ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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  Dear Crucial Skills,

I read Crucial Conversations and Crucial Confrontations and have tried to implement the skills in the books, but I still have a hard time dealing with accusations. The problem is that the first instinct when someone accuses you is to restore safety or use contrasting to solve the misunderstanding, but the accuser does not seem to be affected by those actions. Instead, they continue to draw incorrect conclusions about you or something you did. I’m sure a lot of people experience this same issue. What am I missing here and what is the best way to reply to someone who wrongly accuses you?

Struggling with Accusations

 Dear Struggling,

Thank you for raising this important issue. Over the years, we’ve taught a variety of skills in our books and training, but only rarely have we written scripts or shot video examples where the conversation starts with the other person accusing you. Of course, not all accusations are alike. It might feel more like a slight chiding or a gentle reminder. In this rather innocuous case, you can assess the feedback and adjust accordingly.

However, I believe the accusation you have in mind is more akin to a tense, sharply delivered statement that not only accuses you of malfeasance, but feels like an attack. As you fall under a verbal assault—say one that questions your reliability, integrity, or talent—it’s likely you’ll become angry in return. When this happens, your natural response to what feels like a mild physical threat is to move from your “know” to your “go” system and react in a defensive and also stupid way.

If you allow your “go” system to take charge, you will indeed, be less controlled and logical than is optimal for the circumstances and become blinded to most rational thought. In addition, when someone questions your character, it serves as an emotional accelerant. Between the perceived threat to your safety and the apparent attack on your character, you’re now pumping adrenaline, thinking with the most basic part of your brain, and neck deep in a shouting match or worse.

To best respond to an accusation or attack, start by dealing with your own growing anger. Cut it off before the adrenaline slips into your blood stream. Take a deep breath and reinterpret the attack, not as a threat to your safety—unless it actually is, in which case you need to exit—but as a misunderstanding that has caused the other person to become frustrated or maybe even angry with you. This switch helps you turn from being angry—you’ve judged them as bad and wrong and deserving of a good tongue lashing—to becoming curious.

When you become genuinely curious, you reignite your center for logic and reason and turn off your anger response. Now you want to know exactly why the other person drew such a harsh conclusion about you. Instead of an emotional defender, you’re now a relatively calm detective trying to get to the source of the other person’s anger.

The mystery you’re trying to solve is the following: “What exactly did I do that led you to that conclusion?” You’ll have to search for the answer because as soon as others become upset they’re very likely to lead with their conclusions or accusations against your character. It’s now your job to get to the behavior behind the accusation.

You may be tempted to start with a contrasting statement, but you’ll have to be careful not to end up with a correcting statement masked as a contrasting one. For example, “You say I can’t be trusted, but I believe you’re wrong!” (Bad) Or, “I didn’t intend to make you angry. I was just trying to do my job.” (Better, but it still sounds defensive) Instead of starting with a contrasting statement, become a detective. Probe to find out the source of the other person’s anger. For instance, “I’m not sure what I did that led you to conclude I can’t be trusted. Could you tell me exactly where I went wrong?”

Say this with sincerity laced with concern, but remain focused on the science. What were your actual behaviors? By searching for the facts and avoiding the conclusions, it allows the other person to share his or her complete view of the circumstances. This serves two important purposes. The accuser will have time to calm down—the adrenaline doesn’t go away in an instant—and you will learn more about the details of the situation.

In addition, when angry, the other person really wants to make sure he or she has been heard and understood. So, repeat back the details of the description to ensure you have them right. Continue to probe for your action behind the conclusion. Left to their own, many people just move from sharing one conclusion to sharing another. Try something like: “So you think I was selfish? What part of what I did seemed selfish to you?”

As the other person begins to share the details of the precipitating event, avoid the temptation to correct any of their statements of fact until you’ve earned the right to do so. By thoughtfully and carefully listening to his or her ugly and angry conclusions and eventually getting to the underlying facts, you’re now to the point where you can add your views. Take care; this puts you at risk once again. Don’t start with your corrections to his or her facts. Instead, explain how you can see how the other person might have come to his or her conclusion, but you have a different view on the matter. Start by sharing the elements you agree with and then point out how you see certain elements differently. This may be the time when you share your honest intentions: e.g., you weren’t trying to make this person look bad in front of the boss, you were simply trying to lend a hand.

Because you’ve taken care to sort out the facts, thoughtfully listen, allow the anger to subside, and tactfully share your view, you’re finally ready to engage in honest dialogue. But know this process takes time and patience. Left to your own proclivities, you may want to fight back. This will fuel the fires of anger and is likely to confirm the other person’s existing poor conclusions about you. Become a concerned detective, not a defender.

All the best,
Kerry

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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Last month, I wrote about the Patterson family Christmas of 1956. I shared how I was able to find joy during a time when we had few, if any, presents or other “things.” Many of you wrote back that the tale reminded you of similar times where you too were able to stumble on Christmas despite your challenging financial circumstances. Thank you for your kind and heart-warming reaction.

One of you wrote that after sharing the story with a friend, she replied that she had already received four similar stories that lauded the joys associated with poverty—and if this were true, why don’t we seek poverty all of the time? I can understand the response. The last thing I wanted to suggest was that the poverty itself was something worth seeking.

I’m reminded of when I was first married and attending graduate school in Palo Alto, California. Each week my wife, three children, and I went to church with a couple dozen other young struggling student couples along with a hundred or so wealthy congregants who lived on the edge of campus. These folks of extraordinary means would leave their estates in the foothills and drive their luxury German cars to church where they would then tell those of us who were living in tiny boxes called student housing just how lucky we were. They would most sincerely explain—often with tears in their eyes—how they fondly remembered their college years and recalled them as the best time of their life.

My reaction was predictable. “Really?” I thought to myself. “These are the best years? I study endlessly. I have very little time left for recreation or hobbies. Every month I worry about making ends meet. When our old jalopy breaks down, we go without something in order to pay for the repair. These are the best years of my life? Tell me it isn’t so!”

Some thirty years later, when my church assignment had me speaking to a group of young married college students, I listened intently as other older speakers shared the predictable message of “These are the best years of your life!” When it came my turn to speak, I stood up and said, “I’ve had money and I’ve not had money, and to be frank—I prefer having money.” (This brought a chuckle.)

