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

We’ve been through Crucial Conversations Training, have returned back to work, and aren’t changing all that much. Everyone liked the ideas and wanted to do something new, but we haven’t been very good at transferring what we learned in training to how we behave at work. What can we do to kick-start our interest and actually change how we behave at work?

Stumped

Dear Stumped,

The problem you suggest is common to everyone who has ever had a new aspiration. You finish a training program, set down a book, or walk away from a lecture or sermon—fired up with good intentions to embrace what you just learned. But then you get back to work and are faced with eighty new e-mails waiting for you, a boss who is on your case about a project you let slide, and your coworkers who want you to join a new action team. You’ll have to implement what you learned at training sometime early next week, once you get caught up.

As the days turn into weeks and the weeks into months, you envision the decay curve from your introductory psychology class associated with embracing new concepts. It’s not one of those slightly sloping lines you might see when tracking, say, weight loss. No, the nasty decay curve that plots changes in behavior against time is really more like a decay cliff. With each day that passes without making some kind of change, the likelihood of doing anything new drops precipitously. As the days pass, good intentions transform into apathy, apathy into old habits, and old habits into guilt.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. You can implement new techniques that support the changes you’d like to make. Here are six tools (following the model we use in Influencer) for transforming good intentions into behavioral changes.

1. Value Links. There are probably at least two reasons you wanted to embrace what you learned in training. First, you believe implementing the skills will make your life better. You also want to be the kind of person who speaks honestly and effectively. You want to work in a company where people replace back-biting with honest dialogue. These are some of the values that go with learning and implementing the skills. Keep these values in mind. Talk with your colleagues not just about the training content, but also the underlying values. As you link behavior changes to the qualities you care about, you increase the likelihood that you’ll actually implement what you learned.

2. Advanced Learning. Most training sessions are intended to start you on a path of learning. Crucial Conversations Training is no different. At the end of the formal training, kick-start your informal and extended learning. Assign your work group to study one of the chapters from the book. Meet and review what you studied. Discuss how it applies to you and your work group. Continue through the end of the book. In addition, ask your HR manager or trainer to conduct a follow-up training session where you review Crucial Conversations concepts, discuss applications, hone skills, and otherwise continue to advance your learning.

3. Contract with the Boss. As the training comes to an end, meet with your boss and lay out a plan for implementing what you learned. Make it clear that you want to bring the skills back to work where they can do some good. Review the skills you think will help you the most, discuss them candidly with your boss, and then tie them into your formal performance review. You might as well get credit for making personal changes and adding to your skill repertoire.

4. Maintenance Crews. Find one or two other people who have been through the training and form a “maintenance crew.” Meet monthly and work to maintain and improve the concepts and skills you learned during the training. Discuss common problems, jointly settle on how you can use the skills, and then practice the conversations. Take turns practicing each skill with real problems you face and don’t forget to give each other candid feedback and specific coaching. By practicing in a safe setting and receiving honest feedback and advice, you can improve your skills in a risk-free environment while preparing to deal with real problems at work.

5. Rewards. Ask your boss or HR manager if it would be okay to reward people who practice the new skills they’ve learned. Make the reward simple and then ask people to report their attempts at holding crucial conversations. People shouldn’t share the names of others involved in the crucial conversation (respecting privacy), but should write a short report of the skill they tried, what happened, and if necessary, what they might do different next time. Then, based on hitting a certain target number of attempted crucial conversations, celebrate efforts with small rewards.

6. Agenda and Reminders. If you care about something, you talk about it, and if you want to hard wire the conversation about high-stakes conversations, add it to your agenda. In each team meeting, openly share what you’re doing, what’s working, what isn’t, and any corrections you are making. Post the Crucial Conversations model on your office wall. Also place a copy in your meeting rooms. Use the model as a reminder of what to do and how to do it. Use the model when discussing your experience as a team.

Use any of these suggested follow-up tactics in combination, and the chances you’ll continue to practice and master the skills increase. Use four or more methods, and the likelihood you’ll transfer the skills from the training room to your work increases tenfold.

