IA Summit is Dead

Update from the future (November 2018): The Information Architecture Institute (IAI – so many acronyms!) is taking over the IA Conference as of 2019. This, in short, is very good news. While there’s still work ahead in regards to attendee safety, this is a very, very good first step.

The IA Summit is dead.

During the first week of July, the IA Foundation (IAF) – the new parent organization of the IA Conference (IAC), which was formerly known as the IA Summit (IAS) – released its Grievance Procedure (now deleted – see update at bottom of post). It got noticed on July 9th, via a few super-clued-in people. And then it spread from there.

The Procedure, as it stands, reinforces that the IAF can not (through the IAC) be a safe space for its attendees in any way, shape, or form. It is a feckless, sexist, silencing document that has no place in the practice of information architecture.

While I attended IAS for five years and was a volunteer this year, I was ignorant of IAS’s safety problems and the underlying culture that permits known bad actors to participate and attend. Complaints against said bad actors were casually dismissed. In one conversation about having mentors for the scholars, one person indicated that we needed to be “careful” about the mentors we chose because some might enjoy the… company… of younger people more than others. Like it was no big deal. Everyone knew who they were talking about. Yeah. It fucking creeped me out.

This you know who the bad people are attitude has been killing the culture for years, by quietly (and now with the Procedure, loudly) aligning with the perpetrators and ignoring the valid complaints of victims. The Procedure ultimately seeks to shut down backchannels in any way, shape, or form, by blaming the people who don’t feel comfortable or able to come forward. It’s dismissed as hearsay, it’s treated as invalid (or false, or worse) if it’s not handled in Just This One Way. The Procedure is an outgrowth of the systemic cultural problems IAS has had.

That atmosphere, mind you, was happening while people like me who were privileged were posting about how amazing the conference was, or sharing what I learned with my coworkers, or finding and forging truly great friendships. I’ve met an amazing number of very great people at IAS over the years. But to think that at that same time, despicable behavior was a) happening, b) probably/possibly happening to people I know and c) potentially not addressed with gravitas or maybe at all? That’s some garbage right there.

This isn’t even to speak about the specific CoC violations that I became aware of this year. They were treated so very casually, where time wasn’t a factor and the people who complained were either pushed off or ignored until there was a certain, undefined “amount” of evidence. There was no system in place to handle CoC complaints. Far too much of the training was along the lines of “Be cool; don’t be bad.” That’s not enough.

The Procedure is almost certainly a direct response to these violations, and it reads like a legal document with its talk of due process and hearings (hearings! for a voluntary conference run by an organization! what!) that completely bulldozes over any rights of the victims. It’s the worst type of effort: a deliverable that is created so one can say, “Here – I made the deliverable” without doing any of the work addressing how we got here in the first place. It is bad. It must be completely scrapped, and IAF must immediately announce concrete plans – and actions – to address all of this in a way that centers the safety of attendees, speakers, and sponsors – not perpetrators.

Incidentally, I elected to not be involved in IAC in part because of the lack of swift and empathetic responses to people who had reported CoC violations. I can in no way support an organization that puts out this type of document and stands by it. I will not attend IAC, and until there is meaningful, systemic change led by IAF, you shouldn’t either.

---

Note: As of July 10, the Grievance Procedure has been removed, with the IAF noting they were going "back to the drawing board"; it wasn't captured in the Web Archive. At that time, some parts of the conference's Code of Conduct were positively changed. My original points in the article still stand.

The Unfollowing

A couple of years ago I struck up conversations with a person I met via Twitter. We had a number of common interests, and we'd get together and catch up for coffee and chat. It was a nice, cordial friendship and all.

Many months and slowing emails and interests diverging into it, I chose to unfollow them on Twitter. I didn't see it as a big deal, to be honest; they were posting a myriad things that were hurtful towards people I care about and the people I love – lots of anti-LGBTQIA+ stuff, lots of pro-Trump stuff, lots of "marriage is between a man and a woman" type of stuff. I didn't think twice about the unfollow. Why subject myself to that?

A month later, I happened to run into them at a local restaurant. Totally surprised. We struck up mildly pleasant small talk but then, they asked it. "So, you unfollowed me on Twitter. I was wondering why. We had a good friendship, and I took it really personally."