“And as far as college years being the best years of my life, I do remember how great it was to be young and energetic and studying full time with some of the world’s best thinkers. I recall playing with my children between classes and then catching the campus bus for a ride to the psychology building where I listened to the world-famous scholar Solomon Asch as he reviewed his earlier studies of compliance and independence. As I sat and took in the words of the world’s best, I knew how lucky I was.

“I also remember the unrelenting stress of not having enough money—of not being able to give my children as much as I would have liked—the missed lessons, the thinner coats, the oatmeal instead of eggs. In fact, when I finally finished six years of graduate school, took a job, and we bought and cooked our very first chuck roast, my kids fought over who got the drumstick. They didn’t know any better. All they had ever eaten was chicken.”

So, some of the aspects of those college years were indeed wonderful, other aspects . . . not so much. With this in mind, I want to affirm that I never intended my story as an endorsement of poverty. I only wanted to say that even when times are tough (and yes, tough times come with sacrifices and suffering), you can still find joy in the simple things.

This has certainly been true for me. Going into this season, I can already tell you what my favorite memories will be. They won’t be the gifts sitting wrapped under my tree at home. They’ll be the memories of the time I’ve spent with loved ones—playing games, telling stories, and sharing hand-made gifts.

I’m already working on this. At our recent family Christmas party, we gathered at my daughter Christine’s house and sang carols and played games while the young cousins shared simple presents. As promised, I read the story of our 1956 Christmas, and at the end, I gave each of my children and grandchildren a small package of peanut brittle my wife and I had just made. It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.

We also ooh-ed and ahh-ed over a hand-crafted alphabet book one granddaughter had made for her 18-month-old cousin; and everyone applauded and cheered as another granddaughter read a poem she had carefully composed on the computer. The poem described the joys of the season as viewed through the eyes of a nine-year-old. As I sat and took in her innocent words of wonder and encouragement, I couldn’t have been more proud.

So no, I don’t encourage poverty as a means of finding the true holiday spirit. But I do stand by the claim that often, the things that matter most can be shared by all. Time devoted to thoughtful conversation, stories told across generations, and acts of unconditional love are all free. They’re also as precious as gold.

My colleagues and I have created a holiday e-card to thank you for your support and association with our newsletter, training courses, and other services. View it now!

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations, Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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Listen to Kerrying On via MP3
Listen to Kerrying On via iTunes

1956 was a hard year for the Patterson family. One evening Dad came home from work at the lumber mill in so much pain he could scarcely drag himself out of the car. He had tripped at work and hurt his back. Worried about his paycheck at the end of the week, Dad pulled himself to his feet and gutted it out until the end of his shift, despite a pain that (we later learned from a coworker) was so gut-wrenching he almost passed out several times.

Mom tried to heal Dad with a variety of homemade poultices that had such a stench they practically peeled back the wallpaper. But to no effect. Eventually Dad put himself in the care of a surgeon who cut a piece of bone from his hip and fused it into his spine. The Workers Compensation Fund refused to cover his injury (claiming he had aggravated a pre-existing condition). So two weeks later when he returned home to heal, all the money we had to live on for the next six months would come from whatever Mom could earn making and selling pastries.

The neighbors soon caught wind of our plight and hardly a day passed without someone dropping by with a slab of venison or a basket of wild asparagus. We quickly discovered that beggars, indeed, can’t be choosers as we learned to dine on everything from goose eggs to elk heart. But it wasn’t all gizzards and duck feet. One day, Walter Kaiser, the retired boatswain mate who lived across the street, brought by a huge bag of delicious unshelled peanuts he’d won playing bingo at the VFW.

As fall drifted into winter and Dad continued to heal, my thoughts turned to Christmas. Without money for presents I began to wonder if the peanuts would be our only gift that year. What I really wanted was a telescope. I’d found a picture of a swell one in the Sears catalogue, but I knew it would cost too much, so I put in a request for an inexpensive, plastic spy glass.

Mom could tell I wasn’t adjusting well to our newfound poverty and did her best to remain cheerful despite the fact that our financial crisis was exacting a toll on her. Between caring for Father, raising two boys, and making baked goods, Mother scarcely slept. And yet she was our rock. One evening she caught me crying in my room because my weekly allowance had been long abandoned and I suddenly realized I hadn’t saved enough money to buy presents for my relatives. Each year I purchased a gift for my grandparents, parents, brother, aunt and uncle, and two cousins. Now what would I do?

Mom comforted me while she searched for a solution.

“Let’s see,” she muttered. “You don’t have any money. I don’t have any money . . .” Then it came to her in a flash. “Walter’s peanuts!” she shouted with glee. “Walter’s peanuts!”

Mother then explained that she would teach me how to make peanut brittle for Christmas. A box of brittle would make a delicious present—for young and old alike—and we already had all of the ingredients we needed.

For several evenings I donned my mother’s apron, stood on a stool, and labored happily over the stove. On the last night, after the last batch of candy was finally completed, Mom brought out the end of a roll of newsprint and I colored on it until it made a suitable wrapping paper. Soon I had a nicely wrapped present for everyone.

But my holiday mood didn’t last. There was no sign of a spyglass anywhere and I was just sure my tenth Christmas was going to be the worst Christmas ever. Once again, it was Mother who came to the rescue. As I sat at the kitchen table, mooning over the Sears catalogue toys that I wouldn’t be getting, Mom gently tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and there she stood with her arm outstretched and an axe clutched in her hand.

“It’s time for you to go get our Christmas tree,” Mother said with a smile.

I couldn’t believe it. The axe was being passed on to me! Since Dad was house-bound, I would now carry the axe. Drawing myself out of my funk, I carefully took the bucolic scepter from Mom’s hand, hiked into the snow-covered forest that was our backyard, and chopped down a spruce tree.

An hour later, as I huffed, puffed, and hauled the newly cut tree to our home, I ran into Walter.

“That’s kind of a shabby looking thing,” the former navy man barked as he bit down on his pipe.

It was. The good looking trees were too far away for me to haul them all the way back to our home, so I had settled on a tree that was nearby. This tree was decent on one side and pretty shabby on the other.

“I have just the thing,” Walter offered as he disappeared into the shed behind his house. A couple minutes later he returned with his solution to our lackluster tree—a hand drill and several drill bits.

“Every place there’s a gap in the tree, drill a hole,” Walter snapped. I’ll tell you which drill size and where to drill.”