Kerry

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

Listen to Kerrying On via MP3
Listen to Kerrying On via iTunes

I’ve often heard that on our death beds, none of us is likely to look back on our life and lament, “I should have spent more time at the office.” To be frank, I’ve known several people who should have spent more time at the office, but this doesn’t negate the point that one day, we’ll look back on our lives and assess what we did.

Research on the topic of happiness reveals that most of us have no idea about what actually causes it. In Stumbling on Happiness, author Daniel Gilbert suggests that most of us are pretty bad at predicting what will make us happy and what won’t. For instance, when you ask people which will make them happier—a bigger salary or taking a daily walk with a loved one—people generally pick the money. However, when you measure people in both conditions, more time with a loved one typically yields more happiness.

When it comes to my own happiness, I do know a couple of things. First, happiness is not a constant state that one hunts down, tackles to the ground, and possesses. You never achieve happiness; you just experience happy moments. Second, we often assume receiving recognition for our labors will bring happiness. Not to say that it doesn’t, but sometimes, it’s surprising what kind of recognition truly matters.

Last week, as I drove my nine-year-old granddaughter, Kelsee, to our house for a short visit, she asked me what kind of job I had. For a couple of minutes I talked about training and consulting while Kelsee sat quietly and listened. Eventually, I mentioned that my partners and I also wrote books. Now this got her attention. Books she understood.

“You’re an author?” she asked.

“Yes,” I explained, “that would make me an author.”

“Can I see your books?”

As soon as we arrived home, Kelsee rushed to my office to examine the books. She touched each as if it had been retrieved from a sunken treasure chest.

“Can I have some to take to school?” Kelsee asked.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“So I can put them in the school library.”

This library Kelsee spoke of, of course, would be a grade-school library. I smiled as I imagined children dressed in three-piece suits, carrying miniature briefcases, and checking out books that explain how to wield influence over challenges such as world-wide calamities and corporate failure.

“I doubt that kids your age would enjoy the books,” I explained.

It took me a while to talk Kelsee out of the idea of placing our books in her grade-school library, but eventually she accepted my advice with quiet resolve. However, she wasn’t done. A week later, when I once again drove Kelsee to our home, she struck up the following conversation.

“Grandpa, during show-and-tell last week I told my teacher that my grandfather writes books.”

“Really? And what did she say?”

“She asked who you are.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Your name. I said that my grandfather is Kerry Patterson.”

“And then what did she say?”

“Well,” Kelsee continued, “before she could answer, Hannah—another girl in my class—shouted real loud: ‘NOT THE KERRY PATTERSON!’”

To be honest, I was a little surprised that a nine-year-old girl had ever heard of me. Surely she had me confused with somebody else.

Kelsee enthusiastically continued her story. She was obviously enjoying the moment.

“So I asked Hannah how she had heard of you and she explained: ‘My mom reads everything he writes.’”

“And what did you say to that?” I asked.

Kelsee paused for a moment, smiled wide and then said: “So—you’re familiar with his work.”

Now, that short interaction with Kelsee will never make it onto my resume. There you’ll find a chronological list of accomplishments in which I will have taken satisfaction, but you won’t find the secret of happiness. The secret of happiness lies not in the act of creating joy. The secret of happiness lies in recognizing joy when it comes.

With this in mind, here’s what I desire to have stated in my eulogy—better yet, I want it carved in bold letters at the top of my tombstone:

“So—you’re familiar with his work.”

This one moment of recognition from my granddaughter brought me happiness.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the 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

The following article first appeared on August 23, 2006.

When I’ve finished conducting a training session, it’s common for people to approach me with a series of questions about the training’s underlying philosophy. At the top of the list is: “What philosopher influenced you the most?” Sometimes people will insert a guru of their choice. “Was it Kant?” “Did you draw heavily from Rousseau?” “Were you thinking of Socrates when you . . .”

