In 2010 when I started at Purdy-McGuire (PMI), I had been an HR director for a prominent general contractor in the Dallas area. The job at PMI was supposed to be a temporary thing while I waited out the 2008–2009 economic crisis. As receptionist, I remember receiving calls for the marketing department, to which I responded, “We don’t have a marketing department!” I quickly learned that we did have a marketing function, though there was no marketing department per se. There were, however, two ladies who worked closely with PMI leadership to prepare proposal letters and RFQ responses. It was all very foreign to me.

Looking back, I had no aspirations of working in marketing. I still had hopes of landing a position in Human Resources. Ultimately, I agreed to take on a role at PMI that included preparing proposal letters and RFQ responses. I was also gently volun-told to join SMPS. So, I did and immediately joined a committee.

My world began to change.

I started to understand that God had seasoned my natural people skills and my love for serving others with technical knowledge and ground-floor experience that evolved into a full-fledged career. (I’m so glad He’s a lot smarter than I am.) It was a life-changing transition. Plus, Purdy-McGuire gave me space to blossom and apply what I was learning through my involvement in SMPS.

Now here I am, 12 years later, facing another life-changing transition: retirement.

At the end of 2022, I will gracefully exit the 8-to-5 work world and transition into a different and exciting phase of my life. What a sweet ride it has been. But I look forward to giving my brain more creative space and am in love with the idea that I will have time to pursue my creative dreams.

I’ve only been an SMPS member for about a decade. During this time, I’ve gained immeasurable knowledge, experience, and confidence. I learned what it means to market professional services in the A/E/C industries and developed a passion for it. I will miss serving clients on behalf of Purdy-McGuire, a firm that has been like family for me from the very first day. And, oh! The friends I’ve made! So many people I’ve met during my journey have not just taught me, but truly touched me.

My mom would always say, “Don’t say goodbye, say ‘farewell’ or ‘so long’!” Goodbye feels so permanent. So, I say farewell to the many colleagues and friends who took the time to teach me, talk to me, listen to me, serve with me, like me, and even love me. My life is richer because of you.

No matter where life takes me next, I know that “I Will Always Be a Marketer.”

Article written by Ruth Hunter-Hill.

What I love about Pride Month is that it’s always evolving. Each year it becomes more inclusive and less about one thing, but more holistic and centered around the individual. Even the pride flag has evolved to reflect and represent the diversity of skin tones and gender spectrum. It represents more than the LGBTQ+ community; it represents everyone.

To me, Pride is about being proud of being myself. It may seem inward thinking, but I haven’t always felt the freedom to be who I am. I grew up in a conservative, faith-based family in small-town Texas, and though some might balk at that type of upbringing, I’m grateful for it. My family has always been nothing but loving and supportive but growing up gay in that environment isn’t without inner and outer struggles. Rather than accept who I am, I tried to hide. Rather than talk about my identity, I kept a lot locked inside of me. Even though my eventual coming out wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be, it’s still a challenge sometimes to go beyond the surface with my family and talk about my personal life.

I’ve been balancing my professional life, family background, and personal relationships for as long as I can remember—hoping that this one singular thing doesn’t define me. I have a big personality; some might call me loud. But I’ve gained a lot of perspective over the years and my experience has helped inform some of my professional and personal successes. I’ve learned that what I put into life is what I’ll get out of it. While I don’t have it all figured out, I know one thing: The support I’ve been shown by the companies I’ve worked for, the friends I’ve made both professionally and personally, and the confidence I’ve gained in myself is what has shaped me into who I am—and that’s someone I’m proud of.

But not everyone can say that.

The LGBTQ+ community is no stranger to prejudice, discrimination, harassment, hate, and violence. As we honor Pride Month, it’s our time to celebrate how far we’ve come with huge wins—marriage equality, the right to serve openly in the military, spousal and adoption benefits—but also to be mindful that there are still many barriers to break down, for all threatened and marginalized communities.

It feels like we’re at an inflection point as a country, and heck, even as a human race. Everywhere we look, rights are being threatened, freedoms are being trampled on, and people are getting killed. While the LGBTQ+ community continues to advocate for change, it’s equally important for us to stand in solidarity—loudly and visibly—with Black, Asian, Hispanic, and other marginalized communities as they battle daily, sometimes for their lives.

We all want equal access to quality jobs, education, housing, and health care. Those are big dreams. But right now, I think many people would settle for safety. Transgender men and women are being treated brutally in almost every community. The fundamental rights of women are under attack, and the limits being considered now to remove their freedom of choice and criminalizing the health care they receive weigh heavily on me.

Everyone should enjoy equal rights. That’s what we celebrate during Pride Month, and until we do each of us has the responsibility to speak out and reciprocate the support each community gives to another. I’m not saying the struggles of every community are identical. Each group has a distinct history and identity, their own challenges and threats, and their own cultures, celebrations, triumphs, and joys. But I believe we have more in common than what divides us. I also recognize that I sit in a position of privilege.

