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Dunn, C.P.
"Taking Stock...and Breaking the Silence: A Story. International Association for Business and Society Annual Meetings, 1994.
The Story
I suppose it violates all the rules of story-telling to begin with a redundancy. But it really was a hot, August day in Southern California. As I loaded the convertible for the trip to the desert, I reflected on how convenient it was to be able to avoid flying to the Academy meetings...although they were still in one of my least favorite cities, Las Vegas. What a summer it had been! The meetings of IABS had followed right on the heels of the Spring semester, and I had taken the opportunity to travel to Europe a week early--and spent the time on an island beach in the South of France. So what if I had somehow gotten my dates wrong, and arrived by night train to find I had missed the opening session of the conference in Leuven? The occasion was still there for building community with my true colleagues, those individuals who share my interest (and belief) in the essential nature of the social context of business. And Ed, Dan, Robbin, and I (names not changed, for there are no 'innocent') had the opportunity to address one of the pressing social issues facing business: AIDS in the Workplace. The session had gone better than any of us could have hoped--especially when one considers the difficulties attending long-distance coordination of a symposium--with the participants truly engaged in this issue.
And the panel knew.
And now, having just completed my first run of a new graduate seminar entitled Business and the 'Good Society,' it was again time for the Academy meetings--those Meetings which seemed to define the entire year for so many of the Management Scholars working at the Major Research Universities across the Country. For them this conference was the 'Easter Week' following the 'Lenten Season' of late December and early January, the latter being the period of Penance for Research Too Long Neglected during which Papers had been painstakingly (read 'hurriedly') Finalized in preparation for Submission (usually by Overnight Mail) to the appropriate Program Chair. And in spite of my obvious cynicism, I was more than a bit disappointed that the follow-up to our presentation in Belgium had not made its way onto the program here in Las Vegas.
Bally's was an imposing, nondescript box-like structure rising out of a sea of asphalt. It had been abandoned by one of the major hotels on the Strip, which had since constructed a new 'theme' getaway--the current trend in this city of lights--a few doors (which means entire city blocks in Las Vegas parlance) down the street. If, as I had been told, Bally's had enjoyed a grander incarnation, it was nowhere in evidence. But this would be home for a few days nonetheless...and there was always Caesar's Palace directly across the street. I quickly checked in, put the room in order, buttoned up the ragtop, and headed to the conference floor for the All-Academy opening session.
The theme for this year's conference was 'Diversity in the Workplace'--not that 'conference themes' seem to mean much to the Academy membership. Although I was certain that the overwhelming majority of the papers on the program would have absolutely nothing to do with diversity, I was just as convinced that the keynote speakers at the opening session would be addressing this most timely of issues. In this I was not disappointed. Speaker after speaker recounted their research in the area of gender and race (diversity research almost invariably collapses into one of these two categories); one even gave an enlightening discourse on her research relating to the 'handicapped,' noting that the extent of co-workers' sympathy and accommodation for disability was related to their perception of whether or not the affected party was in some way responsible for their 'plight.'
And then it happened.
One of the speakers quite simply and unequivocally stated that those who study marginalized issues are themselves stigmatized in the process. And the issue she chose to illustrate her point? AIDS in the workplace! I ran a quick mental inventory of the research on this topic which I knew to have been presented at professional academic meetings; it was a decidedly short list. My name was on it. Was I the bearer of some stigmata, obvious to others but transparent to me? Who had the ability to discern this 'mark of Cain'? What attributions were the 'knowers' making as a result of their knowledge of my research interest? Was my career in jeopardy? Such questions presented themselves to me in rapid succession.
Does anyone know?
Breaking my tradition for late nights and commensurably late mornings, the next day I headed downstairs for breakfast--the one meal I usually enjoy missing. Ed and Dan were there, having already taken their morning repast; the remnants of a few sausages, swimming in their own grease and the bit of syrup which the pancakes had reluctantly surrendered to the plate, was all the food that was in evidence. For this I was thankful. Ed and Dan were (of course) deep in conversation concerning the Minnesota Twins. Normally I would not have hesitated to join them, but this was a 'holy time' for the two fans. Wanting their 'take' on the opening session, I rather tentatively ventured in 'where angels fear to tread,' and sat in quiet reverence at these two grown men's awe of 'the game,' 'the season,' and (most importantly) 'their team.' Eventually the mantle lifted, and they noticed that I had joined them--physically, if not spiritually.
As I recounted the session of the previous afternoon, I saw the light of recognition in both Ed and Dan's eyes. Yes, they told me, this 'stigma' had been a concern of theirs...and something they had actually discussed prior to the meetings in Leuven. They had decided that in spite of what others might think, the workplace response to those affected by AIDS was an important issue and one with which they would identify publicly. I must admit I was surprised to find that this had been a matter of explicit consideration for the two of them, the problem of 'those who study marginalized issues being themselves stigmatized in the process' having quite frankly never occurred to me.
