She was young and pretty, with big brown eyes and a pleasant smile. She spoke quietly, politely. And she wore a hijab.
 
That alone isn’t unusual. I know many women who wear the Muslim headscarf as part of their faith. What gave me pause wasn’t this young woman’s attire; it was how the store cashier treated her.
 
I came to the check-out lane at the end of the woman’s transaction and immediately sensed the tension. The cashier was visibly annoyed, speaking to the Muslim woman in a clipped monotone. The woman, clearly nervous, tapped tentatively at the credit card reader as the cashier became increasingly agitated.
 
But as soon as I reached the counter, a transformation occurred. The cashier turned to me, flashed a dazzling smile and said, “Hello, sir! I’ll be with you in just a moment.” Then she looked again at the Muslim woman, and her face fell back into shadow.
 
As I puzzled over this, the cashier suddenly abandoned the woman entirely, gave me another smile and started ringing up my items. She asked about my day, joked about whether my candy bar purchase was a substitute for lunch, and laughingly shared how many Snickers bars her football-playing son could consume. I kept glancing at the Muslim woman, trying to catch her eye, eager to offer a smile and figure out what was happening.
 
She never looked at me. As I watched, she silently finished her transaction on the credit card reader, picked up her bag of items and, head hung low, walked out of the store. All the while, the cashier gaily spoke to me, completely ignoring her other customer. I don’t even recall seeing her print a receipt for the Muslim woman.
 
It finally dawned on me what I’d witnessed.
 
It’s one thing to read about acts of prejudice in news stories or hear about them from friends; it’s quite another to observe one, especially in a supposedly “polite” community like mine. But for many people of color or from religious minorities, it’s a daily occurrence.
 
I’ve been troubled by the incident for days now. How I wish I’d realized what was happening sooner! I could have engaged the woman in conversation, or at least called out a pleasant word so the last thing she experienced in that store wasn’t the cashier’s cold shoulder. I could have pushed back against the cashier’s rudeness.
 
Maybe there’s more to the story. Maybe something happened before I arrived, a disagreement that I didn’t witness. But that’s not what it felt like. What I saw in the Muslim woman’s face was sadness and embarrassment. What I saw in the cashier’s face was contempt. What I felt directed at me was the benefit of white privilege—and I’m ashamed of that.
 
This isn’t a blog about organizational communication. It’s about the need for each of us to stop using skin color or religious identity or political persuasion as excuses to treat others like dirt. Prejudice like I observed creates a gulf that keeps us from connecting and communicating, a gulf that allows us to demonize others for what they think or how they look or whom they love. It’s a chasm that quickly leads to hatred and violence.
 
Most importantly, this is a blog about the need for each of us to step up and call out prejudice. I was caught flat-footed this time; I won’t be next time.

There’s a well-worn Churchill quote: “You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood for something, sometime in your life.” That turn of phrase that sounds good in a speech—and brings considerable pain in life.
 
Three examples from recent weeks leap to mind.
 
One is this week’s resignation of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement spokesman James Schwab, claiming pressure put on him to support misleading statements about ICE raids in California. Schwab said statements about hundreds of “criminal aliens” escaping capture because Oakland Mayor Libby Schaaf warned the public weren’t true.
 
“I quit because I didn’t want to perpetuate misleading facts,” Schwab said. Interestingly, he added that he didn’t support Schaaf’s actions, but he wasn’t willing to deflect questions with falsehoods. He’s now unemployed.
 
My second example is the decision by Dick’s Sporting Goods to stop selling assault-style firearms entirely and cease gun sales to people under age 21. The decision by CEO Edward Stack came after the tragic shooting deaths at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. While many praised Stack’s call, multitudes of gun-rights advocates have assailed the company. Protests, lawsuits and fiery rhetoric on social media are ongoing.
 
Stack himself warned investors that the decision may cost some of their customers, but he is undeterred. “"As we looked at what happened down in Parkland, we were so disturbed and saddened, we felt we really needed to do something,” he said.
 