While I have a working knowledge of the icons people mention, I’d have to say that none played a very big role in my work. First, I can’t remember what most of them said, and second, none will ever displace an incident that set me on a philosophical course I continue to follow to this day. Like a lot of useful philosophy lessons, it all started with a Roy Rogers double feature.

In 1954, if you happened to be eight years old, and I did, Roy Rogers sat smack dab in the center of your universe. He was this marvelous cowboy/actor who was always chasing down the bad guys and saving the schoolmarm in the most remarkable and innovative ways. So when the newspaper announced there would be a Roy Rogers double feature showing on Saturday, I anxiously waited for the big event.

At that stage in my life, each day as I’d come home from school, I’d stop off at my Granddad’s place where I’d talk with him about Trigger, Bullet, Nelly Bell, and all of the other members of Roy Rogers’ entourage. Granddad had never seen the singing cowboy in action, but he always showed great interest in whatever caught my attention. He would patiently listen to me as I retold each tale of derring-do.

In truth, while it was Roy who had captured my eight-year-old interest, it was really Granddad who had captured my heart. At five foot four with a fireplug shape, a cigar stub in the corner of his mouth, and an amazing wit, he cut a large swath in my world. He owned and operated the local grocery store and, as far as my friends and I were concerned, that made him a celebrity. In fact, since he was the guy who stood behind the candy counter, it made him a childhood god.

Like all septuagenarians at the time, whenever Granddad visited downtown he wore a wool suit and a gray fedora. Since it was now the 1950s, the felt hat put him in a distinct minority. Most men had dropped any form of head gear at the same time women had stopped wearing gloves (in the late 40s), but Grandfather wouldn’t think of going outside without being covered. To him, you weren’t fit for public appearance if you weren’t in a suit and the suit had to have a matching hat. In Granddad’s case, it was the gray fedora.

The day of the double feature finally arrived and I stopped by Granddad’s store to let him know I’d be catching the bus that stopped in front of his establishment in order to go downtown and see Roy in action. He smiled broadly and explained that he too would be heading into the city to stock up on supplies. Maybe we’d run into each other. With the prospect of bumping into my Grandfather in mind, I headed downtown.

Later that day I merrily walked from the movie theater to the bus stop a few blocks away. While sucking on a Tootsie Pop and still musing about Roy’s latest conquest, I was confronted by an image that stopped me in my tracks. The Tootsie Pop actually fell from my mouth as I stood agape. There, at the end of the block no more that twenty yards away, lay Grandfather on the sidewalk. He appeared to be dead. His body lay askew while a withered hand clutched something bottle-shaped in a brown paper bag. What had happened? Did Granddad have a heart attack on the way to the wholesale house?

As I drew closer my fear turned to confusion and then despair. Why was nobody helping him? It was a busy Saturday afternoon and lots of people were walking right past him without even glancing. One person even stepped over him and sneered. Had the world gone mad? Were there no real heroes in Bellingham? Roy Rogers routinely shot it out with bad guys in order to right a wrong; couldn’t somebody stop and check Granddad? How hard could that be?

When I finally fell to my knees next to Granddad and moved the gray fedora that was covering his face, I discovered that it wasn’t him after all. It was a stranger—an old man who hadn’t shaved in days, smelled of wine, and who wasn’t dead, but instead was dead drunk.

Quickly I leaped to my feet. And then a warm wave of relief swept over me. It wasn’t Granddad and he wasn’t dead! It wasn’t Granddad! I stood there and cried tears of sheer joy until a kindly lady stopped and asked if I was lost. I mumbled that I was okay as I scuffled off to catch the bus.

As I rode the bus home I realized that I had equated a gray fedora with Grandfather, so when I saw a man wearing Granddad’s hat of choice, I made a logical leap that had caused me a great deal of grief. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. And then my emotions darted in another direction as my wide-eyed innocence took over. The better me couldn’t be so readily consoled. Yes, this stranger wasn’t my Grandfather, but surely he was somebody’s Grandfather. Where were his grandkids? And the strangers who passed by—why hadn’t they done anything? I sobbed for the stranger all the way home.

