Preface

      I'm a Black girl from Tennessee who secured the title of vice president before age 30. How'd I do it? I worked hard. I got my NYU master's degree and earned Series 7 and Series 63 banking certifications.

      But make no mistake: even with all my accomplishments, I learned that for people like me, a VP title is still considered a privilege, not a right.

      Here's my story.

      The postrecession job market in 2008 was challenging for marketing professionals. But after acing three interview rounds, I landed a role at a global banking firm.

      After several months, the firm asked me to serve on their Diversity and Inclusion (D&I) Roundtable. This was a responsibility on top of my day job, but it was worth it. It was an exclusive opportunity afforded to top talent leaders to influence the firm's D&I direction. We would be able to open doors for quality, prospective job candidates, as well as provide inclusion opportunities for existing professionals who had the desire and passion to become managing directors and C-suite members.

      The prospect of this new role perked me up, especially considering the fact that I was seeing a lot of management turnover at my firm. In the short time I was with the company, I had four different immediate managers and two different managing directors. Still, I was being recognized. That made me feel valued as a person and secure in my prospects.

When I was about one year in, the person who hired me left. She had been a mentor and her departure left me with no one who knew my work well enough to advocate for me. A colleague ominously advised me that things would likely get tougher for our team.

      What I didn't know at the time was that by “our team” she really meant “me.”

      I asked for a meeting with the managing director to get a better feel for her and her expectations. This woman recounted how much my previous managing director liked me. “The cat's meow” was how she described her perception of me. At the same time, she made equivocal comments, like how she was disappointed not to have been present in my initial interviews. What did it matter? I was here, wasn't I?

      It all felt a little off, but I figured I'd be fine. My internal clients and my D&I Roundtable colleagues spoke well of me, and my work spoke for itself.

      Then, a few weeks later, I had lunch with a colleague. She said she expected to be gone soon. We weren't particularly close, but she was the only other Black woman in our division. I think this is why she confided in me.

      “I'm having a hard time getting required sign-offs, budget, and even information I need to do my job,” she said. “I've been telling my old manager about this, just to gut check it with him. He agrees it sounds like something's going on, but he said his hands are tied.”

      I sympathized with her. I let her know I was having my own challenges with the new management. Honestly, though, I brushed off her reported experiences. A lot of turmoil always follows big management turnover. Maybe I was just in denial. Because every shred of my instinct screamed my own career was in trouble.

      Things ground along for several more months in an uncomfortable status quo.

I was over two years into the job, when the managing director told me I'd be moving to a different manager and covering a different product. I had neither the background nor the education to market this product. However, she described the move as a better fit for me. I was advised there would be no training on the product, and I was discouraged from reaching out to the businesspeople who managed the product so I could learn from them.

      Googling, asking ad hoc questions, browsing websites, and studying brochures was all I had to get up to speed.

      I also had new teammates. With them, a palpable frostiness chilled the air. I sensed no enthusiasm for me or my work. But, ever determined to make a good impression, I decided to come in earlier, stay late, and speak up more, coming up with as many solutions as possible in meetings.

      If I expected a thaw in the atmosphere, my efforts produced the opposite.

      I always participated in non-work-related chats, happy hours, and office banter. But now, one colleague started making a big deal out of the fact that I didn't drink alcohol. Then ribbing got more persistent—at times continuing from happy hour until dinner and beyond. I heard declarations about my presumed lack of social life and lack of friends because I didn't drink.

      I endured it, assuming it was only good-natured—if a bit misdirected—fun.

      Then the incidents started to pile up.

      Once, between meetings, four women from the team were discussing their struggles with weight loss right outside my office. When I got up and walked past them, they pointed out that, since I was thin, I shouldn't have a body complex. Except, of course, for my big butt.

      More ribbing. A little indelicate. But nothing to get upset about.

It soon became clear my colleagues were making a proactive effort to avoid me. No one initiated a conversation with me unless it was absolutely necessary for a work-related purpose. To be included at all, I had to insert myself into other people's conversational circles or attempt to kick off a discussion on my own. Which was as arduous as kindling a fire with a flint and some dry leaves.

      Then, I went to a holiday house party thrown by one of my team members. Here, the exclusion I'd been sensing, kicked into the highest gear yet. As usual, I walked over to a group, trying to find an opening. When I joined