Closely linked is my third example: the student walkouts on March 14. Inspired by the outspoken survivors of Parkland, hundreds of thousands of young people across the U.S. held silent vigils and demanded action to reduce gun violence. Communities, businesses, even media outlets like Nickelodeon joined in to support the students.
 
For the record, I support these kids as well. Common-sense legislation won’t diminish the Second Amendment. Neither will it alone solve gun violence, but it’s an ingredient in the recipe to hinder it.
 
What I especially admire is the students’ courage; it seems they’ll need it. Take a cruise through online comments and social media, and you’ll discover many negative—and often vile—declarations against them. One school district in Texas threatened three-day suspensions even for students who had parental permission.
 
These are reminders that standing for truth, for principles and for positive action may be the right thing, but it’s rarely the easy thing. Enemies will abound. Sadly, in this highly connected world, a world desperately in need of dialogue, even the best communications can’t change that.
 
But let’s keep trying.

An oft-used phrase in common parlance is a misquote: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” credited to 6th century BC Chinese philosopher Lao-Tzu, translates literally as, “A journey of a thousand li starts beneath one’s feet.”
 
The actual words make the statement more personal, more human. It ascribes ownership, personal reflection and resolve, even a bit of humility.
 
It’s possible, just possible, that Michigan State University’s leadership took a long-overdue look at its own feet, reflected on its poor behavior, and made the first steps on what will be a very long journey.
 
As I’ve blogged here and here, MSU’s leadership—from the exiting President Lou Anna Simon through the consistently insensitive Board of Trustees—failed to show any contrition or demonstrate any meaningful empathy for the hundreds of women sexually abused by sports physician Larry Nassar. After weeks of national outrage that ramped up considerably after the Board affirmed Simon, dismissed critics and minimized the victims, trustees assembled meekly on Friday for a tear-filled public apology. It was a remarkable change in tone.
 
From a crisis communications perspective, the trustees largely hit the right notes. They took ownership of the failures that allowed Nassar to abuse young athletes for 20 years. They promised to re-engage with the victims to hammer out a “fair and just resolution”—the university already faces many civil lawsuits from the scandal. They pushed for third-party involvement in investigations and vowed to be transparent with results. They pledged to listen to all stakeholders, including holding open forums, with a promise to change whatever needs changing.
 
Most importantly, they showed remorse, apologizing individually and collectively.
 
“I am so truly sorry,” said Trustee Brian Mosallam. He sobbed his next sentence: “We failed you.”
 
“We made mistakes. I made mistakes,” said Trustee Diane Bynum.
 
“I’m truly sorry for our collective inaction, and I’m sorry for my inaction,” said Trustee Joel Ferguson, among the most criticized for dismissive statements he made in an interview early this week.
 
Board Chair Brian Breslin seemed to acknowledge the root of MSU’s lack of contrition—fear of lawsuits—in part of his statement: “The focus for MSU needs to shift from lawsuits to pursuing the right decisions to genuinely participate in helping victims and survivors with your healing.”
 
This link includes a video of the full meeting (fast forward to the 19-minute mark for the start of trustees’ comments).
 
There were still a few caveats in the Board’s statements and actions, still a few lifeboats kept ready in case MSU eventually dislikes the course this journey might take. But for the moment, the conversation seemed to indicate a better direction.
 
Only time will tell. MSU must understand that an hour-long “sorry” session, regardless of tears shed, by itself won’t fix the damage that’s been done. Words are important, but sincere actions summon change. Much of that action will be painful—tough investigations, hard questions, fundamental changes, people (including trustees, whom I still believe should resign) owning the failures and suffering the consequences. But that pain is nothing compared to the pain endured by the women Nassar abused, a pain exacerbated by MSU’s callousness.
 
Students, families, alumni, lawmakers, the public at large, and most importantly the victims, have every reason to be skeptical. They will be watching. It’s up to MSU leadership to meet—no, to exceed—the expectations they tried to establish on Friday. That will take a consistent, relentless, heartfelt effort for years to come.

