Take a Lesson. Caroline V. Clarke
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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
1 Peggy Alford
Executive Vice President, Global Sales, PayPal
In recent years, the comings and goings on the nation's major corporate boards have garnered almost as many headlines and as much scrutiny as the drafting of athletes for the nation's most beloved major league teams. Most of that heightened interest, especially in the wake of the Black Lives Matter movement, has been sparked by corporate America's broad and deeply entrenched resistance to diversity, especially at the top.
So when Peggy Alford was named to Facebook's board in 2019, it was big news—and for good reason. Not only was she the first Black woman to gain a seat at the table with those who help govern the powerful if ceaselessly embattled Internet services company, Alford is also on the leadership team at PayPal. That heady sphere of influence makes her a bona fide unicorn in Silicon Valley, where everyone seeks such storied status but few other than white men with Ivy League degrees actually attain it.
Blending in was never an option for Alford, who was adopted by white parents as an infant, along with several siblings of various races. So not being white, male, or an engineer trained at Stanford or MIT never fazed her. And while she's eager to leverage her skills and influence to make a difference for the companies and clients she manages, personally making news was never on her laser‐sharp list of goals.
Despite