After I finished boring the holes, Walter handed me a stack of limbs he’d cut from a pine tree nearby and stated: “They’re not a perfect match, but they’re close enough for government work.”

Uncertain but hopeful, I began to insert pine branches into the holes I had drilled in the spruce tree. Then, with Walter’s help, I cut the newly affixed appendages to the right length and trimmed a little here and a little there until the tree looked surprisingly full—curiously motley, but full.

Christmas day finally came and all I could think about were the presents I had made. How would my family react? I didn’t have to wait long to get an answer, for soon my relatives were tearing away the homemade wrapping paper and sampling the treasure inside.

“It’s wonderful!” My aunt Mickey exclaimed as she bit into the brittle.

“And you made it all by yourself!” Grandpa Bill enthused.

“Why it’s far better than anything store bought,” shouted my uncle Vic.

“And just look at the tree!” my father proudly said. Then he paused for effect and asked, “Did you know that Kerry is responsible for that tree?”

“I understand you cut it down and then spruced it up.” (Actually I had pined it up.) “Is that true?” asked Grandpa.

And so, in a flurry of compliments and joyful affirmations, our 1956 came to an end. By mid-January, Dad had returned to work at the mill and things were back to normal.

I hadn’t thought much about that particular season until I started wondering about this year’s bleak economy and the challenge many people will have as they try to bring joy to the holidays. I don’t know what it will be like for others; however, I do know this. In 1956, the year of our poverty, I didn’t get a spyglass. We simply didn’t have enough money.

But you know what? It didn’t really matter. I still found Christmas. I found it in Mom’s irrepressible spirit and endless ingenuity. To this day, I can close my eyes and see her cheerfully toiling over delicious petit fours into the wee hours of the morning. Dad constantly praised me for growing into what he called “a little man.” That was his gift to me. My family complimented the brittle and the goofy looking tree I cobbled together with the same enthusiasm generally afforded a returning hero. That was their present.

During this lean year, several of my family members are taking their lead from 1956. Many are making gifts rather than buying them. My nine-year-old granddaughter, Rachel, has sewn a bunting for her sister who will be born on December 21st. The material for the outfit cost less than a dollar, but the fact that she sewed it with her own two hands makes it priceless. I suspect her gift will get most of the ooohs and ahhhs at the Patterson gathering this year. I also suspect that it’ll be Rachel’s favorite gift as well.

We’re also taking special care to spend as much time as we can together. The time of shared love and caring is the biggest part of any memory we’ll create. And when we gather on Christmas Eve, I plan on reading this story aloud. I’ll give other gifts. I’ll share other things, but they’re only things. This story, taken from memory and recorded with love, will be my favorite gift.

So there you have it—1956, the year of our poverty. The year my father tripped . . . and I stumbled on Christmas.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
READ MORE

  Dear Crucial Skills,

I just left a job I loved because I am older and the young team I worked with never seemed to accept me. Unfortunately, even when the manager said I was a victim of new employee hazing, the problem was not addressed. Since I made the choice to leave, would it be appropriate to write a letter to the administrator? I don’t want to be seen as a disgruntled employee but it is a hostile environment and some of the young girls working at this office are scared. Do bullies always win?

Feeling Bullied

 Dear Bullied,

I have to admit that when I hear the word “bully” it makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Like many boys growing up (I was small for my age), I faced bullying at every turn. I had friends who didn’t take a single shower after PE during their high school years because bullies would snap them with wet towels and otherwise harass them.

Clearly, bullying has found its way into the corporate vernacular. While the government continues to enforce harassment laws, many employees are beginning to wonder if certain actions that aren’t necessarily inspired by gender, race, or belief biases, but still seem highly inappropriate, should also be prohibited at work. These “below the waterline” behaviors include actions such as making false accusations, glaring, discounting others’ ideas, backbiting, gossiping, constantly criticizing, giving people the silent treatment, making impossible demands, etc. All are examples of not treating people with the respect they deserve.

As leaders, it’s important to make it clear that all forms of disrespect, dishonesty, and lack of teamwork are not permitted at work. Perhaps it’s time for companies to begin talking not only about harassment, but social abuse in general—giving specific examples of unacceptable behavior that fall under the rubric of bullying. To get a feel for various forms of bullying, visit the Workplace Bullying Institute.

So, what’s a person such as yourself to do about the bullying you experienced—and in a letter, no less?

Start by thanking the administrators for giving you a chance to earn a position at the company. Explain that you’re sorry it didn’t work out but are grateful for the opportunity you received. Point out what you enjoyed and admired—the leaders need to know what’s going right as much as what is going wrong. Then, tentatively bring up your concern. You’re not calling for action in your case—you’ve moved on. However, you are concerned about others’ experiences at the company. Explain that, at first, you wondered if you were simply being hypersensitive to taunts and insults, but when you mentioned it to your supervisor, he or she confirmed that you were experiencing common hazing.

Now you’ve laid the appropriate groundwork that allows you to talk about the actual hazing and bullying. Present your information, as if talking to a jury. Stick with the detailed facts. Realize that statements that contain your judgments or conclusions—”I was hazed and bullied”—provide a framework for the discussion but not the details required to make the destructive practices go away. While your conclusions let others know how you felt, they lack any information about what your coworkers actually did. To help others eliminate bullying, you have to describe the exact behavior you saw and experienced.

Think of yourself as a novelist and describe several poignant interactions—complete with the script. Include the verbiage along with the tone of voice, posture, body language, etc. Describe the insulting words and expressions that were leveled at you. Then, once you’ve detailed an instance or two, thank the administration for taking the time to review your concerns and wish them the best when it comes to their efforts to eliminate a problem that, in your view, is still causing grief to lots of people.

In closing, I hope by now you’ve found a healthier place to work—one where employees treat each other with dignity and respect—maybe even take special care to help new people feel welcome. And thank you for having the courage to talk about a problem that often goes unmentioned and consequently continues to plague thousands of people every day.

Best regards,
Kerry Patterson

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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Listen to Kerrying On via MP3
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When my best friends and I were kids growing up along the shores of the Puget Sound, the water was our favorite playground. It’s a good thing, because we certainly had a lot of it. It fell from the sky in unrelenting sheets of cold misery until it eventually gathered about us in a giant recreational hodgepodge of lakes, streams, and inlets. Hardly a summer day passed that we didn’t find a way to float in it.