My comfort zone is fairly wide, and I live in New York City, perhaps one of the most progressive and tolerant cities in the country. I have worked for fantastic firms that support their employees in all their walks of life and celebrates events like Pride and movements like Black Lives Matter. While it’s nice to have this sort of freedom, I recognize that there is still so much progress that needs to be made, even here. I stick to the neighborhoods I know are the most welcoming; I’ll go to the same restaurants and bars where I know what kind of crowd to expect; and I surround myself with people who I have most similarities with. This is stuff I need to work on. We can’t always stick to what’s comfortable because that’s not how we advance change. Safety isn’t guaranteed; freedom isn’t guaranteed, but we can make the choice to act in defense of those things.

Our freedoms are hard-won. Pride is a time to recognize the struggles that have brought us here today. It’s also a call to action because the battles aren’t over. If we’re going to have a more inclusive flag, shouldn’t it signify that we’re ready to fight for those represented on that flag? We need to recognize the intersectionality of the movements of marginalized communities, and Pride Month, to me, is a perfect opportunity to do that.

I say all this, because as a Society that’s based on forming relationships and leveraging those relationships to achieve excellence, it’s vital that we step outside our comfort zones. I love that SMPS isn’t just in major cities or red states or blue states; the organization spans our entire country into Canada and represents a diverse, dynamic, vibrant cross section of people.

The next time you’re at an event, engage with someone you don’t know. If you’re planning a panel of stellar thought leaders, make sure it reflects a diverse set of opinions and experiences. We all have the habit of sticking to our groups—and while that’s comfortable, it inhibits our personal and professional growth.

At the beginning, I mentioned how this commemorative month is always evolving. And so am I. At SMPS, we’re here to demonstrate excellence. I can’t think of a better time to highlight the work we still need to do and celebrate how far we’ve come than during Pride Month.

Article written by SMPS member Nathan Reyna, who’s president-elect of SMPS New York.

When I was in college, one of my friends told me I was a coconut—brown on the outside but white on the inside. Like me, she was also Filipina and while she meant no harm in this term, she was right. I had grown up in a predominantly white town in Texas so while my parents tried to instill Filipino culture in me, I didn’t really get to see it anywhere else. In fact, in high school a classmate referred to me as, “the Black girl you’re dating” when talking to my white boyfriend. He corrected my classmate, of course, but it showed how very small my town was.

So, when I went away to college and joined the Filipino Student Association, I made sure to get inundated with my culture while still focusing on school. I got to relearn cultural dances I hadn’t danced since I was eight, like the tinikling or the itik itik. I also got to have some home cooked meals that I was missing, like pancit, lumpia, and adobo – although none of it was ever as good as my mom’s cooking.

This story isn’t about food and dances; it’s about how I’ve learned to accept my culture and become less of an invisible minority. I use this term because there are parts of Filipino American history that often gets forgotten, even by me.

I remember having to write a report for school about what it was like when my parents were young. I talked to my dad since he grew up in California and had come to the U.S. at a young age. The one thing that has always stuck with me was when he told me about signs that read, “No Filipinos Allowed or No Dogs Allowed” and how they were used interchangeably. This was due to many anti-miscegenation laws that enforced racial segregation, particularly in California. Having been born and partially raised in California, this was a bit shocking since most of my family was still near Stockton where a lot of this occurred. It also made me more aware of racial injustice and perseverance. They stayed where they weren’t wanted and ended up building a life there – including a big white house where my grandmother and grandfather would house newly immigrated relatives until they could get on their feet.

I ended up moving back to Texas after college but really wanted to be back in California. My sister was attending medical school there and my brother was in Fresno. I decided to move to Los Angeles where I tried my hand in the film industry. One night I was out with some friends, including a few for the first time. I don’t know if it was nervous energy or being in a new town, but I was talking to everyone at the bar. Some I met before, but most of them just started talking to me randomly. This guy in our group said, “I’m going to start calling you the mayor, because it seems like everyone knows you.” He commented on the fact that I talked to everyone as if I was on the campaign trail listening to their stories or just shooting the breeze. Well, that nickname stuck for a while, and I took to it like it was my role.

Coincidentally my maternal grandfather was the mayor of a town called Baguio, the “Summer Capital of the Philippines.” He was a lawyer who would defend those he believed in and often got paid in kind as many of his clients couldn’t afford a lawyer. That nickname for me was fitting, because instilled through my culture and my family is the value of service and humility; it’s what Filipinos are known for. I’ve always jumped headfirst into everything I do expecting nothing in return—until one day, something at work got to me and helped me come to a realization.

It was when a newer engineer thought my co-director was my boss (I had already been at the company for over seven years and had helped to hire the co-director). I felt slighted. I’ve never been about titles, but that just stung. Here I was pouring everything into my career with no recognition.

