TRUE DIVERSITY (eBook)

Going Beyond The Pie Graph

Jesus Leal, Nathan Williams (Autoren)

eBook Download: EPUB

2021 | 1. Auflage
242 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-0983-6039-9 (ISBN)

Infos

Pie Graphs are commonly used by corporations to illustrate their diversity. Improvements in pie graph analytics have been accepted as progress by corporate standards. True Diversity challenges this conventional wisdom, exposes the inherent weaknesses of pie graphs and challenges companies to Go Beyond The Pie Graph. To group all African Americans, Hispanics, Asians etc. into one slice of a pie graph is an insult and an undermining of the commercial power of a truly diverse organization. Consider the following individuals:- An African American physician, born and raised in Uganda- An African American chef, born and raised in Philly- A Hispanic poet, born and raised in the Bronx by Puerto Rican parents- A Cuban refugee who left his parents behind in communist Cuba- A Chinese executive of a government run bus company- A Vietnamese immigrant who came to America after the Vietnam War for asylumIt is possible that these individuals that would occupy the same slice of a pie graph may actually be more dissimilar than they are similar? Is it even remotely possible that the only reason that we group them in the same slice of the pie graph is to make ourselves feel better? How can we harness the power of their True Diversity that is not captured on a pie graph?

Textauszug

Introduction:
The Diversity of My Background

“Whether you know it or not, your desire to write comes from the urge to not just be creative, it’s a need (one every human being on earth has) to help others.” —Shawn Coyne

I was ready for the world, so I arrived early. I have been a fighter since day one, when I was born as a “preemie” in 1961 in communist Cuba—and I am still here to tell the story. My family name, Leal (which means “loyal”), is derived from a royal family of Seville, Spain. My family arrived in Cuba in a roundabout way, starting in Spain then emigrating to the Canary Islands and then to Cuba. Our journey didn’t stop there—shortly after the revolution, my dad, Nilo, my mother, Rosa, my older brother, Luis, and I left everything behind in Cuba to seek asylum back in Spain. We landed in Spain literally with nothing—no clothes, no money. Nothing. The only thing my mother smuggled out of Cuba was a little gold icon of Jesus, which I still wear around my neck.

I was barely four pounds when I was born, and no one thought I was going to make it. We were in communist Cuba and there was no access to medicine, little access to infant formula, and not much food in general. The odds of my survival were very poor, and so they called me “Jesus Leal” (“Loyal to Jesus”) and baptized me immediately because they believed my life could be short. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, mom and dad,” I would often joke. But almost six decades later, here I am, doing quite well. Along the way, I have learned a lot about this world. From my birth until now, I can look back and see how every moment along my journey has shaped both my worldview and who I am today. My never-give-up spirit started on day one, and my understanding of how to interact with people from a wide range of backgrounds is derived directly from the experiences I have had, starting all the way back in childhood.

As I said, when my family fled Cuba, we arrived in Spain in the middle of the summer. My dad wanted to memorialize our freedom, so he paid a photographer to take the picture below. Please note the oversized and extremely heavy coats that we’d been given by the church’s clothing donation to wear in August 1965.

(Image 1)

We had to wait in Spain for four months while the United States government vetted my parents’ eligibility for asylum. During those times, there was a heightened concern that Cubans were trying to infiltrate the US with communist ideas or, worse yet, act as spies for the communist government.

We struggled in Spain for four months. We left Cuba with only three pieces of clothing each and no money. Spaniards would not hire Cubans because they knew that we would pick up and leave the jobs as soon as we would get approved to come to America. Having no money, our only source of food was a homeless shelter but we were only allowed to eat after the homeless Spaniards were fed. Some days there was no food left after the homeless were fed so we would go hungry on those days. My father’s brother, Rodolfo Leal who fled Cuba to the US just two years earlier, was able to wire just enough money to pay for one bedroom in a Madrid hostel.

In order to start the process of immigrating legally to the US, my uncle was required to submit a sworn affidavit attesting to the fact that he had paid for an apartment in the US and could provide work for both of my parents. After the sworn affidavit (attesting to the fact that there were jobs at embroidery factories for both of my parents) was received by the US Embassy in Spain, the vetting/background check was allowed to move towards completion and the process of coming to America began to materialize.