When I finally arrived home, I burst through the front door and told my mom how I thought Granddad was dead and how it had turned out to be somebody else. She smiled knowingly and explained that the poor fellow I had stumbled upon was known as a “wino” who was probably sleeping it off.

“But where were his grandkids?” I asked. Where was the little boy who would fall to his knees and help him home? Mom didn’t have an answer.

I was forever changed that day. First, I opened the door into the harsh part of life that my parents had protected me from. Some people become indigents who die on the street. Worse still, we don’t always know what to do about it. But the second lesson I learned was far more important and returns me to the question of the philosophy underlying our training. It’s the philosophy of the fedora. I learned that if I put Granddad’s fedora on a stranger—instantly transforming him or her into a person I loved dearly—the stranger became someone worthy of my care and attention. Putting a face on the faceless masses, assigning a name to a crime or war victim, thinking of the people who cause you grief—thinking of them as real people with children of their own—well, this humanizing act has a dramatic impact on how you first think about and then treat them.

For example, if I put the fedora on the elderly man driving the car in front of me at fifteen miles an hour in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone, my impatience and disgust transform into sympathy.

If a person at work lets me down and I can’t believe how uncaring he or she is, I place him or her under the fedora and I won’t be so quick to pass judgment and become angry. “Maybe,” I think, “he or she had a good reason for missing the deadline. Go find out.” Instantly I transform into a far better problem-solver than when I don’t assume the best of others but instead angrily wade into the discussion with hostile, and often groundless, accusations.

So, if you want to know what philosophy most influenced my training theories, remember the power of the fedora. Take it in your hands, turn it over and peer into its crown. There, somewhere between the manufacturer’s label and the hat size, you’ll find one of the most useful philosophies ever discovered by an eight-year-old.

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

  Dear Crucial Skills,

I am a relatively new supervisor, and several of my former peers are now my direct reports. One has been with the company for twenty-five years and her attitude has become increasingly combative. She questions almost everything I tell or ask of her, she is very negative about company policies, and she makes comments in front of other employees that undermine my authority and the company. My managers think she is detrimental to our entire department, but I am trying to save her job because I think she would be hard to replace.

It has become increasingly difficult for me to have conversations with her and I end up avoiding these conversations as much as possible. How do I turn this situation around?

Undermined

This conversation could eventually lead to the other person being disciplined in one way or another. While I know you’ll do your best to not go down that path too quickly, you have to be prepared for the worst. How you’re supposed to handle performance problems within your company—including the disciplinary steps you need to follow—is often formalized. That means the formalized steps need to be carefully followed if you expect to be supported by HR, your boss, the legal department, and the company.

Why worry? For years I have watched as well-intended supervisors have stepped up to a performance challenge, done their best to hold a crucial conversation, and ended by disciplining an employee. Then the supervisors learn that they should have first given a verbal warning before putting a letter in the employee’s file or provided a written warning before putting the person on probation, etc. Now the supervisor is in trouble with HR and needs to go back and reverse the proposed disciplinary step.

I’ve even seen a supervisor fire someone only to be forced by the legal department to bring the employee back to work (complete with back pay) because the supervisor didn’t follow the formal disciplinary process. This is not only discouraging to the supervisor, who has done his or her best to fulfill the responsibility of holding others accountable, but completely undermines his or her authority and puts the relationship at risk.

So the first step in starting a conversation that might lead to discipline is to know the formal disciplinary process your company follows. A simple conversation with an HR specialist (as well as a heads-up to your own boss) should be enough to teach you all you need to know. If your company does not have a formal process in place, consider the following guidelines. Catch problems early, before they get out of control. Always remain calm and respectful. Otherwise, the attention will soon be on you and how you became abusive during the discussion. Be crystal clear about the infraction itself and both the short- and long-term implications if the person doesn’t change. Far too many people leave a performance discussion (1) unclear about what they need to do differently and (2) unaware that if they don’t change there will be repercussions.

Here are a few tips for holding that conversation.

