Staying on Mute

The advent of every-day Zooming (aka, all-day Zooming) that has characterized life for many during the pandemic, was one of the mind-blowers of 2020. Not only did Covid upend the way many of us work, it laid bare that those of us who bemoan back-to-back video calls, with no chance to refill our coffee or zap leftovers for lunch, are truly the lucky ones.

Indeed, a Stanford University study from June found that at least 42% of the workforce was working remotely by mid-year. A bigger but more privileged cohort than the 33% who were not working at all, or the 25% deemed “essential,” and required to show up in person and risk daily exposure to the virus to serve the rest of us. Closer scrutiny of the essential workforce has revealed that more than half of Black, Latinx, and Native American workers have jobs that can’t be done remotely, further stratifying the experience and effects of our national trauma.

This doesn’t make the challenge of tech-enabled remote work (sharing counter space, wi-fi, or childcare duty while trying to approximate a “regular” work day during Covid) any less significant, it just puts it in perspective.

Which brings me to the headline.

I’ve had the privilege this year to launch and grow a business from my converted dining room. I’ve had the additional good fortune to have work and expertise (nonprofit consulting) that contribute to both uncovering the systemic problems exacerbated by the pandemic and helping solve them. It’s brought me into contact with social sector CEOs, philanthropists, policy makers, and academics who are getting to the bottom of the why, what, and what next of today’s crises.

This work has allowed me to support diverse leaders with life-experience closer to that of the people they serve than the people who fund the work. In fact, only one of my five clients this year was helmed by a white CEO (while institutional philanthropy is still dominated by white people), and her second in command was a woman of color, who held the reins while the boss was on maternity leave.

And this is why I’ve got my eye on the mute button.

My world, my work, and my Zoom screens, this year were filled with an array of people more diverse than any I’ve encountered during 2+ decades in the workforce. Daily, the meetings, workshops, and webinars I’m involved with are led by non-white colleagues driving dynamic innovations and getting closer to solutions than legions of change-makers before them. And yet, even still, I’ve noticed that white people, even when we’re in the minority, tend to do most of the talking. Whether it’s around a table (in the before times) or on a virtual display, we often assume we’ve “got the floor,” or at least that folks will want to hear what we have to say.

Maybe I’m noticing this because I’m a woman. After working for years to find my voice in the professional world, today it’s my color more than my gender that seems to set the stage, and the tone — even before I’ve opened my mouth.

As I’ve Zoomed and Google-met with groups from 5 to 50 to 500 over the months since we locked-down, I’ve noticed how comfortable my white colleagues are to go first, repeat a point, provide more examples. We seem to assume the permission to illuminate, elucidate, educate; usually with good intentions, but often with the consequence of stealing that opportunity from someone else — someone of color, someone closer the work, or someone with the life experience to add something we never could.

So, in this year ahead, as a lot more virtual meetings are surely on the horizon, I’m going to keep an eye on my mute. I can contribute but don’t have to speak on every call. I can collaborate, but don’t always have to weigh in. I might wait to be asked what I think and, even then, pause to see who else wants to “unmute” before I chime in. And if a future Zoom update adds an icon to show that a participant’s ears, heart, and mind are open, even when their mike is off, I’ll make sure to click on that too.