In the corporate world, we thrive on recognition. Without it we wouldn’t get raises and promotions. I now knew that humility doesn’t need to mean service without the recognition. I finally understood what it means to be Filipino American: to serve through leadership. To advocate for yourself and those who don’t have the means, like my grandmother who helped those who newly immigrated to the United States or like my grandfather, the mayor, who supported the poor and even put some cousins through college who couldn’t afford it.

I eventually moved to Michigan to be close to my husband’s family and in the last few years, I’ve been heavily recruited because I finally said yes to opportunities. I finally spoke up for myself and know my worth. I’ve written several articles for Marketer, presented a learning lab about storytelling, and even gave my Two Cents in Two Minutes for SMPS members. I’ve helped to fundraise money for my community and served as the hospitality chair for the PTO at my daughter’s school. Most recently, I’ve been serving as a Girl Scout Troop Leader where I get to mentor young minds on STEAM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Math) topics and entrepreneurship. I’ve helped launch a design podcast, was a guest on a podcast called “A Cup of Confidence,” and am now the content manager for Detroit Moms, including their podcast, “The Unfiltered Mom.” I’ve helped to mentor several colleagues to be advocates for themselves too—to ask for what they are worth!

Understanding how values instilled in me through my culture has helped me not be invisible anymore. It has helped me mentor others to use their unique talents so that they can have fulfilling careers. It’s also why I love SMPS. I’ve been giving to the Society for over 10 years, and they’ve welcomed me, encouraged me, and given me the platform to be an advocate. Like Filipinos, they too are hospitable and humble.

Article written by Krystle English, FSMPS, CPSM.

My varied, professional career within the A/E/C industries has spanned almost 25 years, yet only recent times have shaped how I view my role within. Upon enrolling in architecture school almost three decades ago, approximately 1% of U.S. architects were Black. Sixteen years later, I transitioned from a design field that remained 2% African American, to join a handful of Black architectural photographers currently practicing—and likely among the several to ever exist.

A few years ago, a brief meeting with an architectural client began to bend my mind’s trajectory. His opinion was that I should garner more attention and work on more known projects. This observation took me by genuine surprise because, in my mind, opportunities were growing more rapidly than I anticipated. It wasn’t until I seriously considered his statement that it occurred he might be correct. I was on the outside looking, a position to which I had become accustomed.

As a person of color who has always lived and worked in predominately white spaces, I’ve spent most of it garnering achievements from the “outside.” Due to its predictable, repetitive nature, it’s easy to conclude all paths forward are limited to membership of the “in” crowd. In a professional field as historically insular as architecture, that often translates to close association with an inner circle and politicking with gatekeepers to gain the exact references to accumulate the praise and awards to do it all over again. This culture begins early in our architecture schools. It spans our entire careers, resulting in identical decisions favoring the same small group that’s entirely disassociated from comparative talent, skill, or effort in a manner that’s disproportionate to a society that still has much progress to make.

My favorite statement of professional rejection is, “We went in another direction because we have experience with the other person.” It’s a familiar phrase and especially so for underrepresented groups. Instead of simply accepting this assertion, I began calling it out with a simple question: “If the threshold is experience and I have none with you, how do I possibly gain it?” This concept becomes further ridiculous considering my already well-established body of work. If a company has little faith in my ability only to default to more of the same, then what are they bothering me for? Even more damning, how are these companies evaluating talented prospects with no experience? It’s an unwarranted series of obstacles in which I’ve witnessed many gifted, enthusiastic, and extremely qualified individuals get turned away.

Two recent high-profile circumstances, both involving prominent African American women, cemented my resolve. The first was journalist Hannah-Jones’ lengthy tenure application fight at University of North Carolina and second Maria Taylor’s departure from ESPN. It mirrored the familiar experiences of POC undervalued in their professional occupation, which certainly begs the obvious question: Why would they still want to be there? Through our own hard knocks, many of us have drawn similar conclusions to Hannah-Jones, who joined Howard University, and Taylor who signed with NBC; we’re wasting precious time with people who don’t even want us. Perhaps sometimes where we hoped to be wasn’t where we should land.

Out of necessity, so many take the more difficult path of building careers from the outside looking in. If we’re not deemed to have the right experience by an independent party, there’s little chance their mindset will change no matter what we do. I matured enough to realize I should focus on those who share similar avenues of value and respect in favor of the unattainable. This conclusion wholly altered how I steer my business.

We should take time to feed our souls instead of concentrating on what eats away at it. Though far from equitable, small percentages among underrepresented populations possess greater privilege than any previous generation. The only way to retain and expand these opportunities for ourselves and others is to use them. If we’re one of the fortunate few who can leave a mark in this short life, we must move forward, tread and widen lanes for more to follow, or risk imminent regression. Banging on closed doors is no longer the only way and should not be at a sacrifice to those that are open.

Build your own circle but don’t let it confine your view. Stay where you’re valued. Go where you’re wanted.

Article written by Sterling Stevens, AIAP, LEED AP, owner and principal photographer at Sterling E. Stevens Design Studio. Sterling can be reached at info@sestevens.com.

