could do it. I'm so proud of you."

The White baby stays on third base to start the second game.

The crowd continues to cheer wildly.

Loving the Vast Dynamism of the Human Condition

I am constantly self-assessing my self-awareness so I can experience greater self-growth.

So I can serve and benefit others.

Stepping outside of myself to observe my thoughts and actions and behaviors and habits.

Identifying what is and is not working. What should remain. What needs to improve, change, be composted and regenerated as something new.

Searching for ways to be more inclusive. More present. More empathetic. More accessible. More alive to the lived experiences of others.

Exploring how I can address my blind spots to better see and appreciate and validate other people's perspectives and truths.

Discovering how to be a better colleague, coach, parent, leader, partner, friend, storyteller, community member.

Reading and writing and listening and watching and sharing stories to connect more deeply with myself and with others.

Modeling public vulnerability and authenticity and truth and courage and compassion to inspire and uplift others.

Meditating and breathing and practicing self care. So I can show up for others.

Elevating my cultural competence. Making mistakes and learning from them. Sharing my voice and being available to hear other people's voices in response.

Cultivating trust and building community.

Loving the vast dynamism of the human condition.

Only Mean, Ignorant, Bad People Are Racist

"I was taught the popular folktale of racism: that ignorant and hateful people had produced racist ideas, and that these racist people had instituted racist policies."

– Ibram Kendi

I was taught that too. Only mean, ignorant, bad people are racist.

If they'd just stop being mean and bad then racism would end.

But that's not how it works. That lets all of us off the hook who don't think we're "bad" or "mean".

Which is pretty much all of us.

How it really happens, Kendi says, is like this:

Racial discrimination –> racist ideas –> ignorance/hate.

Racially discriminatory policies arise from economic, political, and cultural self-interest. Not hate.

Slavery was economically beneficial to White people so they enslaved Black people.

Then came the racist ideas that Black people were natural slaves, enjoyed slavery, and wouldn't know what to do if they were freed.

When Black people fought those beliefs, White people hated them for being uppity.

The same pattern happens today in organizations.

White people benefit from staying in power, so they hire, promote, reward, and protect other White people.

They'd hire, promote, reward, and protect Black people but they can't lower the bar.

Black people say that's effed up. White people hate them for being rude.

Ad infinitum. . .

Always With Compassion

I always aim to treat people with compassion.

Even the people who disagree with me.

Even the people who attack me.

Even the people who say and do and think things that are harmful and ignorant and dishonest.

I tell the racist he's a racist.

I tell the sexist he's a sexist.

I tell the homophobe he's a homophobe.

With compassion.

I write and speak and coach and train and dialogue for equity and inclusion and justice.

I call people on their shit. I object to bigotry and discrimination and prejudice.

With compassion.

I share my perspectives even if they're not popular, even if I'm not "supposed" to, even if people don't want to hear them.

With compassion.

I challenge the status quo. I disrupt bro culture. I question the dominant narrative. I decline the invitation to cuddle in the arms of "people like me."

I confront power and privilege.

With compassion.

None of this is contradictory. I am in alignment. I am centered. Grounded. Equanimous. Confident. Competent.

I come from a place of love. Not from a place of fear. Or hate.

I seek connection. I establish trust. I cultivate relationships. I build bridges over chasmic canyons to reach shared understanding.

I am curious. Empathetic. Always learning and growing and teaching and collaborating.

Always with compassion.

Intentionally Cultivating Equanimity

"Equanimity is the ground for wisdom and freedom and the protector of compassion and love."

– Gil Fronsdal

Monday, October 26, 2009. My twins were exactly nine months old. We drove all day to Oakland from a wedding in Palm Springs.

I was desperate to make my over-30s, co-ed soccer game at 9:00pm.

We got home, unloaded the car, I left the kids with my partner and raced off to the field.

The game had started. I put on my cleats and ran on.

Within five minutes, I scored a goal.

Or so I thought. The ref didn't see it. I was incredulous. I cursed and yelled. He shoved a red card in my face. I slapped it out of his hand.

I kept yelling and cursing. He blew his whistle. I slapped it out of his mouth.

From some angles it looked like I punched him. Someone screamed, "Oh my god!"

I grabbed my bag, ran to my car, and drove home. My partner knew something bad had happened.

I explained it to her. I cried. Tears of embarrassment and shame and guilt.

This had to stop. I had to change. No longer could my emotions dictate my behavior.

This wasn't who I wanted to be, or who I was.

This was a turning point in my life.

When I began to intentionally cultivate equanimity.

So I can keep in integrity. Stay present and calm. Be more impactful.

A more authentic version of myself.

Defining Myself for Myself

"If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive."

– Audre Lorde

I am a seeker. A relationship builder. A creative collaborator. A thought partner. A team player.

I thrive when I'm around other people. Off the energy they give me. And the energy I give them. And the energy we give each other.

I need support. I want support. I want to run my ideas by people. And I want to have people run their ideas by me.

I am a social being. An extrovert. Happy to have a conversation with just about anyone on any topic at any time.

I love to explore and reflect and evolve and grow and discover and more fully understand what makes each person unique.

I seek out discussion and dialogue and exchange and good company and kindred spirits.

I am influenced by other people. Their ideas and their written words and their spoken words and their truths and their lies and their mistakes and their profundities.

I welcome it all and I absorb it all and I use it all in a myriad of ways that are both definable and undefinable. Visible and invisible.

I rely on the warmth and love and empathy and compassion of other people to survive.

