Читать книгу Take a Lesson - Caroline V. Clarke - Страница 6

For while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it must always be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness.

—James Baldwin

At the tail end of 2020—the year that wasn't what anyone in the world thought it would be—I did something I wasn't sure I'd ever do: I left my role as chief brand officer at Black Enterprise (BE), the Black‐owned media company where I'd worked for 28 years, to accept a senior executive role in corporate America.

I hadn't sought the new position; it sought me. Having always been a big heed‐the‐Universe type, while it wasn't easy to leave the company and colleagues I'd known and loved, it felt right.

BE had turned 50 in 2020, a milestone that I felt proud to reach with it. Women of Power, the brand I cofounded and ran, celebrated its 15th year at a conference 1,300‐strong in Las Vegas in the earliest days of March. Little did we know it would be the last live gathering any of us would attend for a very long time.

We honored the inimitable sextuple threat (actor‐director‐dancer‐choreographer‐executive producer‐author) Debbie Allen at that event along with pioneering biopharma CEO Myrtle Potter, retired BET CEO Debra Lee, and Nationwide's Chief Administrative Officer Gale King, who, soon after, announced her retirement from the company where she'd spent her entire career.

These women—and the countless people, women and men, I had interviewed during my years at BE—broke molds, shattered ceilings, and obliterated expectations, transforming the places they worked and changing lives with the examples they set. My life was one of those. By sharing their stories with me—on and sometimes off the record—they enabled and empowered me to not only leave BE, but to unexpectedly pivot again months later, when I left my new corporate job to write this book.

It was an unconventional choice, for sure. And a risky one. But the opportunity was unique; I was passionate about the need for this book; and again, the timing—odd as it was in many ways—felt right.

I had reached out to the publisher, John Wiley & Sons, to inquire about my first book, Take a Lesson: Today's Black Achievers on How They Made It & What They Learned Along the Way. It was out of print and a Black publisher was interested in acquiring the rights and rebooting it.

I produced that book, a rare oral history project featuring a cadre of super‐success stories, while heading Black Enterprise's book division. This was back when BE was primarily a magazine, not a full‐blown media company. It was in a time before streaming or smart phones or Twitter, in a land where the idea of there being a Black US president or Black woman vice president or even a Black woman Fortune 500 CEO seemed like a distant dream, at best.

The Black Lives Matter movement was not yet born, and many of the hard‐earned civil rights gains of the mid‐twentieth century were falling away. Yet Black people were still moving, in larger numbers and at a quickening pace, into positions of power and influence in all corners of American life. Black women, in particular, were making critical strides, and I felt blessed and excited to work at a publication where we reveled in chronicling every single one.

Released in early 2001, Take a Lesson sought to illuminate some of those trailblazers in a more prominent and lasting way. It also aimed to fill a gaping need for community among those who were still largely isolated in their organizations and industries, where it was easy to feel that not only they, but their ambitions and hopes, might never actually find a comfortable place to belong.

A series of intimate first‐person interviews with many of the most impressive names from entertainment and finance to education and politics, the book featured the intrepid California Congresswoman Maxine Waters (before she was dubbed “Auntie Maxine” on social media or appointed chair of the powerful House Financial Services Committee); filmmaker Spike Lee (when he was still more Hollywood outcast than insider); and the late lawyer Johnnie Cochran, who successfully defended fallen NFL star O.J. Simpson in the most famous trial of its day.

The original book also included interviews with Kenneth Chenault, who had only just been named CEO of American Express, and his peers Dick Parsons, who was promoted from president of Time Warner to chairman and CEO a few months after publication, and Tom Jones, then chairman and CEO of Citigroup's Global Investment Management and Private Banking Group, who seemed poised to soon join what they all believed was going to be a fast‐growing fraternity of Black corporate chiefs.

They were wrong.

We will, at some point, encounter hurdles to gaining access and entry, moving up and conquering self‐doubt; but on the other side is the capacity to own opportunity and tell our own story.

—Stacey Abrams

Re‐interviewed for this new book 20 years later, all three men, along with retired corporate leader Debra Lee, who not only sits on several major corporate boards but has cofounded The Monarchs Collective, a consultancy dedicated to cultivating board readiness among women and people of color, expressed their deep disappointment and frustration over the lack of progress made in building a truly diverse corporate pipeline or in advancing Black executives who are otherwise succeeding to the top rungs of leadership, including boards. They all also confessed their surprise.

There was a sense of commitment to Black progress and professional advancement at the start of the twenty‐first century that they felt and believed in. Over the next two decades, in spite of a few bright, shining moments, including the election and reelection of President Barack Obama, that sense of broader promise would steadily erode.

