You Are Amy Cooper Too

You are Amy Cooper too.

You are Amy Cooper when you toss the resume with a "Black sounding name" in the no pile.

You are Amy Cooper when you clutch your purse walking past a Black man on the street.

You are Amy Cooper when you talk over your Black colleague at the team meeting.

You are Amy Cooper when you go to the 98% White golf/swim/tennis club with all your White friends.

You are Amy Cooper when you promote your less talented, less experienced White colleague instead of your Black colleague.

You are Amy Cooper when you don't consider letting your kids play with the Black kids outside of school.

You are Amy Cooper when you try to tone police the concerns of your Black colleagues' experiences of microaggressions.

You are Amy Cooper when the last 50 books you've read have been by White people.

You are Amy Cooper when you gossip about your Black colleague to your shared supervisor to get the promotion ahead of her.

You are Amy Cooper when you say you "don't see color."

You are Amy Cooper when you say "it's a meritocracy."

You are Amy Cooper when you don't self-reflect on the advantages you've gained because of your unearned privilege and power.

You will continue to be Amy Cooper until you do your personal development work to not be Amy Cooper anymore.

I Intentionally Realize I Am More Than My Work

What do you do, Jared?

I tell stories that change the world.

I champion people from underrepresented backgrounds and amplify their voices.

I meditate every morning for twenty minutes.

I sit and read books in my backyard.

I help my fifth grade twins with their geometry and writing and social studies homework.

I cook dinner and clean the shower and water the plants.

I listen to podcasts hosted by people "not like me."

I coach my clients how to write and speak and be vulnerable and be more authentic and compelling.

I apply for full time DEI and Communications roles.

I noodle around on the guitar in the basement.

I watch Who Killed Malcolm X and Becoming on Netflix.

I go for walks with my family in the neighborhood.

I facilitate difficult conversations on race and identity and allyship and inclusion and belonging.

I elevate people's personal awareness and cultural competence.

I listen to my kids play piano.

I stay present.

I watch the sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge.

I eat pizza and drink beers in my in-laws' backyard.

I tuck my kids into bed every night.

I talk with my partner about her job and money and what our kids are going to do this summer.

I intentionally realize that I am more than my work.

I experience the vast dynamism of the human condition.

People Are Capable if You Believe in Them

What someone can't do now isn't always an indication of their future capability.

When I was 16, I got a bass guitar. I'd never played an instrument.

My best friend was a drummer. His uncle taught me Under My Thumb by the Rolling Stones.

It took me two weeks to learn it. I never learned another song. I never practiced. Never learned notes, chords, scales, music theory.

A month later I sold the bass at the swap meet. Shortest music career in history.

Or so I thought.

In college, I bought a harmonica. I practiced every day. I studied Sonny Boy Williamson, Little Walter, Rod Piazza. Within a year I was sitting in with blues bands.

Then I taught myself guitar. I practiced every day. I wrote songs. I recorded CDs. I played in cafes and restaurants and bars and house parties and festivals.

Twelve years ago I joined a reggae band. We played for six years. Then the bass player quit, so I said I'd be the bass player.

I practiced every day. I already knew the fretboard, notes, scales, theory. I learned to clip the notes, not start on the one, leave space, drive the rhythm.

Way back when, I wasn't capable of playing bass. Now I am.

People are capable. You just gotta believe in them and give them time to develop.

The Devolution of the Two Man Book Club

Ted and I bonded easily over surfing stories, songwriting exchanges, and meditation.

We never talked politics, but I assumed we had similar views. I was wrong.

We came up with a plan to explore our differences by way of a two man book club.

I selected a book for us to read. We'd discuss. He selected a book to read. We'd discuss. Etc.

Seemed simple, but it devolved quickly. I thought the books he chose were ridiculous. He thought the books I chose were ridiculous.

We let each other know our thoughts with increasing incivility.

Snark, sarcasm, unfiltered opinions from biased and partisan sources became the norm.

Learn from each other? Not so much. Treat each other with respect? Nope. Validate the other person's views? Hardly.

Drive our friendship bus off a cliff and obliterate it in the rocky canyon below? Absolutely.

For three years we didn't talk. No surfing stories. No new song lyrics. No shared quiet meditations.

Just bitterness. Resentment. Sardonic mockery. Acerbic righteousness.

A submission to incivility as an acceptable form of interaction.

And a deep unwillingness to self-reflect and see the bigger picture.

We did eventually recover. We learned a lesson.