Remember when you were a child and you did something wrong to someone, so your parents told you to apologize? Remember the utter lack of sincerity you put into that apology, muttering a monotone “sorry” under your breath as you stared daggers at the ground?
 
That’s exactly the approach Lou Anna Simon took in her letter resigning as president of Michigan State University.
 
A few days ago, I posted a blog explaining why Simon needed to step down in the wake of the horrific Larry Nassar scandal. My point was that Simon’s resignation should serve as the first step in the long healing process—for Nassar’s victims, for their families, for MSU, for the university’s many stakeholders.
 
Last night, Simon resigned. And she did so through an appalling tome that laid blame everywhere but at her feet. You can read the letter here.
 
Simon makes a small effort to acknowledge the pain of the young women whom Nassar molested. Sadly, that effort is all but lost in a letter that spends its time explaining why none of this is Simon’s fault and, incredibly, all but equates the victims’ pain to Simon’s own.
 
Simon had a perfect opportunity to start the healing. She could have accepted her responsibility, as president of the university, for the failure of systems to catch and stop Nassar. She could have expressed sincere empathy for the women. She and the Board of Trustees, who in their defensiveness have been shockingly dismissive of the Nassar scandal, could have laid out an aggressive plan for rooting out the failures, holding people accountable, changing systems, reaching out and rebuilding trust—starting with her exit. Instead, the disingenuous, tone-deaf messaging continues.
 
In her letter, Simon states, “I have tried to make it not about me.” In fact, that’s all her letter does.
 
And the healing has yet to begin.

Some years ago, I served as media spokesman for a company that was closing part of a manufacturing plant and laying off several hundred workers. A local radio station invited me to do a live interview during evening drive time. I agreed, albeit with some apprehension.
 
Dialing in at the appropriate time, I listened as the host introduced me and the topic: “Today, Company X announced that it was shutting down part of its local plant, costing hundreds of jobs. On the phone is Rick Chambers, and Rick, you ruined a lot of people’s day today.”
 
Apprehension justified.
 
After a quick pick-up-my-jaw-from-the-floor moment, I answered: “Of course, that’s not what we set out to do. Let me explain what we announced today and, most importantly, what we’re doing to support the people affected.” I then took the time to explain the decision, the reasons behind it, and the many ways the company would assist its employees and the community. Throughout the interview, I underscored again and again the company’s concern for the people facing an unsettling change and its commitment to help.
 
By the time the interview ended, the once-hostile host thanked me and the company for being present, explaining the decision and supporting those affected.
 
Reflecting on that experience, I’m convinced that being transparent, publicly acknowledging and owning the pain of the decision on real people, and pledging to do everything possible to help ease that pain, did more than just turn around an uncomfortable radio interview. It began the process of healing for all involved.
 
It’s too bad Michigan State University can’t learn that lesson.
 
MSU is circling the legal and PR wagons around its leadership, President Lou Anna Simon in particular, over the monstrous case of Larry Nassar, an MSU sports doctor convicted of seven counts of criminal sexual conduct and accused of hundreds more. According to an investigative article in the Detroit News, at least 14 university staff persons were told about Nassar over the years, yet he continued to molest young athletes until his arrest in 2016.
 
What Nassar’s victims faced—a story being told in heartbreaking detail as 101 of them make statements ahead of his sentencing next week—is nothing short of horrific.
 
Yet every statement and action by MSU fails to recognize that horror. No empathy for the victims. No support for the heroic women confronting Nassar in court, in full view of TV cameras, recounting the hell he put them through. No acknowledgement that the university could have, should have, stopped this monster years ago.
 
Instead, we get a throw-staff-under-the-bus statement from Simon, who claims she told her people to “play it straight up” when the reports of Nassar’s evil acts emerged years ago.
 
Then there’s the stunningly heartless statement from MSU’s Board of Trustees on Friday essentially complaining about people calling the university “tone-deaf, unresponsive and insensitive” when they believe MSU “has listened and heard the victims” and has taken the bold move of … wait for it … asking the Attorney General for a review.
 
