Truth Hurts, But So Does Hiding It

One of the principles of DEI work that I hold dear is to meet people where they are.

This is a challenge when a group is diverse. How do you meet people in multiple places at the same time?

Recently a slide I’ve been using near the beginning of workshops has prompted a few strong reactions, but for different reasons. This is the version of that slide that I used recently during law school orientation programs:

I use this message to help participants understand why adults at a high-performing professional organization are being trained on inclusion at all.

The organization may be more diverse now than in the past, but the norms and assumptions of the past persist. So it will take conscious effort to identify and rethink them so that they truly serve the diversity of today.

During a recent workshop, I noticed one man reacting to the slide right away: a man of color, frowning and shifting his weight but not raising his hand.

During a break I checked in with him. It turned out he was bothered by something I hadn’t thought of before.

The first sentence could be interpreted to mean that the law profession wouldn’t have been founded but for the work of straight white men.

He read the slide as suggesting that inequality was just a curious historical happenstance. Women and people of color, one could infer, were not originally engaged in the hard work of developing law. Now they wanted to be “included” in something they had no part in.

The reality I left out of the sentence is that the straight white men were deliberately excluding everyone else from the start.

I thanked him for the insight. It certainly hadn’t been what I meant—but impact matters more than intent (another core principle of DEI work).

So I started drafting a revised slide.

Before I finished, though, I got an email from another client whose workshop was coming up. To my surprise, she had singled out the very same slide for feedback. But this time it wasn’t to be more specific about the cause of inequality—it was to be more general.

“This slide is going to make some people uncomfortable,” she said. Naming straight white men at the start of a session, even in this general way, might prompt white participants to resist before I even had a chance to engage them in dialogue.

And so I sat with yet another core principle of DEI: that people have to get comfortable with discomfort in order to learn.

Stating the truth about the origins of racism and sexism is painful. It is so upsetting to many Americans that they are passing laws to prevent it from being discussed in schools and libraries.

The question, sometimes, is whose discomfort we tolerate and whose we don’t. As the first participant reminded me, it hurts to erase the struggle too.

DEI isn’t easy. Even for DEI professionals.

Missing the Microvalidations

A Black woman who goes by Mamasay.Mamasaw on Tiktok posted a video earlier this summer, standing in a playground, reflecting on parenting in a mostly white suburb.

While the academic and extracurricular opportunities abound, being part of a small minority has an insidious impact on children’s social lives.

Her richest insights pertain to the behavior of adults. When white moms and dads socialize easily with each other, but have only superficial or wary relationships with parents of color, Black children miss out on countless chances to build friendships and gain access to social networks and diverse interests.

I watched this with painful recognition. I moved to my Boston suburb 30 years ago with my infant. My family thrived here in many ways, and I have wonderful friends. At the same time, I still think of the moment my son said he wanted his haircut like his blond friend, and the dawning understanding that he was not like everybody else around him.

This next observation really struck me:

When I went back to the hood—and yeah the area looks depressing, the buildings are dilapidated or whatever—but going into the store there is a real sense of community amongst my own that I didn’t notice before.

Like the way that we just organically talk to each other in the aisles, calling each other ‘baby,’ ‘ma’am,’ ‘sir,’ ‘honey.’ Like, if my boys were walking around in the store in the hood, somebody else’s mom is going to call them ‘baby.’ ‘Baby, can you pick that up for me?’ ‘Honey, can you get that over there?’

Ain’t nobody in Wegmans calling my sons ‘baby’ or ‘honey.’

I hadn’t thought about that before. When you are seen as a full member of a culture, interactions are saturated with subtle cues of belonging. Strangers might greet you warmly or strike up small talk. Children are encouraged as though they were part of one big family. Over time, these signals soothe our brains and bodies, allowing us to build a foundation of security and confidence.

When the culture withholds these signals, we might not notice it. But like a plant without sun or water, we aren’t getting everything we need to grow strong. You go about your day treated as a guest, or worse, as an interloper.

We know all too well that a teenage boy who is Black, shopping in a mostly white neighborhood, can’t expect affection from everyone around them. They are more likely to be subtly avoided, or questioned—or all too frequently, followed or accused.

My question to you: is your workplace more like the neighborhood grocery store, or is it more like the Wegmans? Do your employees of color get those nurturing cues from colleagues that mean “This is your neighborhood”?

They’re called microvalidations. No one needs to call them “baby” or “honey,” of course. But everyone needs to know they are trusted and valued. That they belong.

Not just when they excel. Just for being there.

The Humility of Reversing Direction

Have you ever driven down a dead-end street and you realize there’s not enough room to turn around?

People remind me of that sometimes.

We commit to a point of view. We drive forward. And when we realize we made a mistake, or don’t like the direction the conversation is taking, we look around and discover we are stuck. We’ve boxed ourselves in too tightly and we can’t hit reverse.

We keep arguing a point we know is wrong, because to try to explain our mistake now would be as awkward as a six-point turn.

Some years ago, I was browsing in a little gift shop in my neighborhood with a friend. We were stopped short by a sign being sold among the novelty items—something like “Warning: Unattended Children Will Be Sold into Slavery.”

We looked at each other with the same aghast expression. Was this supposed to be funny?

We were the only customers in the store. A woman we assumed was the owner was sitting at the counter. We approached, pointed at the sign, and said, “Excuse me, we find the sign about slavery really offensive.”

The woman looked up, squinted at the sign, and clenched her jaw. “Well,” she said, “It’s a joke. Some people think it’s funny.”

I told her I understood that some might find it funny, but because it will likely offend many others, she should consider that impact.

The owner just drove further down the road she was on. “I think you’re overreacting.”

“No one else has said anything about it.”

“I won’t be told what I can and can’t sell in my store.”

My friend and I tried to redirect the dialogue, hoping we could at least be heard. But she finally reached the dead end: “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store.”

We were dumb-struck. Her metaphorical foot was on the accelerator.

“Or I’ll call the police.”

My friend and I exchanged looks and my friend said, “All right, go ahead. We’ll just keep browsing until they get here.”

Of course the owner realized there was no way to go farther. She didn’t pick up the phone. But she didn’t apologize either. After waiting for a while, we left—never to return.

I was angry when it happened. But now, with the benefit of time since the event, I feel some compassion for this woman. She may have realized she had taken the wrong approach at some point in our exchange. But like the driver on the narrow road, she couldn’t see where she could turn around. There wasn’t enough room to change direction without some clumsy maneuvers that would bruise her ego.

We all take the wrong road sometimes. How often do we recognize our mistake, but can’t find the humility to say we’re wrong? We drive on until we reach the end of the path, and then honk and shout in frustration.

But all we’re doing is annoying the neighbors. The only way to get back on track is to reverse, slowly and carefully, no matter how foolish we fear we may look.