Transcriber: My Nguyễn Thị Hằng Reviewer: David DeRuwe
When I was in sixth grade,
my stepfather landed a job as a school bus driver way out in the suburbs,
and since he was also our designated driver,
it made sense for us to be transferred out of our school in Detroit
and into a school in Southfield, Michigan.
By the end of my first day,
I already knew that I had come to love this new school,
mostly because we had the best lunch that day,
but also because the lockers were the perfect size for decorating,
but most importantly, because of the opportunity.
Any extracurricular activity that I could think of
was available for me to sign up for.
I was a child that always loved school,
and so I knew that I’d have no problem adjusting to this new place.
At least that’s what I thought ...
there actually was a problem, one that presented itself often.
We did not come from the suburbs, and so we did not have suburb money,
and the students, they quickly figured this out.
We often came to school with the same uniforms over and over again,
our school supplies were the only time that we would show up with new gear,
and while all the other students had Lunchables during our school field trips,
we often had these really nice homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
This was the first time in my life that I would experience bullying.
I would purposely be ignored by the students during recess.
They would call me names and make jokes about my weight.
I remember one day in particular:
One of the girls in my class pushed me
and knocked all of my things out of my hands.
All of my neatly assorted books and assignments from the night before
came flying all over the hallway into the classroom.
I just remembered picking up those papers,
going to the nearest girls restroom, and beginning to cry.
I was among them, but it was obvious I would not be treated as one of them.
My parents would often bring home donations from various places,
and on this one day in particular,
I remember my stepdad brought home
these really nice red and white Nike tennis shoes.
If you are a 90s baby, then you understand how special this moment truly was for me.
I listened as he told me if I could fit the shoes, I could have them.
Now, I came from a big family, and so I was determined to be Cinderella.
So I brushed past the line, tried on the shoes,
gave it a stroll down the hallway, quickly realized that they didn’t fit.
But I knew that I needed to do what was necessary to fit in,
and so I proceeded to tell my parents that they did.
I started to wear the shoes to school
and eventually came up with a strategy to manage my own discomfort.
I would wear the shoes
when I walked around the hallway and to and from the teacher’s desk.
W
I’d slowly and quietly remove the shoes, just enough to relieve some tension.
I’d do this until we switched classes, and then repeat.
This eventually became my daily routine.
I wore those shoes for an entire school year,
and when the summer came, I rested.
As I reflected on this story as an adult,
I realized that it was never about what I was doing.
The story was always why I was doing it,
and why I have found many tales like mine
of individuals continuing to conceal parts of their identities,
who they truly are,
choosing to be less of themselves in order to mind the discomfort
of those around them,
desperately wanting to fit into the shoes.
And while we may want to stimulate a workplace
that is void of our other selves,
we carry the many dimensions of our identities and our experiences daily.
Dominant culture or the most long-standing or influential norms within a society
imposes a very rigid set of expectations on our existence.
Knowing that a culture of expectations exists
does not fully explain our willingness to adopt certain behaviors.
This can be explained when you understand covering.
First coined by Erving Goffman, then later researched by Kenji Yoshino,
Yoshino shares in his research how individuals in society
feel the need to downplay certain attributes about themselves
that don’t fit the mainstream narrative.
They call this action “covering.”
Covering is a mode of survival,
as individuals who feel the pressure to cover
believe that their individuality could cost them a promotion
or even acceptance among their peers.
Covering simply suggests
that people have an underlying expectation to hide their identities in plain sight:
a Black woman changing the style of her hair to fit a look deemed
“more professional” before an interview,
a mother feeling that she needs to hide her childcare needs
in order to not be seen as less reliable than her other peers,
a Black man altering his tone and mannerisms
so that he is seen as less threatening
and more educated by those that he encounters,
or a person with a disability hiding their accessibility needs
out of fear of burdening others with their requests.
Though individuals may feel the need to cover anywhere,
Yoshino’s research states that in the workplace specifically
over 61% of people no matter their race, gender or socioeconomic status
cover.
Now I’m going to tell you a story:
In February of 2020, I will be promoted into a newly created,
full time D.I. role at the Center for Employment Opportunities.
In March, the world shut down as COVID cases began to rise
and the appearance of a global pandemic underway.
In May, the world watched as George Floyd was murdered,
and a nation protested in agony.
I was now a diversity and inclusion professional in corporate America
during a global pandemic and a massive civil unrest.
This task was daunting to me, but also very special
because many of my own identities, those often positioned within the margins,
were finally on display.
Because I am also a Black woman who was born into poverty;
the daughter of a mother living with lupus,
making her high risk for contracting COVID;
and the sister to five six-foot-one Black teenage boys,
whose lives I worry about daily.
I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders
of everyone who looked like me,
of everyone who depended on me,
who grew up in affordable housing,
who battled with their mental health,
who was Black,
who feared dying from an invisible virus,
who just didn’t feel good enough.
I was terrified, yet I was equally up for the challenge.
But I knew that I would have to make a choice
either to continue to cover, to remain in the shadows of my younger self
in the clouds that hover over my experiences -
that person who would do anything to be accepted and to fit in -
or to make peace with my other selves,
come face to face with who I was, who I was going to be,
recognize that with pain comes purpose,
and choose to do something different.
I was finally beginning to understand my own story,
and so I knew that there were so many other stories that needed to be told.
And so in my work, I propose conversations that focus on identity,
intentional discussions amongst colleagues
to share about their experiences inside and outside of the workplace,
their stories of how they came to us -
not about how skilled they were in Google Suite,
but how the loss of a parent made them a better leader,
how overcoming imposter syndrome made them an ally
for others looking to do the same,
how being incarcerated helped them embody and now encourage resilience.
And we did not have these conversations just once.
We have these conversations often,
because just as we may make the daily decisions to cover,
so too much we actively choose to disengage.
The backdrop of Yoshino’s work around covering
discusses his experiences within the workplace and in academia.
Yet there are those among us who may say
that these conversations have no place where we work or where we learn.
I would argue that conversations centering identity
truly raise our awareness, which can help mitigate our own bias,
forcing us to value the human experience
and all of the emotions that come with that,
reckoning with who we say that we are versus who it is that we want to be.
Here,
let’s give it a try.
Make some noise if you are born and raised in Cincinnati.
(Noise)
Now clap if you are a first generation college student.
(Clapping)
Snap if you have ever been bullied
about something that you cannot change about yourself.
(Snapping)
Stand if you have ever felt alone.
Now, before you take a seat, take a second to look around this room.
Thank you.
(Applause)
Many times I’ve tried to shield the world from what I thought were shortcomings,
only to realize that they were the things that made me powerful,
and my power can not be isolated, and neither should yours.
Every single day we should be able to be everything that we are,
everywhere that we are,
and every single day you should be asking yourself in this space,
whether that space is your schools
or your workplace or your communities -
In this space,
is authenticity being embraced or is it being met with resistance?
That same year that I mentioned earlier, I remember my teacher taught us
this poem titled “Our Deepest Fear” by Marianne Williamson.
I remember I recited this poem until I could recite it in my sleep.
Yoshino would probably argue that it was my other self,
the one standing here today,
the one who will leave you with these last two lines
that I had commanded to repetition:
“And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people the permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fears,
our presence automatically liberates others.”
As long as we live, labels will surely exist.
but as long as we live, we have a responsibility to one another.
There is always an opportunity to invite courageous conversation,
decenter dominant culture,
and give us all the space
to uncover.
Thank you.
(Applause)