Improving our defaults

Last week, I was at #17NTC (the 2017 Nonprofit Technology Conference) and I’m still processing all of the things I learned or ideas that were sparked and how I might apply them in my work or in life generally. But one of the biggest takeaways for me was a question:

How can we improve our defaults?

This was sparked by a session on improving website accessibility for people with disabilities. Someone on the panel mentioned how, in the most recent version of Drupal, they had worked to improve the defaults so that some level of accessibility was built-in even if the organization using the platform didn’t specifically care about or pay attention to accessibility. Most of these things, like offline adjustments for accessibility, could benefit everyone. Otherwise, they were no detriment to the user experience for anyone else.

One of the other suggestions in the website session was that we should build accessibility into our budget and our project schedules so that crossing it out is a active choice. Similar to automatically opting people in and making it an active choice to opt out—which can be annoying for e-mail lists but beneficial for 401k participation.

The day before, I’d been in a discussion with community organizers where we were talking about venue. One mentioned that a challenge was that the space they currently had for events was not accessible for people in wheelchairs or who otherwise had trouble getting up and down stairs. They were raising money for a lift, but in the meantime, they stated upfront in each event description that the venue was not wheelchair accessible. Which sounds a bit counterintuitive, but the organizer mentioned some community members appreciated that the information was there, that they didn’t have to ask. Because they have always had to ask—many organizations hosting events, in leaving this type of information out, made an implicit assumption that people attending their event would not have disabilities.

One: Don’t make people ask.

From the start of the conference, there were efforts at inclusivity all around. When I checked in, I could pick up a pronoun ribbon to attach to my badge. In one look, people could know my name as well as that I use she/her. Other options included him/her, they/them, and there was also a write-in option. There were gender neutral bathrooms. At the opening, the CEO mentioned both of these along with the nursing mothers room, the prayer room, and other amenities that recognized we are not simply session-attending robots. In addition, recognizing that there were many first-time attendees, she explained some common lingo and abbreviations. There were “I’m shy” buttons, for those who were happy to talk to others but perhaps looking for the more outgoing attendees to make the first move. There were Birds of a Feather lunch tables and volunteer-staffed Dine Around Town reservations so, although you could certainly eat with whoever you chose, nobody had to eat alone or had to figure out how to ask a stranger to eat with them in a city they didn’t know.

None of these things are terribly difficult to do. None of these things precluded people from choosing otherwise (e.g. some chose not to use the pronoun ribbons, some chose to make their own plans for meals). But as someone who has come a long way to be able to ask a stranger if they wanted to eat lunch, about what an acronym stood for, and who still struggles with these things, and has watched others stress out about trying to find a place where they could pump or breastfeed, about whether or not they could even get into the building, let alone use a bathroom once inside—it means a lot to be seen.

Two: Inclusivity means nothing without access.

Inclusivity is not the fact that you have taken down the signs that say “No coloreds” or changed your policy from being a men-only club to one that allows female members. Sure, nobody is actively stopping women or people of color from applying to jobs in technology (or any other field). Nor is that an explicit reason people don’t get promotions or aren’t seen as leaders in spite of actions that would demonstrate leadership if only they looked like what we expect a leader to look like.

Inclusivity is meaningless without access; inclusivity is as much about removing barriers as it is about creating the space and opening the doors. As in, not only are we not restricting membership by gender, but we’re also ensuring that this space is actually accessible to all community members for the purpose we aim to serve. If people need to be able to spend a day learning at a conference, they will also need to go to the bathroom, possibly need to pump or breastfeed, may need a space to observe their religion, will need to be able to get in the building and into all of the rooms in which we are holding sessions and events. If we want people to lead at all levels within our organizations, then we need to look for those actions in all places rather than only in the places and people we’d expect.

Three: Improving accessibility + increasing inclusivity = benefits to us all

Revamping your website from looking like Times Square to being less cluttered and focused is not only easier for people using screenreaders but is a better user experience for all of your website visitors—yes. Not having to navigate stairs helps even those of us who can walk when we’re moving heavy carts of equipment or boxes of supplies—sure. Being able to use either single-person bathroom rather than having to (or feeling like you have to) wait for the one that says “Women” even while the one that says “Men” is empty—heck yeah.

But it also benefits us all because we’re getting whole people. People who aren’t spending mental energy (and actual energy, and actual hours of time) on planning out how they’re getting from point A to point B via points F and U because of stairs, or because of needing to pump every few hours or because they need to bring their own interpreter, or because there isn’t a bathroom they can use within a 15 minute walk (as exhibited in Hidden Figures), or because they need to assist their opposite-sex adult child who has special needs in using the bathroom, or because the way they observe their religion frightens some people who do not know them. When people can bring their best selves and their whole selves—why would we not choose that over people bringing only a part of their brain power, a part of their time, a part of their talent and passion and brilliance? If we’re willing to spend time and energy on recruiting/hiring/engaging the right people, why wouldn’t we make sure we could get the best of them?

