Finding Your Voice as a Community Builder

Over the last six months, the unofficial theme for my work with clients (and my inner work) has been "Find Your Voice." 

I don't mean "voice" in the tactical sense of defining your brand voice and writing a style guide (though that is important too). Instead, what I mean by "voice" is defining what principles your community must uphold and which principles you can bend on.

We cannot create rigid, homogeneous spaces where everyone believes the same thing. That's not a community; that's a cult. 

But we do have to put a stake in the ground: For which issues do we need to raise our voice and take a stand? For me, those issues are about giving credit where it is due and finding common ground without shutting people out (something Brene Brown writes about in her most recent book). 

A few months ago, I had an incredible opportunity to speak at a conference to a few hundred local leaders. I was asked to speak about social movements - how they are organized, how they tip into public consciousness, how they change the world.

The major thesis of my talk: to create change, we must listen, find common ground, and truly see one another before we step into action. I illuminated this with several examples from recent history: the Women's March, the Obama 2012 campaign, the Trump 2016 campaign (surprisingly), and the fight for a $15 minimum wage in Seattle.

The night before the big event, I showed up at the venue and did a run-through of my talk at dress rehearsal. As I stepped down from the stage, the founder of the event (a prominent Seattle businessman) walked up to me, shook my hand, and then asked me to change my entire presentation. His request? Remove all mentions of political movements. Part of what had irked him about my talk, he said, was using the Women's March and Obama campaign as my examples.

I remember shock washing over my body as he delivered this news to me with less than 15 hours before the speech was to happen. My limbs grew cold and hot and cold again. My fingers shook acutely. Would he have said the same thing if I were a man? If I had spoken about the work of prominent white, male organizers instead of powerful, behind-the-scenes women of color? If I hadn't given credit and instead glossed over details? 

I interrupted him, politely. I don't remember exactly what I said after this, but I remember I started with: "With all due respect, I think you missed the entire point of my talk, and of the Women's March." It was about finding common ground, common humanity, and crossing political divides to solve larger problems, I explained. He insisted that any mention of politics was a non-starter.

I told him I could not rewrite my talk, but that I would go through one last round of edits. He sent over someone else (an amazing communications strategist, who I am permanently bonded with as a result of this crazy event) to deal with the fallout. He walked away.

The next day, I did deliver my talk. I did leave most of my references intact despite the team asking me to take out all mention of the dozens of organizers of the Women’s March. And these Women's March organizers did receive a loud round of applause.

The next few days, I felt what I thought was great remorse for speaking up. I wondered to myself if I had crossed a line, if I had sounded “mean.”

Why, I wonder now, months later? Why was saying my peace on an issue that deeply matters to the work of community builders, to women, and to political organizers a bad thing? Why is saying my truth “mean”? (Spoiler alert: it is not, but thank you internalized misogyny.)

I think, months after reflecting, that I know that it was the first time I've ever used my voice to speak directly to power and dismantle it. That was my voice. And I was meeting it for the first time there in that empty conference venue during the dress rehearsal for the biggest talk of my career.

My voice lifted in that room, rising loud to say what I believed was right, even if it meant letting go of an opportunity. Even if it meant not getting this man on my side (he did thank me after at least, but we have not since spoken). My intuition was my compass, and my voice was the ship careening through the ocean, guiding me toward safe shore. 

It didn't feel good to use my voice when I needed it most. No, I think that is a misconception that using your voice is supposed to make you feel good, every time. It doesn't. It can feel raw and lonely and exhausting. But this is how we lead. This is how we show up on behalf of our communities. 

Your voice may crack as you use it to give credit to the work of others, to say "no" when "yes" would be the preferred answer of everyone in the room, to build something worth existing in a noisy, messy world.  

Using your voice to stand up for your community matters. You can do it behind a screen or on a stage. You can do it among your community members or in closed-door conversations with colleagues. Your voice is the beginning of it all, and the compass that will guide you to a home worth building. 

So pick your battles, friends. And practice your battle cry. You’re going to need it where you’re going.