Let go of binary thinking

Today, I routinely include my pronouns when introducing myself in my workshops, and I don’t find it notable when a participant or colleague uses “they/them.” But I remember a time, years ago, when these norms weren’t part of my experience. I was leading a small focus group for a client as part of a workplace cultural assessment. Someone walked in, I looked up and I couldn’t immediately place this person’s gender identity.

I could feel the discomfort race through my body, almost a panic, as my brain tried to classify them. They signed in on the attendee list. I peered at the name. Sam. Samantha? Samuel?

Now my heart was racing. This was the first time I faced a question of how to address or refer to a participant. What was the best way to handle it? I didn’t want to offend or embarrass them.

I was stewing in this discomfort as other participants entered and sat down. I tried to take a step back, talking to myself. Okay, I am feeling a sense of discomfort. That is coming from something in my brain—it wants to assign a category, as it always does, and it’s failing. Now what?

Then I asked myself: why does this category matter right now? In other words, do I really need to know this person’s gender identity? Would knowing affect our interaction? If this person were in front of me in the grocery store, I wouldn’t give it much of a thought. Is it different in this setting? After all, it was a focus group. If gender was a part of what this person wanted to share about their workplace experience, it would emerge during the focus group.

The bottom line was I didn’t really need to know. As soon as I realized that, the internal panic subsided. I just used the person’s name.

While my brain and I have become more accustomed to a less rigid insistence on a gender binary, I know this is a source of anxiety for many people. This situation comes up in workshops frequently. People ask me, “If you can’t tell, shouldn’t you ask a person how they identify?”

There isn’t one right answer for everyone. Context is important and treating the person with respect is paramount. I don’t think there can be a ruder phrase than “What are you?” If you are engaging in a meaningful conversation and building a relationship with someone, then sharing your pronouns and asking what pronouns they use is a good idea. If you need to refer to someone with a pronoun and you don’t know what they use, go with “they” until they tell you otherwise.

But if it’s just to satisfy your curiosity, you probably don’t need to know. You may be experiencing your brain straining to fit someone into a box. And you’re better off thinking outside the box, and letting go of binary thinking altogether.

Calling In vs. Calling Out

Have you ever been called out? Something you said or did was offensive, inappropriate, or insensitive, and someone else labeled that behavior in a public way?

It’s an awful feeling—embarrassment about causing harm at the same time as defensiveness about being criticized in front of peers. It can be hard to focus on understanding our mistakes with so many judging eyes on us, no matter how much we want to avoid making the same mistake in the future.

But calling out happens a lot. A decade or so ago, a young activist named Ngọc Loan Trần observed the phenomenon in social justice spaces, and diagnosed its downsides. They introduced an alternative approach: “calling in.” And Professor Loretta Ross expands on the idea in her book Calling In the Calling Out Culture. (I first heard it from a client Carlen Arima at the New England Aquarium—thanks, Carlen!)

When I first heard that phrase, it resonated with me immediately - I love it. It evokes closeness rather than separation, strengthening relationship rather than division. It helped me see why, for me, shaming people is not an effective approach to diversity and inclusion challenges. I don’t like to do it to others, and I definitely don’t like it when they do it to me.

Both “calling in” and “calling out” arise in a situation where harm is committed in the presence of others. We have all been there. But often we are not satisfied with the actions we took in the moment. In our workshops, we look at case studies to analyze the different roles people play in these scenarios: you may be the speaker who caused harm; you may be the recipient of the harm; or you may be a bystander.

A common impulse in these moments is to identify someone else as the cause of the tension. The offending speaker might say to the offended person, “You’re being too sensitive.” A bystander might point a finger and say, “You’re being racist.”

We encourage people to think about the role they’re playing when a conversation goes sideways, instead of pointing fingers to call out others. After all, your role is the only one you have control over in that moment.

If you have been severely impacted by offensive behavior, calling someone out may be a necessary step. But if there is a context of trust, calling in can be a powerful tool to strengthen a group’s culture. Rather than shining a light on their flaws, you can share how you feel about the impact of their words, and invite them into a conversation about how to do better next time. When we tell somebody what they’ve said has an impact they didn’t intend, we’re doing them a favor.