First, set aside time to talk in private about an issue that has you concerned. Start the conversation with a statement of your good intentions, but one that also conveys the severity of the situation. “Today I’d like to discuss a problem I’ve noticed over the past few weeks. I want to solve it before it becomes more serious. I hope to come to a resolution that works for both of us.”

Next, pick one or two of the problems from the variety you’ve suggested. You described the problem with short-hand terms such as “negative,” “detrimental,” and “combative.” These words, of course, are both inflammatory and vague. The listener isn’t likely to know what she has actually done, but is likely to be insulted by your unflattering characterization. Think about the specific behaviors you want her to change. Pick the actions you care the most about, not the ones that may be easiest to address. Don’t sell out by choosing the wrong behavior or back down by candy coating your description.

Now practice. Describe the actions you most care about to a friend or confidant. See if your friend understands the meaning of your words. Describe actions not conclusions. For instance, “Last week you suggested that our new cost-cutting plan was stupid and when I tried to explain why I thought it might work you rolled your eyes and called me naïve.” This clear description helps the person know exactly what you want to see change. Contrast this clear explanation with “You’re disruptive in meetings,” or “You’re constantly negative.” Inflammatory conclusions offend instead of inform.

Next, stop and ask the other person if she understands the issue. Don’t keep piling on new problems. Deal with one issue at a time. Since the problem you described is now big enough that your own boss wants to let the person go, you must also explain the disciplinary steps you’ll take if the person doesn’t change. Even if the person has already agreed to comply, explain that you’re glad she is willing to change, because if not, you’ll take the following disciplinary action. Since this isn’t the first infraction, and discipline may follow, you can’t leave out this information. Don’t phrase it as a threat, simply describe the reality.

This should be enough to get you started. I commend your willingness to actually work on the problem rather than simply let it slide or let the person go.

Kerry

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

Listen to Kerrying On via MP3
Listen to Kerrying On via iTunes

You can’t live in a community nowadays without it happening to you once in a while. Of course, how you respond to the assault depends on where you reside. Comedian David Brenner describes the difference in approach. He says that if you live on the east coast, you say something snide and tell the offender to beat it. If you live out west, you turn to the person you’re with and complain under your breath. But you never say anything directly to the offender.

And what is this crime we’ve all suffered? Line cutting. You’re patiently waiting your turn to buy tickets when suddenly, a selfish cur has the nerve to violate all that is good and proper and cuts in front of you—as if you’re not even there. Do these people think they’re better than you? Maybe their time is more important than yours. Is that it? These are the things you think to yourself if you live in Seattle. If you live in New York, you shout these words to inconsiderate line cutters.

I live in the west where, if Brenner’s right, we mostly stay mum—but not because we’re nice or gentle. The people I know clam up because they don’t want to appear rude or break any social norms. In extreme cases, they don’t like the odds they’re facing. Anyone brazen enough to cut in line might also be aggressive enough to punch you in the nose should you point out their peccadillo—although I’m fairly sure those who do speak their minds don’t use the word “peccadillo.”

So here’s the big question: Is there a reasonable way to deal with people who violate social norms such as line cutting? Surely there’s an effective strategy that falls somewhere between the violence of name-calling and the silence of whispering insults. And if there is, could the average person learn the method and then teach it to others?

These were the questions I wanted to answer as I gathered a group of grad students to work on a research project back in the fall of 1980. To kick off our study, we established a base-line measure. We would cut into a variety of lines and observe what people actually did. The very first day we cut into fifty different lines and nobody said a word. People made faces or quietly complained to the person next to them, but nobody actually confronted the line cutter.

Having established that our neighbors were unwilling to speak up to a norm-breaking stranger, we moved ahead with our study. For the next phase we placed a graduate student from our research team in a line. After fifteen minutes, another grad student (also from our team) cut in front of the first student. Our confederate in the queue then abruptly said, “Hey bozo, don’t butt into line! The end’s back there” (pointing menacingly toward the back). After this short, terse comment, the line-cutting grad student apologized and headed to the back of the line.

