“A public display of dignified grief”

“The family [of people of color whose relatives have died as a result of police violence] is dignified because that’s what the country expects of them. That’s what the country needs. And one wishes that for once, a family faced with such horror could be unashamedly, cathartically undignified. One wishes they could scream and cry and throw things against a wall if that’s what they wanted to do, if that would make them feel better. If they would not be judged… ‘Can the family tell everyone to be calm and peaceful?’ The families not only must bear their burden but they’re asked to bear society’s as well.”

The whole perspective, here.

Say her name

Honestly, I started this post before I watched Youn Yuh-Jung’s acceptance speech for the 2021 Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress.

I was thinking over a decade back, to when my partner and I were about to introduce our parents for the first time, and how worried my soon-to-be-mother-in law was about mispronouncing my mom’s name: Haingja.

(Mom had gone by “Julie” when she first immigrated because, you know, that has nothing to do with Haingja, but at least people in the US could, for the most part, recognize and pronounce it.)

I practiced saying “Haingja” with my partner’s parents (the “ai” is between the sharp “ai” in “ain’t” and the flatter “a” in “hang,” and the last “a” is pronounced “ah”), and when my not-yet-mom-in-law expressed frustration that she just couldn’t get it – so could she call my mom something else – I looked her in the eye, and said with all sincerity: “Your name is Lochiel Poutiatine. There’s no way my parents are getting that right.”

It struck me once again just how deep the sense of “you’re different; I’m normal” runs in each of us. And how that’s not just an “interesting” distinction we make, but one that is consequential: determining whose names get said, therefore who gets addressed directly, and who is invited into our conversations. And even once we’re invited in…

Rewind an additional decade-plus, when I was in a different relationship, living with someone who confessed how nervous they were when my mom would call. Why? I asked. Because he had a hard time understanding her accented English.

I looked him in the eye, and said with all sincerity: “I’m pretty sure my mom doesn’t understand what you’re saying either. In fact, I sometimes don’t understand what you’re saying. It’s OK to tell her you didn’t understand, and would she repeat herself.” (Truth: one day, we were talking about the car, and my then-boyfriend brought up “Earl,” whom I neither knew, nor understood what they had to do with our car… until I realized he was saying “oil.” Yes, in this story, I’m also the one who thought I spoke “clear” English.)

Fast-forward to today, when I listened to Youn Yuh-Jung’s speech. (Note: I’m writing her name as it would be in Korean, with the family name first.)

I listened to her forgive the frequent mispronunciation of her name by “Europeans.”

I listened to her voice, her accented English (note: everyone has an accent), her cadence… all of which sound like home to me. (That “unh” before her “tremendous thanks” to the Academy is the sound of every conversation among my relatives that I’ve ever heard.)

I am so grateful to get to hear her voice.

And I invite you to say her name with me: Youn Yuh-Jung.

I ask you to “say her name” as we are called to do whenever someone is the victim of a hate crime in the US, because I believe that if we say their names while they are alive, whether we are celebrating them or just meeting them, in that act of bother to notice and name who someone else is, we may end up saying fewer names only posthumously.

Best Supporting Actress Winner Yuh-Jung Youn's acceptance speech was hysterical. Watch the full thing: https://t.co/LsffGKAhao #Oscars pic.twitter.com/a23mys9amE

— Good Morning America (@GMA) April 26, 2021

Dear boards, Where are we?

Reading about Dalton, Brearley and Grace Church Schools in “Private Schools Brought in Diversity Consultants. Outrage Ensued,” Harvard-Westlake and Grace Church again (the same math teacher is interviewed) in “The Miseducation of America’s Elites,” and those same schools and more in “Private Schools are Indefensible,” I wondered where the boards were.

On the controversies about DEI and social justice. And maybe in the interviews with anonymous parents that were included in all three articles (because in the independent school world, boards are still typically majority parents).

While the heads of Dalton and Grace Church are featured in this weekend’s NY Times‘ article, the board is only mentioned as co-recipients of “angry emails to administrators and trustees.”

But, you might be thinking, boards aren’t supposed to get operational, and these articles are talking about curricula.

Correct. The board isn’t responsible for curricular or other programmatic decisions. They are responsible for institutional stewardship.

Which includes:

• Institutional strategy
• Community leadership
• Internal board operations

Fun fact: the word “board” only appears in this weekend’s article in the phrase “on board,” noting that everyone isn’t.

