The New Yorker Radio Hour - Returning to the Office . . . While Black

Episode Date: March 22, 2022

“Coming back to work is partially about surveillance and micromanagement,” Keisha, a podcasting executive, says. “Everybody feels it, but people of color feel it in a different way.” For workers who have been remote for the better part of two years, returning to the office is undeniably complicated. For some Black workers who didn’t feel at ease in majority-white offices to begin with, the complications are even greater. Racial microaggressions abound, and, for some, the stress of excessive visibility that comes with being a minority never goes away. “I would love to be ‘feet on the couch relaxed,’ like some of my colleagues in the past,” Keisha says, but “I don’t know if I could allow myself that.” As an entrepreneur named James put it, “Black folks aren’t really allowed to have bad days.”    The Radio Hour’s KalaLea talks with four Black professionals and compares their experience to that of Robert Churchwell, a Black reporter hired by the Nashville Banner in 1950. Churchwell was excluded from the white newsroom and worked from home for five years.     Audio from an interview with Robert Churchwell comes from the Civil Rights Oral History Project, Special Collections, Nashville Public Library. New Yorker Radio Hour listeners, we want to hear from you.  We have a few questions about the show and how you listen to it. The survey takes about twenty minutes, and your feedback will help us make our podcast better.  Take the survey here.

This is The New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. It was two years ago that our office, like so much of New York and very shortly much of the nation, shut down. And businesses everywhere suddenly put those work-from-home contingency plans to the test. For people who have been working from home for the better part of two years, going back to the office now is undeniably complicated. Here's the radio hours producer, Kalalia. On March 11th, 2020, I was sitting on the A-Train on my way to the office.

Listening to music as I do on most mornings. The band Tame Impala had recently released some new music. Actually, it was an album. And then an email came in. It was addressed to the entire staff. It said, if you're on your way to the office, turn back and work from home. If you're here, make your way home. My first thought literally was, dreams really do come true.

I get to work from home. Two years later, many of us who have had the privilege to work from home are going back to the office. And honestly, I'm not feeling good about it. about it. It's really tough admitting this because I like my teammates and the work that I do. Yeah, I can see some of the benefits, face-to-face collaboration, human connection. But for me, these things don't outweigh the benefits of working in my own space. What's wrong with not going into the office if the work gets done? A research group called Future Forum, conduct I conducted a poll in 2021 and found that 21% of white professionals were looking forward to going back into the office full-time.

Now, that's not a lot, but the number of black professionals looking forward to returning was a mere 3%. Three percent. Coming back to work is partially about surveillance and micromanagement, and people of color feel that in a different way. Everybody feels it, but people of color feel it in a different way. This is Keisha. She's an executive in podcasting. I met her at a podcast event a few years ago. Being a black person in an office setting is always interesting because, you know, we're trying to assimilate to a culture and also office culture is very much so predicated on professionalism, which is predicated on whiteness. And, you know, professionalism and white supremacy tend to go hand in hand. So a lot of that, even in the nicest place, trickle down. You know, sometimes being at the office can feel like being at a friend of a friend of a friend's dinner party for hours upon hours. Smiling, even when you don't necessarily get the joke,

acting as if you've heard of a particular actor or book author when you know good and well that you don't. And not being able to stand up and scream, it's too freaking cold in here. I can't. I can't. You can't take it anymore. That's a lot of your life to be, you know, doing the musical theater thing, right? It's you, but it's not you. It's you, but when you get home, you go, whew, child, right? Keisha went fully remote in 2021. I stopped code switching years ago, but then there comes, you know,

I have to question what people think of me or how that one. because I speak a certain way. I'm not putting the bank teller voice on anymore. Well, you don't talk weight enough. I'm not talking about Will Smith's wife. And he's just proper. I'm talking about the real deal. Okay, so you like.

Hello, Mr. Everett. Cash is screen here. Sorry to bother you. You got it wrong. I'm not talking about it. Keisha loves her new job, but she doesn't miss being in the office at all. Yeah, the AC is. is too damn high.

Forced communal lunches or the strongly suggested communal lunch. Open floor plan. If this is the only place I got to go, then that feels racist. That feels racist. Right? Okay, she's being hyperbolic.

