The news of Queen Elizabeth II’s death reached me on 8th September via social media, followed swiftly by millions of hot takes. Reactions from the UK folks that I follow ranged from distraught to gleeful. Some people made acerbic jokes; others castigated the jokers for lacking empathy or respect. Arguments for and against the monarchy and on the worthiness of the queen to be treated with respect flew like arrows at Agincourt, invoking British colonialism, the queen’s role in key historical events, a citizen’s general right to criticize the powerful … It was a bit much.
Throughout it all I stayed well clear. I’ve never lived under the authority of a royal or been a subject of the British Empire. I think I understand how sensitive these topics are for others. I have no special insight or analysis that would contribute to the discussion, even though I follow many experts in British politics and social dynamics. I accept that I have nothing valuable to add to the discussion and might – through well intentioned ignorance – cause harm by speaking up about something I don’t understand. I’ve stayed silent and listened. Learned a lot in the process, too.
Similarly, I kept quiet and listened back in 2014 when Jessica Valenti published her article The case for free tampons in The Guardian. Her reasoned argument triggered a predictable and stupid backlash online which, in turn, spilled over into my workplace. As with the Queen’s passing, seemingly everyone around me had an “expert” opinion on the use of feminine hygiene products, the role of government in public health, and what a corporation’s duty to its workers ought to be. As Megan Gibson wrote about the furore in Time:
“Many ignored the question entirely and instead seemed incensed with Valenti for complaining about having to pay for tampons (she wasn’t), likening access to tampons to violence against women (she didn’t), or being anti-American (huh?). Bizarrely, some seemed to equate a discussion about tampons with an admission of promiscuity.
Others still just felt the need to straight up insult her.” (because of course they did)
At the time, I had some considered opinions on Ms. Valenti’s article: drawing on my experience in military medicine, public health, and social science, I agreed with her key points. I thought her proposal might help my colleagues, so I felt we should give it a try. I refrained, however, from joining in most of the casual arguments (either at the office or on social media). Instead, I asked the women I worked with to share their perspectives with me. I knew that my experience as a bloke didn’t qualify me to claim that I fully understood the problem, so I paid attention to the people who knew the subject far better than I ever well. The more I learned, the more I felt confident that my support was warranted. Still, I appreciated that I wasn’t an “expert.”
To be clear, this kind of restraint isn’t normal for American men. We’re socialized from age ten or so to always have an opinion on everything … especially when we don’t know what we’re talking about. Twentieth century American culture has been dominated by masculine role models in popular culture that emphasized confidence as the most important virtue a man can demonstrate. Consider how the most iconic male leads in American cinema from the 40s through the 90s were portrayed: strong, authoritative, and confident to the point of bull-headed. As Jake Nevins wrote in the Guardian five years back:
“Many film-makers – Sam Peckinpah, for instance – have made the study of the violent male id their cause célèbre. And from John Wayne to Humphrey Bogart to James Bond, movies have historically provided a blueprint (albeit, a single-minded one) for the performance of masculinity, so much so that Woody Allen’s character in Play it Again, Sam literally conjures Bogart’s ghost to seek his counsel on courting women. ‘I never met one who didn’t understand a slap in the mouth or a slug from a .45,’ says a spectral Bogart.”
Even when filmmakers attempted to subvert audience expectations or introduce nuance to classic characters, [1] actors and directors consistently found box office success by playing the hyper-confident male lead straight [2] and resonated favourably with audience expectations. From John Wayne’s The Green Berets in 1968 to the debut of Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry in 1971, to pretty much every James Bond film made from 1962 until last year, Americans have embraced the “confident hero” archetype as an ideal to be revered and emulated.
This cultural conditioning naturally bleeds over from the theatre to the office. As Jack Nasher wrote in the Harvard Business Review a few years back: “It’s a common feeling: while you are busy doing a good job, others seem to be advancing much faster in their careers. What’s going on? The answer in many cases is your contributions are not being seen and recognized. One important reason this happens is that people are simply not great at assessing competence – a crucial trait for succeeding at work – and perceptions of competence are just as important for success as actual competence.” [3]
This led to American business gurus becoming infatuated with the idea that psychopaths make the best corporate leaders. Consider these two passages from Jessica Brown’s 2017 BBC article Do Psychopaths Really Make Better Leaders?: “Psychopaths are often considered to be charming, engaging and smooth, due to a lack of self-consciousness which frees them from the inhibitions and worries about saying the wrong thing that can cause others to be more socially awkward.
