When the DEI handbook doesn’t tell you what to do next…
This is the first of a two-part reflection on language, silence, and the subtle ways power performs itself in professional spaces. If you’ve ever been in a room that froze the moment you spoke—this is for you.
When the Room Goes Still: On Language, Surveillance, and the White Glitch (Part One)
I. The Buffer
It was one of those post-holiday team meetings meant to “reconnect.” The kind of gathering where no one’s fully present, but everyone’s pretending to be. Cameras off. Microphones muted. A few tired faces flickering on screen. A lot of “Can you hear me now?” energy.
Leadership wanted to build morale. So someone in a senior position—someone who often tries to sound relatable—decided to share a personal story. A wedding they’d attended over the break. It involved hiking, dresses, and elevation gain in the name of love. The kind of story designed to be whimsical. A little hardship, a big view, followed by a smile and, of course, a photo: two people posed in front of a mountain, glowing with outdoorsy triumph.
But I didn’t smile. I didn’t nod.
I said nothing.
Because sometimes, silence is the only thing that still belongs to you.
I’m very aware of how I show up—of what my face says when my mouth stays closed. Of what my voice can reveal even when I’m trying to keep it flat. I’ve already been clocked as “snarky.” The next step is “insubordinate.” So I kept my expression neutral. I didn’t react. And in doing so, I said exactly what I needed to say.
Eventually, I offered a small memory of my own.
Not a challenge—just a reminder that I, too, have stories.
“That reminds me of a wedding I went to on BLM land. Beautiful sunset. Trailers, dirt roads, middle of nowhere.”
It was low-key petty. I won’t lie.
But it was also real.
And the silence that followed?
That was me, owning the room—without raising my voice, without asking for permission.
II. The Handbook
There’s a kind of pause that happens in some white-dominated spaces when a Black person speaks their truth—especially when what you say isn’t easily digestible. Not confrontational, just… undeniably real.
That pause isn’t reverence. It’s fear.
It’s the sound of people flipping through an imaginary DEI handbook, trying to remember what the protocol is.
- Do I nod?
- Do I validate?
- Do I offer a neutral “thanks for sharing” or just… mute myself?
It’s that Karen-esque confusion—the kind where someone’s trying so hard not to say the wrong thing that they default to saying nothing at all. The buffering isn’t blank. It’s loaded.
Because the truth is, the DEI handbook was never meant to be a living document. It was a corporate fire extinguisher. Something to hang on the wall and say, “Look, we’re prepared.”
Before COVID, my company—like a lot of places—made a big deal about inclusion. Equity. Belonging. There were initiatives. Committees. Well-intentioned graphics in company newsletters. Even the formation of employee resource groups (ERGs) for women, cultural communities, and other marginalized identities.
It looked like movement. It felt like something might shift.
And for a moment, it almost did.
Then came the headlines. The uprisings. The hashtags.
Then came COVID. Then came budget cuts.
And somewhere in the background, without fanfare, the priorities began to change.
The first DEI hire quietly disappeared.
The second was a Black woman who had both presence and clarity—but not enough support.
The initiatives slowed. The meetings thinned. The commitment, once shouted, was whispered—and eventually… gone.
DEI, I realized, was only ever convenient when it didn’t challenge the bottom line.
Because inclusion, for most companies, is a branding strategy—not a value.
And when it costs too much—or dares to make people uncomfortable—it becomes a line item, then a liability, then a memory.
So when I made my comment in that meeting—about the BLM land wedding—and watched the room freeze, I knew what I was witnessing.
It wasn’t confusion.
It wasn’t offense.
It was a system glitching, realizing it had deleted the program that once told it how to respond.
And the thing is—
It’s not enough to say you believe in equity.
I’m thinking of “Sinners”, that scene where Rimmick stumbles through his monologue — “We believe in equality,” voice cracking, sweat forming, selling this idea like it’s part of a product launch.
And in that meeting, that’s exactly what it felt like.
The same brittle sincerity.
The same desperate hope that a well-timed slogan would cover the rot beneath it.
You don’t get to fumble your way through justice.
You don’t get to nod and retreat.
You have to stand behind it.
You have to risk being uncomfortable. Risk being wrong.
You have to have the courage to do the right thing—even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it costs you something.
Otherwise, it’s just Rimmick at the mic again.
A speech no one believes.
A promise no one intends to keep.
—
Coming soon: Part Two — what happens when beauty turns hostile, and belonging comes with surveillance.
If this resonated, share it. If you’ve ever been in the room when it went still—I see you.
Want more stories like this? Subscribe below so you don’t miss Part Two.
We’re just getting started.