Expressing genuine requests also requires an awareness of our objective. If our objective is only to change people and their behavior or to get our way, then NVC is not an appropriate tool. The process is designed for those of us who would like others to change and respond, but only if they choose to do so willingly and compassionately. The objective of NVC is to establish a relationship based on honesty and empathy. When others trust that our primary commitment is to the quality of the relationship, and that we expect this process to fulfill everyone’s needs, then they can trust that our requests are true requests and not camouflaged demands.
A consciousness of this objective is difficult to maintain, especially for parents, teachers, managers, and others whose work centers around influencing people and obtaining behavioral results. A mother who once returned to a workshop after a lunch break announced, “Marshall, I went home and tried it. It didn’t work.” I asked her to describe what she’d done.
“I went home and expressed my feelings and needs, just as we’d practiced. I made no criticism, no judgments of my son. I simply said, ‘Look, when I see that you haven’t done the work you said you were going to do, I feel very disappointed. I wanted to be able to come home and find the house in order and your chores completed.’ Then I made a request: I told him I wanted him to clean it up immediately.”
“It sounds like you clearly expressed all the components,” I commented. “What happened?”
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“I told him he couldn’t go through life being lazy and irresponsible.”
I could see that this woman was not yet able to distinguish between expressing requests and making demands. She was still defining the process as successful only if she got compliance for her “requests.” During the initial phases of learning this process, we may find ourselves applying the components of NVC mechanically without awareness of the underlying purpose.
Sometimes, however, even when we’re conscious of our intent and express our request with care, people may still hear a demand. This is particularly true when we occupy positions of authority and are speaking with those who have had past experiences with coercive authority figures.
Once, the administrator of a high school invited me to demonstrate to teachers how NVC might help them communicate with students who weren’t cooperating as the teachers would have liked.
I was asked to meet with forty students who had been deemed “socially and emotionally maladjusted.” I was struck by the way such labels serve as self-fulfilling prophecies. If you were a student who had been thus labeled, wouldn’t it just give you permission to have some fun at school by resisting whatever was asked of you? When we give people labels, we tend to act in a way that contributes to the very behavior that concerns us, which we then view as further confirmation of our diagnosis. Since these students knew they had been classified as “socially and emotionally maladjusted,” I wasn’t surprised that when I walked in, most of them were hanging out the window hollering obscenities at their friends in the courtyard below.
I began by making a request: “I’d like you all to come over and sit down so I can tell you who I am and what I’d like us to do today.” About half the students came over. Uncertain that they had all heard me, I repeated my request. With that, the remainder of the students sat down, with the exception of two young men who remained draped over the windowsill. Unfortunately for me, these two were the biggest students in the class.
“Excuse me,” I addressed them, “would one of you two gentlemen tell me what you heard me say?” One of them turned toward me and snorted, “Yeah, you said we had to go over there and sit down.” I thought to myself, “Uh, oh, he’s heard my request as a demand.”
Out loud I said, “Sir”—I’ve learned always to say “sir” to people with biceps like his, especially when one of them sports a tattoo—“would you be willing to tell me how I could have let you know what I was wanting so that it wouldn’t sound like I was bossing you around?”
“Huh?” Having been conditioned to expect demands from authorities, he was not used to my different approach. “How can I let you know what I’m wanting from you so it doesn’t sound like I don’t care about what you’d like?” I repeated. He hesitated for a moment and shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“What’s going on between you and me right now is a good example of what I was wanting us to talk about today. I believe people can enjoy each other a lot better if they can say what they would like without bossing others around. When I tell you what I’d like, I’m not saying that you have to do it or I’ll try to make your life miserable. I don’t know how to say that in a way that you can trust.” To my relief, this seemed to make sense to the young man who, together with his friend, sauntered over to join the group. In certain situations, such as this one, it may take awhile for our requests to be clearly seen for what they are.
When making a request, it is also helpful to scan our minds for the sort of thoughts that automatically transform requests into demands:
When we frame our needs with these thoughts, we are bound to judge others when they don’t do as we request. I had these self-righteous thoughts in my mind once when my younger son was not taking out the garbage. When we were dividing the household chores, he had agreed to this task, but every day we would have another struggle about getting the garbage out. Every day I would remind him, “This is your job,” and “We all have jobs”—with the sole objective of getting him to take out the garbage.
Finally, one night I listened more closely to what he’d been telling me all along about why the garbage wasn’t going out. I wrote the following song after that evening’s discussion. After my son felt my empathy for his position, he began taking out the garbage without any further reminder from me.
If I clearly understand
you intend no demand,
I’ll usually respond when you call.
But if you come across
like a high and mighty boss,
you’ll feel like you ran into a wall.
And when you remind me
so piously
about all those things you’ve done for me,
you’d better get ready:
Here comes another bout!
Then you can shout,
you can spit,
moan, groan, and throw a fit;
I still won’t take the garbage out.
Now even if you should change your style,
It’s going to take me a little while
before I can forgive and forget.
Because it seems to me that you
didn’t see me as human too
until all your standards were met.
—“Song from Brett” by Marshall B. Rosenberg