“All people over 80 have uninteresting lives.”
“Young black men who play music loud in cars only listen to rap music.”
“All gay men are artistic and fastidious.”
These are just three of several biases (“inflexible beliefs about particular categories of people”) of which I have become aware in the last several years. This awareness came to me in a variety of ways, most of which grew out of the fact that, because of the nature of my work, bias tends to be on my mind much of the time. I’m not proud of them, of course, but I am glad I know these biases are there so I can begin the process of eradicating them from my thinking.
For most of us, however, getting in touch with our biases is hardly the only thing on our minds.
Sure we’d like to become more aware, but the stresses and rush of the workplace leave little room for this kind of ongoing introspection. Sometimes too we resist looking at the tiny clues that our behavior and thoughts toss up to us. This is usually because we suffer under the misguided notion that having a bias makes us “bad people” and, therefore, we struggle to avoid the issue altogether.
Whatever the reason for the inability to spot our biases, one solution is to turn to trusted co-workers for help. To facilitate this teamwork, I have designed a process called a “Bias-Spotter Partnership” that can readily be employed in any workplace where inclusion and bias-reduction are a priority.
Continue reading » »
Have you ever had one of those days when things just don’t go right? You leave the house only to realize you left your cell phone by the bed and have to drive all the way home to pick it up. After starting off again, you learn, while listening to the radio, that the concert you were so looking forward to Saturday night has been canceled. Then you get to work anxious to start on a project that is under a tight deadline only to discover that you’ve been scheduled for a meeting you knew nothing about.
(Are you grumpy yet?) Continue reading » »
When I was growing up, both my parents smoked. I also spent my most formative years breathing the smog-choked air of Los Angeles County. Come to think of it, I had a boyfriend or two who was addicted to nicotine in the days when most people didn’t think much of it.
On the other hand, I never smoked myself. Well, that’s not quite true. I do remember the time when I snuck into my parent’s bedroom to see what all this smoking fuss was about. Being a naïve 10-year-old, I didn’t stop to think that my father might walk in, which he did. Somehow I have a memory of my contorting my never-to-be-nicotine-stained hand behind my back to hide my sin only to realize that the smoke from the cigarette was wafting straight up my spine creating, much to my father’s surprise, the incongruous image of my hair being on fire. Yes, I got caught.
Taking all that into consideration, am I predisposed to lung cancer? How at risk am I for emphysema? It’s hard to say, but clearly I am at greater risk than those whose parents did not smoke or who grew up breathing the pristine air of an offshore island.
We can ask the same question about our biases. Continue reading » »
Most of you are probably too young to remember the days when radio stations had “Guess this Sound” contests. This is how it worked. The station would play a sound and listeners won prizes if they were able to guess where the sound came from. There’d be things like the noise made by a zipper if recorded under water or the amplified sound of peanut butter being spread on bread – you get the idea. Well, there’s one sound that is always unmistakable at our house, that of the wheels of our big blue recycle bin being rolled down the drive way.
It is an unmistakable mix of rattle and bump with just a little bit of squeak mixed in. It’s not an unpleasant sound, but every time I hear it I am reminded that our neighborhood is about to renew its every-two week e-mail debate about whether those bins are such a good thing after all. The issue on the table is not recycling or sustainability or going green – all that is fine in my middle class largely white San Diego world. The issue is more human than that. Namely, how do we feel about the people whom that line of bins we affectionately call “Big Blues” attract into “our” neighborhood.
Continue reading » »
It’s amazing no one drowned in the torrent of water that splashed from the pool. As I think back, it must have been amusing to watch this scrawny adolescent plow across that watery expanse in frenzy, arms flailing. No wonder the other swimmers dog paddled madly toward the edge for safety.
That adolescent was I and all that splashing occurred on the occasion of my final examination from swimming class. This was not just any swimming class, mind you; it consisted of ten weeks of private lessons. That’s right, ten weeks focused solely on giving Sondra Thiederman the tools to fit into a very “beachy” and “pool-side” southern California culture. I learned a lot during those ten weeks. I learned to execute each stroke perfectly, mastered the breathing technique, and, as I recall, was praised for my ability to kick with precision and power.
There was, however, something crucial that I did not learn despite the investment of time and money: I never learned to overcome my fear of water. This became painfully obvious to the instructor – and my parents – as they watched me end my swimming career by crossing that pool on sheer panic power. Continue reading » »