But there is such a thing as the white gaze and the sort of pressure of visibility that comes with being a quote-unquote minority. And I would love to be feet on the couch relaxed you know, like some of my colleagues that I've seen in the past. But I don't know how that feels. I don't know if I could allow myself that. It's called Managing Your Blackness.

See, white people, y'all can be white all day long. Black people can't be black all day long. Society don't play that. You were raised not to make the collective of black humanity look like slabs, right? Like, that's what it is, right? It's partially about we are a clean people. We are a clean family here. And your mama taught you well.

But also, what you're not going to do is leave that dish in there so that when the next black person comes behind you, they get blamed for it, you know? And that's part of the legacy of being black in public spaces as well, is doing our community service for each other, even when we're not in the room with each other. Yeah, yeah. And I guess that's where they're exactly. Austin comes into. Yeah.

And we don't even know it because that's our baseline. Mm-hmm. Do you think you'll ever go back to an office? Not if, uh, not if I could help it, honestly. When I start a new job, especially a corporate job, I, I feel, uh, isolated until I actually search out like most people probably, another person of color, preferably a black person. one, but I'll take pretty much anyone on the spectrum. I'll call this woman Zoe.

She works in health care. And why do you do that? Because I feel like we've lived the same experiences, and I know that they will understand the duality of self that exists within our worlds. She's talking about W.E.B. Du Bois's concept of double consciousness, the sense of belonging yet not belonging. and not belonging is reinforced in the workplace through overt racism, neglect, pay inequities, and microaggressions. How do you get your hair like that?

We're depending on you to make sure that the culture here gets better. Can it touch your hair? I'm shocked you would know so much about that. You guys wear such nice clothes. I know you've done this before, but it might be best to still have somebody shadow you. I've noticed that since the George Floyd protest, some white colleagues are more careful about what they say. It's a little less straightforward and more,

we're trying to, you know, invite people in and do, and you're like, well, why are you asking me? Am I the person that is supposed to be speaking on behalf of all black people? And that's why microaggressions are so insidious, man. They just add up and add up and add up. and then you realize what's been happening to you over time. You know, the difference between that and work from home is I don't have that feeling anymore, which does a lot for my stress levels.

It takes away from just you wanting to do your job. I think what black people have always wanted to do for years and years and years is just do our jobs. Of course, not everybody feels exactly the same about office culture. There was, you know, life and there was laughter. There was creative collaboration. There was after-work events where we would get together and have, you know, drinks. And, you know, just there was life in the office. Lawrence, not his real name, works in advertising.

He was one of the first to go back to the office. There's a camaraderie that happens. And I think that no matter what race or, you know, what culture you're a part of, LGBT, Asian or anything like that, you're always part of the family. It's very rare that I don't feel comfortable in the space. But even an extrovert like Lawrence admits he needs to pump himself up for the office with a little bit of positive self-talk. Put on your armor. Get ready to go. You're going to do this thing. You're going to win. Who's stressed, not you? Who the best? It's you. Who's going to kill it? I'm sorry, I can't. Not today.

As black people, we always have to show ourselves up and be prepared for anything that comes our way, whether it be a microaggression or people just thinking you're not good enough or not qualified. You know, I think we always are in a situation of having to prove so much or feeling that we do based on how the society is here in America. Did I not raise you for better? How many times have I told you you have to be what? You have to be. What? Twice as good. Twice as good as them to get half. That was a scene from scandal,

but it could have been from the mouths of my parents. I've consciously lived my life believing that I have to work harder, be neater, be nicer, or else no one, well, no one white will employ me. But that is not true. That's actually going to kill us as a people, because we're overworking ourselves. We're overburdening ourselves. We carry so much stress on something that we can't even change.

Callalia's story continues in a moment. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. The slip-based edition wouldn't go to the white community. When I was researching this story, I came across an oral history with the reporter Robert Churchwell, who died in 2009. He was one of the first black journalists to work at a white-oge conservative Southern newspaper. Here he is being interviewed about his first four years at his new job.

