“Hello, Everybody…”
A number of years ago, I went to music class with one of my besties and her son.
We were in Oakland, in what seemed to be an old school house. The instructor was a man, likely in his 60s, with long gray hair and wearing a tie-dyed shirt. We removed our shoes upon entering and sat in a circle on the tattered beige carpet in the small room.
The music started. Everyone seemed to know what to do. They knew the words to the songs and the motions that went with each and the precise moment at which they were supposed to rock up and down, up and down.
I sat quietly, observing, eyes wide, trying to figure out what was happening and what I was supposed to do.
The instructor looked at me and, while waving a blue scarf in the air, said, “Everyone needs to participate in the singing and the movements! We are modeling for our children, even if we don't have a child with us! We are all participants!” He ended his statement with a dramatic scarf wave.
He was speaking to everyone.
But he was really speaking to me.
I felt confused and out of place, doing my best to follow along with the scarf waves and the songs and the rocking and the shakers.
Fast forward several years, and I found myself sitting in a circle with my own daughter. The music started playing. “Hello, Everybody, it's so nice to see you. . . .”
I was struck with an instant feeling of deja vu.
Where had I heard this song before?
How did I already know all of the words even though it was our first day of class?
Instantly, images of the man in the tied-died shirt with the blue scarves in the school room came flooding back to me. It was the same song. The same program.
A different city, a different instructor, a different moment in time.
But this time, instead of feeling awkward and unsure, I simply joined in.
I sang along. We rocked and waved the scarves and danced freely.
I felt like I knew what to do. Like I belonged.
On the surface, so much about these two classes was the same—the curriculum, the circle, the music.
And yet, my experience was completely different.
The first time, I felt like an outsider.
The second time, I didn't.
It makes me think of the various ways in which this dynamic plays out regularly on our teams, in our organizations, and in our neighborhoods.
How might we each be experiencing the same type of situations in different ways?
And how can we work to create a feeling of belonging for those who might feel out of place, like someone new to the room?
A few things we can do, as leaders, as a starting point:
Let people know what to expect up front. This might mean setting clear expectations, having a clear agenda, or defining a clear set of operating agreements.
Make the implicit explicit. If it is implied that we shut our laptops during the all-hands meetings, let's simply state that up front. It helps everyone know what to do.
Intentionally welcome new people (to our team, to our company, to our neighborhood).
Create space for multiple perspectives, multiple points of view, and healthy discourse.
Add levity where appropriate. (To this day, my friend and I joke about attending this music class together.)
Because belonging rarely happens by accident.
More often, it is something we design…moment by moment, conversation by conversation, circle by circle.
Questions? Please feel free to drop us a note anytime.
