What would it be like if we examined what we do that unintentionally excludes others from opportunities?

As I’ve been reading recent articles about the lack of gender and racial diversity in Massachusetts life science leadership ranks, I’ve recalled the startup stories of biotechs I know. One pair of founders came up with their idea on the sidelines of their kids’ soccer team in a suburb outside Boston. The founders of another company traded ideas at a party at one of their homes.  A third enterprise grew from a conversation on an airplane after a conference. A fourth emerged from talks after pickup basketball games in a university gym.

These connections formed in non-work settings, in places where people congregated with others like themselves. None of the entrepreneurs meant to exclude anyone, but their founding teams all ended up as homogeneous as the settings where they started.

This brought to mind the first time I walked to the Galleria Mall from my new apartment in Kendall Square in 2016, just having moved from the suburbs. I was excited to see people of all colors shopping right in my neighborhood. Then I noticed, with dismay, my knee-jerk reaction of offense when a group of loud African-American teenagers went by. I was ashamed to think that I’d forgotten I was just as obnoxious as a white teenager at the mall.  What would it be like if we white adults looked at black kids and recognized how much we had in common, not how little?

The contrast to my own experience hit me. As a 15-year-old, I had been given a summer job at an innovative organization where my father had volunteered. I hadn’t even needed to apply. I fit the profile. Opportunities like that were not going to appear for those black kids at the mall.

What would it be like if we examined what we do that unintentionally excludes others from opportunities? What would it be like if we started conversations of curiosity with our industry’s leadership to understand how we got to where we are?