Now for the interesting part. We’d wait five minutes and then cut in front of the person who had been standing directly behind our outspoken grad student. Would the research subject mimic the direct, although somewhat obnoxious script he or she had just seen? We had demonstrated an interaction that worked. The crass line cutter went to the back of the line. Would such results, despite the abrasive nature of the script, embolden the observer?

In a word, no. Our grad student told the “bozo” to get to the end of the line fifty times and in fifty different locations—but not one person who observed the interaction spoke up. As we had hypothesized, the moderately violent approach we had demonstrated was exactly what people were trying to avoid. They didn’t want to act and look rude, so they remained silent.

Next we repeated the experiment, only this time we armed the grad student standing in line with a more socially acceptable script. Our research confederate stated politely, “I’m sorry. Perhaps you’re unaware. We’ve been standing in line for over fifteen minutes.” As before, the line cutter apologized and went to the end of the line. Once again, we waited five minutes and then cut in front of the person who had just observed the interaction.

Did the more pleasant script provide an alternative the research subjects standing in line would actually use? Drum roll please.

It certainly did. Eighty-five percent of the time, the subject who had observed the more pleasant script spoke up—usually using the exact words he or she had heard: “I’m sorry, perhaps you’re unaware. We’ve been standing in line for over fifteen minutes.” When provided with a healthy alternative to silence or violence, research subjects embraced the new script and used it the first chance they had.

As this study shows, people can and do learn new scripts by observing others in action. In fact, it’s how we learn just about everything we say and do in social settings. However, unlike our line-cutting study, social scripts are rarely taught purposefully and directly. But what if this were to change? What if this year, each of us, along with our promise to get fit or stop spending so much, vowed to teach our friends, children, and direct reports effective interpersonal scripts?

For instance, a person who reports to you cares deeply about a recent change in policy. She brings up her opinion in your weekly team meeting. As she expresses her view she pushes too hard. She overstates her position, uses inflammatory language, insults those who disagree with her, and otherwise turns the group against her.

As her leader, this provides you with a wonderful chance to offer individual coaching. At the end of the meeting you talk directly with your direct report about her stance and how you supported her view—right up until the point she called everyone who disagreed with her a cretin. You explain how her approach actually turned people against her. And then you role-play the scene again—only using more effective skills. Under your careful coaching, your direct report tentatively states her view by using terms such as “perhaps,” and “I wonder.” Equally important, she asks others for their point of view and then listens.

Let’s extend this recommendation. What if you and a million other people vowed to do the same thing? That is, they agree to “play it forward”? They don’t pay it forward—it’s not an act of service that can be passed on to others, but they play it forward—it’s a social skill that can be done in acts under the guidance of a director. People conduct mini-plays where they model effective social behavior—exemplifying skills that fall between silence and violence. Equally important, when someone they know and love moves to either silence or violence, they sit down with the offending party and play out the script in a new, more effective way.

Just think about the possible impact. For instance, what if parents modeled and practiced interpersonal skills with their offspring a thousand times before their kids hit puberty? Imagine, if in addition to driving their kids to gymnastics and oboe lessons, parents built social instruction into their daily conversation—just as often, just as seriously, and just as skillfully as someone teaching music lessons? What would the world be like if part of growing up was growing socially wise?

Now all of this playing it forward would be unnecessary if we were actually skilled at speaking our mind. And maybe we are. After all, it’s been thirty years since we completed our original line-cutting research, right?

To see where we stand today, Joseph Grenny’s son replicated the study a couple years back and uncovered the same discouraging results. Nobody said anything when the ten-year-old cut in front of people standing in line. Since he was so young and people might have been reluctant to speak up to someone so small and vulnerable, he eventually asked his mom to butt in line for him. After twenty-five cases where nobody uttered a word, finally a woman tapped our research mother on the shoulder and spoke her piece.

“Who does your hair?” she asked with a smile.

It seems conclusive. When confronted by inappropriate behavior we either blow up or clam up.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. We don’t have to choose between two unhealthy options. Not if we play it forward.

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

  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

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!

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

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 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

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.