“Left us for the White Folks...”
When I was about 20, I started a spring internship at Brainstorm Communications, a small black-owned ad agency in Chicago. Our biggest client was SoftSheen, a multimillion-dollar black hair care company founded by the Gardner family, who also owned the agency. The joint was small, quiet, and the people were unbelievably nice to each other. After a few weeks the president turned my internship into a full-time job and offered to work around my school schedule come fall.
A short time later, I was offered an internship at DDB Needham Worldwide, still among the biggest agencies in the world. Fortune 500 clients up the yin-yang. Award-winning talent. Big fancy office digs. Growth opportunities galore. This was like going from BET to NBC. But of the 500-plus employees in their Chicago office few if any were black. And this was precisely where I came in. I was offered a spot in a special minority internship program. “Jeanne,” the internship coordinator thought this was a great opportunity for someone like me to learn the business. And of course, it made them look good, too.
On the one hand, I was at a small place surrounded by good people willing to teach me the ropes and help me grow. And as a black-owned company they knew what it meant to give young black talent a chance. But as a black-owned agency, resources were limited, and there were lots of barriers. On the other hand, I had a huge company with potentially unlimited opportunities saying, “c’mon over.” But their motives were a little suspect. So what’s a young brother to do?
Every black industry professional I talked to said that with my age and talent, I’d be a fool to turn this one down. “Go get that general market experience—you can always come back later,” was how they put it. So I bit the bullet and rolled with the big boys.
I did a whole summer at Needham. They were nice—that is, when they weren’t being condescending. I got a lot of “you’ll be good someday, just not here” pep talks. I got more than a few, “He’s pretty good—for a black kid” reactions to my work. I was mistaken for the delivery guy on way too many occasions for it to be “a simple misunderstanding.” And despite the growing talk of my being hired on full-time at the end of my internship, they ended up hiring two white copywriters over me, both of who’s portfolios and abilities were so inferior to mine that when they saw my portfolio they both asked me the same question: “Why won’t they hire you?” Still, I probably learned more at Needham than I would’ve learned at anywhere else—save for Brainstorm.
Over the years I ran into my old boss at a couple industry functions. I remember the first time she greeted me at one. I’d been working steady for about 3 years by then and was doing okay. In fact, it was at an industry awards show when I walked up to her to say “hi” figuring I’d have to remind her of who I was. Instead she took one look at me and said, “Ah, there he is… Left us and ran off to the white folks.”
She smiled when she said it. She clearly meant it as more of a light-hearted jab than anything. But the underlying message was serious and clear. She was acknowledging the stigma that many mainstream businesses hang on black professionals. At the same time, she said she understood why I left and that there were no hard feelings. Still I wonder how my career and my life would’ve turned out had I stayed.
Looking back, I can honestly say that my biggest professional regret leaving Brainstorm when I did.
Looking back, they were the only place I ever worked that truly respected and embraced me as a black creative. I wasn’t a charity case or a quota-filler to them. I didn’t have to play the “just happens to be black” card like I’ve had to do at other joints. And they weren’t on that “white liberal”/look how hip and inclusive we are” BS so many other companies are still on. Nope. There, I was a black ad man—and the terms weren’t mutually exclusive nor did they make me inferior.
Too bad I was too young to realize what I was walking away from.
A short time later, I was offered an internship at DDB Needham Worldwide, still among the biggest agencies in the world. Fortune 500 clients up the yin-yang. Award-winning talent. Big fancy office digs. Growth opportunities galore. This was like going from BET to NBC. But of the 500-plus employees in their Chicago office few if any were black. And this was precisely where I came in. I was offered a spot in a special minority internship program. “Jeanne,” the internship coordinator thought this was a great opportunity for someone like me to learn the business. And of course, it made them look good, too.
On the one hand, I was at a small place surrounded by good people willing to teach me the ropes and help me grow. And as a black-owned company they knew what it meant to give young black talent a chance. But as a black-owned agency, resources were limited, and there were lots of barriers. On the other hand, I had a huge company with potentially unlimited opportunities saying, “c’mon over.” But their motives were a little suspect. So what’s a young brother to do?
I did a whole summer at Needham. They were nice—that is, when they weren’t being condescending. I got a lot of “you’ll be good someday, just not here” pep talks. I got more than a few, “He’s pretty good—for a black kid” reactions to my work. I was mistaken for the delivery guy on way too many occasions for it to be “a simple misunderstanding.” And despite the growing talk of my being hired on full-time at the end of my internship, they ended up hiring two white copywriters over me, both of who’s portfolios and abilities were so inferior to mine that when they saw my portfolio they both asked me the same question: “Why won’t they hire you?” Still, I probably learned more at Needham than I would’ve learned at anywhere else—save for Brainstorm.
Over the years I ran into my old boss at a couple industry functions. I remember the first time she greeted me at one. I’d been working steady for about 3 years by then and was doing okay. In fact, it was at an industry awards show when I walked up to her to say “hi” figuring I’d have to remind her of who I was. Instead she took one look at me and said, “Ah, there he is… Left us and ran off to the white folks.”
She smiled when she said it. She clearly meant it as more of a light-hearted jab than anything. But the underlying message was serious and clear. She was acknowledging the stigma that many mainstream businesses hang on black professionals. At the same time, she said she understood why I left and that there were no hard feelings. Still I wonder how my career and my life would’ve turned out had I stayed.
Looking back, I can honestly say that my biggest professional regret leaving Brainstorm when I did.
Looking back, they were the only place I ever worked that truly respected and embraced me as a black creative. I wasn’t a charity case or a quota-filler to them. I didn’t have to play the “just happens to be black” card like I’ve had to do at other joints. And they weren’t on that “white liberal”/look how hip and inclusive we are” BS so many other companies are still on. Nope. There, I was a black ad man—and the terms weren’t mutually exclusive nor did they make me inferior.
Too bad I was too young to realize what I was walking away from.
