In praise of discomfort (unlearning white politeness, masking and conflict avoidance)

I’ve spent a lot of time in the five years since being diagnosed with ADHD thinking about masking, and how I might consciously or unconsciously choose to modify my behaviour in order to be more socially acceptable. Lately, I’ve noticed a desire and a tendency to put less effort into this, though it feels risky and exposing to do so. At a certain point in the life of many neurodivergent people, especially those diagnosed later in life, the mask begins to slip, perhaps because we no longer have the capacity to spend energy on maintaining it, or because we choose to take it off. It’s interesting to look at how this is received in different contexts – the world is changing, and our understanding of different neurotypes is developing quickly, even though this feels like something that’s still in its infancy. In some situations, people are accepting of, and accustomed to unusual communication styles, movements, ways of thinking and requests for adjustments. In others, we might be judged more harshly (like the time someone on a training course told me that nobody will ever take me seriously if I continue to move my hands like that when I talk). Masking, or toning ourselves down in order to fit in or be ‘taken seriously’ is more about others’ comfort than the needs of the person wearing the mask. Sure, it might stem from a deep seated need to belong (or a less deep but equally crucial need to be employable). But holding back our need to manage our nervous systems and energy levels, admit that we’ve forgotten someone’s name, bow out of small talk, zone out or follow a mental tangent is largely about managing others’ comfort. We might try not to do something because we’ve learned that it’s received as impolite or thoughtless – a classic example of this being the tendency to relate to others by sharing our own equivalent story when someone shares an experience. It might be read as one-upmanship or self-centredness, rather than a genuine attempt to connect. This is an example of what has been referred to in recent years as the ‘double empathy problem’. Essentially, the neurodivergent and neurotypical person in this scenario might be trying to connect with each other in different ways, but we’ve tended to locate the ‘problem’ within the neurodivergent person. It might be assumed that an Autistic person is less capable of empathy, while in fact a lack of understanding exists between people who have different ways of mentalising and communicating. Since neurodivergence is generally a pathologised and ‘othered’ identity, there is often pressure to conform to social conventions that might serve to make others more comfortable. There are many ways in which neurotypical people might experience pressure to mask, adapt and suppress instinctive behaviours or needs in order to maintain a sense of social cohesion or ‘civility’.

During these last few years, I’ve also become increasingly aware of a link between this phenomenon and the idea of ‘white politeness’. Being ‘civilised’ was (and in so many ways, continues to be) a concept weaponised in colonialism, positioning white European societies as morally, intellectually and culturally superior to the global majority. This offered apparent justification for the violent and dehumanising practices carried out by colonisers, and assumed anything outside of the cultural mores of Britain and other northern European countries at the time to be ‘barbaric’ and in need of control and assimilation. Civility during the heyday of the British Empire was inextricably linked with a hierarchical, monarchist social structure in which those with inherited wealth and power separated themselves from the lower classes in part via a system of ‘good manners’ that involved indirect communication, repressing emotions and bodily sensations, presenting ‘modestly’ and avoidance of conflict. We can still see the legacy of this in the ways in which politeness is sometimes weaponised and used as a way to wield power – for example, the continuing positioning of Black women who are communicating directly or expressing an emotion as ‘aggressive’. This form of bias and prejudice is something I’ve been aware of for a long time, but I was less aware of how a culture of ‘white politeness’ was shaping some of the spaces I inhabit until it was pointed out to me. That’s not unusual - it’s so often the case that we can’t see what we’re in while we’re in it, and also a feature of privilege to not have to notice something if it’s not obviously disadvantaging us. Even in some spaces where care and communication skills are highly valued, I started to notice the slightly awkward ways that we unconsciously attempt to avoid discomfort. We might start to put masks on if things are getting a little emotional, heated or weird. We’ll often use small talk, humour or subject changes to take the edge off when things threaten to get a little uncomfortable. Even those of us who are well versed in therapy speak and big fans of emotional literacy will lean on our learned social crutches when something threatens the relative politeness of the space sometimes. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with this, if it’s a conscious choice that fits with the social contract of the space – maybe we’re in this space together as a way to have some respite from big feelings, or maybe it’s a workplace and there are limited opportunities to fully unmask, process our emotions and process what’s unsaid in the space. But what I’m finding less helpful is the unconscious post-colonial hangover that has us subtly policing our own and others’ behaviours, bodies and words in order to maintain a sense of decorum. There may be a time and a place for showing up in all of our flawed, messy, noisy glory, but if we haven’t found enough of these times and places, it’s likely that our repressed emotions, sensations, movements etc. will cause us harm in some way, whether we realise it or not.