I still share my views. I'm just no longer willing to be a dick about them.

With Ted or anyone else.

Telling Stories Can Change the World

"Stories are unprofessional."

"I'm too high up in the company to tell stories."

"My team doesn't want to hear my stories."

"I don't have any good stories."

"Most stories are boring anyway."

"Why would I tell stories when there's work to do?"

"Business is about profit not stories."

"I don't know how to tell a story."

"I'm an introvert and don't like to tell stories."

"Why would people trust me more if I told more stories?"

"Telling stories is too vulnerable; they make me look weak."

"Leadership isn't about stories; it's about results."

"The board would fire me if I sat around and told stories."

"This isn't Moth Story Hour; this is business!"

"Oh, look at the little storyteller. . . isn't he cute?"

"Isn't everyone's story basically the same?"

"What's all this stuff about stories and visibility and representation?"

"I am here to work; not to listen to stories."

"Telling stories is too revealing."

"What if someone tells me a story and I start to cry."

"Are we really 'hardwired to listen to stories?'"

"Do stories really connect us?"

"If I listen to someone's story, does that mean I have to care more about them?"

"Do stories really create belonging?"

"Do stories really level the playing field?"

"Do you honestly think that telling stories can change the world?"

Chronicling Our Lives Through the Books We Read

People are sometimes surprised when I say I've never read an e-book.

That I keep every book I've read. That I sign and date them all too.

Don't they take up a lot of space? All that dust? Isn't that materialistic? This is 2020, man, get with the times.

When my dad died in 2000, I inherited his books. I was 27. I'd probably read fewer than 50 books in my life at that time.

I was a late bloomer.

As I sifted through hundreds and hundreds of my dad's books I kept a few hundred that looked interesting. Yes, I judged the books by their covers (and maybe the blurb on the back).

I was just starting my lifelong commitment to evolving my consciousness, and reading was a major part of that.

I soon realized that he had signed and dated every book he read.

March 19, 1970. Before I was born.

September 9, 1977. I was four.

April 21, 1995. I was in college.

Surely he was chronicling his life through the books he read – reading this book when that event happened.

I liked that idea, and started doing the same. I'll often pick up a book, look at the date, and smile at a memory.

In September it will be twenty years since my dad died. My basement is filled with books, I have no idea how many.

Chronicling my life. And keeping the memory of my father alive.

Consciously Trying to Make Good Choices

We were going on a 40-mile bike ride. But I didn't have a road bike.

"Borrow Mike's bike," they said.

So I browbeat Mike into loaning me his expensive Italian racing bike.

Less than a mile in, I was shifting gears when I hit a pothole, lost control, and smashed through a picket fence.

We tried to bend the forks so they would fit again. No luck. I went to the bike store and bought the cheapest forks they had.

"Thanks for loaning me your bike, Mike."

"Those aren't my forks."

"Yes, they are. What are you ta – "

"Those aren't my forks!"

Cornered, I told him what happened. He was pissed. Felt used, taken advantage of, disrespected, betrayed.

Our relationship was never the same after the "fork incident." He no longer trusted me.

Why should he when I was so laughably out of integrity?

If I was dishonest and manipulative with a close friend over a pair of forks, how else would I lie to him?

It can be difficult to admit our mistakes.

And even if you don't fork up as bad as I did, people can smell your dishonesty, superficiality, and shallow abuse of power from a mile away.

I bent those forks 30 years ago. They continually remind me that I always get to choose my behavior.

I consciously try to make good choices.

And I accept the consequences when I don't.

Not All White People Are Racist

Not all White people are racist. But a lot are.

Not all White dudes are vigilantes hunting and murdering Black joggers. But some are.

Not all White cops use their uniform to protect themselves from their racist actions. But a lot do.

Not all White women work to limit the career opportunities of Black women. But a lot do.

Not all White people use the N word in casual conversations. But a lot do.

Not all White people think Black people should stop playing the race card. But a lot do.

Not all White people dismiss the lived experiences and everyday realities of Black people. But a lot do.

Not all White people believe we live in a meritocracy. But a lot do.

Not all White people refuse to self-reflect and recognize their privilege. But a lot do.

Not all White people tone police when a Black person shares a legitimate concern. But a lot do.

Not all White people consume media from only White voices, lenses, and perspectives. But a lot do.

Not all White people have mostly or solely White social circles and professional networks. But most do.

Not all White people managers, recruiters, and interview panels engage in biased hiring practices against Black people. But a lot do.