It’s the board’s job, not to be “on board,” but to own the school’s agenda: to show up as leaders when the community has questions about what the school is doing (not to explain all the details, but to stand by the professionals they’ve hired).

But what, you may be wondering, if the teachers are running amok with their liberal-leaning agendas? Remember, boards are co-creators of institutional strategy, with (typically at least) admin. My question would be: has the board helped to articulate the vision clearly enough that the teachers have an institutional north star to guide their work?

And undergirding both responsibilities, and the internal responsibility for themselves as a governing body, is the need for a baseline DEI fluency: to strategize (not just explicitly “DEI” initiatives – any initiatives that impact more than one person), to lead community and to keep their own house.

I hope the reporting of these articles isn’t indicative of where the boards of these schools are – i.e. out of the picture. I hope that governance is doing its work to learn.

While I know that many schools (including, but not limited to their boards) are talking about these articles, I hope they are not just spectating. And I hope the takeaways isn’t “how do we not end up like that?” I hope the takeaways are about what they can reasonably expect (without needing another article), and what they need to own and design for: especially all leadership, in their arenas of agency and responsibility.

Accountability

I really appreciate the clear language about the verdict in the trial of Derek Chauvin: that this is a chance at accountability, not justice. I say “chance” because his sentencing is yet to come, as are the outcomes of any appeals to his conviction.

We, the United States, have a chance at accountability.

I appreciate this clarity because it’s accurate. Justice is not just one verdict. Justice is the design for and demonstration that, as the status quo, all lives are equal. Justice would include, but not end at, accountability: justice would strive for repair and restoration of each person’s and our collective humanity.

I appreciate this clarity about accountability because it illuminates how low the bar is, what we’re settling for now. As much as accountability matters, as much as it may have seemed we might not even get that, don’t we all deserve more?

So I appreciate that we’re clear about what we have a chance at in this one trial. Hopefully, as we arc ever toward justice.

There is so much here.

This is the public post on LinkedIn:

ATTENTION BIPOC EDUCATORS! What should I do when three of my Taiwanese high school students want to do an independent group presentation on the “hood” accent?

So I’m at an internationally-minded experimental high school, and I’m co-designing a unit with my students. They want to learn about accents from different English speakers around the world, and the calling question is “What might your accent / way you speak language reveal about your identity & culture?” They will be giving presentations, and the self-researched topics include NY accent challenge, British accents and class in “Peaky Blinders”, Malaysian English, etc.

I’m not a sociolinguist, and I’m inventing this as I’m going along.

So what should I do when I have a group of three well-intentioned but naïve students (sincerely interested in American street, music and hip hop culture) who want to research the “hood” accent?

I let it go, until a student approached the only black teacher in the school for help on his project. Now I’m starting to doubt that the investigation of “hood” English runs the risk of perpetuating racial stereotypes… Should I convince them that there’s no such thing as a “hood” accent? And point them towards scholarly examination African American Vernacular English? How can I guide this topic in a positive direction without stifling their interest and learning?

You may notice to whom this post is addressed.

This is how I responded:

I’m not Black or Indigenous, so I may be out of line responding, in which case please delete this. My first question is whether they’re responding to your call: “What might your accent / way you speak language reveal about your identity & culture?” That is: are they delving into how they themselves speak? If they are, then there’s a lot to explore that shouldn’t start with or depend on your Black colleague, including expectations of what (in their case) Taiwanese kids are “supposed to sound like,” and APIA usage of African-American Vernacular English (see: the controversy over Awkwafina’s use of “verbal blackface,” and read the cultural appropriation – or code-switching – in Eddie Huang’s Fresh off the Boat). If they aren’t researching their own accent, it sounds like there’s a lot to reflect on. And whether or not AAVE is their accent, there’s a lot in how they’re framing their topic that they need to unpack before they ask anyone for help, including what “hood” is code for (so that they understand the intersectional racism-classism that this inquiry activates, regardless of their sincere interest). This is all to say: my take is that their project needs to be re-centered on what you asked for.

I consider it both out of line and completely within bounds that I responded. And I sincerely hope Rosalyn deletes my comment if it was inappropriate for me to chime in.

There. is. so. much. here.

