Upper Hand. Sherrell Dorsey
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learned the world of work through Monica McAffee. “Auntie Monica,” as we called her, had been my mom's nail technician since I was five years old. By the time I'd become a teenager, I'd mastered the art of styling my own hair in between visits to the salon. One day, observing my technical talent for tresses, Auntie Monica invited me onto her team to assist her with her clients in the shop a few hours a week.
I got paid in cash on the mornings before the school bell rang and twice on the weekends. Working in Auntie Monica's hair salon proved to be one of the smartest moves of my high school career. I'd take the 42 bus down the hill to Henderson Street, transfer to the number 7 for a five‐minute journey down south Rainier Avenue, and walk uphill to Seward Park and Kenyon.
Auntie Monica had transitioned from a commercial shop space and into her and Uncle Kev's mother‐in‐law‐suite‐turned‐hair‐and‐nail salon. I swept up hair from the shop's floors, restocked items, and helped to twist, braid, and converse with others to help Auntie Monica increase client turnaround and lighten her daily workload. On a regular weekend, for just a few hours, I could make up to $300—which was a great deal of money for someone who wasn't yet eligible for a driver's license. I stashed most of that cash in a certificate of deposit at the bank and spent the rest on school clothes, dances, random trips through Wendy's drive‐thru with friends for the $1 Junior Bacon Cheeseburger, and gas money for friends with cars who drove me home after the school bell rang.
The shop was a learning experience in business and developing a supportive workplace culture. Auntie Monica was precise. She'd run her business for over 25 years, with clients who grew up with her. She served church folk, regular people, Black churchwomen of all backgrounds, shapes, sizes, and styles. Some were grandmothers. Moms. Wives. Sisters. Cousins. All were like family to her. She saw some of them grow up. She nurtured them and often fed them when Uncle Kev would fry chicken after a long week and serve up guests when appointments would seep into the late evening.
Auntie Monica gracefully dealt with complaints and managed feedback swiftly. She made quick adjustments as her customers offered advice on areas of improvement.
As a sole proprietor, she was the CEO and managed day‐to‐day operations, outsourcing financial structures to experts, cleaning and maintenance services to her mother‐in‐law, and brought on part‐time contractors like me to help with workflow and increase her customer base without having to dedicate additional time. She filled her spare time with art, community, and performance, leading solos at her church and dancing professionally in local theater.
Auntie Monica represented fullness in entrepreneurship. She ran a business that enabled her own personal wealth journey—which consisted of a hefty real estate portfolio and a well‐traveled life—on her terms.
Her brand was apparent in her discipline. Her usual wake‐up time was 5 a.m., before the sun colored the sky. With a stylish outfit laid out the night before and a shop that had been deep‐cleaned the night before, Auntie Monica had a natural affinity for making the place comfortable and welcoming. Her hair and nails and outfit were always pristine and stylish. She worked out and presented the best version of herself. High‐end products were always on display. Her brand and her brand story riddled the community, and as a native Seattleite, the respect she earned was truly homegrown. More importantly, she was excellent at recruiting top talent.
There must have been a dozen young girls who grew up under the tutelage of Auntie Monica. Some of us were rough around the edges, had troubles in school, were unrefined, hadn't yet grown out of that awkward stage, and were still attempting to get comfortable in our own skin. Auntie Monica had a knack for both client and talent retention.
I watched her speak lovingly to her clients, advise them, and listen to their concerns. She attended their critical milestones, remembering graduations, weddings, baby showers, and even brought flowers to funerals. Even when the 2008 recession claimed the revenue of most businesses both small and large, her clientele sustained Auntie Monica's. They supported her because she supported them.
A 2021 census report on the characteristics of minority‐owned businesses showed that businesses owned and operated by people of color tend to employ people within their own communities. And yet, these aren't the business owners often considered to be launching pads for educating and training the future of the workforce. Nor are they deemed to be relevant for opportunities to become accelerators of their own, or provided resources to offer paid internships.
Imagine for a second if this could be the case—that cities concerned about inclusive innovation and job growth saw these business owners as training institutions that provide psychologically and socially safe spaces for young people to learn about business and industry from people who look like them before launching into full‐time careers.
Ms. Char was another woman in business who showed me early the ropes of managing and operating a small establishment. She was one of my very first dance teachers growing up. Saturday mornings, I took ballet, jazz, and tap dance classes at Rainier Dance Center, sometimes back‐to‐back, as a small reprieve from my mom and as part of her effort to make me comfortable with presenting and performing.
Ms. Char ran a tight ship. Parents were well‐informed and provided orientation packets. We were required to be on time for every class, and be respectful if we arrived late. Student rosters, as well as accounts to manage tuition payments, were managed with the latest software.
By the time I was about 10 years old, I was assisting Ms. Char with her younger classes and was eventually asked to come on board to teach. Another weekend job was added to my roster, earning upward of $25 per hour to train younger students in tap dance basics as well as to create and choreograph.
Auntie Monica's small salon in Seward Park and Ms. Char's dance studio in the South End of Seattle were a far cry from the behemoth Microsoft campus just a few miles away. But the significance of the roles they played unlocked for me, and the others they took under their wings, a chance to see ourselves as capable of using our talents and skills to create revenue and leadership opportunities.
Where Auntie Monica had a mother‐in‐law suite that housed her business, and Ms. Char's dance center sat on the hill in less than 2,000 square feet, Microsoft had a dynamic transportation shuttle system shuffling busy professionals from campus to campus. Ms. Char drove us home when it got too late to catch the bus. Where Microsoft had ample access to free soda and water, Auntie Monica kept us hydrated with sun tea. Where some of my teams at Microsoft had strategy sessions, I watched Auntie Monica redesign her menu of services and work with printers for advertising her services within her community. I accompanied her to beauty supply stores, where she purchased from Black‐owned vendors whenever possible.
Both women exemplified their business‐ and customer‐centric value system outside of pitch decks and investor relations meetings. My experiences with these two entrepreneurs were early drivers in my professional experience before I ever stepped foot into the world's biggest software company.
Those early experiences provided me and others the confidence we needed to walk into larger opportunities and environments with the know‐how to operate and engage with people of all backgrounds, be personable, and demonstrate accountability for the delivery of our work products.
Where Does Genius Come From?
To ignore the value of the “mom and pop” shop job experience is a missed opportunity. To discount communities shaped by inner cities, naming innovation solely to large campuses or downtown environments, misses the point that talent and skill are often cultivated in the community. And that's also from where innovation can stem.
I grew up alongside nerdy Black kids whose value was skipped over too often—the neighbors' kids, teaching themselves how to turn their home computers into beat machines, making their own music, and selling beats across marketplaces while helping their mothers pay the electric bill.
They didn't have space camps to go to or homes that were adjacent to doctors' or software engineers', but they existed and made do with what tools they had. They launched informal companies or helped the ones