By age fourteen, we had widened our tastes from floating safely in placid lagoons to using the water as a thrill park—particularly the water found underneath the docks. This was back in the early sixties when fish canneries still spewed a red stream of cast-off salmon heads and slimy innards straight into the bay. Sharks gathered at the entry point of the disgusting flow in a feeding frenzy of pink froth, teeth, and terror.

Few people have ever seen a sight such as the one found outside those canneries. Few people would want to see such a sight. Unless, of course, you were fourteen years old and pretty much lived for the chance of throwing yourself smack dab in the middle of just such a biological curiosity. Which is exactly what we did. My buddies and I took one look at the tangle of teeth and fins and knew we had to find a way to study it up close.

After scrounging logs and really thick string for a couple of days, our intrepid gang cobbled together a raft for just such idiotic purposes. We christened our highly unstable craft “Death on a Log” and then promptly paddled straight to the heart of the toothy treasure. It’s hard to describe the sheer visceral pleasure of gliding into a foaming pool of frenzied sharks. There we were, virtually surrounded by a pulsating mass of fins, teeth, and eyeballs—completely swallowed up by the roar of gushing entrails. It was fourteen-year-old heaven.

At first, we just stood there, triumphantly ensconced in the epicenter of this ecological nightmare, drawing strength from the electric energy of the moment. And then, one part adrenaline, two parts testosterone, and ten parts boy took over. First, we smacked the throbbing mass with our paddles. Take that you nasty sharks! Smack! Smack! Smack! Then we poked at the tangle with assorted sticks. Poke. Poke. Poke. We capped off the experience with a series of whoops and grins—shouting and gyrating on the very edge of sanity. It was a perfect teenage moment. And then Frank stepped over the edge and tumbled into the churning waters.

Movies generally show such life-threatening moments in slow motion. That’s because in real life they happen in slow motion. When Frank fell, it was as if time had slowed to one-tenth its normal pace. The tumble took forever. First, Frank’s left leg slipped off the edge. Then his body hung in space between the raft and death for about an hour—until death took the upper hand. As we stood, frozen to the raft, Frank plunged into the roiling sea. Only he didn’t really plunge. He hung in a grotesque, cartoon-like position above the danger below until he finally lurched toward the outstretched hands of his friends. He exerted just enough strength to propel his body to a spot six inches from the raft—except for the back of his head, which found the outside log with a sickening thud. He was out like a light, floating in a boil of ichthyoidal rage.

Tom, closest to the edge of the raft, jumped into the frenetic foam without so much as a second’s hesitation. It was stunning to watch him leap straight into the jaws of death (no metaphor here, these were the jaws of death). Okay, maybe the Puget Sound sharks weren’t thirty-foot great whites. Maybe they were only four to six feet long, but their rows of teeth were deadly enough and the danger was heart stopping. Somehow Tom managed to pull himself and Frank back onto the raft, but not before both had received several nasty bites. For five minutes we huddled together in a mist of foam, blood, fear, and gratitude. Then we slowly made our way back to shore.

For those of you who have never been a fourteen-year-old boy who has just escaped death by a whisker, you might think that we then gleefully returned home. We didn’t. Instead, we did what we always did under such ridiculous circumstances. We struggled to come up with a cover story. We couldn’t tell our moms that Frank and Tom had fallen into a whirlpool of sharks. They would have asked questions about where the sharks came from and how we happened to be so close to them in the first place. So we made up a whopper, sneaked into Frank’s house, and administered to the wounded.

I eventually told the heroic version of the shark story some twenty years later, while standing around a campfire at a father-and-son outing. By the time I was through, the crowd was ready to erect a statue in honor of Tom’s valor. In fact, I made all of us kids out to be a fanciful combination of swarthy adventurers and swashbuckling daredevils. Then, as I noted my own boys’ reactions (they hung on my every word), I reversed course. With time and the advantage of perspective, I took to adding the following editorial comments whenever I told the story anew.

Many acts of modern-day heroism are immediately preceded by acts of utter insanity—requiring the very acts of heroism that we’re bragging about in the first place. If we hadn’t been so completely insane as to paddle straight into the middle of death and then jump and hoot and slip around until one of us fell in, we wouldn’t have needed a hero. Hero stories persist because it’s not nearly as fun to avoid death by five hundred yards as it is to climb into the mouth of the grim reaper himself and then, at the very last second, scamper out in a flamboyant feat of heroism. Now that’s entertainment.

Fortunately, when you’re talking to your own children, reason prevails. You encourage your own precious offspring to avoid danger by a safe margin. With them, you give crystal clear directions: You can go into the water. No problem there. Just don’t swim into the churning waters. In fact, don’t go near the churning waters. Stay a full five hundred yards away from the churning waters.

What Does It Mean to Us?

I tell this story because it reminds me of what typically happens during training sessions when the topic turns to diversity and harassment. As class members discuss the always amazing and sometimes moronic things employees have been known to do to one another, a certain percentage always asks what they can get away with. They want to know how far they can go. Mostly it’s because they’re trying to understand the boundaries. Nobody wants to cut off human interaction in its entirety. A huge part of their life unfolds at work every day. Everyone wants to go into the water. They are going to talk with others. That’s a given. They are going to tell jokes, flirt, and tease. They just want to know where the safe waters end.

After the tenth person has asked if she can still tell blonde jokes (after all, blondes aren’t protected by law), or if he can tell a woman at work how good she looks in a sweater (because it’s about the sweater and not her body), I’m reminded of the sharks. There are some topics and actions that are obviously dangerous. They’re a veritable whirlpool of potential hazards. We all know what they are.

For example, if you start telling jokes that make fun of someone’s race or belief, you’re in dangerous water. If you’re attracted to someone who you’d like to date but who has shown you no interest (save for an occasional “bug off”), and you think to yourself, “Maybe she’s just teasing. I think I’ll keep after her until I wear her down and she finally agrees to go out with me,” you’re in dangerous water. If a coworker has annoyed you and you’re trying to come up with clever ways to get even, you’re in dangerous water.