1. The question of whether you can be Taiwanese (I don’t even know if this means Taiwanese born and/or Taiwanese by ancestry) and speak African-American Vernacular English as your English.
2. The difference in the perception of whether you’re code-switching (see: defense of AOC), appropriating (and speaking in “verbal blackface”) based on ethnoracial identity, class identity, some conflation of the two, plus other factors.
3. If these kids don’t identify with AAVE as their English, are they distancing themselves from their own accent(s) because… they don’t think they have one? I’m an example of this: I’m Korean-American, born in the US and a mono-lingual US English speaker. Despite my proximity to Philadelphia when I was growing up, I do not have a stereotypical “Philly” accent (ex. pronouncing water more like “wudder”). I consider myself pretty neutral as a US English speaker. Which is not a thing. In actuality, my US English accent accords me with status (including an assumption that I’m educated, and – wow, it gets deep fast – not racist, the way people who speak with a southern US accent may be quickly stereotyped as racist). I speak what I believe to be not “normal” or “regular” US English, but a prestige dialect of US English. My point is: it can be hard to hear your own accent, and so maybe these kids, misinterpreting themselves as “normal,” are looking for what they perceive as “different.”
4. … or are they distancing themselves from their own accent(s) because they speak Taiwanese-accented English? Because this family of accents activates anti-Asian racism, with all of its xenophobia and white supremacism, so that it doesn’t matter whether you were born in the US or how smart you are: you’re a dumb foreigner who should go back home.
5. And then, regardless of whether they individually identify as AAVE speakers, there is the global issue of the fact of the appropriation of AAVE by non-African-American people: while anti-Black racism rampages on, while Black lives continue to matter less than White lives do, Black US American culture is being “tried on” and emulated for social status without any of the dire costs of being Black in the US. (And here, I encourage you to watch Amandla Stenberg’s “Don’t Cash Crop on My Cornrows,” in which she asks: “What would America be like if it loved black people as much as it loves black culture?”

All this said, of course, maybe these students just didn’t read the assignment very closely.

And still. There’s so much here.

I appreciate that Rosalyn formulated this project as a self-study. Because my unconsciousness of how I’ve normalized how I speak predictably permits me to linguistically stereotype and discriminate against, and for others on the basis of accent or dialect, which is consequentially inextricable from racism, xenophobia, classism and sexism (at the very least).

Are we whoa-ing ourselves enough?

A trustee of an independent school once shared after a visioning exercise, in which I ask trustees to imagine the school and community they hope their institution is becoming. Not like, next year. More like: 5… 10… 30 years out. What do they hope all the DEI commitment, work and activity in their community is arcing toward?

This trustee said: We won’t be charging a tuition.

I thought: Whoa.

Maybe you’re thinking it, too.

I know that I’ve whoa’d trustees and other leaders from other schools and organizations when I’ve (anonymously) shared this. (And this is actually not just one trustee who envisioned a tuition-free future. It’s a couple.)

And yes, whoa.

Also, what doesn’t take your breath away about the steep, unsustainable and yet continuous rise in tuitions for private education?

And then whoa, again, when I considered the quantum leap difference between governing to chase-tuition-inflation, and governing to eliminate one of the highest, deeply entrenched hurdles to access… which would not just be a nice charity act or some “DEI [read: liberal] agenda.” It would be a mission-vital shift in perspective, possibility and responsibility for schools that were designed for tuition to be a financial (and racial and religious) gatekeeper. It would be mission-realizing for many institutions to redesign their financial models, in order to be able to learn with and from kids who value their values, who embody the best of the institution in their own humanity, regardless of family financial resources.

Whoa. How many boards are really governing toward a vision they’re owning, instead of constraints they’re accepting or resigned to? (I have to say: from a day-to-day operations perspective, this may understandably seem more like: No way, than whoa. And, boards are strategic leaders. They are responsible for thinking ahead. For planning for and toward the future. And if they are audacious, for co-creating it.)

And I’m wondering: how many boards – and let’s call in everyone else who is in a leadership position – how many of us aren’t whoa-ing ourselves, enough or at all?

** Thanks, SK, for suggesting that this should be a post.

It’s pronounced…

The local news last night covered a protest against anti-Asian violence.

Notably, this is the more common term I’m hearing: anti-Asian violence. As opposed to anti-Asian racism. Are you hearing it, too? Even people who refer to “anti-Black racism” aren’t naming that the violence against Asians is racist violence. So I have to wonder if, even with growing recognition of anti-Asianness, there’s still misunderstanding and denial that what we’re talking about, what Asian people are experiencing, is racism: systemic oppression, marginalization and discrimination on the basis of race – not just a spate of attacks against Asians (right now), that is somehow disconnected from the entirety of racism.