Not all White people will react with fragility to this post. But a lot will.

He Was a Black Man Running Down Our Road

Emergency call operator: "Was Ahmaud Arbery committing a crime?"

Travis and Gregory McMichael: "He's a Black man running down our road."

Was Trayvon Martin committing a crime?

He was a Black teenager wearing a hoodie.

Was Tamir Rice committing a crime?

He was a twelve-year-old Black boy with a toy gun.

Was Sandra Bland committing a crime?

She was a Black woman who failed to signal a lane change.

Was Eric Garner committing a crime?

He was a Black man "suspected" of selling single cigarettes without tax stamps.

Was Michael Brown committing a crime?

He was a Black man walking down the middle of the street.

Was Oscar Grant committing a crime?

He was a Black man on BART enjoying a New Year's Eve celebration.

Was Stephon Clark committing a crime?

He was a Black man talking on a cell phone at his grandma's house.

Was Philando Castile committing a crime?

He was a Black man telling a police officer he had a firearm but wasn't reaching for it.

Why are so many White people afraid of Black people?

Because they don't see them as human.

Why are Black people afraid of White people's fear?

Because it leads to being killed.

When is it going to stop?

When White people see the humanity in Black people.

Dragged Into a Whole New World

When I was 16 my dad took me to see a drag show.

A solo performance in a basement room in the Castro in SF. 16th St, just south of Market near Noe, across from Cafe Flore.

We stood in line on the street, walked down the steps, and sat in folding chairs with 50 other people. I don't remember much else.

Other than wondering if the performer was a man or a woman. Or a man dressed as a woman?

I vaguely remember telling my dad that I enjoyed the show. That it was funny and interesting.

My dad had told me he was gay two years previously. Right before his partner died of AIDS. Taking me to a drag show was another way of introducing me to a world I never saw back home in the suburbs.

I didn't tell my friends about the drag show (or that my dad was gay, or that his partner died of AIDS). I was too embarrassed to be associated with any of that around them.

They wouldn't understand and the teasing would have been relentless.

But internally I was excited to have been introduced to this new world – a little secret my dad and I shared. To know that "normal" could be more than playing soccer, listening to Jane's Addiction, and eating rolled tacos at Roberto's.

One of the many events that changed me.

That gave me an opportunity to experience that vast dynamism of the human condition.

Let’s Amplify Your Voice

You know that I post pretty much every day.

You see me telling personal stories. Modeling vulnerability and authenticity.

Sharing relevant and compelling content with a clear point of view, strong perspective, amplifying the voices of others.

Challenging people to think differently, do better, be more inclusive, more human.

Leading with empathy, curiosity, equanimity, and purpose.

What you might not know is that I work with people one-on-one to do the same.

It's vital that each of us communicates with clarity, intentionality, and compassion to our teams, our colleagues, our clients and customers, our communities – the world!

This is especially true for leaders and people managers – people with high visibility, power, and influence.

People are looking to you for direction and leadership. And, with every word you speak or write, they're weighing up if they trust you, if you're in touch with what's going on, if you have their best interests in mind.

If you're genuinely trying to build connections and relationships.

I've got a few spots for one-on-one clients through the end of Q3.

If you or someone you know needs strategic communications coaching and thought partnership, let me know.

People need to hear your voice. Let's amplify it.

Awaken All of Yourself

"If you want to awaken all of humanity, awaken all of yourself."

– Lao Tzu

Leaders, please here this clearly:

No one can make you do the right thing.

Dozens of laminated, multi-colored, poster-sized lists of do's and don'ts strategically placed in elevators and snack areas and conference rooms does not create an inclusive culture.

No training on unconscious bias or cross-cultural awareness or avoiding stereotypes or harassment or empathy or mindfulness or microaggressions or anything else will lead to fundamental change in company culture.

A thousand ERGs, diverse interview and candidate slates, women's leadership initiatives, PRIDE days, solidarity marches, and cultural celebrations will not move the needle.

If. . .

You don't intentionally commit to elevating your self awareness and cultural competence on your own.

Nothing will change If you don't read and listen and learn and get coaching and grow and expand and check your biases and be humble and be vulnerable and admit mistakes and publicly advocate for people "not like you" and use your influence to change policy and actively participate in uncomfortable conversations.

If you're not willing to do all of that, then it's just a big facade. A performance. And nothing will change.

So, are you ready to do the work?