But the first four years of your working for the banner, did you have an office in the paper or a desk in the paper? Where was your desk? My office was my home. Front room of my father's home. I hadn't thought about the many black professionals who were effectively forced to work from home because of segregation laws. Unlike myself, Churchill had no support from his. employers. The ballot didn't pay

telephone bill. They didn't put as a typewriter. It didn't funny as a car fare. Shortly after the Brown versus Board of Education landmark decision, Churchwell was given a desk at the paper. A year later, the body of a young black boy,

Emmett Till, was found in a river. He had been murdered by some white men, and Churchwell was in the office when the news came through. It was awful, awful, really terrible. Something like that happened in the United States of America, you know. One of his white coworkers approached him. His name was Les.

We were talking that morning, and Les said, it's a shame with the sin. Nothing like this happened. I said to myself, he's okay. It might be okay, you know. I could imagine Churchwell kind of perking up a bit, thinking that he found someone who genuinely recognized the humanity of his people, black people.

He was probably even thinking, maybe we can become work friends. But the next day, it was business as usual. And Les yelled across the newsroom to some of the other reporters. He'd asked if he knew the name of a certain black man. But he didn't say black man. He used the N-word. And when he said it, he would come with me, right? He said the wrong thing.

And I didn't know what to say. I just stopped. I don't know, I said, what am I going to do with me? What am I going to do to me? I know this feeling, where you have to decide whether or not to keep quiet or point out the issue. Churchwell, he chose the latter, not to pretend. I rolled over to his desk and told him the less I was surprised, I had really surprised and disappointed. You say something like that.

What is that, Rob? As you sit here and holler, I asked Bob what's a. name in Memphis. Well, he had turned all red. He didn't know what to say. So I rolled back over to my desk. I couldn't write because he had upset me. And then he rolled over to my desk.

He told me he was sorry. He was very sorry. He had embarrassed him. And then he had many colored friends in Nashville. And I could ask any of his colored friends how he felt about Negroes. That seized the deal for me when he said that. Churchwell's story reminded me of the countless times.

I've sat motionless at my desk when I learned of yet another killing of a black person at the hands of the police. Or when countries such as Eritrea or the Democratic Republic of Congo are ravaged by war, and no one at work says anything about it. Of course, I always snap back and carry on with my day, but that feeling of anger and isolation, it stays with me. To be Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a state of rage almost, almost all of the time, and in one's work. And part of the rage is this, it isn't only what is happening to you,

but it's what's happening all around you and all of the time in the face of the most extraordinary and criminal indifference, indifference of most white people in this country, and their ignorance. Being born black is a gift, and I would never wish to change who I am. But when I walk into just about any white space, I carry the knowledge of America's history with me. And throughout the day, I'm reminded of this history in small and large ways. To me, a tall, shiny office building represents something more than just success and wealth. It also underscores the inequalities and greed of many American institutions.

It's not a good feeling. What's it like working in the office with all white people, James? Never really had to vocalize this before. James is an artist and entrepreneur. I would say the biggest thing to look out for is like a feeling of overfamiliarity. And usually that, comes across as like a for like a forceness of relatability when like in fact like there is nothing that we we have in common in that way and it's kind of like when you think of like a

well-meaning white person like TM like all the all the aspects of that where you know they'll be quick to tell you the black media that they've consumed or, or, um, kind of being overtly cautious when discussing, um, like issues around race. Um, but then it's like a, it, it almost feels like a trap. You know what I mean? At least for me, I spin out due to anxiety where it's like, why are, why are they doing this thing? Like, um, is it, is it genuine or is it like from a feeling of unconscious? despise. Or is it a feeling of being uncomfortable?

That's what I often wonder. You know, when you're uncomfortable, you make things awkward and say things that are maybe not the smartest things to say or the most genuine things to say, you know, I don't know. No, totally. And it's like navigating that awkwardness, like at the core isn't part of, you know, as black people is not part of our job description, but yet we are saddled with the responsibility to navigate the awkwardness. And if we make, you know, them feel uncomfortable, then it's a feel, it's aggression, you know, it's like, you know, black folks really aren't allowed to have bad

days. That's James, an artist and entrepreneur. He spoke with Calla Lea, who's one of our producers. That's our program for today. Thanks for joining us. See you next time. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Our theme music was composed and performed by Merrill Garbus of Tune Yards. We had additional help this week from Will Coley and D. Johnson and additional scoring by L.D. Brown of Gray Reverend. Special thanks also to the Civil Rights Oral History Project at the Nashville Public Library. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherina Endowment Fund.