In the fall of 1967, I was bussed from the projects in Gary, IN, to a better (all-white) school several miles away in the suburbs. I was devastated—and afraid. I’d seen news reports of how we weren’t wanted and what happened to some of those students. Then my mom qualified for low-income housing near the school. When we moved to a home closer to the new school, for-sale signs started going up all around us.

In 1969, I began high school. Though the school had been integrated for a couple of years, the cheerleading squad still consisted of all blondes and had been chosen by an elderly, white English teacher for years. Several of us wanted to be cheerleaders but didn’t see how we’d ever have a chance given the current selection method. So we protested for more diversity in the cheer squads and were successful. We also requested that the English teacher be replaced by representatives of the student body and the gym teacher. That year for the first time, the school had Blacks on the cheer squads—three on varsity and two on junior varsity. This real integration had an impact on everyone in the school. We were proud and gratified, knowing that we’d been heard and were being a catalyst for change. I graduated in 1973 with friends of many backgrounds and ethnicities.

These and many other experiences encouraged me to seek a life with diverse environments for work and play for me and my son. They taught me, that no matter what, to be true to myself. They taught me that I shouldn’t limit my dreams, to make and honor commitments, and that there’s no substitute for hard work.

As a new SMPS member, I was also new to marketing and the A/E/C industries. I started serving on a committee right away and made connections I still treasure after nearly 10 years. However, there’s a but. After serving on the SMPS Dallas board and attending countless events and regional conferences, I realized I’d changed in ways that SMPS had not. I was accustomed to the vanilla-ness of the A/E/C industries. In fact, I was accustomed to being the only dot of diversity in many settings throughout my career. This lack of diversity suddenly felt very personal. I retreated into my introvertive self, having grown weary of industry events where I encountered few people who looked like me. Being 60+ and Black in the A/E/C industries—and in SMPS—felt lonely. The alone-ness I felt was despite the many friends and acquaintances I have in SMPS Dallas and SMPS Fort Worth.

The tragic and senseless events that surfaced in 2020 were shocking and disheartening and ripped the scab off the wound that is racism in America. I sobbed for America and my existence in it, feeling like I was back in the 60s and 70s, only with a much better understanding of what was happening around me and why. In short order, especially after May 25, 2020, my inbox was crowded with statements from many firms and organizations taking a stand against violence and affirming that they will not tolerate racism. To me, the initial SMPS response was lukewarm, but I was happy to learn of the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) Task Force that was formed shortly thereafter. It’s reassuring to know that the organization to which I’ve given and received so much is taking steps to be part of the solution.

Diversity can’t be achieved without opportunity in the workplace or in life, so the issue of “privilege” will hopefully be a bigger part of the DEI conversation. My professional and personal experiences have taught me that privilege in itself isn’t a bad thing.  However, it becomes a negative force when used selfishly and territorially because it provides opportunity only to a select few. It also reinforces the barriers (real or perceived) preventing opportunities for others.

I recently discussed the topic of privilege with a long-time friend who, by sharing her privilege, opened doors by referring me to interview for a position… My friend said she referred me because she knew my work ethic. She knew my character. She knew me.

My life experiences have taught me that we can have a diverse world, and that from whom much is given, much is required and, indeed, expected.  Having been blessed with an abundant life that includes a sweet career, it’s my responsibility to share my knowledge and experiences with my colleagues, and to glean all I can from them. And as I lean into the autumn of my career, it will be my privilege to watch those who come after me work in an A/E/C environment that’s more reflective of the world in which we live.

Article written by Ruth Hunter-Hill, marketing manager for Purdy-McGuire. Ruth can be reached at RHunter-Hill@Purdy-McGuire.com.

A few years ago, I attended a college fair at a hotel near the San Francisco International Airport. The colleges in the exhibition hall were showcasing performing arts programs. I decided to check out a booth for a school based in London. Looking at the glossy admissions collaterals with photos of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, I asked the representative where exactly was the school located. They said, “It’s in London.” After a few awkward seconds passed, I asked again about the location. Their reply was: “Have you been to London?” I confirmed that yes, I had been to London several times, realizing full well that they didn’t believe me. When they finally answered the question, my comeback was, “Oh, you mean the school is near the Old Royal Naval College, which is a few yards from the Cutty Sark and a short uphill walk to the Royal Observatory Greenwich.”

I will never forget this exchange because it typifies much of my life experience personally and professionally. That somehow where I’ve been, who I appear to be, and what I’ve done is not the same version of a role other people had in mind for me. Imagining that Kim’s life handbook is not the edition they had on their bookshelf. These frequent chance meetings with the dominant culture are simultaneously offensive yet entertaining. However, an element of me enjoys the mind-bending torment certain people display when they learn I’m more educated, well-traveled, and I live in a very nice neighborhood comparatively speaking.