I was caught a little off-guard. Even now, I do appreciate their straightforwardness. I wasn't in a place to truly go deep into the content of this person's tweets, not in a public place. "It's not personal," I said, "I do stop following folks, but it doesn't necessarily mean anything else. But, I absolutely disagree with the things you've been posting."

We talked a little more and came to a place of distant agreement about it, more of a "Hey, it's fine we don't follow each other, but that doesn't necessarily impact our little friendship."

We never spoke again.

I'm also not able to fully avoid this person's work; some people retweet it, and this person collaborates with some people I know. Yet I admit, there's just a little tinge of jealousy I harbor about it.

IA Summit 2017: Watering the Seeds

Note: this article reflected my feelings on IA Summit at the time of attendance. As of 2018, I've learned of serious safety violations at the conference over many years. Please consider that when reading this, as my experience may not be typical. Until further notice, you should not attend the IA Conference (which is what IA Summit is now known as) or support the IA Foundation. – Ed.

Something was different this year.

Last year I shared a concern I feel every year at IAS on whether the conference, this one that I've now attended for five years with a community of people I love, will not feel special.

I echo the sentiments expressed by the great Dylan Wilbanks, whom I met at IAS this year after the polite prodding of everyone we know. Our field, and this conference, is now feeling the effects of a generational shift. When I started in UX, there was no playbook on how to do the work and what was expected; it arose out of the “webmaster” term (as did dozens of other practices) as we learned that our work was more complex and needed more purpose, more focus.

And so I didn't feel the same this year as I did the prior four, not quite. Instead I felt more invested in other people. I wanted to ensure that my first timers (the group that came with me and Andy Fitzgerald to dinner the first night – and the informal group that came with me and Bibi Nunes the second night) were having a good time, and getting the most out of it. I wanted new speakers to know that they were respected, heard, and that the community had their backs. I wanted my friends to know I was there, in presence and in spirit both.

Now. Talks and keynotes were, again, solid. I particularly enjoyed Amber Case's keynote on calm technology and the way we approach tech in general. It, to me, held the strongest connection to the overall theme of Designing for Humans. I can't believe I got to hear Susan Kare talk – such a profound influence on so much of our digital culture. I got a ton out of Dan Ramsden's talk asking what the point of IA was; he's an easy favorite speaker for me. Kyle Soucy challenged my assumptions on KJ analysis and its most practical applications. I took big ideas from Elissa Frankle's talk on the hierarchy of needs in museum experiences, and thought on how they apply to non-physical experiences too.

A favorite moment: on Sunday, a speaker inexplicably missed their speaking slot. The topic was voice UX & UI. A room full of people sat and waited, assuming there would be no session. But there was! Andy Fitzgerald, Shelley Cook, and I started suggesting an impromptu panel and moments later, Amber Case was leading a discussion, recruiting the sole person from the audience who knew voice UX. It was a fireside chat that later turned into a small panel, all on-the-spot without any prep, and pulled off without a hitch.

You Get What You Give

That moment to me symbolized something significant for me this year, something it took me years to absorb: this is a community-run event, with backing from ASIS&T as always, and the community helps design the direction of the event. Mind you, the co-chairs are the leaders – that's not in dispute. But there are so many parts of the conference that sprung up organically. Acoustic Jam, Polar Bear Yoga... these things happened because people just put it together and recommended them.

Thus I'm publicly sharing that I am hoping and planning to have a more significant role in what happens at IAS next year. It's all at the “Hey, I'd like to do these things...” phase with the chairs, but I have a clear idea on what those things are and what needs to happen in order to make them go. And anyone who knows me can guess what they're about. (I am trying to avoid an Osborne Effect here.)

But the rationale isn't just self-serving. I have found my community at IA Summit, and these are the people I learn from, the people I respect. I want and need this conference to be a welcoming, diverse space that continues to bring in new voices – with the wind at their backs, ready and eager to share – while respecting the work of the giants in our field. I want IA Summit to be that place where all of these people come together, sharing and learning and taking exciting things back to work and then sharing and learning again. I want IA Summit to continue to be special for people who attend, and I now want to help see that through from a content and experience perspective.