March provided the next occasion to be reunited with my colleagues. I discovered how refreshing it can be to attend sessions during the day, and return to my own bed at night--for the IABS meetings were held in San Diego. I found myself largely responsible for the pre-convention 'South-of-the-Border' experience; following an inauspicious beginning in which approximately forty of us found ourselves lost among the Maquilidoras of Tijuana for the better part of an hour, the day was redeemed by a delicious seafood luncheon along the southern coast of the city, and an informative--if somewhat troubling--visit to Habitat for Humanity. We were experiencing 'social issues' first-hand.
Sadly, there were for me some conspicuous absences at this meeting--among them Ed, Dan, and Robbin. I had so hoped for the opportunity to offer these three the hospitality of my home, and to show them the sights of the city--and to extend our 'tradition' of dining at the best Indian restaurant the conference city has to offer. No such luck. But there was more to it than that--much more. I wanted to share with them the loss that only they would understand, for only they knew about my relationship with another member of my home University's faculty. They had been told of this Princeton graduate, Professor of Classics and Humanities, who so adored me. They knew that the two of us were not likely to be together for the rest of our lives, that I was conflicted about this relationship, and that the summer the four of us had been in Leuven was a time of separation which might be extended indefinitely.
They even knew his name was Steven.
What they did not now know was that he had died suddenly and unexpectedly of a cerebral aneurysm only two months before. Virtually no one knew that.
While over a year later it is still difficult to go on with this part of the story, a bit more needs to be said. Given that I had done a rather thorough job of keeping my relationship with Steven from the faculty in my department, I found that there was no workplace support system in place to help me through the grieving process. What a mistake it had been to be so secretive! Had I been a better utilitarian, I would have weighed the costs as well as the benefits of being 'in the closet;' as it was, I had not even considered the toll which was exacted by my self-imposed 'privacy.' How many other gay men, I wondered, went to work each day representing themselves as something they were not--fending off questions about romantic interests--cutting short phone conversations which would reveal too much if overheard--pretending not to have heard the 'queer' joke a co-worker thought they would find amusing--unable (or at least unwilling) to speak openly about someone with whom they share relationship, as co-workers recount their weekend's adventures with someone of special importance to them. Were there not likely to be organizational implications for such an intolerant work environment--if not relating to performance, at least with respect to commitment, and thereby absenteeism and turnover? All interesting empirical questions, I thought to myselfÉ
Those who study marginalized issues are themselves stigmatized in the process. The words from less than a year ago echoed in my head.
Does anyone know?
One of the Voices break-out sessions at the IABS conference that year seemed to have been designed just for me. I found myself participating in a small group discussion with two of the panelists you see before you. The topic? Developing congruence between one's personal life and one's professional life. Was it by accident that I was here, with these two colleagues? I think not. As we shared our thoughts, it became clear that I was again--as I had been so often in the past--in a situation which virtually demanded openness; how could I talk of the issues of greatest concern to me, without exposing one of the most vulnerable parts of my identity? This time my response had to be different...
So I took the leap. It was a small leap, after all. I knew Denis well enough (through previous conversations on related issues) to be confident of his support. And Terri? Well, she was an unknown...but seemed to exude acceptance. Besides, she was from Southern California; how conservative could she be? And so the catharsis began. It was nothing short of therapeutic to establish some resonance between my personal life and my work life within this context. And when Denis suggested we put together this symposium, I was quick to offer my support. He gently suggested I be as transparent as I was willing to be.
So there was a choice to be made. Should I adopt a 'sterile,' 'objective,' 'critical,' 'scientific' approach to this task...or do something more revealing, such as disclose the values which drive my interest in the social issues I find to be of personal concern? Which approach would move me in the direction of achieving my personal ethical ideal? What are the benefits and costs of each alternative? With which choice would I be more comfortable if my friends, with whom I share caring relationship, were to be party to the current discussion? And suppose someone from a promotion and tenure committee reviews this symposium monograph as a result of its having been referenced in my annual personnel data summary? The next summer proved incredibly busy; I have often found work to be a convenient refuge from feeling. Following an abbreviated summer session in San Diego, I spent the balance of the season at my Bloomington residence, where I was involved in teaching for the University, writing a book on corporate philanthropy, completing a video on corporate social responsibility, and designing a graduate seminar around the topic of Business and the Natural Environment. I departed Bloomington early in August for the Academy meetings in Atlanta. But these questions were never far from my mindÉ
The weather this past weekend was absolutely awesome. I suppose the folks from MTV are especially thankful; having abandoned eight year's of spring break transmissions from Daytona Beach--at the urging of the local community--San Diego may have appeared a less than ideal choice of venue to them earlier in the week. We were plagued with recurring morning coastal fog, which cleared but briefly during the afternoon hours before reblanketing the city by nightfall. By last Saturday a 'Santa Ana' (or offshore) wind condition prevailed, however, and the skies were cleared of not only the fog but most airborne particulates as well. The temperature soared to the high eighties; it 'felt' more like August than March. All the dialogue on the Listserver about the weather in Hilton Head had little meaning for me...although I was sympathetic to the fact that such communiquŽs were of critical interest to those living in mid-Philadelphia. Today there are a few high-level wisps of clouds, lending some visual interest to the otherwise uniformly blue sky, and the temperature has moderated to the mid-seventies.