Truthfully, I understand that everyone has biases, preferences, and prejudices; this is not news. But I wanted to take a moment to break down some of the connotations surrounding this issue especially as it pertains to what’s happening in the world today. As defined, bias is an inclination toward or away from one way of thinking. Prejudice refers to a preconceived opinion or feeling, mostly unfavorable, toward a person based on their affiliation with an ethnic group, religion, or organization. Discrimination is what happens when one takes action upon a prejudice they have about a certain group of people, for example.

Much of the tension and the turmoil we see today on the big screen, social media platforms, or in our communities is because things change and nothing stays the same. In my opinion, we are facing a culture reboot—making attempts to turn the page on what has been historically a very difficult chapter, especially here in the U.S. Unfortunately, there are those who desperately want to hold on to the status quo and their privilege. I believe many of us are trying to reimagine the societal house rules so we can move forward together benefitting everyone.

All of this leaves me with questions: The anniversary of George Floyd’s murder is May 25. Are we any further along in understanding the origins of racial injustice and that racism is real? How is it possible that some people still grapple with the fact that their position in life was not gained based on merit? What happens to those who brush up against the expectations for someone who looks like me or the group I’m from or caste to which they believe I was born? Is there a willingness to admit that what I look like and the metric of race have been used to determine my assignment in this society? Along with my perceived value, are attempts to keep me in a fixed place the modus operandi of a certain segment of humanity? If you have answers, reach out to me.

To paraphrase American journalist and author Isabel Wilkerson on class versus caste: “If you can act your way out of it, it’s class. If you can’t, it’s caste. There is nothing to escape assumptions and stereotyping.” Perhaps Wilkerson summed up my encounter that day with the college rep from London: the ability to put them unexpectedly in their place.

New ideas and opportunities are being created every day by talented people from different ethnic backgrounds, genders, ages, and walks of life. A culture that’s diverse, equitable, and inclusive boils down to a few key elements—and how things get done so we can thrive.

As for me, my passport is current, credit card balance at zero, and I have an unused, pre-COVID-19 airline ticket with Air Canada. Quebec City awaits.

Article written by Kim Pipkin, president of Black Kite Consulting. Kim is also a member of the SMPS Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion Task Force. She can be reached at kimpipkin@comcast.net.

In January 2021, I embarked on one of the hardest challenges I’ve experienced as a parent to date: explaining to my Jewish daughter what the Holocaust is and how it affected my family. Suddenly, the thing that she is most proud of —being Jewish—could be seen as something to hide, or not share. It was my goal to make sure she didn’t feel that she had to hide what made her different and instead share it with the world.

I am a Jewish American, the daughter of Soviet immigrants who came to the United States 41 years ago. I was born three years after they arrived, meaning I became a citizen two years before they were even eligible, the first American in my family.

My parents fled the Soviet Union because of religious persecution. My parents were treated as second-class citizens, not allowed to go to the college of their choice and otherwise discriminated against. They knew that being Jewish was important and that being Jewish in the Soviet Union was impossible. So they left at the age of 23, with my older sister, both sets of parents, and my uncle, and moved across the world.

When my older sister turned nine, my grandmother shocked our family by revealing what happened to her shortly after her own ninth birthday. On July 19, 1941, the Nazi army arrived in her town of Mogilev-Padolskiy, on the border of Moldova and Ukraine, and rounded up all 8,000 Jews who lived there into a ghetto, closed in with a fence and barbed wire. She and her family, 11 people in total, lived in a one-room, mud-floored shack for the next four years while her father fought in the Soviet army against the Nazis. My grandmother spent those four years sneaking out of the ghetto to find food for her family, risking death at every turn, so that her family wouldn’t starve.

Until the moment my grandmother shared this information in 1986—40 years after the war ended—my mother had not known of her mother’s experiences during World War II. My grandmother and her family outlived the ghetto and the war, and she went on to earn a degree in civil engineering, working in the Soviet Union and the United States until the age of 70 as a construction manager and scheduler for civil engineering and construction firms.

Growing up Jewish in the Atlanta suburbs meant I was often the only Jewish person in my classes, if not the school. Hanukkah would roll around and people would ask me about the holiday, and occasionally about being Jewish, but that was it. I always knew that being Jewish made me a minority in my community, but I didn’t really get it until just before my Bat Mitzvah in eighth grade, when my school went to DC, for a field trip. One stop was the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

That visit forever changed my view of what it meant to be Jewish. I remember walking out of the museum with my one Jewish friend, both of us breaking down outside on the street with the realization of what we’d seen. Suddenly, being Jewish was real. It wasn’t just my religion—it was who I was. A few weeks later, I stood on the bimah (podium) of my synagogue to become a Bat Mitzvah. Since then, I’ve taken a more active role in being Jewish, talking about my faith to my friends and proudly wearing my Star of David necklace. Everyone who meets me knows that I’m Jewish fairly quickly, and I proudly share my family’s Holocaust history and immigration story.

In 2013, I switched jobs and joined a mid-sized engineering firm run by a very devout Christian. I was the only Jewish person who worked there and had ever worked there as far as I know. That year, at Christmas, the entire office was decked out in Christmas stuff—several trees, poinsettias, etc., and there was a huge Christmas party.

