DEI - Didn't Earn It

I’ve titled this “Didn’t Earn It” because lately it’s a phrase I'm seeing/hearing thrown around by people who seem to have peaked in high school—those born on third base but convinced they hit a triple, the mantra of those already RSVPing for the Spring 2025 DEI Deflection Summit happening at a conference center near you. It’s often wielded by those oblivious to their own unearned advantages, dismissing those who’ve had to overcome systemic barriers—as if hard work alone guarantees a level playing field. Spoiler: It doesn’t.

I’ve been thinking a lot about DEI lately, because in today’s political climate, I’m once again seeing people feel empowered to exclude, to gatekeep, to discriminate, and to dehumanize.

This reflection has taken me down memory lane, thinking about my career—one that has been anything but conventional.

I got my first job at 14 by lying about my age. By 15, I was steadily working part-time because if I wanted things—CDs, clothes, even haircuts—I had to figure it out myself. Meanwhile, I was surrounded by people who seemed to have it all handed to them: new cars at 16, country club memberships, parental bailouts into their 20s and 30s, and so on.

I earned my college degree at 26, a journey delayed because I became a father at 20 and had to work full-time to support myself and my family. I vividly remember one of my first interviews as a recent grad.

The interviewer asked me if I could juggle—literally. I was handed three baseballs and told to perform. After that they sized me up by asking, “What kind of car do you drive?”

In that moment, it felt like I wasn’t being taken seriously. “I drive a Trans Am,” I said. When asked why I answered defiantly: “Because it’s f’ckin badass.”

Somehow, I got the job. But I often wonder—what would have happened if I’d driven my very first car to that interview? That beat-up, primer grey 1988 Toyota Corolla that I struggled to keep running.

What if I hadn’t been able to afford a haircut? Or if my teeth hadn’t been perfect because dental care was a luxury I couldn’t afford?

A week into my first real recruiting job our team was told we’d soon be taking a company photo. Men would be required to wear suits and jewel-colored ties. I didn’t own a suit, let alone a jewel-colored tie. Panic set in, but my mom saved me. She took me shopping so I could fit into a workplace that often felt like it wasn’t made for me.

I’d drive my Arctic White 1998 Trans Am with its loud aftermarket exhaust into a garage filled with BMWs and Audis. The roar of its V8 motor would set off car alarms on those luxury vehicles. My car didn’t have any type of theft prevention, but it was fast, and it was mine, and I’d earned it fair and square.

Still, I felt like an outsider. An imposter.

But here’s the thing about imposter syndrome: it isn’t always internal. It’s often systemic. It’s not just a feeling; it’s a reflection of inequities—a constant reminder that the playing field isn’t level.

I’ve earned nearly every single thing I have. Many people haven’t had to.

And that’s the real kicker about “DEI.” It isn’t always about race, or gender, or sexual orientation. Often, it’s just as much about socioeconomic circumstances. If you went to the dentist every six months as a kid, if you were able to participate in band or sports, or other extracurricular activities, if you attended summer camp, or went skiing every winter, if you never had to worry about money for gas, car insurance, or a haircut—then you probably started from a point far ahead of many people around you.

My last name is Jones. My mother’s side of the family is from Mexico. Growing up, I never felt like I belonged. I felt like the white side of my family thought I was some weird brown kid, but also felt that the Mexican side thought I was a goofy white boy.

I’ve been called “Coconut” more times than I can count. I’ve often felt “white-passing,” but every now and then, I’m reminded that I’m not.

Like recently, when I was in a car with industry friends, and we took a wrong turn into a sketchy area. Jokes were made about the potential safety risks of stopping at some of the establishments we passed, and someone remarked, “Josh, you’re brown enough—you’d probably be okay.”

I laughed. I wasn’t offended. In fact, I felt seen. But there it was again—that reminder:?You’re not like us, are you?

So, if you’ve ever felt like you didn’t belong—like you had to fight twice as hard to be taken half as seriously—I see you.

And I’ll keep fighting to make sure someone like you?does?belong.

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