On Next Year

IA Summit is in my hometown of Chicago in March. Big ideas are in my head: how will I get Kevin Hoffman to enjoy Lou Malnati's? How can we get everyone out into the neighborhoods to explore? What will the influence of the city be on the program? Can we indeed have buckets of giardiniera at the snack breaks? How can one compress the Chicago experience and culture into just a few days in March?

I'm excited to see what happens. I'll see you there next year.

Prior years' posts, for reference: 2013, 2014, 2016. I also spoke at Five Minute Madness this year.

Exist

In addition to my good morning tweets, I started posting a “Resist. Persist.” tweet that was later augmented with “Exist.” on the advice of a dear friend. I added it not just for the pithiness, but for what it truly stands for.

The bottom line is that I want people to exist and bring their full selves to their lives when and where they can. They might not be able to be visible in some situations for safety, personal reasons, what-have-you. But it's critical for me to know that my friends and followers and coworkers and family and acquaintances are out there, pushing on, being themselves and just existing in this challenging time.

On the other end of that tweet is support and love and admiration and respect.

It's still there

I can see it from the entrance to Dillard's.

Among the polyester house brand slacks, the faux deep wood displays, and the slightly stale air of the department store I can look out the sliding glass doors of the entrance and see the Century Theater where people were shot and killed five years ago.

It's across the parking lot in the Aurora Town Center. It's not far. And it's open. I can see a steady stream of people, groups of teens and families, walking in and out of the theater. They continue on. The smallest ones, the youngest, may not even have a connection to it; it happened before they were alive.

There is no marker. There is no memorial. There is no plaque. There's no acknowledgement. The theater still operates there. The theater fully reopened just six months after the massacre, and you can sit in the same (remodeled) theater the victims did.

Nearly six months to the day after the shootings, Aurora's Century 16 was renamed the Century Aurora, remodeled and cleansed of bloodstained aisles, seats and hallways that marked the July 20 massacre.

The lack of memorial is troubling. There's been a lot of debate on just what to do, and no clear path ahead. A thoughtful editorial by Ray Mark Rinaldi suggests that this is due to a lack of a clear starting point: how do you condemn gun violence in a solemn and respectful way?

...They were just movie fans, really, not soldiers or civil servants. They died because they enjoyed Batman, not because they were on one side or another of a culture war. They weren’t victims of sacred suicide raids or genocide. They were killed because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

While Rinaldi suggests that another design deadline for the memorial should pass (in lieu of having a hollow and/or generic tribute), I think part of the problem is the lack of respect shown by the theater owners, Cinemark. Sure, they held a brief memorial on the night of the reopening and a few years later tried to get $700,000 from victims' families before public outrage forced them to withdraw that request. But not doing anything with the place itself – again, it's still open – is disrespectful. If you don't shut the entire place down (and they clearly won't), then close the theater where it happened. Put up a true memorial plaque inside the theater. Show some respect for the victims and their families.

It's not perfect, no. And yes, there should be some sort of true memorial; this isn't a substitute for that. But it is better than nothing.

Find your people

From Michael Chabon's must-read, My Son, The Prince of Fashion:

You are born into a family and those are your people, and they know you and they love you and if you are lucky they even, on occasion, manage to understand you. And that ought to be enough. But it is never enough.

As I grew up I saw my friends and family as very distinct groups of folks. How could I not? I lived with my family. I discovered my interests, my loves, my passions, the things that really started to define who I was in some way. And I looked to my family to help usher that along, to tell me that no matter what I loved it was okay. That I wasn't a freak. That I wasn't alone.

Sometimes that happened. Other times it did not.

When I was a kid, I didn't really open up to my friends. I didn't know how that worked, and I didn't know how to be vulnerable with others. I didn't know how to love deeply – to the point where I could put something out there, something raw and naked and true, and feel that I was safe and everything was okay. I held things inside for fear of judgment and abandonment (“who would want to be a friend to me because of...”) I worked through so very much alone that being solo and being on my own became a default.

Family of Choice

Sometime early in our marriage my wife introduced me to the term family of choice. I've come to love this term. We always have our given families (circumstances depending), but the people that we choose to involve and have in our lives are our choices. We can choose to deepen those relationships or not. We can choose to see those people and hang out and talk for hours and laugh and bullshit or not. We can choose to say polite hellos and greetings and take off in our opposite directions or not. That choice is there, in other words. And we can pull those people so close to us that it's like they're family because they are family. That same dependency, that same give-and-take, that same love.