I love Christmas time, so it didn’t bother me, but I did openly share that I was Jewish and didn’t celebrate Christmas. The next year, just before Thanksgiving, the firm’s owner came to me and asked if I would be willing to find and purchase a Hanukkah menorah to place beside the Christmas tree, which I did. It was a small gesture but one that showed his empathy and inclusion at the heart of who he was as a leader.

When people ask me about Judaism, I love sharing my religion, but I also love listening to stories from other people who are a minority culture in our country. Being a minority means that I understand how uplifting it is to share my family’s story with the world, how it creates openness and gives my kids something to be proud of. Diversity and inclusion isn’t just about understanding each other; it’s about appreciating those differences to make us stronger, together. Like my former employer, we can extend an olive branch by acknowledging differences and creating an opportunity for people to learn.

These days in north metro Atlanta, there are a lot more Jews. My kids each have several Jewish friends in their secular public schools. As hard as it was to share the Holocaust story with my daughter, and to hold her while she cried, it was important to share what happens when differences create division.

My hope is that she stays a proud Jewish American, like her mom, and uses the lessons we’ve learned about what it means to be the target of hate—and the need to spread love and foster inclusion, rather than division. Together, with our differences, we make the world a stronger place.  We make the communities we serve better. And we make our businesses more impactful.

Article written by Michelle Erste, CPSM, marketing director for iParametrics. Michelle is also the recipient of the 2020 SMPS Chapter President of the Year award. She can be reached at Michelle.Erste@iparametrics.com. If you’d like to hear her grandmother’s full story, a recording can be found on YouTube.

Fighting the good fight or getting into good trouble (as the late Senator John Lewis often said) is an inextricable part of my personality and life. Why is that? My background and family history provide the foundation for answering this question.

I was born in New Orleans, LA. My dad’s side of the family is from Louisiana and my mom’s side is from Alabama. Growing up in Louisiana, the British, French, Spanish, and Caribbean influences were all around me and an integral part of the fabric of the city. I really didn’t notice the uniqueness of these influences until I moved away.

To describe my family lineage is not as simple as I’m African American and from New Orleans.  I’m also Creole. Besides being a food seasoning, Creole is also an ethnic background. Originally, Creole referred to people born in the Louisiana colony as opposed to those born in France. By the 19th century, Creole became a means to distinguish between those who settled the Louisiana colony and those who came after the Louisiana Purchase. My ancestry is French and African. We’re called “gens de couleur” or Creoles of color. New Orleans is a juxtaposition of Creole/Cajun and fun/revelry against a backdrop of Deep South mores that favored one racial identity over another. It’s against this backdrop my uncle became a central figure in the civil rights movement.

My uncle, George Raymond, was a courageous civil rights leader who influenced many of Mississippi’s best-known civil rights activists, including Anne Moody, C.O. Chinn, and Anne Devine, to join the movement. He also worked closely with civil rights icons Medgar Evers and the late Senator John Lewis to organize activities throughout Mississippi. My uncle started civil rights activities at the age of 18 in New Orleans when he took part in the Freedom Rides and became an established leader in the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE). He worked with Medgar Evers to stage the Woolworth sit-in at the whites-only counter on May 28, 1963, in Jackson, MS. My Uncle George appears in one of the photographs taken that day.

In his book, We Shall Not Be Moved, The Jackson Woolworth’s Sit-in and the Movement It Inspired, Michael James O’Brien wrote about that fateful day. He noted the following about my uncle:

“[George] appears in only one photograph of the lunch counter scene that day… He sits stone-faced, staring straight ahead while a pint bottle of silky white cream is poured down the back of his muscular neck and onto his white T-shirt and crisp bib overalls — clothing that would become his trademark in the Mississippi movement. The fact that he entered the store when the mob was at its wildest is testimony to his courage and commitment…”

My Uncle George’s civil rights work was so pervasive it struck a nerve with white Mississippians who wanted to preserve the status quo through violence. Transcripts from the Edgar Ray Killen v. State of Mississippi trial, also known as the Mississippi Burning Trial, indicate the station wagon civil rights workers James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner drove that night was supposed to be driven by my Uncle George and surmised he was most likely the intended target of Patrolman Earl Robert Poe who put the events of that night in motion. My uncle certainly hit a nerve with the work he was doing but continued to do it anyway.

This complex history sets the stage for who I am both personally and professionally. In my role as a senior manager for my company, I’m in a position to advocate for initiatives. I used this status over ten years ago to start developing core processes around outreach to certified businesses across the design and construction spectrum and gathered the data to support being intentional about engaging with these businesses.

