Amy Swift Crosby

A long one today, friends.
Stay with me.

I’m worried about…
“The future is female.”

We saw this on handmade signs, bumper stickers and in many of the optics surrounding the women’s march and post-election speech. Now, it’s grown into an active hashtag across social media, whenever anyone wants to promote a women’s issue/business/perspective or vibe. It has become shorthand for “this is a woman thing.”

It gave me pause then… and still does.

I remember the moment I saw it on the t-shirt worn by a little boy. His mom was holding him and I wondered if and how she explained that message to him, and…what might he think when he’s old enough to know what it means?

I’m pretty sure I know what we/they are trying to say, which is, “the future includes more womens’ voices – at the top — and everywhere.” Yes! But words are a big part of my world, and the world, and a slogan such as this isn’t actually saying what it needs to say.

It reminds me of a typical advertising device. Marketers will often go with a tagline or message because its alliterative, more than it is effective, because it sounds good. It might seem like it works, but upon closer examination…it doesn’t actually say much.

Sure “The future is female” has a good ring to it.

But do any of us want to live in a world dominated by one gender? Isn’t that what we have now?

Ironically, I think this future female rallying cry reflects a relevant blind spot.

For movements to create impact and change, they often have to swing much further into one direction, only to be able to land somewhere in the middle. I would never diminish the bravery and hard work of the activists who led us to where we are in 2017. But I wonder, with all that is in the news cycle right now, if the narrative is inadvertently creating a similarly binary conversation — and vilifying men — while ceremoniously vindicating (all) women.

The future is (hopefully) a safe place for everyone — a girl who wants to be a boy, a boy who doesn’t identify with either male or female, a girl who has to summon the courage to say “stop, this isn’t right” and a boy who wants to tell his dad that something happened — but he’s too ashamed to say it.

Could it be that what we really mean is that the future is a place where all voices are represented?

As long as we continue to create dynamics that pit one group over another, where one matters more, gets more air time, dominates an industry… we will have the oppressed and the oppressors.

Historically, we’ve accepted two options, which is why it’s hard to see past this right now:

Black / white.
Republican / democrat.
Up / down.
Male / female.
Rich / poor.

If we discount men, we undermine our ability to build a better future with men (and anyone who doesn’t identify with female). Men (news flash) are an essential part of our world.

Some men have created great pain and suffering.

Some women have been the victims, and will be forever changed by their experience.

And even more people have been silenced for their inconvenient truths.

When we talk about empowerment, and bringing more women into positions of leadership, across every industry and governmental branch, let’s also remember that most men (who were once someone’s little boy) can hear us — and must hear us. So let’s say something that shows them what our experience and leadership looks like.

It’s not binary.
It’s inclusive.
It’s not me over you.
It’s us.

Maybe a better slogan would be “the future is equal.”

As a copywriter, I can’t say it’s as viral.

But as a person, I think it says more about our shared vision.

To see Jodie Patterson’s TedX Talk about raising her transgender child Penelope, click here.

A very dear friend recently revealed an inappropriate encounter she had with a well-known Hollywood agent in a New York Times article. In the piece, she recounted that after the “incident” itself, she attended a party at the offender’s home the next day. This fact alone, the agent’s lawyer argued, implied that the encounter was “consensual.”

This conclusion misses The. Entire. Point (conveniently.)

What our culture has yet to understand is the length that women go to, to make others feel at ease, to reassure… to convince ourselves (as much as the other) that there’s “no problem here.” We sacrifice our own integrity, our voices and even our safety to avoid confrontation or cause upset. We protect the reputations or feelings of those who may have a lot to lose by hearing our truth.

These revelations of predatory, offensive behavior and work environments that condoned it are just the beginning. And my prediction is that we will soon hear from many women in many industries with similar experiences of sexual harassment. But there is something else I hope this consciousness shift will accomplish, even beyond the current (and much needed), sexual nature of the conversation.

It’s time to stop worrying that we’ll make someone uncomfortable.

We accommodate, so often, because it too disruptive or embarrassing to do or say the thing that needs to be said. We take one for the team, because maybe that’s just easier. We’re strong. We can live with it. It’s not that bad. “I’ll go to his party/return the call/nod and smile… so they don’t think I’m upset. I’ll just make it okay.” Or with other women, “She has it worse than I do. I won’t rock the boat. If she does it again, I’ll say something.”

But at what cost? It does cost something.

