About a decade ago, I was meeting with a new client in Manhattan about a project. We were similar in age, had hundreds of mutual friends, and the project had all the trappings of an experience that would forge a lasting relationship.
There was a lull in the conversation as our kickoff meeting was winding down, and to my utter bewilderment, he started making a series of racial jokes. Not in an exploratory, test-the-waters kind of way—it was a rapid-fire I’ve-been-waiting-for-this-moment vibe.
The jokes weren’t incredibly offensive, but they were nonetheless shocking and unwelcome. The client happened to be a white guy, but equally important is the fact that this was our first meeting. We had nothing close to the kind of rapport that would make his comments okay.
I didn’t have the patience or sophistication to address it diplomatically, so I asked him what the hell was going on. His face sank as he turned fire engine red.
He sheepishly explained that his primary exposure to black men was as a high school football player, and their way of relating to each other was to crack predominantly racial jokes. He assured me that no harm was intended and that he only meant to poke a little good-natured fun.
Finally, it made sense. Bless his midwestern heart.
Understanding his point of reference and intent allowed me to soften my reaction and view him with compassion; he was doing the best he could using the tools he had and simply trying to connect with me.
It’s easy to believe that people around us harbor animus and overt bias—we’re all living through a destabilizing period of polycrisis—but this makes the need for connection, courage, and community even more urgent.