Four: We will never be completely inclusive or accessible.

Another recurring theme, in the session on website accessibility, and in many others, was to let go of perfect. We may not currently have the budget to install an elevator. Or the capacity to overhaul our website.

But what can we do right now to make it better?

Maybe it’s saying, to our community members who use wheelchairs: We see you. We can’t fix it yet, but we wanted to give you a heads up that there are stairs. Maybe it’s not having a prayer before a meal but having a moment of silence for those who wish to pray, to create that space for them. Maybe it’s considering what will be readable to people who are color blind or who have issues with low-contrast when you’re choosing the colors on your website, or writing detailed descriptions for your images in your blog posts. I remember a friend of mine (who is a quadriplegic) once telling me a story about talking to bar owner about how changing the doorknobs on the bathroom door to lever door handles would make it so much easier for him to get in and out of the bathroom. To which the owner responded, “Oh, that’s it? I could do that.” At a previous organization that only had about 20 staff, they didn’t have space/need for a dedicated nursing mothers’ room, but they installed a lock on the conference room door so it could be used as such.

When we have the opportunities to do the big overhauls, that’s wonderful. But more important is that we try to improve our defaults. Like what if, instead of waiting for people to ask for a raise, we evaluated everybody’s compensation every 6 months, and within our capacity, gave everyone raises who deserved one regardless of whether they had asked? Or asked everyone about professional development they were interested in rather than just saying yes to people who asked about it? What if we simply got rid of urinals? What if the form you filled out to get your event added to the calendar or your business added to a review site asked whether or not the space was wheelchair accessible? If job websites required employers to post jobs with a salary range, rather than employers requiring it of applicants, and to post their policies around family leave rather than requiring candidates to ask? At my husband’s company, it is expected that, if the company pays for you to attend a training or a conference, you will share what you’ve learned with the rest of the team afterwards. I don’t know if that’s policy or just a cultural thing, but that make sense. Whereas I heard another attendee comment on going back to the office and their boss telling them to go back to work and stop bothering them with all of these ideas. Why waste everyone’s time leading someone on if they won’t be able to get into the restaurant, if the highest salary you can offer will not meet the minimum of what they are seeking, if you’re sending them to a training for the sake of checking a box rather than using professional development to enhance capacity, if the contribution people make to the organization have nothing to do with how you compensate them? In addition to being disrespectful and not inclusive, it is simply inefficient. It doesn’t make any sense.

We’re bleeding opportunity cost, and we’re usually not even aware of it.

I’m sure there are plenty of things I’ve not mentioned, and pitfalls with some of the things I have. I’m not perfect and plenty of my defaults could use improvement. I had the awesome opportunity to present at the conference, and I talked about flipping the switch with change-resistors: what do we risk by not doing X?

I’ve always struggled with that because quantifying output or input is easy. We spend a lot of money on education, for example, and money in and of itself is not an answer, but neither is not spending that money. What is the cost of an under-educated citizen? Of a person who ends up in prison instead of in a job? Not just the cost of running the prison or feeding inmates, but the cost of that person’s potential had they not ended up there in the first place? I’m willing to bet it is greater than the cost of providing certain services or programs. Not all of them. But probably a significant number. If someone figures out a good way to calculate that, let me know. I don’t know that the data would prove this theory, but I don’t know that it would disprove it either.

I could keep going, but I’ll end on this note:

What are our defaults? What are the inherent assumptions? How might we make our defaults better?

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Volume control

The squeaky wheel gets the grease.  But should it?  I’ve written before about amplifying or making a space for the quiet voices, the unheard voices.  A little while ago, I had a conversation with a friend and we were wondering together how one turns the volume down on all the really loud voices so that we can hear the others better, or more equally, or basically not only listen to the loudest voices.

I was recently reminded of my default during a discussion about parents in sports.  I made some thoughtless comment and a colleague (a father himself) quickly reminded me that the parents making the headlines for starting fights with coaches and screaming at referees were only a tiny fraction of the parents at games–most of the other parents who are being respectful and cheering on their kids also wish they could throw these juvenile grown ups out of the game.  And he was right.  It’s not unlike how some people are terrified of flying but get into cars without hesitation even though our chances of dying in a car accident are significantly higher.

There are some sharp (and painfully funny) tweets about the #WomanCard, and one recurring theme is how women get paid less than men in the same positions.  There are multiple factors, but one big one is that men are much more likely to ask for higher pay to start and/or to ask for a raise.  Can you imagine if we applied this to education and only gave kids the opportunity to go to school if they explicitly told us that they wanted to go to school?  Or only didn’t discriminate against people if they asked us specifically not to be denied housing, healthcare rights, education, voting rights, the right to have their family legally recognized, the right to informed consent, use of the restroom without assault–oh, wait.