And, I noticed how carefully the anchor pronounced the acronym “AAPI,” getting all the letters clear and correct.

“Correct,” that is, if that’s what they really meant to say.

I’ve posted about this before. I think acronyms are helpful, and…

I believe we should always ask: what do you mean?

I also advise that acronyms can be handy shortcuts in print, as long as you have established what you mean when you use them.

When it comes to oral communication, I advise that “AAPI” is pronounced: Asian American and Pacific Islander (American).

“BIPOC” is actually pronounced: Black and Indigenous People of Color. Or, for brevity and still accuracy: Black and Indigenous People.

When we take the time to name whom we mean to name, this is when we may discover that we mean Pacific Islander-Americans, too. And that “Indigenous” is variously defined, so what I mean is… (and my default is that Indigenous includes Native Americans, Latina/e/o/x and Hispanic people).

It honestly never occurred to me.

Please read Mediocre by Ijeoma Oluo.

She writes her “Conclusion” in the wake of “a coordinated campaign” of harassment from white men, who were emailing her with their suicide threats (couched in bountiful racist and sexist slurs), “trying to terrorize [her] with what they saw as the only logical conclusion to [her] antiracist, feminist work: the mass suicide of white men.” She reflects, “They wanted me to know that they only option available to address white male patriarchy was either to maintain the status quo that was making us all miserable, or death.”

Honestly, it has never occurred to me that the only solution, let alone a solution or even part of a strategy toward antiracism and antipatriarchy would involve getting rid of white men.

Never.

Occurred.

To me.

It would be funny, except that it’s insightful. Evidentiary of the obvious: that white patriarchal supremacy centers white men. And thus, the only possibility for white men who have fully bought in to dehumanization, including their own.

Oluo continues:

Nobody is more pessimistic about white men than white men.

… These white men [who “are missing… an intrinsic sense of self that is not tied to how much power or success they can hold over others”] are filled with anger, sadness, and fear over what they do not have, what they believe has been stolen from them. And they look at where they are now, and they cannot imagine anything different. As miserable as they are, they are convinced that no other option exists for them. It is either this, or death: ours or theirs.

I don’t want this for white men. I don’t want it for any of us.

… We have become convinced that there is only way for white men to be. We are afraid to imagine something better.

And this is where she reminded me to hope.

As have the Haudenosaunee, in their laws:

“In all of your deliberations in the Confederate Council, in your efforts at law making, in all your official acts, self interest shall be cast into oblivion. Cast not over your shoulder behind you the warnings of the nephews and nieces should they chide you for any error or wrong you may do, but return to the way of the Great Law which is just and right. Look and listen  for the welfare of the whole people and have always in view not only the present but also  the coming generations, even those whose faces are yet beneath the surface of the ground — the unborn of the future Nation.”

That’s right: seven generation thinking.

As Toni Morrison did, in her call to anyone with the responsibility for leadership:

As you enter positions of trust and power, dream a little before you think.

As have all social justice leaders and movements, past and present.

As have Bryan Stevenson, Valarie Kaur and Ijeoma Oluo, in their words and work.

Hope that we can imagine. Hope, to create other, better options for ourselves together. Hope, as our north star because yes, the work of arcing toward social justice is never-ending, but we can and should be able to tell if we’re making progress.

And so I’ll end by sharing what I’ve been asking leaders for the past year:

What’s your vision for DEI? In 10, 20, 50… years, what will your organization, as an institution and community, be like? What will people be doing and experiencing? What experiences and outcomes will you be realizing (within your community, and beyond)?

And then we talk about the how.

But first, we envision, we aspire, we dream.

Toward anti-“pathological” systems in hiring

In “Why Do So Many Incompetent Men Become Leaders?” Tomas Chamorro-Premuzic posits that “the main reason for the uneven management sex ratio is our inability to discern between confidence and competence.”

Boom.

And this, Chamorro-Premuzic goes on, has everything to do “with the finding that leaderless groups have a natural tendency to elect self-centered, overconfident and narcissistic individuals as leaders, and that these personality characteristics are not equally common in men and women.”

And this is not just research. This is a tendency-in-repeated-action. That is not working out. (And not just for women.)

The truth of the matter is that pretty much anywhere in the world men tend to think that they that are much smarter than women. Yet arrogance and overconfidence are inversely related to leadership talent — the ability to build and maintain high-performing teams, and to inspire followers to set aside their selfish agendas in order to work for the common interest of the group. 