The truth is that the systemic racism and hateful otherism in America—that we are only now beginning to squarely confront—rapidly intensified after 9/11, a trend borne out in the determined dismantling of affirmative action; the rise of white insecurity and radicalism within and beyond the Republican party; rampant profiling and more brazen aggression against Black and brown people by law enforcement; the election of Donald Trump as president; and the all‐out assault on African American voting rights that has been shamelessly revived from coast to coast.

As remarkable and instructive as the narratives in the original Take a Lesson were, the significant Black business book audience was neither courted nor calibrated in 2001, and major publishers didn't believe that anyone other than Black readers would have an interest in stories of Black career achievement. Nobody was talking about allies in 2001, or even in 2019. Nobody white was validating the notion put forth by New York Congresswoman Yvette Clarke (no relation to me) that Black history is American history and that the African American quest for success is as valid and vital an experience as there is in all the world.

It's only now, in the wake of George Floyd's murder on May 25, 2020 (preceded and followed by an unending stream of all‐too‐similar race‐based crimes), with the press for antiracism and the trending desirability of wokeness, that Black stories are being sought out and recognized for the value they offer to not only Black people, but to all people who seek to be well educated, informed, and inspired.

So Wiley had no interest in relinquishing the rights to Take a Lesson. In fact, it wanted a new book, representative of a fresh crop of movers and makers along with updated perspectives from some of their predecessors, captured during the complicated but compelling moment in history in which we find ourselves. This is that book.

Actually, I can.

—Meme/classic backtalk

In our spoken‐word tradition, rooted in African soil, lived history is revered and preserved by being passed from one to another, verbally, with candor and great care, over the course of generations, offering a precious inheritance that compounds over time.

For generations, America has built and pacified itself with stories that demean and discourage us as Black people, that enrage and exhaust us, that magnify our shortcomings and compound our pain, doubt, and fear. But there is a counternarrative to that, a living testimonial, a sort of backtalk—or Blacktalk—that demonstrates how magnificently proficient, persistent, resilient, and triumphant we can be, in spite of all that stands against us and conspires to unravel our dreams.

There remains a deep need for those victory stories, the defiant yes‐we‐can‐yes‐we‐will‐watch‐me‐werk narratives of those who defy the odds, who amass wealth and influence, who fall down and get up only to do it all again—changing hearts, minds, and history along the way.

Among the wise griots of our tribal ancestors, the stories of those who rose were not more or less worthy than the stories of those who did not. Every story told has the potential to teach. Every Black story, like every Black life, matters.

In keeping with that tradition, this book is a collection of first‐person narratives with people highlighted here not merely because of what they achieved or how many obstacles they overcame, but because they were mindful of the lessons they learned and embrace sharing them as an act of service and solidarity, born of love and persistently high hopes for our people, and all humanity.

They represent a broad range of skill sets and talents, ages, interests, and backgrounds. Given that, it's not surprising that they offer very different perspectives on success—what it means, what it looks like, what it costs and gives in return.

They are writers, teachers, and high‐powered lawyers; they are CEOs, activists, and corporate directors; they are filmmakers, entrepreneurs, philanthropists, and ministers. Yet not one of their careers fits neatly within the finite boundaries of a single category or title.

All trailblazers in their own right, a few of this edition's subjects would not be where they are if not for some of those featured in the original Take a Lesson. Malcolm Lee traces his belief in the viability of his dream to become a successful screenwriter and director to his cousin, Spike, who gave him his first job as a production assistant on the film Malcolm X. Janai Nelson, recently elevated to succeed Sherrilyn Ifill at the helm of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, was first hired at the LDF by its then leader Elaine Jones, also featured in the first book. And Thasunda Duckett, president and CEO of TIAA, can trace her history‐making turn as that company's first Black woman leader to Clifton Wharton, TIAA's first Black chairman and CEO, who was also the first African American CEO of a Fortune 500 company, period. Now 95, Wharton sent Duckett a personal note upon hearing of her appointment, news that he said was “just wonderful.”

Speaking in the midst of a pandemic, via video, with this book's subjects mostly still quarantined in their homes, it became clear that COVID‐19 changed more than how we work; it changed how we think and feel about racial progress, the past and the future, and what success means and must mean going forward. Black people have never had the luxury of being measured by their individual achievements alone, no matter how spectacular. The accomplished author Veronica Chambers notes in her chapter that “African Americans are in the business of Hope.” But Hope has never been enough. The imperative to lift as we climb is ever present. Every one of this book's subjects speaks to the notion that the Black quest for success is and must continue to be a boldly inclusive collective effort. Sharing their stories here is a part of that.

While some of them have names you will already know, many will have you wondering why you hadn't heard of them before. All share stories you won't soon forget and impart lessons you will want to process and take to heart, using them to help avoid or ease the rough spots on your own journey, before, hopefully, passing them on.

Never underestimate the power of dreams and the influence of the human spirit. We are all the same in this nation. The potential for greatness lives within each of us.

—Wilma Rudolf, sprinter, first American woman to win three gold medals in a single Olympic Games