Black in the house of work.

Today was my first day at a new job. Not suprisingly, I was the only one who looked like me. Yeah, Black. That has always been the case for me, for most (i.e. about 95%) of my career.

The next thought on my mind was whether I was the only one who looked like me on the floor. I came across two black women, easily in their thirties whose dress and demeanor reaked of professional maturity.

This eventuality is something I've accepted a part of my life in Boston: being the only black male in an entire department, floor, or building. It's nothing I fume about because I know how hard I've had to work to get to where I am today. My mother always promised me I would have to work at least three times as hard as my white rivals. I know, it has been a combination of faith, education, discipline, grace, experence, and tenacity.

My concern is for today's young black youth. Specifically, if there are some who don't care to put forth the effort to, at the very least, become proficient in math, reading, writing, and comprehension, what will become of them once life gets tougher. When high school begins and there is less hand-holding. When college begins and they discover that 25-page papers with proper grammer are the rule, not the exception. When they go on that interview and are questioned not by a relative who knows how great they are inside, not by that sympatethic teacher that watched them try and sometimes fail, but a panel of white men and women who may only evaluate what they read, see, and hear then and there. What then?