What did we learn from the shark experience? To stay five hundred yards away from all things dangerous. So here’s what I tell anyone who asks: Don’t engage in socially risky activity. It’s that simple. Don’t tell blonde jokes. Sure, you might get the occasional laugh, but there’s a good chance that you’ll offend someone too. Don’t start a sentence with, “You know the trouble with women . . .” or “You know the trouble with men. . .” You may think that women or men have certain characteristics in common. However, throwing all of them into one big gender bundle (and a negative one at that) is bound to offend people who prefer to be viewed as individuals (i.e., most sentient beings). If you start a discussion with, “I know this might offend someone, but . . .” you’re in dangerous water. Warning people up front doesn’t lessen the risk. Quite the opposite. Warning others is akin to announcing, “Hey everybody, I’m about to say something really offensive, insensitive, and stupid, so listen up.”

Experience has taught me that when we start making exceptions to safety rules, we eventually run risks—and why run a risk when it comes to our lives? It’s just not worth it. Social issues are no different. The stakes are similarly high, so why take risks when there’s so little to be gained? Here’s the punch line: If you know what you’re about to do is risky, then don’t do it. Stay five hundred yards away from all things dangerous. Stay away from the churning waters.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
READ MORE

  Dear Crucial Skills,

My father has Neuropathy in his legs and feet. He has difficulty standing and walking, and we are very concerned about him falling. But what worries us most of all is that he continues to drive. If we approach him with our concerns, he gets angry with us. Do you have any suggestions?

Concerned about Father

 Dear Concerned,

I’m sorry to hear about your father and can see why you’re worried about his driving. Your father is starting to lose some of his faculties and you want to talk to him about giving up the keys. This is a conversation many people will face with their parents—the cause could be due to neuropathy, macular degeneration (my own father wanted to drive up until he was legally blind), or a whole host of other medical problems. No matter the limitation, in each case a child faces the challenge of convincing a parent that he or she is now placing him or herself and the public at risk.

Your father, in contrast, probably knows he’s not as sharp as he once was but is likely to feel as if he’s plenty competent. He also sees giving up his keys as the end to the life he currently enjoys. Gone is his ability to visit his friends and relatives, to shop, and to go out to restaurants and movies. Gone is life as he knows it. You see driving as a horrible risk, he sees not driving as making him homebound, lonely, and dependent. And being dependent may be his worst fear.

How do you bridge this gap? How do you get him to understand that he really is debilitated to the point that he shouldn’t drive—short of him having an accident that makes the point for you? If you’re not careful, you end up saying he’s unfit and pointing out his deficiencies. He ends up talking about the hour a day he spends exercising on the mini-tramp and how his corrected vision is 20/20, and you end up in arguments that miss the point and get you nowhere.

So, here’s the big question. What can you do to make handing in his car keys something your father wants to do? Or something he is at least willing to tolerate?

Answer: Don’t equate taking away the keys with helplessness, boredom, and the complete loss of independence.

Here’s how.

1.  Research before talking. As you prepare to ask your father to stop driving, think of ways to make the option more attractive. Before you ever talk with him, check into methods to help him maintain his freedom. If you come to him with several options that make it clear that giving up the keys doesn’t mean giving up on life, you’re much more likely to help him make the transition in a way that removes the danger, strengthens your relationship, and keeps him plugged into the community.

For example, I googled “neuropathy and driving” and quickly found the Neuropathy Association Web site. Experts on the site recommend places where you can retrofit the car with driving aids to mitigate the effects of neuropathy—making it safe for your father to drive. You could also explore the options of public transportation, having friends or family members volunteer to chauffeur, using a cab service, etc.

2.  Contrast what you don’t want with what you do want. Now, once you’ve done the pre-work, start the “no driving” conversation with a Contrasting statement. You believe he ought to stop driving but don’t want him to lose flexibility or mobility. In fact, you want to make him just as mobile, without having to run the risk of driving himself.

3.  Establish mutual purpose. Explain that you want to find a solution that works for him—one that makes his life just as rich and fulfilling as always.

For example, I have a friend who (fifty years ago) thought car ownership was a horrible waste of resources, a blight on the planet, and a bad investment to boot (he was a bit ahead of his time). Now, he didn’t move to a cave and give up on life, instead, he made arrangements with the local cab company (and this was in a town of only a few thousand people) to take care of his transportation needs. He paid the company an annual fee and they in turn picked him up and took him wherever he wanted to go. He had to call them and sometimes wait a few minutes, but for the most part, he got exactly what he wanted. He also walked more than many of us and made arrangements with a limo company for longer trips. When you consider the cost of a car, gas, and insurance, Harry swore his methods actually saved money.

My friend taught me that there is life after key removal if you make the right arrangements. Seek to find a similar solution that will satisfy you and your father.

4.  Use facts to explain your concerns. Share the facts of your father’s most recent dangerous incidents and suggest that you have a few ideas that would remove the risk while maintaining his mobility. Share examples of ways he can get help—both immediate and long-term—and jointly brainstorm methods that work for him.

5.  Keep in mind that your goal is a win-win. Don’t simply focus on the horrible dangers and the fact that he needs to stop driving. Instead, focus on coming up with a plan that makes the option acceptable to your father.

Best of luck with this touchy issue,
Kerry

Kerry Patterson Crucial Conversations

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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Dear readers,

I seem to have struck an awkward chord with several of you out there. I appreciate your watchfulness and dedication to the skills of good communication and consideration. I took a risk in distilling a rather long incident into a short story—please allow me to fill in some of the details.

Some of you have suggested that I was a bit of a wimp and should have taken a stronger stance with my step-grandfather. It’s true—at that time in my life I often chose silence over speaking directly. I was years away from studying and writing Crucial Conversations, and am grateful for the impact those skills have had on my life since. When this story occurred, I was in my mid 20s, dealing with my grandmother’s new husband, and trying to balance being nice to him with the needs of my family. I didn’t really know what to do or say. I hinted several times that we needed to cut the tour a bit short, my grandmother practically begged him, and my wife was quite direct—all to no avail. We were fairly open, but unsuccessful.

Some readers felt that I was the insensitive and excessively focused one in the story. Certainly a janitor would be interested in a janitorial tour. I agree. I was at first surprised by Bert’s reaction. I didn’t know my step-grandfather all that well, but we did adjust to his wishes and then tried to find a way to tailor a tour for him that wasn’t so painful for everyone else. In this we failed.