New Jersey, USA & Memorial Park

Back in Cuba, my parents were professional educators, teaching at the equivalent level of high school AP classes and early college curricula. When we arrived in America, however, both of my parents had to get jobs as factory workers because they didn’t know the language. We settled in a town called West New York, New Jersey. It was 1965, and West New York had been predominantly settled by Italian, Polish, and Irish immigrants. There were very few African-Americans or Hispanics when we landed in the Hudson County area of New Jersey, but the numbers of Hispanics were growing rapidly. The area consisted of West New York, North Bergen, Guttenburg, Weehawken, and Union City. Union City was the textile capital of the US so there was plenty of unskilled labor work, and my parents both found jobs in the embroidery business.

My parents spent the majority of their time working, so my Dad tried to find ways to ensure we didn’t get into any trouble. His thought was that if he kept our minds busy, we would not have any time to get into trouble. My adoptive parent became a place called Memorial Park. I talk a lot about Memorial Park because it is there that I learned many of the fundamental life lessons that have guided me in life—it was also the birthplace of many of the theories that I have developed and which form the basis for this book.

West New York was an interesting town to grow up in for a young boy from Cuba. You walked everywhere. You walked to school. You walked to the grocery store. You walked to church. And you walked to the park. Walking everywhere was so common that my mother never learned how to drive. That was a uniqueness of the town and the community that is almost impossible to find elsewhere. My brother and I got involved in everything from ice skating, basketball, football, marbles, you name it; all at Memorial Park. For me, I played everything except baseball. I think I am the only Cuban who doesn’t like baseball. But there’s a reason.

My older brother, Luis, was one of those kids who started shaving in the third grade. He was always big for his age, refused to wear his glasses, and always seemed older than he was. He loved to drag me along with him to play stickball, and being the younger brother, I didn’t have a choice. He also loved to pitch inside the batter’s box and would often hit me with the ball, which I did not love. He hit me so many times, in fact, that I knew I had to choose a different sport. That’s when I decided to play football. Why? So, I could actually hit back. One of those invaluable life lessons learned in Memorial Park: play the game that does not make you a victim and gives you the opportunity to win.

Another life lesson that I carry through my professional life—and one of the reasons I am writing this book—is this: tell your own story, or someone else will tell it for you.

We met a bunch of kids, ages seven through nine, when we first started going to Memorial Park. As part of the initiation ritual, the older kids would pick out a nickname for you, and that would be your nickname for all time, like it or not. It wasn’t just childhood hazing, though; there was some practicality to it. There were about twenty Jose’s in that park, so you needed a way to figure out about which Jose you were talking.

My friend Manny was given the nickname Culo de Vaca, which translates to a “cow’s ass”—presumably because he had a big rear end for a small kid. My friend Jorge was given the nickname Cara de Jeva, which means “chick’s face.” I saw how this was going, so when they got to me and asked me what my nickname was, I replied, “Chuwy.” And they stopped, looked at me, and said, “Okay, that’s cool.” Chuwy became my nickname, and I wasn’t embarrassed to carry it through my life because I had picked it myself. Know who you are and tell your own story.

Learning diversity lessons in school

In contrast to the jocular environment of Memorial Park, my parents enrolled my brother and me in Catholic school, which was remarkable because they barely had enough money to pay the rent. Notwithstanding their limited resources, they put us in Catholic school because in 1965 there was an influx of refugees into West New York, so the public-school system became really crowded. In order to deal with the overcrowding, the school system began what was known as split school days. Half of the students went to school in the morning, and the other half went to school in the afternoon. As you can imagine, my dad did not like that idea—too much free time. To him, a half-day to ourselves meant more opportunities for trouble, so my parents sacrificed and worked even harder for our education. And to keep us out of trouble.

The Catholic school was tiny. It had only one classroom per grade level (in contrast to the public school, which had multiple classrooms per grade). Out of the twenty or so kids in my class, I was one of three boys who were minorities. There were a few more minority girls in my class than males, but the white students were the clear majority. I remember there was only one black female student; she was also of Cuban descent. Even though the demographics of my grammar school were different than those of Memorial Park, the minorities all stuck together by the nature of the size of the school. We still even meet for reunions forty-plus years later.

I had to develop an ability to get along with my friends at school as well as my friends at Memorial Park, most of whom attended the crowded public schools. For many minorities, it is a skill that has to be learned at a very early age: the ability to survive in a broad range of environments and situations.

It was a skill set that I further cultivated in high school. I went to Catholic school until the eighth grade, at which point I basically said to my...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 11.6.2021
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Wirtschaft ► Betriebswirtschaft / Management ► Personalwesen
• ISBN-10: 1-0983-6039-7 / 1098360397
• ISBN-13: 978-1-0983-6039-9 / 9781098360399