There’s also the impact of all of this on our ability to communicate with courage and integrity. Growing up in cultures (whether family, community, country or all of the above) that prioritise immediate comfort over voicing dissent, setting boundaries and sitting with difficult feelings has the potential to push us towards avoidant, people pleasing and incongruent behaviours and communication styles. Avoiding conversations and situations that might involve challenge, conflicting needs, awkwardness or inconvenience is only likely to bring short term gain, while problems go unaddressed and unmet needs grow into resentments over time. It feels very familiar to me to provide facilitation in workplaces that prioritise a veneer of ‘niceness’ over tackling the far less pleasant challenges that are festering beneath the surface because it’s so difficult and not in keeping with a ‘nice’ working culture to address them. Employees who were grappling with how to raise their concerns and struggles in these situations have told me how scary it can be to consider speaking up in an environment that has become profoundly silencing. This is a direct example of a culture of politeness and ‘civility’ preventing issues from being addressed and upholding a hierarchical structure where people who aren’t in charge may not feel safe to share feedback, challenge, concerns or even ideas that deviate from the norm. This is something I find concerning when I see signs of it, and I’m always keen to unpack the assumptions, beliefs and fears that contribute to this culture. And in the spirit of honest communication, I’ll level with you… I’m not here to criticise or shame anyone who has (intentionally or otherwise) contributed to a culture like this, partly because I don’t think that would be particularly useful, and partly because my own tendency is towards conflict avoidance and over-adapting in order to maintain a sense of belonging. This is something that I’ve spent years working on, and will likely continue to work on for the rest of my life – I don’t have it all figured out by any means. I notice at times an inner conflict between my learned defence mechanisms (‘avoid conflict, rejection and upsetting others at all costs’) and the communication style that I value and need (direct, open, congruent, assumes a healthy balance of care for self and care for others). I believe that moving beyond repressive cultures of ‘politeness’ and towards deeper connections and more equitable communities starts with curiosity and critical thinking. Maybe it’s a feature of my particular type of neurodivergence, but I’m grateful to have never lost the instinct to ask ‘but why?’ that we tend to associate with exhaustingly inquisitive toddlers. I find social conventions and unspoken rules fascinating. I can’t help pondering where they came from, what purpose they serve, whether we’re finding them helpful, and what else might be possible if we’re not. Taking space to examine the cultural norms, communication preferences and expectations within a community might yield some rich insights and opportunities about how different people are supported, excluded, silenced or relatively unaffected by them. And the prospect of examining this might in itself provoke anxiety – there’s a distinct possibility that, in spite of our best efforts to prevent conflict and offence, we will discover ways in which avoiding discomfort is inadvertently causing harm. It seems important here to both take our capacity to cause harm seriously, and at the same time, hold it lightly. If we find out that we have contributed to someone else’s pain or exclusion, we can take the gift of that learning and apply it in future, rather than entering a shame spiral that seems to threaten our sense of identity and values. Sometimes that’s easier said than done - I’m sure most of us have been horrified at some point to discover that our well intentioned words, actions or contribution to a wider culture have been harmful. But getting comfortable with the short term discomfort that might arise from sharing or receiving challenges, needs, boundaries, concerns and emotions is likely to offer longer term gains. And a culture of compassionate honesty, valuing each other’s contributions and welcoming an array of different feelings and perspectives seems to me to be a great hangover cure for the last vestiges of Empire and its restrictive grip on the human experience.

Black History Month and Coercive Control in the Curriculum

Somehow, we’re well into October already. Autumn always brings the passage of time into sharp focus for me, and never more so than in this year, when so much and yet so little seems to have happened. We’ve had far more time to reflect and ruminate on global events, politics and injustices this year. October is Black History Month – something that my colleagues in a Black-led grassroots organisation welcome with caution. It’s an important step in the right direction to have a month of centring people, events and perspectives that have been wilfully erased from historical narratives. And yet, a month of focus on Black experiences before re-opening history books written by the “winners” may seem like cold comfort at a time when traumatic news of racist violence continues to abound. I find myself thinking and feeling deeply about this, though I’ll never experience that trauma first-hand.  