The truth is disruptive. It’s not cozy, safe or comforting.

The author Liz Gilbert recently told me (and 200 other women), to “start knowing.” It was in the context of asking permission, and resisting what we know we already know — but refuse to own.

It’s a big ask, because knowing can also mean taking on more responsibility, having to take action, or exposing what scares us.

A few days ago, standing in line for ice cream, a very large man stepped in front of three of us – my young daughter, a teenage girl who was in front of us, and me. As he stood there for a few minutes, I realized that he had cut the line — perhaps without realizing — although it couldn’t have been more obvious. The teenager looked uncomfortable, and my daughter questioned how he could do that.

“Excuse me, sir. The line starts back there,” I said.

He shuffled behind us, mumbling something under his breath, but the teenage girl looked at me and said, “thank you for saying something.”  It was at that moment that I experienced a shift. The smallest acts of knowing, of using our voices, of encouraging others to speak up over even the smallest, most transactional infraction is worthwhile. What so many of us might think of  as inconsequential — just an everyday exchange — is actually the practice it takes for those watching to prepare for what lies ahead.

We have to show ourselves, and our children, what it looks like…to know.

There’s a big difference between…
Writing a book and publishing a blog post.
Running a 5k and finishing a marathon.
Climbing Kilimanjaro and taking a day trip up Mt. Washington.
 
Our world has become ever more crowded with ambitions of every sort, with social feeds detailing the enviable evidence of our friends’ (and their friends’) milestone feats — that it can sometimes have a defeating effect. “I’d have to train for months…to have a big idea…to quit my job…I’ll do it next year…I’d need a partner.”
 
In an evolutionary world, it only makes sense that people are doing more and bigger stuff all the time, right? The minute one person does anything — much less better, faster, or longer – 20 more succeed in breaking those barriers.
 
But big accomplishments are few and far between. They’re promises worth keeping to ourselves, without question — but to overlook smaller dreams — or dismiss them as a distraction, unimportant or trivial –  is to miss accessible opportunities to make meaningful dreams come true.
 
Indulge me on this one.

I recently set my sights on learning Michael Jackson’s Thriller dance in two weeks. This was not without sacrifice. Over the course of my 14-day mission, I set aside some important work, made less interesting dinners, commuted in rush hour traffic, and dropped one ball in the form of a missed meeting. But…it was a short-term goal that felt semi-realistic, and that meant I finally (kind of) felt like a legendary pop star who I must have watched on MTV 100-plus times as a kid. Looking at my life, which admittedly doesn’t have a lot of room for “more”, this actually seemed do-able.
 
And it was… So. Much. Fun.
The learning.
The practice.
The performance.
All of it.
 
Grand finish lines are wonderful, but they aren’t the only goals worth having.
Of course you should write a book, renovate a house, get a degree, pitch the show,  launch the podcast and sell the business. But you could also take the class, do the gig, submit the work or enter a smaller, local race.
 
More frequent finish lines are everywhere.

They aren’t without effort, intention, and logistics. But they’re within reach.
 
And what they might deliver is a reunion with the kid inside who still wants to feel giddy, nervous and beside herself with excitement. This kind of glee can’t be manufactured. But it can be cultivated.
 
Look around.
Decide on your “yes” thing.
Punctuate the finish with a date, a registration, an unveiling, or by pressing send…
 
And then…do it.
 
Mama-say-mama-sa-mama-coosa!

The other afternoon, I struck up a conversation with a fifth grader, a friend of the family, about how school was going this year. She described something her teacher was doing prior to a test, that to me felt stressful. It doesn’t matter what it was as it relates to this story, but when I pressed her for an explanation, here’s what she said:

“Oh, she does it on purpose,” she told me as a matter of fact. “To create intentional tension.”

!!!

Of course, I lost my (metaphysical) marbles. Teaching fifth graders, who haven’t yet hit the apex of anxiety, how to practice being anxious, seemed nothing short of genius. And it got me thinking.

What if at an early age we set up a controlled environment, with skilled oversight, expressly designed to teach us how to speak up for ourselves (or others)? To express needs?

Put a different way, it would be a space in which to learn restraint and then reward, deliberately; to exist between discernment and persuasion and to experience different ways of managing and resolving a conflict. What if we practiced…having a “practice”… in preschool?

Rather than promoting kindness because it’s the right thing to do, which most schools (understandably) embrace, what if we designed highly controlled uncomfortable situations, to help kids navigate them — and make more informed choices – from the start?