How do you create volume control?

Maybe it’s making sure you’re hearing from a diversity of voices.  Maybe it’s amplifying the quiet voices, like those Steve Hartman stories capping off the evening news by reminding us that there are still good people out there.  Maybe it’s making sure we balance our media intake with primary sources.  Though it’s not all media; this happens with people as well.  There are some friends, some colleagues, some people whose voices carry more weight with us, for whatever reason.  Or maybe some who simply speak up more.  Maybe it’s pausing to consider the source and what their motivations might be.  Maybe it’s pausing to consider who isn’t in the room.  Maybe it’s remembering what you value and trying to block out all the other voices.  Giving due based on contribution/content rather than on the volume (auditory or otherwise).  Maintaining all your wheels instead of ignoring them until you hear a squeak.

Maybe it’s all or none of these things.

Any ideas?  How do you create volume control in your life?

Accommodations and Defaults

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Saw this today. It’s not a secret but something wonderful that was handed private to a customer by a barista at a Starbucks in Leesburg, Va.” – comment on the PostSecret postcard above

There are policies about accessibility–and they are important, there is a place and a need for them.  There are technological solutions–in fact, you can order online and go pick up your order without really having to talk to anyone (which appears to be what this customer had done prior to being handed this note).  And those too, have their uses.

But this is so much better.  Instead of asking a person who has, I’m guessing, either a hearing or speech-impairment to accommodate everyone who does not speak sign language, this barista is making an effort to speak this customer’s language.

There is no reason that those of us with fully functioning legs could not walk up and down a ramp.  That those of us without arthritis could not use a lever door handle.  That children without disabilities could not play on a playground with features that make it safe and playable for all children.  There are plenty of cases where other factors may come into play, but the times when it’s a matter of choosing this or that type of door handle–why is inclusion not the default?  And if it is a little more effort to design something a certain way or takes a little more space or–why is it that we make people who have struggled their entire lives in a world not built for them, to work even harder to accommodate the rest of us?

 

Read Me, Please

One of the great things about Twitter is that, if you follow other curious people, someone is always sharing something interesting that I might not have otherwise found or have had any reason to know about, like 18F’s Open Source Style Guide.

I’m not a software developer nor do I work with open source code.  But I appreciate documentation done well, let alone when it’s done at all.  It’s fun to build new things–like figuring out a new process or procedure–and taking breaks to write down what you did and how you did it and why you did it that way can feel like a tedious chore that slows down all the fun progress.  Plus, sometimes it seems pointless because nobody ever reads it but you, and you already know all those answers.  Especially when they keep asking you the same question repeatedly after all the trouble you took to write down the answer in a shared location!  Sustainability of operations if you were to get hit by a buswin the lottery can only be so motivating for so long.

Then again, there are plenty of times, particularly with complex processes and tasks that I only need to do a couple times a year where I’ve kicked myself for not taking better notes at the time.  (Are these numbers significantly down from last year, or am I forgetting to include something that was included last year?  How did we define this again?)  Deconstruction can be fun, too, but it’s one thing when you’re looking for parts to build something else.  It’s another thing to have to reverse-engineer how you did something last year because you need to do the exact same thing again and you can’t remember how and your deadline is chasing you like Captain Hook’s crocodile.

Okay, but why start documentation during?  Why not after?  It can also feel pointless when you’re trying to document a process in the midst of creating it, and subsequently adjusting both a million times.  You took all this time to write up all the steps and definitions and one afternoon later, half of it is out of date.

The past two weeks, I’ve been plugging away at a new process and a Read Me document of sorts.  And next week, I’ll need to update that Read Me document to reflect all the adjustments I had to make while actually doing what I had imagined doing when writing that document in the first place.  Maybe nobody will ever read it but me, but it’s a starting point to which I can always refer back.  And all my annotations to the first draft will be saved in my files for when I question why something is that way.  Because I will.  And because if I don’t, then I will definitely need to know.

When I was a kid, I did all my math homework in pen.  It drove my teachers up the wall because everything I turned in was always three or four pages longer than my classmates’ assignments due to all the times I’d cross out my work and start over on a problem.  Plus, in addition to reading my handwriting, they had to read past all the scratch-outs and find the right answer.

There’s always one more edit, one new change, some circumstance we hadn’t anticipated or planned for originally.  We wait and we’ll never do it.  Besides, if you take thorough notes, including all the things you tried that didn’t work, then you won’t forget and make the same mistake twice.  Pencils are forgiving, but they won’t give you a trail out of the woods.

 

Precision of Language: What do you say?

That’s so gay.
You’re retarded.
One day she’s hot, one day she’s cold.  She’s so schizophrenic!