It’s worth reading the whole article, but if you don’t have time, here’s the conclusion:

In sum, there is no denying that women’s path to leadership positions is paved with many barriers including a very thick glass ceiling. But a much bigger problem is the lack of career obstacles for incompetent men, and the fact that we tend to equate leadership with the very psychological features that make the average man a more inept leader than the average woman. The result is a pathological system that rewards men for their incompetence while punishing women for their competence, to everybody’s detriment [emphasis felt and added].

This is not just interesting.

This is “pathological” at a systems level. With dire, predictable consequences that are so typical, that we think this is just the way things are.

But they don’t have to be.

This article is entirely actionable:

• Own that of course we’re biased. (Yes, even if you took bias-in-hiring training. Even then.)
• Name what we’re perceiving and how we’re interpreting a colleague, job applicant, candidate for a position. It’s as easy as describing the person in our own words and then getting curious, discussing aloud: what could that be about? (Considering both what it may indicate about me and them).
• Challenge ideas like “good fit.” Fit with what? And if it’s “fit with our culture or team: with what we’ve been, are currently or are trying to become?
• And recognize that this is not just us: this is about the systems and results that we are campaigning for by perpetuating them. We have to acknowledge that there is no equal footing, at any point in any vetting process, by default. And even if you’ve designed for equity, how do you know you’re realizing it? What’s your evidence? (So to all organizations that are committed to equitable recruitment, hiring, onboarding and retention: track outcomes, including exceptions/end-runs around your intended process. Whether you’re practicing your system is critical to know as you look at hiring “results.”)
• So design against “pathological, systemic” inequality in hiring. And hold yourselves accountable for demonstration that you are actually realizing anti-pathological, systemic equality. (Yes, I’m really appreciating typing those words out.)

Need to call someone out? in? (or respond when…?)

I just wanted to post two resources on calling people out/in about bias and discrimination.

The first is: “Interrupting bias: Calling out vs. calling in” from Seed The Way. I appreciate the framing that calling out is as useful a tool as calling in (despite some of the commentary that we “should” only call others in).

And regarding how to respond when you’ve been called out/in, a preface:

Sometimes people who have been called out, including me, take issue with how we’ve been addressed. That reflexive response – wishing someone had been kinder, nicer, recognized that “I’m a good person” – is legitimate, insofar as it is what it is. And I try, in that moment of “hey, ouch” to:

• Identify what, if anything, has been abusive – as opposed to uncomfortable – because I don’t think anyone should take abuse. However, discomfort is sometimes essential or at least catalyzing for growth.
• Recognize it’s not (all) personal. That is, what I just did/said is problematic often because it’s a systemic issue or social pattern. That I just participated in.
• Recognize that no one owes me anything. And yet, in calling me out, someone is demonstrating that they think/believe/feel that I’m worth telling. Yup. No matter how brutal it may have felt. They bothered to. So, maybe I can find some gratitude.
• Recognize that if I’ve just hurt someone, if they yell back, that may be proportionate, fair, or just all they have right now. In other words, why should I expect to be their primary concern while they’re experiencing harm that I’ve brought on or re-inflicted? (If you’re thinking, yes, but sometimes they’re just clapping back to prove how woke they are, well, maybe. And, I strive not to judge for people when they’re hurt, but rather to defer to their authority on the subject of themselves.)
• Own my shame. That is, whether or not I think someone is trying to shame me, there’s the question of whether I feel ashamed. Or guilty, or just bad. And sitting with that matters because it indicates that I care. And if I care, I have all the more motivation to learn, and not do this again. (So rather than “but I didn’t mean to hurt you,” because I didn’t mean to hurt you, I am going to try to understand and do my work.)

… which is a lot to practice in a moment. It helps to breathe.

And then to: acknowledge. And, potentially apologize (which is distinct but related).

Which brings me to Chescaleigh’s awesome video: “Getting called out: How to apologize.”

It’s worth anticipating that you will say or do something that you didn’t intend to (and yet it nevertheless does) not only hurt another person, but perpetuate systemic exclusion, oppression and dehumanization.

And consider: what an apology sounds like for you?

For me…

I try to keep it focused on what I did and the impact I had (including on people who haven’t said anything). Not about me, what I meant…

I try to keep it simple, and not put a lot of words between us.

I also explicitly try to avoid creating more work for you. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to teach me.

And I try not just to signal but to commit to my work: sitting in my discomfort and regret. and learning.