Then the trustees dumped a truckload of road salt in the wound by declaring Simon “is the right leader for the university and has our support.”
 
To which Simon, given a perfect opportunity to demonstrate that she and the university really aren’t tone-deaf, unresponsive and insensitive, said this: “I continue to appreciate the confidence of the Board and the many people who have reached out to me, and to them, who have the best interests of MSU at heart. I have always done my best to lead MSU and I will continue to do so today and tomorrow.”
 
Think about that phrase: “The best interests of MSU.”
 
Those interests apparently have nothing to do with supporting the victims of sexual assault. Those interests apparently have nothing to do with empathy and compassion for women who have been traumatized.
 
What those “best interests” do involve, it appears, is MSU not giving a damn about those women.
 
As a public relations professional who has counseled clients—and at times personally stood—before the business end of microphones, cameras and reporter’s notebooks in crisis situations, I understand the discomfort. I get the anxiety. But none of that excuses what’s fundamental to the practice of PR: truth, transparency, accountability, empathy, ethics, and a sincere willingness to listen, learn and take positive action.
 
Michigan State University demonstrates none of that.
 
I’m far from the first communicator to call out MSU on this debacle. (This spot-on analysis by PR guru Matt Friedman is worth your time.) Yet the tone-deaf behavior goes on. Maybe the lawyers are running the game, because the alternative is more disheartening: people in my field coaching Simon and her staff with the most unethical, outrageous counsel imaginable.
 
Lou Anna Simon must own this tragedy and resign. Every trustee should exit as quickly as feasible. Every person who knew about Nassar and did nothing should be fired. New leadership should step in, acknowledge the mistakes, own the pain, and start listening to and working with the victims.
 
Healing will take a very long time. It’s way past time for Simon and MSU to get the healing started.

Back in 1983, the year President Ronald Reagan signed the holiday into law, I wasn’t excited about Martin Luther King Jr. Day. I had my doubts that Dr. King would approve. He worked (and tragically died) for change, not for a day off. How does a three-day weekend honor his dream? How does a holiday advance the cause of equity and racial healing?
 
I was short-sighted—mostly. Over the years, I’ve come to embrace the day. I celebrate Dr. King’s life, turn a shamed and critical eye to my own shortcomings, and recommit myself to doing my part to build a more equitable world. And I applaud as many in our nation pause to consider how much more work must be done.
 
But then comes Tuesday … and Wednesday ….
 
Pretty soon, our hearts and minds turn to the weekend ahead, bemoaning the shorter break. The words of Dr. King fade into the hubbub of daily life—or worse, are dismissed, and even decried, by those who still question his work and his dream.
 
When it comes to racism and inequity, the past few years have been eye-opening for me. With the help of compassionate friends, I’ve worked at removing the blinders that, even now, keep me from recognizing privilege and seeing disparity. I’ve listened to those who face racism daily, both overt and subtle; I’ve come to understand how it puts up barriers and poisons (and often ends) lives.
 
Shockingly, as I’ve shared this journey with others, I’ve been pushed back. I’ve heard age-old excuses and rationalizations, from “I don’t see color” to “That’s just an isolated incident” to “Hey, I have black friends” to “But what about drugs/gangs/parenting/violence/all lives matter/(fill in the blank)?”
 
And then comes Tuesday … and Wednesday ….
 
That’s the challenge. That’s where the concern I had back in ’83 is realized. For many, our national commitment to equity and racial healing boils down to a single day. We post an MLK meme, we pay our annual penance, and then we move on.
 
That’s not the formula for meaningful change. That’s not the call to action that Dr. King set before us. His call is a daily commitment to not ignore the angry voices stirring the darkness of what was, to not surrender to the inadequacy of what is, but to strive with all our hearts for the hope of what must be.
 
