RACISM

When I Became One of the First Black Finance Professionals in Arkansas, the Racism I Encountered Was Unbelievable

From racism in my workplace to racist clients, in the 80s and 90s, being a Black bond salesman in the Deep South was almost too much

I spent much of my finance career in the Deep South, where I worked for one of the largest investment banks outside Wall Street. What follows is a story about racism and some things I experienced during that time. Soon, I’ll publish a similar post discussing my years on Wall Street.

Before I continue, let me first say this: I’m not looking for sympathy or apologies. When I write about racism, especially my personal experiences, many well-meaning white people respond by apologizing to me. On the other hand, Black readers rarely respond that way, probably because none of my experiences with racism surprise them.

So, if you happen to be one of my white readers, instead of apologizing after reading this, I’d rather you sit with what I’m about to tell you as you go about your day. Give this story some thought. Let it simmer.

Consider how different this country is for those of us who are not white — especially Black people. Most of all, consider that, although what follows is a story about events that occurred decades ago, not much has changed.

But it can. So speak up the next time racism occurs in your presence. And finally, a warning: there is some language that you may find offensive, at least I hope you will. Unfortunately, there’s no other way to tell this story.

In the late eighties, the firm I worked for commissioned a team of photographers to produce a glossy brochure — the type firms send to their best clients. The crew photographed our expansive trading floor, which is where I worked as a sales trader in the bond department.

At the time, I was the firm’s first and only Black in that role. My brother Wyatt was a clerk on the equity desk. He later became the first Black trader on the firm’s equity desk. Since I was “the first,” it practically took an act of God for this firm to hire me. But I had the qualifications for the job, so they took a chance on me. For that, they deserve a ton of credit.

The photographers for the brochure also shot portraits of the firm’s officers, investment bankers, and department heads, all of whom were white. The centerfold of the brochure was an overhead shot of the firm’s trading floor using motion blur to highlight the room activity.

I recognized Wyatt’s shadowy figure in the photo, underneath the staples in the center of the two-page spread.

Except for his blurry silhouette, everyone in the company’s slick brochure was white. A few days later, I got a call from one of my best clients, a senior investment officer at one of the largest pension funds in the country. It was unusual for him to contact me unless we were involved in a deal.

“I’m looking through the brochure your company sent me. Where are you? You’ve been there for a while, right?” the client asked. Before I could answer, he hit me with another, more probing question: “Are there any other Black people working there besides you?” Somehow, he knew I was Black without me telling him.

Taken off guard, I danced around my client’s question. I didn’t want to tell him our only Black employees were me, my brother, a banker, my assistant (occasionally referred to by my coworkers as “Tar Baby”), and two janitors. I think he sensed my discomfort because he shifted the conversation to another topic after a minute or so.

I never felt obligated to announce my race on a phone call (“Before I execute your trade, full disclosure, I’m Black!”), so most of my clients probably assumed they were speaking to a white man. Most of the time, it didn’t matter.

But sometimes, it mattered a lot.

Later that day, I dropped by the office of the firm’s CEO. I told him about my conversation and expressed concern about how the lack of diversity in our brochure might be perceived. I’m not sure what I expected my CEO to say, but his response that management didn’t “think about that kind of thing” was disappointing.

While I was disappointed, I wasn’t surprised.

While working at this firm, I learned a tremendous amount about how the investment business works. I built many great relationships, some of which I have today. At times, however, the racism was soul-crushing. So much so that in the beginning, I considered leaving the securities business altogether.

It’s not as though my colleagues were walking around the office shouting the n-word, although sometimes, the word almost slipped out in off-color jokes or conversation. Once, a coworker who’d just returned from Hawaiian vacation held court on the trading floor. As he gave the trip details, he commented on his wife’s deep tan.

“Let me tell you, she’s as black as a ni — ” fortunately for both of us, he caught himself when he realized I was sitting next to him. But in business — especially in finance — racism usually doesn’t come at us that way. Most of the time, it’s the little things. It’s death by a thousand tiny cuts.

I wasn’t aware of the term then, but now I suppose I’d categorize them as microaggressions. Like when a coworker calls you “boy” with a look in his eye that lets you know how it’s intended. It’s the recognition that you’ll be the one who’s fired if you react to that kind of insult the wrong way.

It’s coworkers saying you look like two different Black entertainers, neither of whom resemble one another. Or the expectation that you’ll attend company receptions held at segregated country clubs, where the only other Black people present are white-jacketed waiters old enough to be your father.

In a general sense, everyone I worked with was friendly toward me. I don’t think anyone I worked with believed they engaged in racism. I also suspect that for most of my coworkers, I was the first Black person on an equal footing with them they’d spent time around.