What I intended to illustrate in this article was the fact that we, like Bert, often get so amazingly focused on one element of our lives (or our arguments) that we miss other important features. Bert, as I learned from further exposure, was a classic low self-monitor who I believe was almost incapable of reading social cues. Recent studies of how the brain functions suggest that a certain portion of our population use their brains in different ways—making it very difficult for them to see what others see in the most simple of human interactions. I find myself acting like this when I get too caught up in an argument. Bert acted this way all the time.

It was with this in mind that I wrote my most recent column. My life has improved greatly as I’ve learned to monitor conversations around me—both the impact I’m having and the skills others are using—and I hope others might benefit from a similar awareness. My apologies to those who found me weak and insensitive. I appreciate the chance to review and improve my crucial conversations skills.

Thanks for your insightful comments,

Kerry

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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Every family has at least one kooky relative, and mine is no exception. In our case it was my step-grandfather Bert who routinely provided us with endless tales of quirkiness and interpersonal insensitivity. For instance, once when my wife and I had not seen Bert and my grandmother Dorothy for years, they dropped unannounced into our apartment in the town where I was attending school at the time. When it comes to social interaction, Bert is a train wreck, so, true to form, he initiated his conversation by stating, “You’ve certainly porked out since I last saw you. It looks like you swallowed your own eight-year-old self. Ha ha!”

After Bert ranked on me for an hour or so, he eventually asked for a tour of the campus. Glad to escape the insensitive humor and all-around rudeness, my wife and I buckled our two baby girls into our VW bus and, along with Bert and Dorothy, started out on what we hoped would be a pleasant tour of the campus—one where we would putt along amicably while discussing the university’s architecture, history, and curriculum.

Bert wasn’t interested in any such “foo-foo crapola” (his words, not mine). No, Bert wanted to walk inside the buildings and see stuff up-close-and-personal. After walking through the humanities quad, where he never once raised his eyes above the kick plates, Bert asked me to take him to the janitor’s closet. As if students carried a pass key or knew the entry code. Eventually, Bert found the custodial nerve center where he enthusiastically examined cleaning solutions while my wife and I tried our best to keep our toddlers from eating them.

As you’ve probably guessed, Bert was a custodian. To him, visiting a university didn’t mean examining the curriculum or listening to a lecture, it meant exploring the things that needed to be cleaned. It was the world Bert cared about and, as near as I could tell, pretty much the only one he saw.

The fact that Bert was interested in taking a custodial tour wasn’t the problem. Granted, it’s a bit odd to be touching and sniffing cleaning chemicals when touring a college campus with your grandchildren, but the issue here wasn’t Bert’s quirkiness, it was his insensitivity. Bert took my wife, my children, and me on a lengthy janitorial journey with no thought whatsoever of our needs or interests. In fact, the more we hinted and complained about stepping over sewer pipes or avoiding the flames that were leaping out of the power plant, the more Bert threw himself into the tour.

And it only grew worse. The sun kept beating down, my youngest daughter actually wedged her binky under a wrecking ball, my wife gave me one of her “he’s your relative” stares—and Bert? Well, he droned on.

Now, don’t get me wrong. You can care passionately about a lot of different things and still be socially well adjusted. Unfortunately, like Bert, many of us follow our interest in a subject with such fire and focus that we lose our social graces in the process—even if just temporarily. For instance, when caught in a debate at work we turn our attention so intensely on our side of the argument that we often miss the net effect of our actions. It may not be wax on the floor beneath us that we obsess over, but like Bert, when we’re caught up in the details of our own viewpoint, we often fail to notice that we’re turning people off to it. Or if we do notice that we’re not having the effect we had hoped for, we’re not sure what to do instead.

The good news is that not only can we easily improve our ability to note when we’re losing our social sensibility, but we can also improve the skills we employ when trying to express our views. That’s because the tools for enhancing our social repertoire are all around us. We actually live in the best laboratories available. We call them kitchens and offices and meeting rooms, but they are laboratories nevertheless.

How do these labs work? To quote from the renowned social commentator Yogi Berra: “Sometimes you can observe a lot by just watching.” If we take our focus off the arguments we and others are making and carefully watch others in action, noting what works and what doesn’t, we can turn every social venue into a learning lab. For instance, Jean Piaget made some great discoveries in the field of child development simply by watching his own children at home. Socially gifted people aren’t born gifted. They learn the skills by watching social interactions with the same level of interest Bert had for studying floor wax.

So, take a lesson from my experience with Bert. As you become more and more drawn into an argument, take your focus off “your thing.” Step out of the argument and observe how others are responding and note if communication ceases—even while you’re still talking. If that is the case, take the opportunity to apologize, open the conversation up to everyone, and get back on track. And drawing on these same observational skills, on those occasions when you yourself aren’t in the middle of the debate but are on the sidelines (perhaps in a meeting), observe gifted people in action. Focus on what they do, what works and why. Turn every high-stakes, emotionally charged discussion into a learning opportunity.

Turn your world into a stimulating learning lab, not just a place that needs to be waxed.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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Since the dawn of humanity, philosophers, scientists, and puppeteers alike have been asking the same penetrating questions: Do we have free will? Do we actually make choices on our own, or is our behavior determined by powerful forces from our environment such as nagging parents, our outlook calendar, or the snarling pit bull next door?

During my first year of college I came to the conclusion that by the time I was aware that much (if not all) of what I did was, indeed, a function of my upbringing and surroundings, it was too late for me to undo the effects. The die had been cast. My language, my actions, my very methods of reasoning—all had been shaped before I realized what was going on.

So, I came up with a plan. In order to regain control of my will, I would act in ways that were opposite to my proclivities. Surely, this would put me back in charge. Ah, but this thought too had been shaped by my life’s experiences and was therefore hardly a choice, so I’d do the exact opposite. I’d follow my natural desires. Wait a minute, this couldn’t be right . . . and thus I swirled down an infinite loop of circular thinking until I eventually stumbled on a philosophy of my liking: gluttonism. I’d think about other (more important) issues over a chocolate milkshake.

And so I plodded along unfettered by concerns over free will/determinism until one fateful day—the day my wife and I bought our first home. Along with the automatic dishwasher and two-car garage, our home came equipped with, of all things, a test of my free will. The test was cleverly disguised as a redwood deck, but it was a test nevertheless and I couldn’t easily escape it.

Here’s how the free-will test worked. The first time I walked out on the second-story deck to take in the view, I leaned over the railing, looked down on our new lawn, and spit. I was thirty-four years old and hadn’t spit in more than fifteen years. My wife certainly had never seen me spit. And my kids, well, the whole idea of their father propelling germ-laden loogies into space was beyond the pale.