If we can do a mock U.N. at school, why can’t we apply that to training for our most challenging emotions?

Practicing worst-case scenario may not replicate the exact experience a stressful event creates, but kids become adults. And adults have the power to create or destroy.

Tools don’t give us wiggle room… as much as options.
And we should have options… from the get go.

Practice, in this case, is a double entendre (my favorite happy accident):
It’s both the rehearsal we do in preparation for a future event, and the thing that grounds us in the here and now.

We know events will happen.
And we also know, all we have is now.

Like some of you, I operate in the feedback space, constantly and methodically evaluating what is working and what isn’t. But this post is about an entirely different sensation; being a goofy, unrestrained, unadulterated fan; being swept away in the perfection of a thing, and seeing it for all the good that it is.

As consumers, we need unapologetic fan moments more than ever. Having posted about being a Downseller (and wow there are a lot of you), this one is a confession about the value of falling in love – as a fan, follower or customer.

My own fan moment came recently at a party in Malibu, with the performance artist duo The Bumbys. Incognito in their red white and blue gear, behind electric typewriters, wearing noise-cancelling headphones, accompanied by their handler, they silently deploy “fair and honest appraisals” of party-goer’s appearances. Their astute, aspirational index-card write-ups are printed on the spot, and handed over after about two minutes of focused typing and hand proofing (and presumably observation, which you can’t really see from behind their sun glasses.)

I fell hard for Gill and Jill Bumby.

Conceptually, I want to be a Bumby. Giving prophetic, colorful, reassuring feedback to complete strangers, while in costume, describes my dream job.

But as a participant, standing there – vulnerable – staring down the barrel of someone else’s opinion, was initially unnerving. You’d think the appraisals would lean toward “honest” in a possibly snarky direction — but it was the opposite. Throughout the evening as we (guests) exchanged index cards, comparing our write-ups, the universal sentiment was heartening — each felt poetic, personal, and even better, strangely true! Imagine all the people they’ve assessed, walking around with these insightful, deftly nuanced self-approval ratings. #genius.

Being a fan means losing your suspension of disbelief, and letting a person, product or concept, steal you away from the expected. In its unique resonance, these experiences reassure us that something is very right in the world; A signpost, however infrequent, we all need.

As business owners, most of us aim for amazing, but acknowledge that it takes a lot of hard work/time/attention to elicit that effect. Which is why, when someone or something moves us intellectually, emotionally, spiritually (or all three,) we gotta lose the pretense of “mature” and “professional” and just bow down, and give it up, if we feel it.

I restrained myself from asking The Bumbys for an autograph, but did work up my courage for a photo. Couldn’t help it, and didn’t care. Losing our cool factor in exchange for earnest fanship is one of the last vestiges of our innocence.

Go ahead, write a love letter. It feels really good.

Respect to The Bumbys!

I’ve talked about singularity in this blog, as well as belonging, long-term relationships and the difference between good and great. I’ve obsessed over design (or the lack thereof) and extolled the power of words. All of these themes thundered through my chest as I learned that one of my longtime collaborators, Clive Piercy, the creative director of LA-based design shop Air Conditioned (a|c), had died after a year-long illness.
 
I met Clive, and his incredible team, about 13 years ago. He was sharp, dry, irreverent – utterly British, and in every way. In those early days, I was intimidated and, admittedly, completely out of my league. I quietly watched his design presentations, hoping my words would make it into his world, onto his radar — that I might matter to him someday. When they did, I saw how important the relationship between design and words is; and how this love affair can create fireworks for brands, stories and messaging. I’ve never looked back.
 
His idea-driven design introduced me to a new level of work — one I could never unsee, actually. He had a sharp tongue and critiqued my submissions more than praised them — but of course made them better. Clive had instincts that were rarely off base. a|c and his design leadership shaped my own filter and perspective. So much of what I know about this work comes from projects with Clive, Hilary, John and the team.
 
I’m good…because he was great.
We’ve lost one of the best.
 
I don’t think any of us (and there are so many) who count Clive among the most influential creatives in their lives, will soon walk into any meeting or read any brief without hearing Clive’s missives over their shoulder.
 
Count your teachers as your blessings, because they don’t always appear as such until they are no longer there to remind you that one of the reasons you do what you do, is to please them.
 
For more on Clive, a|c and the value of exceptional teams, read this post.