How to Be an Ally in the Midst of a Backlash

As of May 2, more than 540 anti-LGBTQ bills have been introduced in statehouses across the country, according to the Human Rights Campaign. Laws are now in effect banning gender-affirming care for transgender youth, requiring or allowing misgendering of transgender students, and censoring school curriculum, including books. This trend runs alongside the post-Dobbs collapse of reproductive rights; 43% of reproductive-age women now live in states where abortion may soon be, or has already been, banned completely.

It’s not the first backlash, not by a longshot. Black history is marked by waves of progress stalled and dismantled with policy and brute force, notably the backlash to emancipation and Reconstruction. Today, this movement to return to an era of homophobic secrecy and fear threatens the dignity and equality of all gender and sexual expressions. And the 50 years of constitutionally protected decisions around pregnancy have given way to a frightening patchwork of punitive and dangerous legal impediments.

At schools, libraries, and healthcare providers, dealing with these laws is mission-critical. Even if you and your organization aren’t directly affected by them, your employees are. What can leaders do to be strong allies amid the backlash?

• Think about how your employees are feeling. Make space for conversation.

• Make sure your policies are as inclusive as possible.

• Be explicit about how you protect employees’ rights and do not tolerate harassment or discrimination.

• Sign on to campaigns in defense of LGBTQ equality and reproductive freedom, and announce your support publicly.

• Don’t make any changes to equitable policies in the face of criticism from outside—or the fear of criticism that might come.

After Dobbs, several companies announced that they would pay for employees in conservative states to travel for abortion care. Although I cringe at the thought of a woman having to share this personal information with her employer, it was encouraging to see companies take a stand. As we see in the case of Disney and their support of LGBTQ freedom in Florida, organizations can influence the conversation.

Even if that kind of visible action isn’t comfortable for you, you can still send a message with your money. Florida, North Dakota, Tennessee, and Texas have been the most aggressive in advancing anti-LGBTQ+ laws and censoring teachers. Don’t attend or host conferences in those states. Money sends a strong signal. Where and how we spend it is a tangible demonstration of allyship.

It takes everyone doing their part to fight against the backlash. And history shows it makes a difference.

Tattoos in the Courtroom

What predisposes you to like a person? Or dislike them? A proper handshake? Strong eye contact?

We all have things that make us pull away or toward people. It’s human.

But when those predispositions show up in the context of how we evaluate someone in a job interview, that’s a problem.

How important is handshake technique really to job performance? Intellectually, we know that if someone doesn’t iron their shirt perfectly, it doesn’t mean they will always be unprepared and won’t be a good worker. And yet, some of us hear alarm bells going off in our head if we think a candidate has a lapse in polish.

I was recently reminded of how superficial—and changeable—these norms around professionalism are. At a workshop on conducting interviews, a participant brought up tattoos as being inherently unprofessional. Apparently some law firms ban visible ones when their lawyers are in court.

Other participants thought that seemed reasonable. What would the judge or the jury think of a lawyer with tattoos?

I asked if any of them were familiar with Judge Frison. Shannon Frison has been a judge for the Massachusetts Superior Court for more than 13 years. She has detailed tattoos on her arm and her neck, which she brandishes in her robes from the bench.

I really appreciate all the ways she is showing up as her authentic self. As a Black woman with a shaved head and unique personal style, Judge Frison was already going to be breaking stereotypes on the bench. Her pride has the effect of reprogramming us about what a legal authority can look like. She blazes a trail for other people who may not resemble those who have come before to be judges and other civic leaders.

The next time you interview a candidate with a tattoo, ask yourself: does a tattoo really get in the way of doing the work? What about cornrows or an afro? Or anything else that varies from traditional office style or behavior?

And what cost are you making your employees pay to fit in to your biases? When does a modest amount of code switching transition into covering their true selves?

A participant in another workshop shared that her child is neurodivergent—super smart, but socially inhibited, so he doesn’t make eye contact. “I’m in IT,” the participant said, “and I have a lot of colleagues who behave the same way. Maybe that isn’t something they can control. Maybe it’s just a part of who they are.” In other words, what might read as unprofessional is in fact a contributor to organizational diversity.

In the end, it’s not worth holding too tightly to traditional expectations. When I started my career, suits with skirts, pantyhose, and heels were a daily requirement for women lawyers. Thankfully, we have broadened our views on that front. Can you broaden what looks like “professional” to you?

And based on what I see as I look around, it’s only a matter of time before the people in charge will all have tattoos. And it won’t be a big deal.

Living While Black

White friends and colleagues sometimes wonder why Black people are so affected when a stranger across the country is attacked by police, vigilantes, or a fellow resident.

The news is upsetting to everyone, of course. But not to the point where it affects their work or their mood. It may seem irrational to many white people.

Now, I’m not qualified to explain the psychological/sociological/anthropological reasons for this phenomenon. But I understand it. When these things happen, I feel it in the pit of my stomach. And the last couple weeks have been rough.

Sixteen-year-old Ralph Yarl in Kansas City, Missouri, was shot—twice—by a man whose doorbell he mistakenly rang. When I saw that on the news, my thoughts went back to when my son was about Ralph’s age.

He was into photography, and to experiment with light, he was going out to take photos in the middle of the night. He hadn’t told me, but his younger sister spilled the beans. My belly started to churn. When he woke up, I confronted him about it. He admitted that he’d been out taking photos at 2am in Wellesley. “What were you thinking!” I yelled.

He wasn’t thinking all the things I was thinking. In fact, he thought I was being ridiculous. There was no law against taking photos at night. He looked it up! He could go where he pleased, he said.

I unfolded a possible scenario for him. A Wellesley resident calls the police. “There’s a Black man outside. He has something in his hand. It’s glinting in the light. It could be a gun.” Armed police arrive, adrenaline pumping, surprising my son. As they slam him to the ground, he tries to explain: “I looked up the law! I have the right to be here!” A mother’s nightmare.

Then there was the incident in Newton on Marathon Monday. A couple of running groups of color were gathered to cheer on their members who were racing. A few of them were stepping onto the road to run alongside their friends when they passed, as many supporters do. In this case, the marathon organizers called in the Newton police to enforce the rule against crossing the rope barrier. A bicycle blockade of uniformed officers appeared in front of their tent, casting a chill over their joy and preventing them from connecting with their friends as they entered the final stretch of their big day.

I can only imagine the fear that the Black supporters must have felt as they looked at the stone faces of the police, suddenly lined up in front of them and only them. Every one of them must have been thinking of all who have been policed, tried, and punished in seconds for being Black and going about their lives. The way I still feel my heart race when a police car is behind me while I’m driving, nearly 8 years after the death of Sandra Bland in Texas.

If you are wondering why your colleagues of color once again have an unhealthy pall on their spirit, this is why. If we seem overly impacted by this kind of news, it’s because we know it could happen to us, or someone near and dear to us.