In just a few years, the data supported that, when we choose to meaningfully include women-owned, minority-owned, small business enterprise, and disabled veteran business enterprise businesses (also known as XBE businesses) in contracting opportunities, we create a win-win situation not only for ourselves, but also for the XBE businesses. When large businesses make a conscious decision to utilize XBE firms, they’re contributing to mentoring, capacity building, and, in many cases, to local worker hiring opportunities. My business and the XBE businesses we work with are better organizations because of the intentional interaction created through the process and, most importantly, from access obtained through the relationship.

My familial history in the diversity and inclusion (D&I) space has absolutely shaped how I see the world and my part as a change agent. The sacrifices my uncle and countless others have made to furthering civil rights in the United States is at the core of my desire to advocate for inclusion in our A/E/C industries business practices. Not only is it good for business, it’s good for our communities, XBE firms, and the A/E/C industries as a whole. I can’t think of a better reason why getting into a little good trouble is a good thing.

Dr. Paula Stamp, CPSM, is director, business development for PCL Construction Services’ California Buildings District, a member of SMPS Los Angeles, a past chapter president, an SMPS/LA Leonardo Recipient, and a Certified Professional Services Marketer. She can be reached at PStamp@pcl.com.

I really struggled to write this article. I struggled with it more than anything I’ve written in the last five years. Not everyone is burdened by the pain of others and still some will only care briefly—volunteering for a few months or writing a check that helps feed the machine but doesn’t quite fix it.

We are waging war against poverty, racism, patriarchy, sexism, heterosexism, and countless other manifestations of systemic oppression by skimming through a book or two, calling ourselves allies, and writing think pieces. But, until hearts are changed in a way that our response is a collective demand for change and refusal to participate in oppressive systems—even if they erase our individual privilege–I don’t believe we will fix anything.

“For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support.” – Audre Lorde

This quote is often used omitting the last line. However, I believe it’s crucial to my own story. My mother had all of her children between 18 and 21. She and my father worked at ShowBiz (now Chuck E. Cheese’s) when I was born—the first of three children. They were earning so little our family was eligible for government assistance in the amount of 50 cents each month to feed our family. My mother never believed in the system anyway—this simply reaffirmed her values. Her next move informed so much of my own work ethic and value system.

Our economic challenges afforded my siblings and me the opportunity to enroll in the Saginaw County Head Start program, one of the first in the country. It was a program designed for children in families like mine to empower us to have a shot at the quality of life that our cultural inheritances may have deemed inaccessible. It was a shot at equity.

The Head Start program was an instrumental part of our lives as my mother, a high school graduate at the time, volunteered her time so methodically it eventually opened doors for her to become a social worker under the grandfather clause in place at the time.

However, the implications of cultural inheritances marred by poverty, violence, drugs, blight, white flight, redlining, barriers to post-secondary education, and other factors best surmised as systemic oppression grew to be too high a price for retaining her professional title and raising her family. So my mother took the leap of faith that definitely inspired my own in 2014.

It was 1997. She had taken the gamble of leaving us with family for six months to prepare a place for us in Georgia. My parents had been separated for a few years. She came back for all four of us (including my teenaged aunt who lived with us), and we never doubted she would. We loaded the 1993 Mercury Tracer to the brim, leaving behind a lot of the things we loved and traveled more than 800 miles away to a world that would introduce me to my greatest cultural inheritances and my most earth-shattering experiences.

As expected, that first year centered around changing schools, making new friends, moving into an apartment for the first time (my sister called the two-bedroom apartment a hotel for months), and adjusting to latchkey kid life since mom always had two or three jobs to sustain us. These were the anticipatable, whimsical parts of the journey, and I still smile about a lot of those things.

However, our entire family surviving carbon monoxide poisoning, quickly followed by losing my younger brother to a car accident that I still believe may have been prevented by something as seemingly simple as a sidewalk, changed my life forever. It was my first real heartbreak for sure, but it introduced me squarely to the three core values that have allowed me to exceed my own expectations in many ways, not just professionally: resilience, reading, and relationships.

Resilience is more than an unwavering commitment to accomplish a goal; it’s the willingness to audaciously choose to re-evaluate those goals, as knowledge of yourself and the world expands.

Reading is perhaps more of a practice than a value. My mother was adamant about making us read books growing up. We literally had a TV-time allowance. However, as I’ve grown, my understanding of reading has transformed. Reading is about purposefully inviting myself to walk in other people’s shoes with the intention of learning to operate with a level of compassion and grace that isn’t often afforded to people who don’t share my lived experiences and perspective. Reading isn’t just about grabbing the next New York Times bestseller. It’s about paying attention and noticing the nuanced difference in the words spoken and unspoken in the people around me. It’s part of why, when I ask people how they are doing, I make an earnest effort to listen, make eye contact, and listen for changes in tone that may indicate my extra caring may be beneficial in the moment.

Relationships are built using the first two values. Relationships are complex, messy, and uncomfortable at times. You have to consistently commit, re-evaluate, and read through them. Good and healthy relationships, even ones that seem difficult, move you towards your goals. I’ve also discovered that power moves aren’t only born via the boardroom; some of your most valuable relationships are with the people sharing a cubicle with you.