Before the spit hit the ground my wife pronounced me a filthy beast, and my seven- and nine-year-old daughters squealed in disgust. Normally the three of them saw it as their job to ridicule me for burping aloud or drinking milk straight from the container. Now that we owned a deck, their job had expanded. Because from that moment on, every single time I leaned against the deck’s rail, it pushed my spit button. It was creepy. I couldn’t not spit. When it came to the deck, I was little more than a loogie-marionette, jerked into action at the mere sight of an open space below me.

As a child growing up in Puget Sound I had lived around docks where, like all of my childhood friends, I spit every time I looked over the edge. It’s what boys did. Children, I’m told, often push their food off their high-chair tray, not solely as a means of rebellion, but as a method for learning depth perception. Perhaps my hard-wired act of spitting as I approached a railing was an extension of this mechanism.

In an effort to re-captain my spit reflex I tried personal pep talks. I’d approach my backyard deck and think, “Don’t spit, don’t spit! You can do it!” But then I’d get distracted (”Oh, a pretty butterfly!”), lean against the rail, and—patoohee—I might as well have been a cowpoke leaning over a spittoon.

“Dad spit three times,” my daughters would tell my wife when she returned from the market.

I mention this problem of reflexively jumping into inappropriate actions not because I want to enter the free-will/determinism debate, but because it’s highly relevant to something I do care a great deal about—improving one’s interpersonal skills. Here’s how the two topics relate. Much of our daily social interaction is tightly scripted. We engage in the same conversations so frequently that they become rote. In fact, if pressed, not only could we say what needs to be said without really thinking about it, we could act out both parts.

The good news is that these patterned responses free up our brains to muse about other things. The bad news is, once we start into a script, it’s hard to change what we do and say. We follow the script much like a well-worn and familiar path—actually, more like a steel railway.

For example, one evening my wife asked me to request fry sauce (a local product) when I ordered our food at a hamburger joint. I entered the queue, waited my turn, and then the clerk started into the counter script.

“May I help you?”

“Why yes,” I replied—and off we went. I didn’t merely know what I was going to say, I knew what the clerk was going to say. He was going to ask me if I wanted fries and a drink and when I said yes, he was going to ask: “Large?”

Of course, once I switched into auto pilot, I flew through the interaction without much thought and, you guessed it, I didn’t ask for fry sauce. I was never going to ask for the fry sauce because the interaction was programmed from the beginning. I started into the counter script, and once I did, I fogged over, coasted along, and stopped making decisions.

This particular issue becomes important to people who have decided to improve their ability to communicate with friends and coworkers. For instance, many individuals who attend our Crucial Conversations Training return to work feeling excited about the prospect of using their new skills. However, despite their enthusiasm, they often don’t think to bring what they’ve learned into play when called upon to do so. When a conversation starts to heat up (at the very moment when they should be thinking: “Cool, this is a time to try out some stuff I learned!”) they get sucked into an old script. Only after the conversation has ended do they realize they missed a good chance to behave differently. At the beginning of the conversation, just before they think to try out their new skills, the dominos of habit begin to fall and—clink, clink, clink—routine behaviors tumble down one after another until, once again, they’ve messed up the entire interaction.

But it doesn’t have to be like this. There are ways to bring cognition—and with it, the hope for change—into highly routine interactions if only you can remind yourself to do so. For those of you who have found it hard to change your conversation style, here are a few hints for breaking the bonds of pre-programmed scripts.

Put up a Sign. This was the ultimate solution to my redwood deck challenge. I posted a sign (on the rail itself) that simply stated “Don’t Spit.” I would read it just before I hit my spit button and I eventually broke the habit. When it comes to learning interpersonal skills, trainees often post pictures of the model they’re following right in their office. This visual cue reminds them of the new way of dealing with high-stakes issues at a time and place when they need the reminder.

Set Aside a Time. With certain behaviors or skill sets, it’s best to set aside a block of time where you can practice what you’ve just learned. For instance, when it comes to holding a crucial conversation, devote an hour a week during which you seek out high-stakes discussions. Then, as opinions vary and emotions start to run strong, you’ll be on guard to bring your newest and best skills into play—avoiding the pitfalls of rote scripts.

Get Cues from a Friend. When I become too forceful, pig-headed—and then maybe a tad punishing—my wife calls me on it. If my bad behavior is aimed at her, she says something to the effect of, “You’re doing it again.” She does this in a pleasant way; I stop, take a breath, and then try to get back on my best behavior. In public when she spots the same nasty habits (only I’m applying them to others) she gives me a look that serves the same function. You can contract with a colleague at work to do the same thing. In short, as you head down the highway of interpersonal disaster, trusted friends hold up a stop sign and you backtrack to the right route.

Apologize and Start Over. Sometimes we miss the cue that says we need to bring newer and better skills into play, but we don’t miss the fact that we’re now careening down a dangerous road because we’ve obviously made a wrong turn (i.e., followed our old scripts). When this happens, rather than keep on truckin’ because you’re already well underway, stop, apologize, and start over. With this practice in your arsenal, you don’t have to be perfect, just willing to try again.

Well, it’s time for me to head to lunch with a friend. He wants to go to this Thai restaurant up the street, but I’m a bit apprehensive. It’s not the spicy food that has me worried. It’s the building. You see, the place has this deck . . . with a railing.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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When Old Man Hubback pulled up to my grandfather’s grocery store it always caused quite a stir. Cars pulled over so people could take a gander. Dogs yelped themselves silly. And kids came running from every corner. The fact that the German immigrant looked like a homeless version of Santa Clause would have been enough to catch some people’s attention, but that wasn’t his drawing card. When Mr. Hubback traveled from his home a mile away to Noonan’s Grocery, he hooked up his horse to a hay wagon and clip-clopped his way down the lane. This took place in the early 50s, and that made him the last person in Bellingham to travel by means of a one-horse-power vehicle. That’s what caught everyone’s attention.

The boys who came running to catch a glimpse also had something else they wanted to witness. The stoic German would climb down from the wagon, walk through the front door of Granddad’s grocery store, walk straight to the counter, and slap down a dime. Without a word Grandpa would march to the back of the cooler and fetch an ice-cold bottle of Coke.