There are a few places in my life where I have found my people and created a bigger family, much as Abe did at Paris Fashion Week. Thus far a lot of them have been work-related places and conferences. I know they're my people because they see me as a whole person first and foremost: the things I thought were fantastic, amazing, nerdy, embarrassing, cringe-worthy about myself – those are all there, and it's okay. I can be as close to my authentic self as possible even as I'm figuring out who my authentic self is. And when I find these places, I have no desire to leave. I want to stay in that comfort, safety, warmth, and support for as long as I can!

In return, of course, I invest myself. I give that support right back whenever I can. I become my friends' biggest cheerleader. I see them for who they are, and who they might be, without judgment. The nuance I feel at this stage in my life is time: I'm now seeing a lot of these deeper friendships as long term ones. Even when there are big life changes, keeping in touch and being in that same loop with people is thankfully easier than ever.

So yes. When you find your people, dig in. Be present. Hold them close. Talk. Be vulnerable. Be true. Put yourself out there. The rewards are worth it. Families – including families of choice – aren't bound by geography nor time nor background. They're bound by love.

IA Summit 2016: Handshakes to Hugs

Note: this article reflected my feelings on IA Summit at the time of attendance. As of 2018, I've learned of serious safety violations at the conference over many years. Please consider that when reading this, as my experience may not be typical. Until further notice, you should not attend the IA Conference (which is what IA Summit is now known as) or support the IA Foundation. – Ed.

I've noticed something during my IA Summit visits. There's a moment, usually 3/4 through the first day, when I find myself in my hotel room staring out the window, wondering, “Is it not going to feel special this year?”

I had that moment my first day there, this year. But by Sunday, that was a distant memory. The doubts were cast aside. And I felt a heady mix of excitement, joy, inspiration, motivation, and love.

This is my 4th IAS in a row. I'm not an old timer, but this year I was asked to host a First Timers' Dinner with the great Stacy Surla. It was a fantastic experience, because I reflected on how much I enjoyed my First Timers' Dinner with Karen McGrane in 2013. As all of us dined together, first as strangers, I looked around the table at all of these ridiculously smart and enthusiastic people forging new friendships, and felt grateful.

Leading up to and during the Opening Reception, I met a lot of new people – in fact, the first person who said hello to me was Brandy Fortune, and she offered to share some guacamole (!) I also met Jesse James Garrett (and talk identity and labels with him and Alberta Soranzo, one of the co-chairs) – something I missed out on last year.

As always, the keynotes and talks were motivating. Lisa Welchman shared her personal stories of how small design decisions can impact us as humans. Cory Doctorow took that same theme into the privacy and security space, discussing how big personal data isn't necessarily ours. Leonie Watson used a creative movie quote slide deck (!) to decimate arguments against accessibility and inclusion. And, Jesse James Garrett gave 7 talks in his closing plenary – a clarion call for IAs to shape the world we live and work in.

The theme, “A Broader Panorama”, was reflected in many of the talks. Inclusion, diversity, accessibility, equality, fairness – these may not sound like IA-related concerns but they truly are. Christina Wodtke touched on this in her personal and powerful 5 Minute Madness wrap up, saying that IA “is not neutral”, a nice bookend to all of the keynotes.

During this conference, I had the good fortune of sharing meals with many of my friends – old and new. We had wide ranging discussions about the things we learned, to day-to-day work and lives, to careers. This, to me, is one of the most powerful things about the Summit. Kyle Soucy said it wonderfully during her 5 Minute Madness talk: “This is the conference where a handshake turns into a hug.”

On 5 Minute Madness

This was the first year I was able to stay all day on Sunday, and that meant 5 Minute Madness. I had heard about it after my first IAS in 2013, and only understood it to be a free-for-all that was packed with emotion. And oh my, is it. I knew I had to do it.

Hastily-written notes. I had a plan. I threw it out. Didn't get to the go forth part.

Hastily-written notes. I had a plan. I threw it out. Didn't get to the go forth part.

At the end of the conference anyone can line up, take the stage, and speak. That's it. No set topics.

