I coined the term “truthing” to make telling the truth a verb. After decades of working in what’s now called DEI (though we didn’t call it that back in the day), I’ve witnessed firsthand how difficult it is for marginalized groups to speak their truth.
Even in what we label “courageous conversations,” people aren’t truly being courageous. We’ve been conditioned to hide pieces of ourselves to gain acceptance in organizations and corporations.
I remember being pregnant with my first son and waiting until I was seven months along – when I couldn’t hide it anymore – to tell anyone at work. I was buttoning my jackets in specific ways and choosing clothes to conceal my pregnancy, all because I feared the stigma.
I worried people would think, “Now she’s a mother, she won’t be this sharp corporate leader anymore.” Here I was, telling others to be themselves and bring their whole selves to work while hiding such a fundamental part of my own life.
This experience exemplifies how we’ve been programmed to believe false narratives – like the idea that you can’t be both a mother and a strong businesswoman.
The more marginalized the group, the more pressure there is to hide one’s truth. We see it in the LGBTQIA+ community, where some don’t feel comfortable putting wedding pictures in their offices.
In the Black community, code-switching has become so normalized that it’s generationally hardwired into us. Studies show this constant self-suppression affects us mentally and physically – the toll of repeatedly holding yourself back, of not allowing yourself to be yourself, is real and devastating.
Even on my own show called “Truthing,” I struggled with authenticity at first. My producer would have to say, “I need Randi,” because as soon as the camera turned on, I’d automatically switch into “professional Randi” mode. This happened even when everyone on the show was Black.
The conditioning runs that deep. My best content now comes when I allow myself to be genuine, but it’s taken considerable work to get there.
I recently had a guest from the fashion industry who couldn’t bring herself to speak in her natural vernacular during our conversation, even in what should have been a safe space. Her brain, she admitted, wouldn’t allow her to pull back that curtain. That’s how deeply ingrained this behavior becomes.
The pressure to code switch intensifies in today’s climate, where DEI is becoming “public enemy number two.” There’s genuine fear about being your authentic self when the uncertainty is so high about the potential future costs.
I still do inclusion and diversity trainings online, and I’m always waiting for someone to say, “I think I saw one of your videos…” because they’re seeing the professional, code-switched version of me.
But I’ve made the courageous decision to be who I am, even as I struggle with it. Who’s going to rock with me will rock with me, and who won’t, won’t. The burden is no longer on me to make others comfortable with my presence.
We’re all drawn to people who make us feel comfortable, and the more you resemble the group you’re trying to impress, the easier life becomes. That’s why we’ve learned to wear these masks.
There’s an underlying curriculum in America about what “ghetto” is, what “educated” looks like, what “American” means. Black people work twice as hard to avoid falling into stereotypes that have been created about us.
It’s why we get frustrated when practices like wearing braids, once labeled as “ghetto,” become fashionable when adopted by others like the Kardashians. For years, we’ve resisted wearing our hair in ways that would be naturally easier for us, all to avoid stereotypes.
My own journey to authenticity hasn’t been linear. Growing up as often the only Black kid in Catholic school, and then attending an HBCU (Tuskegee University), I experienced the stark contrast of finally being able to breathe freely. Years later, moving from the diverse Washington, DC area to monocultural Marin County, California, I immediately code-switched without even thinking about it.
The turning point came when my son faced a racial incident at school. A child called him the N-word – a word he’d never even heard before. I was expected to have tea with the other child’s unapologetic mother and play the role of the “good Black person” who would make everything right.
That moment crystallized something for me: regardless of how much I code-switched, regardless of my education, or how many birthday parties I hosted, the responsibility for improving race relations would always be placed on my shoulders. I decided then to be unapologetically myself, and I haven’t looked back.
I often tell people that to be my friend and be white, you have to be different too. You need to be willing to be empathetic, sometimes code-switch yourself, and put yourself in uncomfortable situations.
It’s always been expected that Black people come to all-white settings and be happy to be there, but how often are white friends invited to predominantly Black occasions? True friendship requires a mutual willingness to bend, compromise, grow, and be uncomfortable.
We’re all culturally illiterate in some ways, but white people haven’t had the same need to learn about other cultures – that’s privilege. Everyone else had to learn your language, but not vice versa.
This shows up in seemingly innocent comments like calling a Black person “articulate” – as if it’s surprising we can speak well as if we shouldn’t know how to use proper English. It’s similar to a man expressing surprise that a woman is good at math.
As we face this current backlash against DEI initiatives, it’s crucial to understand that these programs were never just about Black people, despite how they’ve been branded. They benefit anyone who’s neurodivergent, anyone with disabilities, veterans, older workers, English language learners, and yes, white women – who have actually been the biggest beneficiaries of affirmative action in the workforce.
The system of white supremacy affects everyone, creating artificial competition between groups who should be allies. When white women compete with Black women instead of recognizing our common struggles against patriarchal power structures, we all lose. The current dismantling of programs meant to provide equal opportunities (not unfair advantages) reveals how this system works to maintain power imbalances.
The path forward requires all of us to recognize these dynamics and work together for genuine change. It’s time to stop code-switching, start truthing, and create spaces where everyone can bring their whole selves to the table. Only then can we begin to heal and develop authentic relationships across all communities.
