We're Like a Family Here. Apparently.
There is a particular kind of confidence required to enter a staffroom where everyone already seems to know what everyone else is talking about.
There is a particular kind of confidence required to enter a staffroom where everyone already seems to know what everyone else is talking about.
Someone mentions Saturday.
Everyone laughs.
Someone says, “You had to be there.”
Apparently.
You weren't.
Never mind. There will be another conversation in a moment.
Probably about something else you weren't there for.
You could join in. Ask a question. Introduce a different topic.
Or you could make a cup of tea, smile politely and return to your desk.
All perfectly reasonable options.
Although only one of them may eventually earn you a reputation for being antisocial.
Which is interesting.
Because nobody actually asked why you left.
Every workplace has its own language.
Not necessarily English or any other language.
Something much more complicated.
The language of knowing when to laugh.
When to interrupt.
When a comment is a joke.
When a joke is actually a criticism.
When “we should all go for coffee sometime” means an invitation and when it means absolutely nothing.
Some people learn this language quickly.
Others don't.
Perhaps they speak with a different accent. Perhaps they choose their words carefully, have a different sense of humour or prefer listening to talking.
Perhaps English isn't their first language.
Perhaps it is.
Perhaps they're simply quiet.
And perhaps none of these things has anything to do with why they don't quite fit in.
But people are remarkably good at finding explanations for other people's behaviour.
“She keeps herself to herself.”
“He doesn't really mix.”
“She's a bit different.”
Useful observations.
Very little information required.
Of course, the quiet person may be making assumptions too.
Perhaps that laughter wasn't about them.
Perhaps the conversation wasn't deliberately excluding anyone.
Perhaps the invitation they never received wasn't an invitation at all.
People are complicated.
Unfortunately, most workplaces don't provide an instruction manual.
Just an induction about the fire exits.
At first, the colleague made an effort.
Good morning.
How was your weekend?
Would you like some help?
Of course, I can do that.
No problem.
Absolutely.
They smiled. Shared stories. Asked questions. Remembered things about people.
Sometimes it worked.
Sometimes it didn't.
Sometimes a friendship began.
Sometimes what looked like friendship turned out to be two people who happened to work in the same building.
An easy mistake.
They said yes to requests.
Covered things.
Helped when they could.
Helped when they couldn't.
Because being agreeable seemed like a sensible approach to belonging.
And people appreciated it.
“Such a lovely person.”
“Always happy to help.”
“Never complains.”
An impressive professional reputation.
Apparently, having no boundaries is a personality strength.
Until, of course, it isn't.
Because a person who agrees to everything eventually discovers that everything takes rather a lot of time.
They become tired.
Irritated.
Perhaps resentful.
Perhaps they start keeping a mental record of every favour nobody asked them to keep.
They may even begin expecting something in return.
An invitation.
A little recognition.
Someone remembering to ask how their weekend was.
But here's an awkward question.
If you never tell people what you need, how much are they supposed to know?
And another.
If someone is always willing to help, does that mean they should always be asked?
Answers on a postcard.
Preferably before Friday.
Then comes the boundary.
A small one.
“I can't do that today.”
“I'd rather not.”
“I don't think that's fair.”
Perfectly ordinary sentences.
Nothing especially revolutionary.
Yet sometimes they produce a remarkable reaction.
The helpful colleague is now less flexible.
The friendly colleague is a little difficult.
The quiet colleague has an attitude.
What an extraordinary transformation.
Yesterday: lovely.
Today: problematic.
All achieved without changing departments.
But perhaps the boundary was expressed badly.
Perhaps it came out with months of accumulated frustration attached.
Perhaps the colleague who received it had no idea anything was wrong.
Perhaps the person saying no had spent so long avoiding disagreement that the first attempt sounded more like an accusation.
That happens too.
A boundary can be reasonable.
The way it's communicated can still be unfair.
And someone else's disappointment doesn't automatically mean the boundary was wrong.
Both things can be true.
How inconvenient.
Eventually, the quiet colleague spends more breaks alone.
At their desk.
Outside.
Walking around the building.
Sometimes because they genuinely enjoy the peace.
Sometimes because the staffroom feels exhausting.
Sometimes because they no longer know how to join in without feeling as though they're performing a version of themselves.
But perhaps the others have noticed.
Perhaps they've asked.
Perhaps they've invited the colleague for coffee several times.
Perhaps the invitations were declined.
At what point does respecting someone's space become leaving them out?
At what point does wanting to be included become expecting others to do all the work?
And how does anyone know the difference without actually talking?
A rather inconvenient solution.
Talking.
We may need a policy.
Meanwhile, the workplace continues its excellent work on inclusion.
There are posters.
Training sessions.
Awareness days.
A statement about respecting differences.
Possibly a colourful presentation.
Everyone is welcome.
Every voice matters.
Every individual is valued.
Wonderful.
But the practical details can be surprisingly untidy.
A different accent, regional dialects, expressions and way of speaking is welcome.
Until someone has to ask for a sentence to be repeated.
A different communication style is respected.
Until someone doesn't respond in the expected way.
Quiet people are valued.
Until they don't contribute enough in meetings.
People are encouraged to speak up.
Until what they say makes someone uncomfortable.
Boundaries are important.
Until they interfere with the rota.
Naturally, none of this means the organisation is deliberately dishonest.
Perhaps the people writing the policies genuinely believe in them.
Perhaps the team genuinely tries.
Perhaps inclusion is simply harder to practise on an ordinary Wednesday than it is to describe in a presentation.
Especially when everyone is busy.
And the kettle is broken.
Then there is the famous sentence.
“We're like a family here.”
An interesting comparison.
Families can be supportive, welcoming and wonderfully accepting.
They can also be full of misunderstandings, unspoken expectations, favourite people and arguments about who was supposed to do what.
So perhaps the comparison is more accurate than intended.
In this workplace family, some people are naturally sociable.
Some prefer their own company.
Some make friends easily.
Some need longer.
Some speak confidently.
Some think before speaking.
Some are direct.
Some are sensitive.
Some are both, depending on the day.
And some people simply don't particularly like one another.
A shocking possibility.
But does inclusion require friendship?
Does being a good colleague mean attending every social event?
Does someone who eats alone need rescuing?
Does someone who says no need correcting?
And does a quiet person have a responsibility to make themselves understood, just as others have a responsibility not to make assumptions?
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps it depends.
An answer unlikely to fit neatly on the inclusion poster.
One day, someone notices that the colleague doesn't join the group much anymore.
“They used to be friendlier.”
Perhaps they were.
Or perhaps they used to smile more.
Those aren't necessarily the same thing.
Maybe the colleague has become less approachable.
Maybe the team has become less welcoming.
Maybe nothing dramatic happened at all.
Just small misunderstandings, ordinary disappointments, unspoken expectations and people getting on with their own lives.
Nobody necessarily intended to exclude anyone.
Nobody necessarily behaved particularly well, either.
And perhaps the quiet colleague isn't lonely at all.
Perhaps the walk at lunchtime is the best part of their day.
Or perhaps it isn't.
We don't know.
Which is rather the point.
It's easy to call someone quiet.
Difficult.
Sensitive.
Unfriendly.
Helpful.
A team player.
An outsider.
It's much harder to know what any of those descriptions actually mean.
Still, we do love a label.
It saves so much time.
Especially in an inclusive workplace.
We're like a family here.
Apparently.
I wonder whether everyone would describe it the same way.