The problem was that racism was woven so deep into the ecosystem they never noticed it for what it was. For example, when the firm hired me, none of the sales assistants wanted to be assigned to me — not even the Black lady with the disparaging nickname. She later told me she received a small raise for agreeing to work as my assistant.

Also, many of my clients were unapologetically racist. They made no secret of how they felt about people who were Black, Jewish — anyone not white. How do I know? Because they told me.

Unlike today, when one can trade everything from stocks to crypto on a smartphone, nothing was digital in the eighties and nineties. I was among the first on the trading floor to buy a computer. But back then, none of today’s technology existed. Almost every trade happened over the telephone.

And since non-white finance professionals like me were as rare as unicorns, especially in the South, most of my clients automatically assumed I was a white person when we spoke on the phone. My more racist clients spoke with me over the telephone completely unfiltered, thinking their “white” bond salesman in Arkansas was a kindred spirit.

My early days as a bond salesman in the Deep South remind me of a skit Eddie Murphy did on Saturday Night Live. Murphy went “undercover” in makeup and a toupee, giving him the appearance of a white person. In comedic fashion, the skit portrayed how white people behave when Black people aren’t around.

While Murphy’s SNL skit was funny, it has a ring of truth. For better or worse, I learned firsthand what some white people say when they think they’re speaking to another white person.

In a sense, like Eddie Murphy, I was undercover.

I never felt obligated to announce my race on a phone call (“Before I execute your trade, full disclosure, I’m Black!”), so most of my clients probably assumed they were speaking to a white man. Most of the time, it didn’t matter.

But sometimes, it mattered a lot.

A client in Texas once confided to me about his hatred for the NBA. He said Black people ruined professional basketball. Because he thought he was speaking to another white person, he said, “we” didn’t have a chance in basketball anymore because of so many Black players dunking.

He honestly believed the league should raise the basketball goals to twelve feet. “That will stop those bucks from dunking,” he told me.

Then there was the client who handled investments for a company that made parts for one of the Big Three automakers. This guy was such a racist he refused to purchase municipal bonds involving low-income housing projects.

Although the government guaranteed this type of bond, he told me he had a policy of not investing in anything that helped “Aunt Jemima and her fifteen bastard kids.” This client was an equal opportunity racist. He referred to the broker I competed with for his business as “my little Jew girl from Bear Stearns.”

Some may wonder how — or why — I dealt with people who were so profoundly racist. “Why didn’t you curse them out or hang up the phone on them?” you’re probably thinking.

You should know episodes of workplace racism were not and are not unique. In my entire working life, I never worked any place where racism didn’t exist. The only difference is that in this case, I heard the things straight from the horse’s mouth that usually people of color can only suspect.

There’s another reason I didn’t react with anger. Had I done that, and believe me, I wanted to, the client would complain, and I would’ve lost my job. After that, I probably would’ve been unhireable and wouldn’t have worked in the business again.

Also, since I was one of the first Black people in the field (when I started, there were four of us in the state), I felt obligated to tolerate whatever came my way. Not that I did anything heroic, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to be “that Black guy who quit.”

These were the days before discrimination and diversity policies, before HR departments. There was no such thing as a sexual harassment policy. I had no one to complain to, no advocate or mentor. Once, one of the firm’s salesmen got caught having sex with an assistant in the company parking lot. Guess who got fired.

So instead of reacting angrily every time a client made a racist remark, I made a different choice.

Whenever I handled a trade for one of my racist clients, I made sure I earned as much as the law would allow. I never gave them a break. Nothing illegal, mind you, but I squeezed every dime I could out of the trades I did for them.

Ironically, none of them ever figured out they paid hundreds of thousands of dollars in commissions to a Black person. That they unintentionally helped someone Black feed their family.

The way I saw it, the joke was on them.

I finally visited that pension fund client, who called about the brochure, a few months after our phone call. It was our first meeting in person. I worried about how he’d react when he saw me for the first time. But he was one of my best clients, so based on that call, I decided my visit was worth the risk.

Once we were seated in his office, he immediately raised the subject of my firm’s diversity, or in this case, the lack of it. I was more straightforward this time, explaining that I was the only Black person in my position at the firm.

After listening for a few minutes, he cut me off. “You should start your own firm,” he said. During the entire meeting, we never discussed investments. He wanted to stress diversity’s importance to his pension fund and why I should consider going into business for myself.

He promised me I’d have his support if I decided to go out on my own.

Before that meeting, I had never considered going into business for myself. But as fate would have it, meeting with that pension fund manager changed my career path and, by extension, my life.

A year or so later, I took that client’s advice. I left my employer to start Arkansas’s first Black-owned investment firm. A few years later, I moved to New York. I later became one of the few Black head traders on Wall Street.

When I left the Deep South behind, I assumed I’d left racism behind as well. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The racism was there, too. It just presented itself differently.