Last summer, the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court Standing Committee on Lawyer Well-Being invited me to facilitate a virtual workshop. There were over 300 participants in the Zoom session. It went very well and we ended the formal part of the program with enough time for questions. Someone asked if the interrupting bias tools I had shared could be used with family members. I said, “Absolutely! We all have a crazy uncle who we know will say something inappropriate during Thanksgiving dinner. That is an excellent opportunity for interrupting bias.” I said it in a lighthearted way and several people laughed with me.

When it was over, I stayed on Zoom with the two organizers, Heidi Alexander and Gavin Alexander. Heidi said that a participant sent them a message in the chat, asking them to tell me that I shouldn’t use the term “crazy uncle” because it could cause harm.

I felt defensiveness rising in me. I didn’t remember saying it. I even think I responded, “That doesn’t sound like something I would say.” But when Gavin reminded me of the context in which I said it, it all came back to me.

I felt ashamed, but also grateful at the same time. And as time has passed, my appreciation for the kindness that that participant showed me has increased exponentially. They could have called me out during the program, in front of hundreds of people, shaming me publicly. Instead they chose to call me in. They got the feedback to me and I absorbed it.

Twice in the next month, I caught myself about to say the same phrase. Thankfully I stopped myself in time. Now I only say it when I’m using it as an example of what not to say. Their call in had the desired effect.

Calling someone in makes it possible for the person who has caused harm to focus on the part they play. Rather than grappling with their learning and trying to save face at the same time, they can have the gift of receiving feedback with compassion.

Over time, giving and receiving grace in this way forms a culture of honesty and respect within groups. Ultimately, that’s a more sustainable route to inclusion than pointing fingers.

The cost of saying nothing

We spend some time in our unconscious bias workshops talking about action. Once you learn you have biases and the negative impact they have, what can you do to make things better? One important skill we focus on is what to do when you observe bias in other people. We talk about “interrupting” bias rather than eliminating it, because sometimes all it takes is a change in the tone or direction of a conversation for a person to see their own bias, or for others to find an opening to correct a statement.

But even with the limited goal of “interruption,” it’s not easy. Speaking up requires courage, because it feels like a social risk. Many people fear that there may be a cost to interrupting bias, particularly in the workplace. Many fear being seen as “overly sensitive,” lacking a sense of humor, or too strident. Some fear backlash and job-related repercussions.

There is also a cost to saying nothing. Not just a cost to the people affected by bias, but to yourself. It is the times I’ve stayed silent that tend to haunt me.

One occasion occurred as I arrived at a conference, pre- pandemic. I took a taxi to the university where it was being held, driven by a friendly driver. He pulled up to the front of the building and helped with my luggage. As I thanked him, a student who was working the registration table stepped out and started yelling at the driver. “You know you can’t park there!” he barked. “Move your car!”

I was really shocked. I stopped for a second and looked at the driver. He lowered his head and said, “Okay, okay,” quickly returned to the car and drove off.

I looked back at the student, who was racing back inside to the sign-in table. His harsh attitude was so unnecessary. It was not a busy area, and there were no other cars. Why treat him so rudely? Would he have said the same to a professor or a parent? Could the reaction be connected to something about the driver—was it a class or status thing? Or some other bias?

I had a second to intervene. But I couldn’t formulate something to say.

Then the moment passed and he was inside.

Why didn’t I say something?

I even had another chance when I reached the registration table. I saw the student a few feet away as I gave my name to someone else. I could have gotten his attention, or stepped over to him to call him in. But I told myself that the moment had passed.

This was maybe eight years ago, and yet I still remember the incident with regret. After all this time, I replay it sometimes. I could have used any of the tools we use in our workshops. Ask a clarifying question: “Is his taxi in anyone’s way?” Or just an honest reaction: “He’s not blocking anyone. Why are you being so rude?” As a conference guest, I was in a position of privilege, and I could have used that to signal that the behavior was not appropriate.

Instead, I stayed silent. The cost is the regret that continues to play loudly in my head.