And I am in my office. The day before my departure for Hilton Head. (Writing, after all, is somewhat like wine: neither should be served before it has reached the fullness of its time.) Occasionally glancing at the world outside, but more immediately occupied with the world within. Making some sense of the ruminations which have occupied me for the past several months.
To thine own self be true. Shakespeare, certainly--and Socrates before him, I believe. In spite of all I know and fear, the only principle I need at the moment.
At a minimum I should give at least passing explicit recognition to the questions Denis posed to this panel some several months ago now--although all my answers are embedded in the previous narrative. What drew me to this field? Personal values. What would I research if I knew I had but one year to live? Those issues about which I am most passionate. What is keeping me from that agenda? Fear.
But no longer, for the silence has been broken.
I generally take the admonition to 'count the cost' to be good advice. But perhaps not in the way we are used to thinking. Fear drives us to overstate costs, and perhaps to make wrong choices. Pursuing a 'radical' research agenda might cost us something...might cost us a lot.
After all, those who study marginalized issues are themselves stigmatized in the process.
But what of the cost in terms of a diminution of who we are as a result of our not following the dictates of our values and passions? Primarily trained to think in terms of utility rather than virtue, such costs often do not recommend themselves to us. Until it is too late, and we reach the point at which having a year to live is perceived as closer to reality than fiction. And then, at that time, we may wonder: Has my research brought about a better society? Resulted in a more equitable distribution of 'goods'--whatever those 'goods' might be? Been an engaging process characterized by the nurturing of relationship? Has my very life itself been given meaning--been enriched--as a result of my choice of research agenda? Are the costs associated with failing to follow my values and passions assessed differently at the end?
In short, do I have regrets?
The definition of stigma I have before me suggests it is Òa stain or reproach, as on one's reputation.Ó The stigma is clearly visible to others. Stigmata cause others to fear us; tragically, they cause us to fear ourselves. They impel us to the futile search for the mythological 'fig leaf.' Liberation comes when we 'own' the stigma--when we accept, nay, embrace our marginalized status. It is only from the vantage of the margin that we can critique--and criticism is the precursor to meaningful societal reform.
Does anyone know?
Yes--all who are present. You have been part of my liberation this day, and for that you have my deepest gratitude.
The Postscript
The 757 has just lifted off from Charlotte, enroute from Hilton Head to San Diego. Land below is awash with the late afternoon light, delicately filtered through a deep bank of translucent clouds. Farmland, obviously--punctuated with the natural trees and watercourses which I can only assume once defined this entire region, rather than only those areas not now dedicated to some other 'productive use.' On my way home...but feeling very much as if I have left my academic family behind. Contemplating my final daybreak on the island.
While most mornings I would surrender kingdoms for a few moments of 'extra' sleep, this day I allow the coming sunrise to seduce me. It is still dark outside as I sleepily pull on a pair of comfortably-worn jeans and a sweatshirt for the pre-dawn stroll on the beach. I make my way down three flights of stairs, past the pools and boardwalks, and onto the expanse of sand. The tide is returning, but still reveals acres of crushed shell--formerly home to millions of my brothers and sisters, now soon to be hidden by the sea as she gently casts her shroud of modesty over the intertidal zone. As I venture out to the shoreline itself, my feet are both chilled and invigorated through the intimate contact with the Mother which suckles me. I feel connected to her, for I am in a way as never before.
There is more than the hypnotic movement of the sea in evidence; the rising of the sun has drawn others to the limits of the land. They appear first as single figures, but as the darkness lifts a slit of muted indigo luminescence appears in the center of each one. The one become two. A couple, man and woman, walking together in this fluid garden. Reinforcing my sense of isolation--or is it solitude?
The seamless earthen blanket before me is punctuated by a small disturbance. I stoop down for a closer look; in her rhythmic cycles, the sea water has carved a minute moat around the object. It is a crab. How has it come to be separated from the sea-modonna? Did it frolic too long in the moonlight of the quickly retreating night, only to be found without strength for the return to its watery home? Had it strayed too far from the foamy arms of its mother, lured by the vision of a new--and dryer--frontier? In some twist of fate, was this octoped victim to hubris: seduced by the unique attribute of being an ocean creature with legs, had it fancied itself capable of living out the rest of its days on land?
Sadly, this my brother crab is not to be revived. Separated from community, isolated from all which bequeaths life, tragedy has had its way. What made him think he--what made me think I--could survive without the embrace of others?
A dark, low ribbon of haze hems the distant eastern horizon. The sky is gradually changing from the charcoal of night to the deepest blue imaginable. All is still; earth and sea seem transfixed in anticipation of the coming appearance. The smallest point of coral light appears; ever so gradually, it grows to be the crown of the sun itself, heralding the appearance of the monarch, the giver of all life.
It is a new day; and I am more at one with this day than with any which have gone before. I am more at one with myself than I have ever been before. I have returned to the sea of my youth...
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