Some Thoughts on Humanity

I've been thinking a lot about humanity lately. Not necessarily all 7.8 billion people – but kind of.

I've been thinking about how too often we don't treat each other with humanity.

How we fail to see the humanity in another person because they are different from us.

Or we think they are different from us.

Or we think that what we perceive to be difference makes them inferior to us. Not as worthy as us. Not as good. Not as important. Not as valuable.

I've been thinking about why we do this so often and with such malice. With such carelessness. With such indifference. With such righteousness. With such vehemence. With such violence.

Why we use political and geographical and racial and ethnic and sexual and religious and social and cultural and socioeconomic and so many other reasons to justify our dehumanization of other people.

I've been thinking about what we humans miss when we dehumanize other humans.

The opportunities. The relationships. The love. The connection. The collaboration. The trust. The compassion. The empathy. The joy. The belonging.

I know when I talk like this, I may sound naive, or woo-woo, or that I'm describing a utopian world that can never exist.

But I don't know. I don't think it's that hard.

To see every person as human. Including ourselves.

Prepared to See People’s Humanity

Friday, September 29, 2000, 11:30 pm. I get home from my shift parking cars at the hotel.

A flashing red “1” on my answering machine.

I press play. Daniel, my dad's partner.

"Hi Jared, wanted to let you know you lost your father tonight. . ."

I'm sure he says more, but I don't hear. I sit on my bed and cry.

Then, I walk down the street, still in my valet uniform of khaki shorts and white polo shirt, a wad of ones and fives bulging my pocket.

I may have bought a 40 at the liquor store. I may have gotten a drink at the bar where the surfers play pool and snort cocaine.

Or I may have just walked to the beach and sat in the moonlight watching the waves crash on the shore.

I don't remember.

He was HIV+. He was sick. I knew he was going to die. And I still wasn't prepared for it.

Twenty years later, what I am prepared for is to see people's humanity. I'm prepared to listen and empathize and validate people's lived experiences and stay present with their emotions.

I'm prepared to make connections across difference. To share stories. To build trust. To collaborate.

I'm prepared to believe people's truths. To not dismiss their fears and losses and feelings.

I'm prepared to recognize that people need love and compassion. Now and always.

Just like I did. And still do.

Elevating Humanity

When I was 25, I ran a marathon. A few years on from being a college athlete, I was out of shape, overweight, and missing my recently lost athletic glory.

Living in San Diego, I did my training runs along the Mission/Pacific Beach boardwalk. Even in winter the beaches were crowded and the weather was warm.

The boardwalk was three miles long. For my six mile runs, I'd run back and forth. For twelve mile runs, I'd do it twice, or extend into Mission Bay.

For the longer runs, I'd run to downtown San Diego and back––past Sea World, Ocean Beach, Seaport Village, the Harbor.

After every run, I was exhausted, dripping sweat, and sore as hell. And progressing toward my goal.

I ran for three months, lost twenty pounds, and completed my marathon in mid-February.

Never once on my runs did I feel threatened. Never once did I feel unsafe. Never once was I questioned or stopped or attacked.

Never once was I shot by vigilante racists claiming they were looking for a burglar.

And I didn't die on any of my runs.

Ahmaud Arbery was 25, like me. He was going for a run, like I did hundreds of times.

The difference? I am White. He is Black.

I was seen as a human going on a run. He was not.

Someone asked me recently why I do my work.

I answered: to elevate humanity.

My own and others.

Sometimes I Get It Right; Sometimes I Get It Wrong

One of the challenges for me as a White man doing DEIB work is finding the balance of being outspoken and relevant – especially for other White people – and de-centering myself and my whiteness.

I am continually thinking about it, but I don't always make the right decision. My impact doesn't always align with my intentions.

Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes I get it wrong.

I'm an extrovert. A storyteller. A writer. I love to talk with people. Build relationships. Amplify the voices of others. Offer perspectives that challenge assumptions. Share stories for self-reflection. Invite people to dialogue.

I try to model public vulnerability and intentionality. Inspire other White people to think more deeply about their role in creating more equitable and inclusive cultures of belonging.

I share my views on cultural, political, social, historical events. I articulate these views with a variety of audiences in a variety of settings.

I try to find the balance between curiosity and prying, empathy and pity, confidence and arrogance, humility and meekness, compassion and being a savior.

Between being an advocate and centering myself.

Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes I get it wrong.

I don't make the best decision every time. But I do try to learn from my mistakes every time.

Mindfulness is the Heart of My Work

My mindfulness practice is at the heart of my work.