I made it into the line fairly early, and could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I stood and watched my friends take their turns before me and say incredibly powerful things. I had written notes, but, decided instead against using them. I got on stage and said what was in my heart. Much of it is a blur now, but I remember feeling that I was this close to completely losing it the entire time. My voice was shaky, my eyes watery. As I spoke I looked around the room, hundreds of people, and saw many faces I knew and many I did not know. I said that not only did everyone here see me professionally, they saw me personally as well. They saw me, and it was all honest and true.

I left the stage, feeling completely emotionally drained, and listened in on others until I needed to leave for the airport. I walked out of the conference room, alone. I ran into a friend on the way down the escalator to the restroom where I felt completely overwhelmed with emotion and had a big ol' breakdown. The love, the joy, the community – and it was over, for now. My friends, my IA Summit family, another place I can call home... was gone for another year.

The Closing

The hashtag activity for #ias16 is all but gone. I'm following a lot of new people on Twitter. I have “The Time of My Life”, the song I did at karaoke with Misty Weaver, stuck in my head a lot. I feel empowered and motivated to do better work. I am taking action. I am working hard to bring it. I miss my friends. But they've also inspired me to be better, to do better.

And next year, we'll do it all again in Vancouver.

This is the best conference. These are the best people.

Resume the Résumé

I review a lot of résumés. And I see a lot of different approaches. But there are some things that I note and look for right away. So consider these when you're polishing off the ol' one-pager, updating your portfolio, and buttoning up LinkedIn.

  1. Your résumé should be a one page PDF. Listen: I love text files too, but this is not quite the time for it. PDF is pretty standard for better or worse. Consider this your constraint.
  2. Edit the hell out of the thing. Both in text and design.
  3. Don't use buzzwords. They make you sound cheap, not knowledgable.
  4. If you include an objective, write it using your own language. Everyone is a "passionate, user-centered crafter of experiences." That's not you. What do you bring?
  5. Get your point of view across. You have a perspective as a designer. What do you care about? Make sure it comes through in your writing and the way you position your work.
  6. Include relevant stats and numbers that matter. Did your design launch? How did you know it was successful?
  7. Summarize key projects/stuff you did at your job. I don't need a 3-paragraph review of everything that happened at your last project or client. I need to know what you did that matters (to you, to the client/company, to the world, etc.)
  8. Charts of experience look nice but aren't as useful as a narrative. I don't know what a "10" in Axure is, anyway.
  9. Show your work. Where possible, tell me about the deliverables you have on your portfolio. Wireframes by themselves are 99% meaningless, other than being able to tell that you can use [app name here].
  10. Edit the hell out of the thing again.

Also: go read what my colleague Pernilla Peterson said, because her advice is all excellent.

I may edit (ha!) or refresh this post as more things come up.

Tailoring

I turned on the light to my closet and walked in. It was 7:30 on the morning of a client meeting and, as usual, I needed a dress shirt. I don't have a wide range of dress shirts since I can get away with casual shirts at work, and so my selection is somewhat limited. But on looking at my options, I was disappointed. All of them fit well except in the arms which, as usual, were too long. I chose a solid blue shirt, conservative but business-friendly, and went on my way.

---

It's no secret that I'm short even though I look tall on Twitter. 5'6" is my height but, honestly, that's when I'm wearing my Chippewa boots in the fall or winter. I'm 5'5 1/2" to be precise. And, due in part to my short stature, I also have relatively short arms and legs.

When I was younger, I didn't quite understand why my school uniform pants always needed to be hemmed. And as I progressed into men's sizing, I didn't quite get why a 30" inseam on pants meant that I was still dragging a few inches of denim on the floor. But there I was. Once I entered the business world, though, I knew I had to get my clothes tailored to some extent. That meant dress pants for sure (although there was a time where I tried to get away with cuffing – a bad idea) and that was also true for my lone suit and lone blazer.

---

The following week, another client meeting and another round of frustration with my dress shirts. I chose a white shirt, somewhat formal but not too too formal, and finished getting dressed. I had bought that shirt last year during a dress shirt replenish, but never took the time to get it tailored. I wore the shirt but felt really bad about it all day even though it was under a blazer – it circulated in my head as one of those things that you notice immediately but almost no one else would. (“Can they... tell? Do they think I look silly?”) I'm sure it manifest itself in my stance and confidence that day.

