Don't Argue on Facebook

I did something this week that I really try not to do.

I responded to someone on Facebook.

It was in a group focused on my local community. A man posted to “alert other parents” that the middle school had sent a form to students that included questions about preferred pronouns.

He was outraged, especially about the follow-up question: “Do your parents and guardians know that these are your preferred pronouns?”

This particular parent felt that this was encouraging students to lie to their parents. Which is an interesting point, I thought.

But his use of the Fox News buzzword “indoctrination” set off my bias detector. It was the pronoun preference issue that really triggered him.

And when some brave soul replied with an alternative point of view—“I don't think it’s a big deal; the parents are not the child”—the man’s tone heated up even more.

It was one of those moments when two of my guiding principles were in direct conflict with each other.

One: if you see something that is biased that could be causing harm, say something. Last week my colleague Dr. Kiera Penpeci wrote about the importance of practicing allyship by speaking up, even if it’s just to create a pause so people can reflect on new perspectives.

Then there’s another of my guiding principles: don’t argue with people on Facebook.

I was directly in the middle of the two.

This man’s comments—and the follow-up ranting from him and his supporters—could cause harm to young people by normalizing biases about gender identity.

Do I just let that sit?

At the same time, I know that it’s pointless to argue on social media. This man is clearly not looking for feedback.

Speaking up in meetings, like Kiera did, can work because the community shares an investment in the outcome. Changing the dynamic in a group like that can create a feedback loop that changes behavior over time.

I have never seen that play out online.

So I thought about it. The original poster wasn’t listening to alternative points of view, but other people might be. Maybe I could contribute something worthwhile that would reach people reading the thread, so they would see a different perspective amid all the screaming.

For me, interrupting bias isn’t about changing someone’s belief system. It’s about stopping, or redirecting, the flow of the conversations; interjecting a different perspective—making clear that what was said isn’t the only way of thinking.

So that’s what I ended up doing. I wrote a few thoughts about the importance of treating people with respect by addressing them in the way in which they want to be addressed (names and pronouns), and about how not all adolescents can safely talk about this at home. The original poster responded with a couple angry and flippant posts.

At that point, I stopped. There’s no winning on Facebook.

But I did see a few other people “liked” what I said. I guess that’s a victory.

Cooling the Heat of the Moment

A guest post by FC Consultant Dr. Kiera Penpeci

The moment has come: the opportunity to practice allyship and stand up.

To align our actions with our words.

In that split second, our faces and the tips of our ears are literally hot. Our heartbeat and temperature rises. Our nervous system also recognizes a threat—perhaps that there’s something to give up, or something to lose.

I experienced this as I logged into an all-company zoom meeting. As people were waiting for the full group to arrive, some of the (man-identifying) senior leaders began to use the chat function to tease another (man-identifying) senior leader who was wearing flowers on his shirt.

“Did you shop in the women’s section?”

“Maybe he borrowed his wife’s shirt.”

I looked at the faces of the other staff in their zoom boxes as they read these chats. I was offended myself, and recognized the representation of many individuals who would find them offensive as well.

The thought of calling out these senior leaders made my hands shake.

I knew my voice was needed, but I was afraid. Afraid of saying something imprecise that would make the situation worse. Of upsetting the recipient and being seen as a sh*t-stirrer. Of being ineffective.

Each opportunity to speak up is a chance to test these assumptions.

I simply typed, “I think we should change the subject.”

The teasing stopped. And the chat was immediately filled with “thank yous” both public and private.

My assumption was proved wrong, and that moment changed the way I think about allyship.

Rather than calling out someone’s mistakes, I used mindful language to call them in. “Calling in” is a term coined by Ngọc Loan Trần and amplified by educator Loretta Ross and other social justice activists. It emphasizes compassion and patience over shaming.

When people feel shamed, they experience a threat to their character. The reaction then is defensiveness, anger, or shutting down.

Calling in makes others aware of the impact of their behaviors, but also leaves room to further the conversation. We can tend to everyone’s interests, getting our point across while saving face.

Calling in isn’t about policing our tone of voice or hiding our true feelings. Rather, it’s about matching the energy needed to be constructive in a high-heat moment. This just isn’t possible when people feel shamed.

Without finger-pointing or character assassination, calling these leaders in left a door open for them to reflect and follow up if they’d like. Those who needed allyship in the moment also had their interests amplified.

The next time you find yourself in a moment that feels high-stakes, notice the sensations in your body. Your fear reflects assumptions of shame and negative reactions.

Test those assumptions. Call people in instead. Thoughtful words can start to rewrite your allyship story.

Battle of the Biases

“Why do you have to be so PC?”

We’ve heard this complaint for decades now, often after someone makes a joke that reinforces harmful stereotypes.

What surprised me this time was the source of the comment: a longtime friend who I have never heard say anything inappropriate. He wouldn't call someone names or even make a joke. He’s a straight-laced, really nice guy.

And I hadn’t criticized anything he said. I’d just noted an outdated term in the middle of a conversation we were having over dinner at a double date with him and his wife. (Have dinner with me and you’ll find out this is not that rare an occurrence.)

So when I saw his face change and heard that reflexive phrase come out of his mouth, I immediately thought, “Oh boy, he’s been listening to talk radio again.”

My guess is that my friend has been hearing the “PC” complaint from exasperated pundits, and his brain had noticed the pattern and formed a shortcut: a bias. My comment triggered it, and the response popped out like a reflex.

Even though I know this happens, I was still a little surprised that he seemed so irritated.

It reminded me just how powerful those shortcuts are. If something happens that lines up with an existing pattern, our conscious, rational analysis gets preempted by this confirmation bias.

I paused and considered my options. I could assume the DEI consultant role and educate. The sentence starters on interrupting bias ran through my head. So did all the knee-jerk responses he might come up with.

I could see our double date night turning into a cable news debate night.

That’s when I realized: I was triggered too.

In an instant, my brain had handed me a script based on my past experiences. I assumed he made this comment because he was influenced by right-wing talk radio, but I didn’t know that for sure. Curiosity and patience were about to be drowned out by my confirmation bias.

I took a breath, looked at my friend, and smiled. “Well, I am a DEI consultant. It’s kind of my job.”

He let out a laugh and his shoulders relaxed.

Yes, we all have bias scripts that take over sometimes. But that’s because we’re human. Instead of lecturing the version of my friend I was picturing in my head, I decided to talk to the human being I know and care about.

When somebody’s bias shows up, we always have to decide how to respond. Has someone been harmed? Are there other explanations for the behavior that could be at play? Do we have the energy at that moment to engage with compassion and authenticity?

In this case, I chose to let it go. After all, the intent behind what critics call “PC policing” is just about treating people with respect. My friend does that, consistently. In other circumstances, my choice would have been different.