I Was One of the First Black Finance Professionals in Arkansas. The Racism Was Unbelievable.
From racism in the workplace to racist clients, being a Black bond salesman in the Deep South was almost too much
This essay is part one of a two-part series on the racism I experienced during my days in the financial services industry.
I spent much of my finance career in the Deep South, where I worked for one of the largest investment banks outside Wall Street. This is a story about some of the racism I experienced during that time. Soon, I’ll publish a similar post discussing my years on Wall Street.
Before I continue, let me say this: I’m not looking for sympathy or apologies. When I write about racism, especially my individual 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 are a surprise to 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.
I was the firm’s first and only Black person in that role. My brother Wyatt was a clerk on the side of the floor that dealt in stocks. 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’s 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 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. He had a question: “I’m looking through the brochure your company sent me. Where are you? You’ve been there for a while, right?” Before I could answer, he hit me with another, more probing question: “Are there any other Black people working there besides you?” It startled me that he knew I was Black. It had never come up in our previous conversations.
Taken off guard, I danced around my client’s question. I didn’t want to tell him the company’s only Black employees were me, my brother, an investment banker, my assistant who one of my coworkers referred to as “Tar Baby,” and two janitors. He must have sensed my discomfort because he shifted the conversation to another topic.
Later that day, I dropped by the office of the firm’s CEO and told him about my conversation. I 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 pretty disappointing.
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.
When the firm hired me, none of the sales assistants wanted to be assigned to me—not even the Black lady with the racist nickname. She later told me she received a small raise for agreeing to work as my assistant. Some 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. But back then, none of today’s technology existed. Every trade happened over the telephone. I was one the first people on the trading floor to buy a computer.
Since non-white finance professionals were as rare as unicorns—especially in the South—my of my clients automatically assumed I was a white person when we spoke on the phone. The really racist ones were completely unfiltered over the telephone. They assumed I was a kindred spirit.
My days as a bond salesman in the Arkansas were very similar to a skit Eddie Murphy did on Saturday Night Live back in the day. 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 they don’t think Black people are 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.
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 in me about his strong dislike for the NBA. He said Black players had ruined professional basketball. Believing he was speaking to another white person, he claimed that “we” no longer had a chance in the sport because there are so many Black players who can dunk. He honestly thought the league should raise the basketball goals to twelve feet. “That will stop those bucks from dunking,” he told me.
Another client of mine 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. Even though the government guaranteed this type of bond, he said, “I’m not buying anything that helps 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 of you may wonder how—or why—I dealt with people who were so profoundly racist. You may be thinking, “Why didn’t you curse them out or hang up the phone on them?” You should know episodes of workplace racism were not and are not unique. In my entire working life, I never worked for any company where racism didn’t exist. The only difference is that in my case, I’ve heard things straight from the horse’s mouth that most of the time, I could only suspect.
There’s another reason I didn’t react with anger. Had I done so, and believe me, I wanted to, the client would complain, and I would’ve lost my job. After that, I 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.” And not for nothing, but I had no one to complain to, no advocate or mentor. These were the days before discrimination and diversity policies, before HR departments. There was no such thing as a sexual harassment policy. 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 that over the years theyd paid hundreds of thousands of dollars in commissions to a Black person. The way I saw it, the joke was on them.
I finally visited the 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 phone 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 my firm’s 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 investment own firm,” he said.
In our 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.
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You’re a pioneer. Much to be proud of.
Thank you for sharing these stories. You tell them so vividly.