“… psychopaths have a tendency to engage in risky behaviour without thinking of the consequences. This impulsivity comes from a lack of fear, according to criminal psychologist David Lykke. … Adrian Furnham, professor of psychology at University College London, wrote in a Psychology Today article that highly impulsive people can thrive in fast-paced environments, such as a busy workplace, but they also speak and make decisions without thinking of the implications first.”
Sounds familiar? Consider the people posting their inane hot takes on social media about the Queen’s passing, or the men weighing in on women’s health issues in response to Jessica Valenti’s article. Why are so many people motivated not just to feel confident in their uninformed opinions, but also feel compelled to share those uninformed opinions with the world? Even when doing so is fouling the discourse past the point of being toxic?
Looking at this syndrome from my perspective as a constantly-online-American (once removed), I wonder how many of these counterproductive posters are simply obeying their cultural conditioning: spewing out vacuous opinions with supreme confidence because that’s how they’ve been taught to demonstrate their fitness to lead. Like a dog marking its territory with urine, legions of American men have been encouraged to befoul whatever conversation they’re in with overwhelming noise. The purpose isn’t to change minds, but to stifle conversation. Angering some, demoralizing others, and drowning out opposing voices is often how men build and reinforce their reputation as “strong,” “decisive,” and “deserving” of staying on top.
I find the practice reprehensible, though I understand why it works. I’ve seen this tactic succeed everywhere from the classroom to the boardroom to military HQs. Consider my anecdote from In Bob We Trust about the group commander who confidently insisted we purchase a brand of internal modem cards for our new PCs “because they have chips on both sides!” That jack-wagon didn’t “win” the argument because he was right; his decision became policy because he had more rank than everyone else. Stating a bloody stupid opinion that was obviously wrong as “justification” for his awful decision was how he reminded all his miserable subordinates that he, as their boss, was exempt from any and all expectations of being competent in his role. He didn’t need to be right; his was the only opinion that mattered.
I say all this not to dissuade my fellow posters from saying stupid things on social media. After all, what’s Twitter for if not to make an *#& of yourself in an entertaining way? No, I wanted to talk about this topic because it falls squarely into my wheelhouse: understanding and fixing dysfunctional office cultures. This is a topic I feel genuinely confident speaking about thanks to decades of research: an argument delivered confidently is no more likely to be true, accurate, or helpful that one delivered without. Understanding comes more from listening to (and learning from) experts and people’s lived experiences than from fools making noise solely for performative masculinity. That notion, however, is not what millions of Americans have been taught by their parents, teachers, peers, and preachers about how to “prove” that they’re men.
This is an awful, caustic, and counterproductive behaviour that I feel strongly needs to be excised from the workplace like some sort of noisy tumour. No we can’t revert decades of mental and emotional conditioning. We can, however, create, demonstrate, and enforce social mores within our environment that condemn speaking bollocks solely for the sake of speaking – one of the most common aspects of workplace meetings. Encourage your people to learn and factor their own biases and blind spots. Reward deference to expertise and shun the notion that rank or title is the equivalent of competence. Train your people that confidence without substance is detrimental to sound decision making.
Or, you know, don’t. You can always give the loudest voice in the room pride-of-place and see where that gets you. Odds are, that’s what many of your work centres have been doing for years … and why so many critical projects have failed due to fatally flawed decisions and the critical weakness that underpins the “fake it ‘til you make it” mentality. After all, what’s more important to your organisation? Rewarding certainty? Or succeeding? Personally, I’d rather be part of an organisation whose confidence is based on solid, unassailable knowledge than an impressive but ultimately hollow façade.
[1] If you’re interested in diving deeper into this topic, give Phillipa Gates’ 2008 paper The Three Sam Spaces: The Shifting Model of American Masculinity in the Three Films of The Maltese Falcon a read.
[2] Pun acidly intended.
[3] Emphasis added
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