There’s a scene in the movie The Giver where Jonas’s mother reprimands him about “precision of language” when he talks about feelings.  (Side note: I say movie as I haven’t read the book since fourth grade and can’t recall if that was the actual wording or just the script wording.  As to be expected, skip the movie, read the book.  Seriously, read The Giver.) 

There’s laziness in language–and I myself am guilty of it constantly.  Hey, can you toss me that thingamajig that’s on top of the uh, thing over there?  Or stuff.  I say stuff all the time.  I use certain phrases like muscle memory.  I’m sure the people who sit next to me at work and hear me on the phone are really sick of them.

Speaking of muscle memory and the things we don’t have to think about, and the things we don’t think about: there is laziness in language, and there is use of language that betrays the experiences and the people we’ve never considered.

Earlier today, I overheard someone say on the phone to a friend, “Oh, you guys are so gay.”  My head snapped around and I looked up to see if I was the only person who had heard this–which apparently I was.  And I could feel the red well up in me.  That stuttering that comes from the pit of your stomach and always seems to end in your guts awash on the floor and the other person mildly confused but none the wiser and mostly dry.

There’s saying “stuff” when you mean that pile of laundry or all of your belongings or all the household chores you need to do this weekend.  And then there’s saying “retarded” when you mean stupid or illogical or absurd.  Using the name of very serious illness to describe someone they don’t understand–something we do with mental illness when we’d never say, “That’s so asthmatic!”  Calling someone or something “gay” when you mean…okay, I’ve never actually figured out what exactly people mean when they call you that.

What do you say?

Sometimes I say something and sometimes I don’t, usually depending on how well I know the person or how brave I’m feeling at the moment.  I didn’t say anything today because I was angry and knew whatever I said wouldn’t come out right.  And I didn’t know if the comment was indicative of her being homophobic or being friends with people who felt that way or if it was just a habit she’d never paused to think about.  Laziness of language.

Precision of language.  Is that the tack to take?  To ask the person what they truly mean and try to offer some words that actually mean what they’re trying to express?  Buy them a thesaurus?

There was one time that Mike Huckabee was debating Jon Stewart on The Daily Show, and they clearly had very strong and different opinions but were having a open and respectful debate about it.  I don’t recall the topic, but I do remember Huckabee commenting at the end about how we needed more light and less heat.

More light, less heat.  I know in my head that one should strive to educate instead of launching a personal attack.  Because, “THAT’S SO OFFENSIVE, YOU JERKFACE!” rarely succeeds in doing anything other than convincing people that you are the super-sensitive PC-language police who wants to ban all the words.  It’s not about being politically correct or even just correct.

The PC-terms change.  I’m not even sure what they are half the time.  The r-word used to be the medical term.  But that was before people began using it as a slur.  Language evolves.  Words don’t have meaning without context.  It’s not about the labels or the names or the words.  It’s about the way in which we can flippantly denigrate whole groups of people and their very human experiences and make them other, make them less than, make them something other than human beings who bleed like we do.

In the heat of the moment, it is hard to remember that other people don’t need us to protect them and beat up people who might have been mean to them.  We’d be much more helpful if we educated people who could be allies.  Maybe they really are hateful, but usually people just aren’t thinking about their choice of words.  And we are losing an opportunity if we treat them as the enemy.  Then everybody just shuts down.

That being said–or more precisely, written–it’s one thing to know or write these things and to actually communicate them verbally when your diaphragm is a fist and it’s obstructing your throat.

What do you say?

Some days not saying anything heated in return is a small victory.  But any suggestions for things to actually say in person would be welcome additions to the toolbox.

 

The Quiet Kids

Earlier today, I read this post on tips for mastering meetings as an introvert, and it made me think about how often we listen to whoever or whatever screams the loudest. I am fortunate to work and have worked with some uncommon people who know me well, who know that sometimes I don’t speak up because I’m digesting things or because everybody else has jumped in and I try not to interrupt or am trying to catch up and listen.  They make a point to ask for my thoughts, clear a space for me amid the cacophony.

Tweets, posts, air time.  Everyone is clamoring to make their voices heard.

Or are they?

Someone forwarded me a story from a teacher who said that, every week, s/he asked students to nominate a classmate who’d been an exceptional classroom citizen that week, as well as the students they would like to sit next to the following week.  But what this teacher is really looking for is the kids whose names don’t get mentioned.  As a colleague once said of his philosophy at summer camp: “I look for the quiet kids.”

I recently joined a discussion panel, and one of the things the facilitator reminds the group of is:

Consider who is not in the room.  What might they say if they were here?

Or even if they are in the room, maybe they are not at the table.  Or maybe they are not speaking up for this or that reason.

How can we clear a space for their voices to be heard?  How often do we bother to look around the room, looking for the quiet ones?