Not long after that, I found myself at Nordstrom Rack trying on new dress shirts. I found one that fit really, really well. It was a reasonable $35. I looked at my reflection in the dressing room mirror and nearly bought it. It was a good shirt.

But here's the thing: the shirt in my closet at home was also a good shirt. Its sleeves were just long and a little big, that's all. (If I ever took up weightlifting, and somehow only grew larger muscles in my arms, this shirt would have me covered.) But it was nothing a tailor couldn't fix. I left the store empty-handed, and called the tailor just down the street from work. $14 to shorten sleeves and a week turnaround. No worse than buying a new shirt online, say, and waiting for shipping. I dropped by the tailor and tried on the shirt.

“How short do you want the sleeves?” he asked. Ooooh, the voice in my head thought, he totally can't tell.

I pulled up the sleeves maybe 1/2" or so and said, “That's it. Not much.” He marked the sleeves. I paid my $14, changed back into my other shirt for the day, and was off.

---

All of this made me think about how willing I was to purchase a brand new 100% fine shirt which, I might add, would have likely also needed some tailoring. I was almost willing to spend about $50 for a new shirt that day at the store, versus plunking down less than $20 to take care of the shirt I already had.

For quite some time I just thought that clothes were supposed to fit off the rack, and if there was something wrong with the sleeve length or what-have-you, too bad for you. My stance on this has changed. Yes, it totally sucks that I have to tack on $20 to just about any pair of pants I buy unless I happen to find one in a short length (which, thankfully, happens.) And no, I don't plan on getting my entire wardrobe tailored.

But there's something to be said here about the idea of reinvesting in what I already have versus throwing it out and getting something new. New is appealing. New is flashy. New is... new. It sounds good to have new stuff. Look! I got a new shirt! I got a new phone! I got a new pair of pants!

---

I picked up my shirt a week later at the tailor. I was genuinely happy as I got the plastic-wrapped shirt off of the rack and said thanks to the tailor. I got it home that evening, put it on and...

The sleeves were too short.

They looked ridiculous. It appeared as if my arms had grown out of my shirt, leaving no fabric behind. Worse, the arms were now so short that the shirt pulled across the chest and back. The tailor had ruined my perfectly good shirt. And this, unlike the sleeves being too long, was something others would absolutely notice.

In the end, I made the best decision: to stick with something I had, but update it to reflect how I actually was in that moment. Unfortunately, the too-short-sleeve-shirt was a byproduct of a tailor who made a mistake. While I might go to him again, I am worried to take another shirt there. Pants, no problem. But now I know that this tailor isn't where I'll take my shirts. Lesson learned.

---

There is value in sticking with something that is familiar and seeing it through to whatever you need now. It can be tough sometimes. It may cost money. It may not be possible today. It may be possible tomorrow. It might hurt, because that shiny new thing is shiny and new. But it may, in the end, be the totally right decision... even if there are mistakes along the way.

---

This is based on a piece I wrote for The Weekly, my email newsletter.

A Short Story about Leonard Nimoy

In the late 90s and early 00s, I ran a site called Big Fat Blog, devoted to fat rights, equality, and acceptance. And in 2005, I was pointed to Leonard Nimoy's Full Body Project photography. (It's NSFW, in the event that you look around for it.) Being a photographer myself, I hadn't realized that the man I knew primarily for his acting ability was also a really, really good photographer. I looked at the online exhibit of the photos and came away impressed. They were just really, really well done from both technical and editorial perspectives.

So, I wrote up a post on the site about it. The images were of large women, powerful women, and it was all in a celebratory and most body positive way. And Nimoy's words that went with the images were all very, very positive. I didn't think much of the post.

A couple of days later, I found a message in my inbox. It was from Leonard Nimoy.

He wrote to me – to me! – to say thanks for the post, and stressed that his work was not intended to mock or otherwise put down these women. His words and tone were genuine and pure.

I was floored. How could I not be?

I wrote him back, thanking him and letting him know that if he ever wanted to talk more about the project, it'd be an honor for me to interview him. But that was ancillary. I mostly thanked him without gushing (maybe?) and appreciated that he put this work out into the world.

And now, he is gone. But his words, his images, his stories, his work that touched so so many, will live on.

PS: A 2007 New York Times piece about Mr. Nimoy's photographs gives more detail about the project (in a work-safe format) and even cites Big Fat Blog.