It centers me, allows me to think clearly, and puts me in a mental state to be able to make important decisions.

It provides me with the foundation to write compellingly, to absorb criticism and dissent with equanimity, to engage in dialogue with civility.

It helps me stay curious and eager. Empathetic and compassionate. Available, aware, and present.

It provides me with the space I need to be intentional with my actions and my words and my thoughts. To pause. To listen. To slow down.

Mindfulness reminds me that I'm not trying to be right, or to win, or to be better than anyone else.

It sets the stage for me to influence and persuade and uplift and amplify and collaborate.

It gives me the courage to be authentic. To speak my mind. To say and think and do what needs to be said and thought and done. To lead.

Mindfulness is the conduit that connects me to myself, and the core of my connection with others.

It keeps me grounded, calm, focused, alive.

It reminds me that love and kindness and wisdom are intertwined, interconnected, and essential.

Mindfulness gives me the resolve to make just what is unjust. Equitable what is inequitable. To include who is excluded.

Mindfulness is at the core of my sense of belonging.

Self-awareness and Empathy Help Me Stay Focused

I am rarely, if ever, the only.

The only White person in a group of Black people.

The only man in a group of women.

The only straight person in a group of gay people.

The only cis person in a group of trans or non binary people.

The only neurotypical person in a group of neurodiverse people.

Etc.

And, if you are part of one or more dominant groups, you are unlikely to be the only very often either.

There are times when I don't think about not being the only. Because there's no reason for me to think about it. Because I don't feel unsafe, awkward, self-conscious, anxious, representative.

It'd be easy to take this for granted. That the world I navigate has fewer obstacles. That people automatically assume I'm "good" or "right" or "normal".

And I'm sure I often do take it for granted.

But most of the time I don't take it for granted. I do think about it. Intentionally.

I notice who's around me. Who's not. Who I'm consciously including. Who I'm unconsciously excluding.

I strive to be constantly aware of my social capital, power, and privilege.

I try to be a possibility model for dominant group members. And an uplifter of those who are marginalized and othered.

I'm not perfect. There's much I can learn and improve.

And self-awareness and empathy help me stay focused.

What If I Sat Here, Did Nothing, and Lived in the Present Moment?

"Life is to be found in the present moment, not in the future."

– Thich Nhat Hanh

Did I do the right thing?

Could I have said that differently?

Is she mad at me?

Will I get that consulting gig?

Should I change the strings on my guitar?

Will my daughter get better at piano?

Am I really just a fraud?

Will my cross country trip this summer with my grandma be postponed?

Is racism ever going to not exist?

Will anyone I know die of COVID?

Do I really have to do more Zoom calls tomorrow?

Will I ever be as good at soccer as I used to be?

What if my clients don't like my work?

Will I ever see a concert at The Fillmore again?

Do I think that piece I sent to that online magazine will get published?

Will my son get bullied in middle school because he's not into sports?

What if I can't sleep tonight?

Is the next book I read going to be boring?

What if I make a typo?

Should I post less often?

Who's going to win the election?

Will I ever travel to Japan?

What if I didn't try to answer any of those questions?

What if I sat here, did nothing, shut off the computer, left the phone in the basement, breathed deeply, listened to the birds, felt the stillness all around me, watched the sunset, laughed with my family, and lived in the present moment?

I'll try that.

Sometimes People Need Time to Mature

My 11-year-old twins take piano lessons with our next door neighbor, a classically-trained professional pianist.

My son began at age six. He progressed quickly. Five years later, he's playing all the classical stuff, plus Scott Joplin rags and jazz tunes by the likes of Hampton Hawes.

My daughter started a year later. She's not as dedicated. She doesn't practice as much. She gets frustrated when she does. She's several books behind her brother. She compares herself to him. Twins!

We've never once told either of them to practice. Every Wednesday morning I pay for the lessons. For about two years, I've wondered if paying for my daughter was worth it.

I kept deciding it was.

This morning she was playing her latest song – a slow minor key bluesy thing. I sit down on the bench with her and ask her to show me the chords.

She's been practicing for two weeks. Getting better. Not getting frustrated. Happy. Feeling accomplished. Playing from memory. Proud of herself.

Almost as proud as her dad. The song sounds beautiful. I tell her. She smiles. My eyes tear up. So glad I didn't give up on her.

Sometimes people need time to mature.

If we're patient, supportive, and invested in their development, they may blossom into something special.

Right when we least expect it.