With that commitment, let Tuesday come. Bid Wednesday dawn. Welcome Thursday and Friday and every day that we work together, that we move forward united, every race and creed, ever closer to the mountaintop.

The time has come, the song is over; thought I’d something more to say.
— Pink Floyd, “Time”
 
Funny how I keep coming back to the music of Pink Floyd—as I did here and here—as starting points for recent blogs. But for me the celebrated British prog rock band again makes a powerful point.
 
This time, it involves death. And life.
 
Earlier this year, a good friend of mine learned he has a brain tumor. Even with treatment, his life expectancy is but a few short months. His siblings and friends have done a fantastic job staying connected and seeing to his needs. Still, likely fewer days remain in his journey than lay behind.
 
We’ve been friends for decades. While our adult years involved infrequent visits, each came as if no time had passed. We’d tell the same jokes, needle each other in the same ways, laugh at the same misadventures of our youth.
 
Those jokes and recollections have become especially poignant in our recent visits.
 
Pink Floyd’s “Time” emerged from lyricist Roger Waters’ mind in the early 1970s, becoming part of the band’s epic album, The Dark Side of the Moon. (Do yourself a favor and listen to this album in its entirety.) Approaching his 30s, Waters realized he was awaiting a magical moment when his life would begin, but that moment was long past:
 
And then one day you find, ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run; you missed the starting gun.
 
At least the cantankerous Waters recognized his error at a relatively young age. Most of us don’t see it until the gray hairs outnumber those of other hues—or until someone close reaches the end unexpectedly.
 
My friend has faced his final struggle with resilience, acceptance and peace—due largely to his Christian faith, which we share. Even so, I admire his even keel and wonder if I would do as well in his place.
 
But the bigger notion now fully roosted in my heart and soul is a desire to stop wasting time.
 
Stop wasting it on work. I don’t mean stop working—although there are days!—but stop pouring all my energy, all my lifeforce, into the grinding cogs of occupation until none remains for God, for loved ones and for self.
 
Stop wasting it away from the places I dream—the avocations, the geographies, the experiences that mark a life fully lived. These need not be monumental excursions; not everyone wants to climb Kilimanjaro or trod the Camino de Santiago (though I’m considering both!). They can be simple moments, deliberate interludes of calm in the day’s storm.
 
Stop wasting it on people and ideas that exist merely to disrupt. Stand against the wrong, invest in what’s right, but don’t let either leach the joy and energy that give life meaning.
 
Stop wasting it away from the moment. This is a tough one, especially in American culture, where everything is about the next accomplishment, the next rung on the ladder to wherever or whatever. I confess I spent a lot of my professional life here, albeit without realizing it. That life lesson proved valuable but tremendously costly.
 
One thing my friend is making sure he doesn’t miss in his final months is the opportunity to say all that needs to be said. When friends and family depart, he says, “I love you.” When asked how he faces this battle, he cites his unwavering faith. When his time has come, when his song is over, he’s wants nothing left to say.
 
I can’t think of a more powerful lesson in communication. Or life.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s a battle of words,” the poster-bearer cried.
“Listen, son,” said the man with the gun, “there’s room for you inside.”
— Pink Floyd, “Us and Them”
 
Ironic that I would follow up a blog about the need to keep talking with one about people who talk entirely too much.
 
As I stress whenever I lead a workshop on communication, there are two ways of talking: at each other, which is largely useless; or with each other, which is where communication happens.
 
Nowhere is the first more evident than the horrifying rhetoric we’ve witnessed in the past week between U.S. President Donald Trump and North Korean leader Kim Jong-un. We would already be staring at a radioactive wasteland were the risk of nuclear war measured solely on chest-thumping.
 
Thank God it isn’t. But when you consider the power of words, the bombastic exchange of recent days represents the first salvo.
 
North Korea has been a major irritant for decades, one that the West has failed to manage. With its increased nuclear capability—including, claim intelligence experts, devices small enough to fit inside its missiles—Kim is now the wanna-be playground tough showing off the brass knuckles he got for Christmas. Then there’s Trump, who thinks he’s the tough guy, going around the playground reminding the other kids of this, only to see most ignore him—or worse, snicker at him.
 