Resilience, reading, and relationships—that’s how we win. That’s how we open our hearts—and our minds—to make a collective change.

These three values I learned from watching my mother were the catalyst to my entry and success in the A/E/C industries. I had envisioned myself in a lot of different roles before learning about an eight-week contract position at a small engineering firm in Maryland from my (then boyfriend) husband. After having multiple roles at two companies in three years in the mortgage industry, including 18 months of contract work, it was extremely clear that this wasn’t the right fit. I needed work that would allow me to use the creative gifts and talents I valued most.

I took a leap of faith and accepted the temporary role. With just $1,000 to my name when I hit the road in my Kia from Atlanta in 2014, I began the journey that has blossomed into my career in the A/E/C industries where I’ve built amazing relationships and become the person I hoped and believed I could be growing up.

Article written by Uniqueka Walcott, CPSM, proposal manager for Moffatt & Nichol. You can reach her at uwalcott@moffattnichol.com or connect with her on LinkedIn. 

I was raised in a family that always spoke their mind. We were never afraid to say what we wanted or needed to say. Until the age of 20, my environment inside and outside my home was all-inclusive. My experiences and relationships were authentic and raw. This environment was all I knew; it was my culture.

After turning 20, I started my career in the A/E/C industries. I was not at all prepared for the culture shock during that first week. The environment was very different than what I was used to, but I was really excited about the position. So, I tucked away my discomfort and got to work.

The job was interesting and challenging. I knew I could be good at this and continued to learn the business and make friends along the way. Everything seemed to be going well.

Then the microaggressions started; or at the time, I would have most likely referred to it as passive-aggressive behavior. My name was rarely pronounced correctly and when I would correct people, they would tell me, “Well, that’s not the normal way it’s pronounced.” I was told I needed to go to college because of the way I spoke. Even comments were made about my big hoop earrings, such as, “Those are rather large for the workplace.”

The discomfort I tucked away that first week and almost forgot about, jumped right back into plain sight. Then the realization set in: I’m not happy here–and I don’t feel like I belong.

I left that company after three years and went to a larger company, believing and hoping that the experience in my previous position was something that wouldn’t happen again. Besides, I had prepared myself for the culture shock, and I also felt like it was an isolated incident.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

The microaggressions, blatant discrimination, and passive-aggressive behavior continued. I experienced it personally and watched it happen to other people.

I knew immediately that if I wanted to escape these situations, I needed to change who I was at work to feel comfortable there. Change the way you talk. Do not wear your big hoop earrings. Do not correct people when they say your name incorrectly. Be the work version of Alicia.

But this isn’t fair. This isn’t me.

As much as I struggled with what to do in order to not jeopardize my job or career, an experience with a coworker forced me to make a decision that would change the way I carry myself as a professional. The offensive and inappropriate comments that were directed toward me from a coworker in a proposal kick-off meeting pushed me into a space I never thought I could be in the workplace. My reaction was such a reflex that I didn’t realize the implications for having a verbal confrontation at work.

I stood up for myself that day, and it could have very well cost me my job. Luckily, it did not.

That was the last day I was the work version of Alicia.

Over the last 15 years, I have fought for respect, for a seat at the table, for my voice to be heard, for my work to be appreciated, for marketing departments to be valued, for my teammates to be respected, and for other professionals to be respected and know their worth.

I’m a Puerto Rican woman who wears big hoop earrings, talks slang, and demands the same treatment and respect as every other person seated at the table. These characteristics are just part of who I am. I’m also a professional with 17 years of marketing and business development experience, a wife, and a mother. My voice matters, and I make sure of it every day.

This is a privilege I worked very hard for and a privilege many people don’t have.  The risk of losing your job because you want to be accepted for who you are is a risk many people are not willing to take.

Imagine working your entire career feeling this way.

There are millions of professionals, including small disadvantaged businesses, dealing with microaggressions, biases, and discrimination on a daily basis. They struggle with this very issue of “what version of myself should I be today” because they’ve been reminded that they’re not accepted for who they are. And it’s not just at the workplace; it’s at holiday parties, weddings, golf outings, networking events, the grocery store, etc. It’s everywhere, and it’s a burden many of us carry every single day.

We struggle because we’re in a space where we are different. We’re the minority. The microaggressions are inevitable and demeaning.

We want it to STOP.

Through the struggle, find the strength to stand up for yourself. The fear of taking a stand is real, but the effects of not doing so will ultimately define who you are as a professional and how others treat you.

This article was written by Alicia Mojica Washington, director of marketing and JEDI at HRP Associates, Inc. Alicia is a past-president of SMPS Connecticut and leads their Diversity and Inclusion Task Force, a board member and membership chair of the Construction Institute, and the Communication’s Chair for the Connecticut Chapter of the National Organization of Minority Architects. Alicia also serves her local community as a volunteer at the Boys and Girls Club and the City’s Diversity Council. She can be reached at alicia.washington@hrpassociates.com.