“You’re on Mute!” – not anymore: finding comfort in your voice even when it makes others uncomfortable
“Don’t scare the white folk.”
As a Black woman growing up in America, this is a phrase I’ve often heard half-whispered by family, friends, and colleagues who look like me. It’s usually said in jest, and without any intention of offending anyone, but it carries a true sentiment that resonates with many of us.
The implications? For those of us who work in predominantly white institutions, we walk a fine line between staying true to who we are, being unashamed to reflect our culture and upbringing, but also fitting in when we are the only person of color on the team, in the meeting, or in a leadership role.
Put another way: Don’t get too real. Don’t be too authentic. While everyone in an organizational setting is expected to convey some baseline level of professionalism and decorum, when you’re one of few people of color in the room, it can feel as though there’s an unspoken rule to maintain the status quo in a way that others don’t have to. The expectation is to avoid letting your skin color, culture, hair style, clothes, mannerisms, or expressions, make those around you feel uncomfortable.
This is a core principle that has always guided me professionally whether I realized it or not. To keep my true thoughts and feelings tucked away, lest I expose just how different my background is from others, how less relatable I might come across to my peers or supervisors, or how much my ideas conflicted with people’s preconceived notions of who I am.
There were plenty of reminders to keep me on track when I drifted too far off course. Like the first brainstorm session I attended early on in my career, where I shared a pop culture reference that was apparently not at all familiar to my white colleagues in the room (it was FUBU by the way). The blank stares and raised eyebrows were enough to make my spine tingle. The confused looks from friends at work when we would stand around at happy hours catching up on our favorite movies or shows, and none of them would recognize the names of any Black celebrities I mentioned. Or the numerous occasions where I would ask why I was chosen to “represent” my organization at an event or business meeting completely unrelated to my area of expertise or workload, only to realize the setting was one where it was critical to reflect that the organization had diverse staff. After a few of these particular instances, I stopped asking questions and agreed to help out, rationalizing I couldn’t make the few of “us” at the organization look bad; also known as the Black tax.
While these are just a handful of examples I’ve experienced throughout my career, learning how to live with moments of discomfort like these has always been my normal. Each experience added to a growing sense of compliance I understood was necessary to advance and gain acceptance in the workplace. To help others feel comfortable around me. So when opportunities arose for me to weigh in or take a stand about how I truly felt, I knew it was safer and easier to just stay silent or go with the flow. I saw what happened to Black employees who were too vocal. They weren’t selected for the best projects, weren’t considered part of the “A” team, and faced subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) discrimination. I didn’t want to be labeled consciously or subconsciously by friends or co-workers as the “angry Black woman.”
So I’ve always kept my voice muted. Made sure that my friends or co-workers didn’t feel on edge if I brought up an idea or thought that reflected more about my culture, and what it means to be Black in America, than they seemed prepared to handle. That worked for a long time. Until 2020.
From George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery, to the political and racial unrest stirred to a frenzy by a politically divided country, there were too many moments turning into movements for me to remain silent. Conversations among Black communities that used to be reserved for dinner tables, family reunions, and barber shops, were now being discussed by mainstream media and the average citizen alike.
In my attempt to keep my voice muted all these years, I had also turned a blind eye to the friends, colleagues, neighbors, or even strangers, who said or acted in ways that were all contributing in small and large ways to the challenges our society faces today in embracing diversity, equity, and inclusion. Topics I never felt comfortable speaking out on, for fear I would alienate myself from the carefully constructed brand I had established over my 15-year-career.
In the weeks following the murder of George Floyd, I received numerous phone calls, texts, and direct messages from close friends and people I haven’t spoken to in years. All expressed their support and love for me, and all wanted me to know that they were there for me; that I was being seen and heard. While I was flooded with emotion over this outpouring of empathy, it also came with an unrealized burden. After all these years training myself not to speak my mind, not to expose too much of my culture…now everyone wanted to open Pandora’s Box?
It was hard at first. Opening up with colleagues and friends to explain a lifetime of experiences I had always contained so effortlessly. Sharing stories of how I fear for the safety of my daughter, son, and husband, anytime we find ourselves in an unfriendly neighborhood, restaurant, or town where pickup trucks drive around with Confederate flags waving from the back. Describing what it feels like to never see anyone who looks like you in a room and learning not to question why. Having “the talk” with your parents, as they and other generations did before, and realizing you now have to teach your own children how to avoid becoming a target for police brutality so they make it home alive one day. Even sharing this story you’re reading right now was a hard choice for me.
Tara L. Smith, M.S., APR, is a faculty member in the Department of Communication at the University of Delaware, and director of the M.A. in Strategic Communication program. She is also founder of Tara Lynn Communications, an independent public relations consultancy. Previously, Tara worked in public relations and corporate communication roles at the headquarters of NBCUniversal News Group, Time Warner Inc., and Ketchum Public Relations.
If you’re wondering about the lesson learned here, it may not be one you find immediately gratifying. You see, there is no quick fix or three-step “how to” list that helps you get comfortable with speaking up. It takes facing the discomfort. Being vulnerable with yourself, and the people in your inner circle. It takes second-guessing and having the ball in the pit of your stomach when you open up your mouth and realize you’re about to shatter everyone’s expectations.
It took me most of 2020 to realize that I was tired of playing it safe. If a global pandemic doesn’t help you break out of your comfort zone, I’m not sure what will. What I do know is that I’m never looking back. Using my voice to say what I think as a woman, mom, millennial, and a Black person has been the most challenging, gut-wrenching, and freeing journey I’ve ever been on. If you don’t turn off the mute button, no one will ever really hear what you have to say.