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mackenzian

Keisha E. McKenzie | communication | systems | social good

moderation

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Deciding when to opt out

from above, three bowls in a row. They contain cacti. The one on the far left is yellow; the one in the middle is red, and the one on the right is green.
Photo credit: Scott Webb
One of the hardest things for a typically accommodating personality to do is decide who not to spend energy talking to. I’ve had to do it a few times over the last decade, and it’s not been something that’s ever felt good to me, not while I’m in the midst of it.

Choosing not to respond to “comment bait,” comments designed to provoke, or choosing not to engage Just Asking A Question™ means choosing to opt out of unproductive or [passive-]aggressive interactions.

It allows you to exert effort where it might bear fruit and not fritter it away where others don’t or can’t value it.

The advocacy world’s movable middle concept is one way to organize the decision of stepping into a conversation or stepping out of it.

Any given controversy will have supporters and detractors. Both groups will likely have fixed ideas and be difficult to persuade or even hostile to information that contradicts their opinions.

There will also be a third group, the “movable middle.” This group, typically described as “moderate,” includes people who, whether they’re inclined to support or critique, don’t have fixed ideas, are open to persuasion, and will receive new information if it’s framed accessibly.

It’s that movable group that’s going to be most open to change, and therefore it’s the group that may be most worth engaging.

Moderation doesn’t always yield great social outcomes, but progress can’t happen without the people who resist extremes of ideology or certainty and take moderation as a core value.

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The next doable thing

I learned a new term today: the adjacent possible.

This term comes from Stuart Kauffman’s 2002 theory of biological development and has run the usual distance from hard science to technology and theories of social change. (See Wired‘s 2010 feature with Kevin Kelly and Steven Johnson on creativity and innovation.)

The adjacent possible is the space just next-door to our present cognitive location, the space where, from our current vantage point, we can perceive and understand something that’s new, but not so unfamiliar we read it as foreign and worth resisting.

Image via Paul Hasselbeck.
The adjacent possible. Image via Paul Hasselbeck.

If you have no history of budgeting and prefer to wing your way through the month’s spending, the adjacent possible might be writing down the amount of a bill right after you pay it. If you can do that next doable thing with each bill through the month, then by the end of the month, you’ll have the start of a budget.

If, like I did earlier this year, you’ve stalled on your writing process, the adjacent possible might be committing to at least 10 minutes of writing per day after something you already do, and celebrating your achievement every time you complete 10 minutes.

The question isn’t the quality of writing. What’s important is that you write as intended. So the next doable thing creates momentum: over the last month, I’ve found it hard to stop at 10 minutes, and if I must, I want to come back to it.

This concept may apply to learning and social change too. When I’m explaining an unfamiliar idea to someone in a tutorial or a presentation, the adjacent possible holds ideas that are related to their current area of mastery and just a stretch or two  beyond that. It can be a dance to avoid pushing too far, and it’s always clear when I have!

But in social systems that are based on the continuing oppression of any minoritized group (i.e. all of them?), it can seem that any stretch leaps beyond the adjacent possible and sends the status quo into violent resistance.

We hear moderate appeals “not to rush progress” and to “give the leaders the benefit of the doubt” because, though tied to the way things are, and in some cases financially invested, “they’re doing their best to make changes that will stick!”

It’s hard to square these theories of learning with the human costs that patience exacts from real people.  And tonight I can’t square them, even if I realize they’re probably right.

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When authenticity is thought foolish, it matters most.

I just wrote about how authority, authorship, and authenticity are etymologically related and can improve the way we interact with each other.

And then there’s a New York Times op-ed talking about, “Well actually, that’s a terrible idea and only works if you’re Oprah.”

"Oh no. Oh no, no, no." (Screenshot via VH1 and Twitter)
“Oh no. Oh no, no, no.” (Screenshot via VH1 and Twitter)

In the Times article, Adam Grant, who teaches psychology at Wharton’s School of Business, argues that society should promote sincerity rather than authenticity on the assumption that sincerity doesn’t involve self-revealing without regard for others or failure to self-monitor but is rather “being the person you claim to be.”

No one wants to hear everything that’s in your head. They just want you to live up to what comes out your mouth.” —Adam M. Grant, New York Times, June 5, 2016

I agree that some discussions of “being yourself” seem to assume there’s a core, fixed Self to be uncovered or promoted, and that’s incredibly Platonic. A more Aristotelian view would include the idea that there’s not a fixed Self but we rather show up in a given moment and are accountable for how we present ourselves there and then.

But even with that shift of perspective on the Self, I couldn’t see how Grant’s distinction between what’s genuine and what’s consistent added to what authenticity researchers have actually said. In fact, what I’ve read from Brené Brown and others suggests that doing what we commit to do is fundamental to authentic life, relationships, and work. Authenticity is the consequence of setting up relationships that respect us and others, not just others, and not just us.

Fallacy Ref makes interpreting deductions and inferences a lot more interesting. (Credit: Glen Welch)
Fallacy Ref makes interpreting deductions and inferences a lot more interesting. (Credit: Glen Welch)

I spent some time talking about the article on Twitter this Sunday, and I wasn’t the only one who left it with a furrowed brow. So it was great to see Brené Brown engage the op-ed on her LinkedIn page. She specifically challenged the way Grant had used her research:

The definition of authenticity that I use in my work (The Gifts of Imperfection and Daring Greatly) is long and nuanced. Grant pulled nine words out of context. Why? Because using the central part of my definition of authenticity would have bankrupted his entire argument that authenticity is the mindless spewing of whatever you’re thinking regardless of how your words affect other people.

In my research I found that the core of authenticity is the courage to be imperfect, vulnerable, and to set boundaries…

“Don’t be yourself” is terrible advice. Trying to weaponize authenticity feels gimmicky and opportunistic. Quoting my definition was a choice. So was perverting it. Grant’s question is relevant, but his conclusions and the presentation of those ideas lack both authenticity and sincerity.” —Brené Brown, June 5, 2016

Grant, following Aristotelian philosophy, sees virtues as the moderate median “between deficiency and excess,” and worries about the extremes. Brown, based on her research, argues that the construct of authenticity has bounds. Authenticity is like white “chocolate”: once you take the chocolate out, it’s not chocolate anymore.

Words have meanings, she says, and so do constructs like authenticity, so if we misunderstand those meanings, we can’t properly address issues that people experience while applying a construct in the relational world.

For people in most of my demographic categories, this isn’t a world that rewards genuineness, transparency, honesty, or sincerity. This is a world that rather rewards selective presentation and unquestioning norm compliance. We can’t fit in. But we can make ourselves sick trying, and should any of us succeed, even superficially, we’re praised for the shine on our bootstraps.

Who do we grant the liberty to choose emotional honesty, even when that means saying, “I don’t know,” “I’m not ready,” or “I can’t do what you want, so let’s work on an alternative?” So many people from so many slices of society have connected with Brown’s research because she offers an alternative to the usual way, a world in which leaders especially never say “I don’t know,” “I’m afraid,” or “I have doubts” and are framed as naive or ineffective if they do.

Fortune praises deception as a “leadership skill,” while Forbes describes it as a competence marker. That’s the climate of business, entrepreneurship, moving, and shaking in which Grant wonders about “too much authenticity.” But out where the rest of us live, there’s rather a shortage of trust. We expect leaders to lie to us—because they do—and we distrust what they say and how they manage information because we’re learning and they’re teaching us that they don’t prize integrity and consider it a disadvantage.

This is a cycle of doom. We have to scratch our way out, daily choice by daily choice and redesign by redesign, even if, at least for now, others stand on the sidelines and call us foolish.