And like any playground clash, every “Oh yeah?” “Yeah!” exchange escalates the tension, bringing the inevitable fisticuffs closer and closer to happening. Problem is, it isn’t just the two chest-thumpers who will end up with bloodied noses.
 
Trump’s “fire and fury” ad-lib did exactly what he wanted it to do: It played to his base. Put crassly, his supporters measure America’s greatness by its ability to kick everyone else’s ass. That’s why Trump piled on, both verbally (“utters one threat…he will regret it fast”) and on Twitter (“Military solutions...locked and loaded”).
 
(Amusingly, actor Kal Penn asked Twitter if Trump’s tweet, in essence a threat to attack North Korea, violated Twitter’s terms of service.)
 
While Trump’s tirades succeed with his followers, they’ve been worse than useless in resolving the crisis. Kim, who frequently blusters about destroying the United States, has met every threat with threats of his own, promising to bomb—or more likely near-bomb—the U.S. territory of Guam. (Incredibly, this prompted Trump and Guam Gov. Eddie Calvo to suggest the standoff will merely increase tourism.)
 
I’d like to think neither Trump nor Kim want a nuclear war. I’d like to think both believe their back-and-forth is mere theater. I’d like to think there’s a plan for these tensions to bring both nations to the bargaining table. But I fear there are those on both sides who would applaud a war.
 
Even if the goal is peace, we cannot forget the risk of escalation. Words have power. And in this case, every careless threat is an exchange of fire. Every eye-for-an-eye promise is a troop movement. Increasingly harsh words risk bringing us to a point of no return, where words give way to weapons.

This isn't limited to the looming conflict with North Korea. Consider the National Rifle Association's appalling video threat against the New York Times, all but a rallying cry to its membership to carry out violence against the Times or anyone in the Fourth Estate who dares question the NRA's gun-brandishing gospel.

Again, words have power. Words can heal or they can destroy.
 
And there’s a reason why bombast hangs on the word “bomb."

You never talk to me. But I can’t show my weakness. —Pink Floyd, “Keep Talking”

We shouldn’t be surprised.

Much has been said, written and lamented about our society’s inability to converse. We’ve become so polarized that “compromise” is now a synonym for “capitulate,” which we find unacceptable. In short: “I’m right. You’re wrong. If you don’t agree with me, I won’t just protest you. I will destroy you.”

That attitude played out tragically today on a baseball field in Alexandria, Virginia. James Hodgkinson, apparently dissatisfied with Republican leadership in Washington—and President Donald Trump in particular—attacked a GOP charity ball team, shooting at least five people before authorities shot and killed him.

As I perused the news coverage, an opinion piece in the Sacramento Bee caught my eye. While hoping that the post-shooting bipartisan unity will endure, the Bee was insecure enough to ask, “Is it too naive to hope this will be a turning point—that this shooting will shock us out of complacency and acceptance?”

Given the evidence, I fear it's unlikely.

The heart of communication is dialogue—an exchange of ideas and perspectives with the goal of reaching an amicable agreement. That means active listening. That means respecting the other person, even when we disagree. That means being willing to give a little ground so everyone can move forward.

But that’s not where our society is at today. Our individual opinions are precious and above reproach. We proclaim them from our soapboxes of social media, strengthening our belief that they are sacrosanct. When we face disagreement, we dig our trenches deeper. We hold stubbornly to our viewpoints. We may even see the opposition as traitorous, or perhaps as a physical threat. From there, it’s a pretty short leap to eliminating the threat by whatever means necessary.

Many people will nod their heads at the paragraph I just wrote—and then point to those of a differing political persuasion as proof-positive of my words. Indeed, that’s already happening. Within hours of today’s shooting, conservative pundits such as former House Speaker Newt Gingrich were broadly blaming the left for the tragedy, rather than the behavior of one deranged man. No doubt progressives will soon respond by accusing the right of onerous acts that drive people like Hodgkinson to crazed action.