Hubback would grab the icy bottle in his massive hand, take it to the wall that sported the bottle opener, and pop off the lid. Then he’d whip the Coke bottle to his lips, tilt it and his head back, and in an act repeatedly attempted and failed by every boy in the room, Hubback would down the icy, burning liquid in three or four gulps—without so much as a single pause, belch, tear, or gasp for air. Then, to the cheering of little boys, Hubback would smack the empty bottle down on the counter, turn on the heel of his boot, and head back home. Most of the boys would remain behind and speak in reverent tones about the old man’s gift.

As the crowd dispersed, for me the encounter was far from over. When the old German climbed on his wagon, I’d often try to sneak onto the back where I would hide in a pile of loose hay. If he didn’t spot me, I’d get a free ride home on a horse-drawn wagon.

Hubback had a different plan. He didn’t like kids climbing on his wagon and he let them know by twisting on his perch and turning his bull whip on anyone who had the temerity to invade his space.

On this particular day as Hubback pulled away with me perched on the back of his wagon, I quickly slid under a pile of fresh-cut hay. I had made it onto the vehicle undetected. Eventually I ventured out far enough from underneath the hay to dangle my legs off the back and enjoy the slow clip-clopping as we meandered down the dirt road that led toward my home.

I should have known better than to expose myself, because it wasn’t long until a stray dog charged up the road, barking at the horse and Mr. Hubback turned to give the mongrel a taste of his whip. Seeing me sitting there on his precious wagon, unharmed and with a stupid grin on my face, Hubback immediately changed targets by re-cocking his arm to give me a sharp smack.

But then fate intervened. Before Mr. Hubback could whip me we both heard a strange shout emanating from somewhere up the road. In unison we turned our attention to the ruckus. It was Maxine, a middle-aged lady who lived nearby. Maxine not only marched to the beat of a different drummer, she marched to the beat of a wildly insane drummer. Whenever she walked up the road, she tilted forward as if struggling against a hurricane-force wind and would peer ahead until she saw another human being coming her way. Then, no matter the distance, Maxine would start shouting a garbled monologue that only she could understand.

Realizing that the chatter was just Maxine, Mr. Hubback smiled at me with a sardonic grin and raised his right arm to give me a thrashing. But I was saved once again. This time it was the sound of “Buggy Baker” bouncing down the bumpy road in her old war-surplus jeep. Ms. Baker had earned the appellation of “Buggy” because she was a high school biology teacher who loved bugs and acted, well, sort of buggy. For one, she drove an open jeep—not common for a woman in her fifties in the fifties. Two, she was always accompanied in her jeep by Billy, who was not only her best friend, but, as his name might suggest, was also a goat. On this day as Buggy bounced down the road in her jeep, so did Billy. The poor creature could hardly stay on his assigned perch on the back bench because Ms. Baker was driving far too fast for a road that was more pot hole than path.

As Mr. Hubback and I paused to watch, it became clear that Buggy’s intention was to pass the wagon at a dangerous clip.

Just as Buggy began to hurl past us, Maxine (still yammering) drew close enough to stand in the path of the careening jeep, so Buggy was forced to slam on the brakes to avoid a horrible disaster. As she stomped on the brake pedal, the jeep hit a huge pothole and nearly flipped bumper-over-steering-wheel. This convulsive action pitched poor Billy into the front passenger seat, legs splayed forward where he ended up sitting there in the distinctly human pose of someone riding shotgun.

The curiously embarrassed look on the goat’s face coupled with the fact that he appeared as if he were pretending to be a human being who was casually cruising the countryside was simply too funny for words. As I looked at Old Man Hubback and he looked at Maxine and Maxine looked at Buggy we all grinned widely. Then, in a moment of truce, Hubback sat down his whip, leaned back his head, and let out a howl that was half laugh, half choke. Buggy tittered, Maxine cackled, and I laughed until tears ran down my cheeks. After a full minute of laughter, Buggy shooed Billy to the back, carefully edged her jeep past the wagon, and pulled away. Maxine leaned precariously into the imaginary wind and strode off at full yammer. And, true to form, Hubback grabbed his whip and menacingly aimed it at me again.

That was the end of that. I leaped from Hubback’s wagon and hurried the rest of the way home. Ten minutes later I burst in the front door and excitedly told my mother the story of the shotgun goat and the bull whip. Mom laughed along with me until we were both forced to sit down on the couch to catch our breath.

Then as Mother gathered her composure she exclaimed, “Isn’t it wonderful!”

“Isn’t what wonderful?” I asked.

“Living in this neighborhood!” mother explained. “We have people from all walks of life and that makes this a perfect place to live.”

In my moment of near crisis, Mom chose to focus on the joys of diversity. She loved people of all shapes, looks, beliefs and sizes. She loved to chat with immigrants. When I grew old enough to study biology, Mom took me by Buggy’s enchanted home where I discovered a menagerie filled with mysterious creatures and shiny microscopes. Buggy in turn introduced me to the joy of scientifically exploring the swamp in her backyard.

“To each his own.” That had been Mom’s mantra. Long before the topic of diversity had become popular in HR departments worldwide, Mom knew the joy that came from meeting, associating with, and loving people of every ethnicity, lifestyle, and belief.

No matter the direction of the political winds, mom never broke stride. While it’s true I never actually heard Mother use the word “diversity,” it was what she cherished. When Mr. Hubback grew feeble, it was she who took him soup and sat with him. And when Mom returned to college at age forty to study speech therapy, it was Maxine she took on as her first benefactor.

Mom never changed. Forty-five years later, on the eve of her death, she generously gifted a family of Mexican immigrants several dolls that she had made by hand to adorn her Christmas tree. Mom had invited the new neighbors and their five children into her home for hot chocolate one evening, and when the kids had complimented her on the dolls, she gave them away without a second thought.

Later that night as mom settled into her over-stuffed chair for the very last time to knit wool hats for the children of Bosnia (we found a bag of twenty beautiful hats when we went through her things), I’m sure she smiled deeply as she imagined the joy she would bring to a people she had never met, but whom she had been dutifully studying in her encyclopedia.

“Bosnians!” She had said to me as she knitted hats one day the week before—The Encyclopedia Britannica lying open next to her. “Aren’t they a fascinating bunch!”

Mom made diversity a wonderful thing.

Kerry Patterson Kerrying On