And, in the end, I define myself for myself. I am unapologetically me.

And I have not been eaten alive.

A Case for Dispassion and Detachment

People are surprised when I say I am not a passionate person, that I am detached from my opinions.

They're surprised because they see me articulate my perspectives confidently and competently and consistently.

They're amazed because they see that I challenge the status quo unapologetically. That I disrupt the dominant narrative. That I amplify the voices of the marginalized. Represent the underrepresented.

They recognize my willingness to be vulnerable and open and authentic. Embody the traits of empathy and curiosity and courage that I want to see in others.

They understand that I don't have to do any of this. That I choose to do all of it. That I want to live this way, to be this way, to be perceived this way.

They appreciate my transparency and my intentionality and my purpose. That I am driven by clear values and grounded principles.

And they wonder: How can you be and do and say and think all that and not be passionate?

My answer is that it is dispassion that allows me to consistently be who I am – to say and do and think the things I say and do and think.

I am detached from the outcomes of my thoughts and words and actions because I trust in their truth and resonance and power.

All passion would do is lessen their impact.

Which would defeat the whole point.

Do You Think All Gay Jokes Are Bad?

His phone was blowing up. He was giggling.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"Do you think all gay jokes are bad?" he responded.

Uh? "Not sure how to answer that."

He and three of his buddies were trying to organize a big family camping trip. They couldn't coordinate schedules.

Finally, they found a weekend everyone could do it. Except one guy.

The punchline?

"Tell him it's homo week, and maybe he can make it."

I was more saddened than offended. More disappointed than surprised. More curious than angry.

"No, I don't find that funny. I guess I'm just more aware – "

"Dude, you gotta stop saying that!"

This was my best friend. Who knew that my dad was gay and died of AIDS.

Who knew enough to ask me if I thought all gay jokes were bad.

But not enough to know any joke that marginalizes and stigmatizes being gay as the butt of the joke is also bad.

Who knows that guys who go around looking for faggots to bash their heads in and tie them to fence posts are bad.

But doesn't know that guys who make gay jokes as part of casual banter are also bad.

This kind of othering happens all the time. It's all bad. Every single time.

Good people have the courage to step in and say something. I chose to end this friendship.

I guess I won't be invited on the next family camping trip.

Introducing the Belonging Stories Podcast

I've done a lot of vulnerable things in my life.

I talk about vulnerability all the time.

I encourage others to be vulnerable.

I go on and on about how individual and collective vulnerability will change the world.

I write about vulnerability.

I speak about vulnerability.

I coach people how to tell vulnerable stories.

I facilitate trainings and workshops and discussions about the value of vulnerability to build trust and connection and sustainable, beautiful relationships and meaningful, equitable cultures of belonging.

And!

Sometimes it's still really hard for me to be vulnerable.

I've had this podcast idea in my head for six months. I kept putting it off. Making excuses. Procrastinating.

Ignoring the reminders on my phone that said: "Record the first episode of your Belonging Stories podcast."

Until today. I did it. I recorded the first episode of my Belonging Stories podcast.

It's vulnerable. I cried recording it. I cried listening to it. I'm crying writing about how I was crying recording and listening to it.

And, damn it feels good to have it out there for the world to listen to.

It's raw (technically and emotionally). And, if I do say so myself, it's beautiful.

Thanks for listening to my story and making me feel like I belong. I appreciate all of you.

Imagine All the People

"I can't imagine losing my father to AIDS."

"I can't imagine what it would be like to have my son murdered by the police because he was Black."

"I can't imagine being transgender and not having a safe space to use the restroom."

"I can't imagine how hard it would be to be confined to a wheelchair my whole life."

"I can't imagine seeing my buddies blown to bits in combat."

"I can't imagine losing my job because of COVID-19."

You can’t imagine? Or you won’t imagine?

Someone shares something vulnerable with us. We can't handle it, so we distance ourselves by saying we can't imagine it.

We choose not to imagine. Because it's safer that way.

It's more comfortable to say something that we pretend is compassion and empathy. But actually is just the opposite.

We fill the air with our words, thinking we're connecting and showing solidarity. But we're actually showing the opposite.

We're uneasy with the emotion of it, the awkward silence, the uncertainty of how to proceed.

And, that's exactly where we need to remain. Present. Silent. Available.

You might try something like this:

"I'm not sure what to say right now, but I'm just glad you told me."

We all crave connection. We just need to be better at knowing how to connect.

Recognizing and Taking Our Opportunities

My sophomore year in college I took a class on Feminist Philosophy. I walked in the room and saw a male professor.

He said, "My name's Professor So-and-so, and I'm a feminist."

I don't remember another word he said, or anything we studied. I was too blown away, and secretly impressed, that a man could declare unapologetically to be a feminist.

You mean men can advocate for women? Never thought of that before.

The following summer I nervously told my best friend my dad was gay, worried she would reject me.

She said, "Big fucking deal!"

You mean a straight dude can support gay people? Never thought of that before.

A few years later I had an intellectually stimulating conversation with a Black man about the book Invisible Man on a bus in San Francisco.

You mean a Black man and a White man can have common interests, experiences, perspectives, and opinions. Never thought of that before.

With each of these experiences, I was given a choice: dismiss the epiphanies and continue with the old narrow ways of thinking, acting, and being.

Or, recognize them as the opportunities they were to explore and expand and dive into the exciting unknown world of growth and evolution of consciousness.

We all have these opportunities almost daily. The question is: do we take them?