None of this is helping. Posturing won’t solve the problem. In the words of Stephen Hawking, hauntingly present in the Pink Floyd tune “Keep Talking”: “It doesn’t have to be like this. All we need to do is to make sure we keep on talking.”

I’ve spent 35 years of my life in communications. It’s not a career about brochures, press releases or corporate videos. Those are merely tools. Communication is about dialogue. It’s a process of interaction in which information is exchanged, relationships are built, and perspectives and decision-making are influenced to achieve mutually beneficial results.

If we won’t interact, if we refuse to build relationships, if we believe our results are the only ones that matter, how can we think that another Alexandria won’t happen?

The late Fred Rogers once said, “It's very dramatic when two people come together to work something out. It's easy to take a gun and annihilate your opposition, but what is really exciting to me is to see people with differing views come together and finally respect each other.”

Let’s pray for more of that kind of drama.

I wasn’t going to weigh in on the morass that is now consuming United Airlines—not because it isn’t worth analyzing, but because it’s been dissected every which way by professional and armchair communicators alike.
 
Instead, I’d like to look at United’s Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Time from the perspective of Danny Rand.
 
If you’re a Netflix-and-chill kind of person, or a Marvel Comics fan, you might recognize the name. Danny Rand is a fictional character also known as the Iron Fist. Lost in a plane crash in the Himalayas, Danny is rescued by monks who teach him martial arts and train him to be the latest in a line of warriors protecting their realm.
 
In the new Netflix series based on the character, Danny returns to civilization and takes his place as heir to a major corporation. He immediately upends corporate behavior. When the company develops a life-saving drug, Danny insists it be sold at cost. When a mother tells Danny his company environmental failures gave her son cancer, he promises to help – to the dismay of corporate lawyers.
 
Danny Rand brings something that’s clearly lacking not only in United’s public response, but in most corporations: empathy.
 
Businesses like to say they put the customer first. Few actually do. “Customer first” means a company understands the needs and feelings of the people it serves, and it adjusts its business decisions and behaviors accordingly. In reality, too many businesses tell customers what to need or feel.
 
Therein lies the problem with United Airlines. It failed to adapt to the needs and feelings of its customers. Instead, it adhered to a poorly planned (or poorly executed) process. The result – dragging a screaming man through an aircraft in front of horrified passengers and ultimately a world full of YouTube viewers – is an epic reputation disaster. (Nor is it the first time United has threatened a bumped passenger.)
 
United made things worse with its bland, lawyer-drafted initial response, then a flaccid apology from the CEO – “re-accommodate” will live forever alongside “alternative facts” – followed by an internal message that praised employees and criticized the passenger. United’s seemingly more heartfelt apology, issued Tuesday, is a step in the right direction, albeit a late one.
 
Many other PR pros have pointed out what United needs to do, or should have done in the first place. I won’t repeat those wise words here. But I do hope United and other corporations take serious note of what happens when empathy is an afterthought.
 
Yesterday’s New York Times ran an opinion piece that explained how United isn’t alone in its lack of empathy, especially when it comes to “less privileged” audiences. But empathy isn’t just a nice add-on; it’s essential to our humanity. And if that statement makes you uncomfortable – how sad if it does – then think of empathy as a competitive advantage for business.
 
As this article in Fast Company notes: “Progressive companies, almost without exception, are experts at intuiting customers’ discomfort and acting on it. … Empathy isn’t merely a foundation to build a business on; it’s also a way to adapt when the market inevitably turns.”

Or in United's case, building a corporate culture around empathy, truly caring for and structuring procedures around customers first, could have prevented a disaster that will haunt them for a long time.
 
Empathy rarely shows up in business plans. It never figures into shareholder speeches. At best, it gets lip service in annual reports. In the business world, empathy isn’t normal.
 
On that point, corporate America would do well to listen to the Iron Fist:
 
“Then normal is not the path to take.”