The vision of my coaching and consultancy work is to contribute to communities that facilitate wholehearted communication, mutuality, safety and creativity. I write and speak often about social justice issues because I cannot see a way for us to fully live according to these values and practices while systemic oppression prevails. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about this in the context of education. While we humans are equipped with the potential to live together in ways that value our equal worth, nurture skills and talents and promote positive wellbeing, in reality this requires supportive structures and systems, practice (or learning by doing) and the tools to think critically and reflectively.  

And as we moved into Black History Month, while the modern iteration of the civil rights movement continued to fight, the U.K government launched an attack on the sort of education that will equip young people to think critically about what is included and excluded from the stories they are told by way of ‘historical fact’. While this guidance does at least ban the teaching of racist material, it does likewise for what it considers to be illegal or ‘extremist’ movements, in which it counts Extinction Rebellion, and some of this summer’s Black Lives Matter protests. Preventing schools from teaching narratives not written by the winners is a thinly veiled backlash to calls for ‘de-colonising the curriculum’.  

I’m part of the generation whose school years happened to coincide with Section 28, the legislation that banned educators from “promoting homosexuality” (for that, read “mentioning any form of queerness at all, unless explicitly condemning it”). It was revoked right around the time I finished high school. As a person who took a long time to make sense of my queer identity, I can only imagine how different things might have been for me if my education had been explicitly inclusive of all genders and sexualities, and if I'd been taught about the LGBTQI people before me who’d fought for their rights.  

The history of civil rights movements cannot be taught in a political vacuum. It would be difficult to teach Black history in this place and time without being somewhat critical of the political, philosophical, religious and (pseudo)scientific beliefs and practices that led to, for example, the transatlantic slave trade. Even those who may privately yearn for the ‘good old days’ of Empire and eugenics would not get away with explicitly voicing these views in a mainstream education setting. There is a consensus that it is acceptable to be critical of injustices that happened in the past, given that we are encouraged to hold a belief that we have made so much progress since then that nothing like this could ever happen again. But, without cultural criticism, analytical skills and the introduction of a range of philosophical concepts, how will we know whether we’re collectively sleepwalking into further atrocities? What are our young people expected to make of acts of violence against specific groups of people that are taking place right now? And who will be held to account for ensuring that the curriculum doesn’t implicitly or explicitly centre the voices of some learners over others? It’s hard for me - someone who was privileged enough to be raised and educated with more than my fair share of critical and rebellious tendencies - to see this as anything other than a cynical attempt at censorship. This is something that totalitarian regimes do, and they don’t usually do it all overnight. It’s a slow creep of human rights being eroded that always includes banning criticism of the current political system.  

I spent several years training professionals in how to teach Relationships, Sexual Health and Parenting (RSHP) Education to young people. We in Scotland moved from a tired, old curriculum that essentially encouraged victim-blaming and an over-simplistic view of consent, to a somewhat improved version that taught about moving beyond narrow gender roles, about enthusiastic consent and how to ensure you’re not engaging in coercive control (something that had recently been defined in law as a form of abuse). How ironic, then, that this latest warning to teachers in England should fall under the banner of Relationships, Sex and Health Education (RSHE), when the guidance itself seems to be a great example of coercive control. 

Having a background in youth work, I’ve always been heartened by informal education as a way to teach young people to critically engage with the world around them, especially the media and key cultural influences of the day. I’ll continue to advocate for holistic, well-funded youth provision that supports young people to have their voices heard, to build relationships of trust with adults and to learn to make sense of the world. Of course, the youth work sector has faced savage funding cuts under the current UK government too. And yet, just this week at work, I was reminded of the power of young people talking passionately about their lived experiences. I heard young, Black people speaking with clarity, rage and a wisdom that they shouldn’t have had to develop at their age. These young people, like so many others, give me hope for the future... but we can’t leave it to them to rescue the rest of us, especially since they didn’t get us into this mess in the first place. Someone needs to take responsibility for teaching history from the bottom, for inspiring the younger generations with stories of struggles for freedom that were won, no matter how small. And if this is really to be prevented in formal education settings until the current administration is finished, let’s take to social media, to community organising and to the streets to teach, learn and raise voices together.