hi, i’m myles.

i like writing in lower case — just seems more friendly.

i was born in Boston, lived in Manhattan, and am a proud (dual) Canadian citizen. i speak Mandarin, attended the same school as JFK, and went to the #1 college for Entrepreneurship. i worked for Tesla Motors and Paul Pierce, started a music technology company, now own my old modeling agency—

and I am a 24 year old Black man living in America.

throughout my life, i have often been the minority: in the classroom, friend group, business meeting, etc. i’ve bounced from growing up in the inner city to living in the suburbs — transferring from a predominantly black public school to majorly white private school(s). i flew on my first private jet in the 8th grade, but also once had a closet as a bedroom. with every change in environment came a new world of anxieties, a world i never spoke about. always smiling — my camouflage — not wanting to burden others with my discomfort. telling myself it will all make sense one day.

am i the token friend? would Coca-Cola cast me for any other campaign outside of Black History Month? how much vineyard vines do i need to be socially accepted? i should date her because she’s black, right? dad?

4 out of the 10 kids i grew up with, childhood best-friends, have been killed. 10% of my high school graduating class, went to Harvard, with much of the rest to every other Ivy. i have always been on the mission to define “who is myles?”, but often got lost and confused along the way. “so articulate”, not “so intelligent”. a diversity addition, and not a value-add. always reduced.

at home, I became “too white” — at school, I was an “oreo” — so who was I?

my father was a firefighter and my mom a consumer banker for Fleet (now Bank of America) — both coming to the States from Canada, eh. mom became a stay-at-home while pregnant with me to focus on our development. she was the annoying classroom parent — forcing us to say “pardon?”, signing us up for summer writing camps, weekly swimming lessons, gymnastics, everything. life was good.

in 4th grade, my public school started to cut programming due to the lack of funding and our high school’s accreditation to graduate students was in jeopardy. continuing in the system became out of the question, and my mother began researching private schools.

we sometimes would return to school after touring a campus in the middle of recess — i remember my public school friends making fun of my sweater vest and dress shoes, for their limited kickball functionality. and just looking weird.

we landed on an all-boys school located about 1 hour away from home — hence the phones on our hips.

5am wake-ups, tying my tie half a sleep, study hall (before and after) 2 hours of sports, hopping back on the school bus at 5pm, dinner, homework, repeat.

within my first week of transferring from public school to private — in the 5th grade, a peer told me that my mother [poo’d] on me and rubbed it all over when i was born. that’s why i look black — and that i, in fact, am not actually black. so yeah, the culture shock was very real at first, but i eventually told my teacher a few days later, and yes, he was suspended. however, what i did not know — is this prejudicial scar would mark the beginning of a new normal for me.

i became a chameleon. my mood, my tone, my verbiage, my smile even — would vary depending on my surrounding environment, it was like a switch.

Uncomfortable, even unintentional at times, it eventually became a subconscious defense mechanism — i was really good at it.

years later, working for Tesla, i was asked to head to the back office for a one-on-one meeting with management. i obliged, although slightly confused, as i was only 1 month into the job. the V.P., unknowingly, confused me for another employee and FIRED me! i sat there mortified, still confused, and on the verge of tears. i was 1 of 2 black people on my team and he actually meant to fire the other black person. when asked shortly after to verify my mailing address to HR for the termination paperwork, i realized he was referring to an entirely different person.

”wait, i’m the other m(y)les..”

he briefly apologized, i was able to keep my job (thanks!) and asked not to share what had happened.

what did i just experience? should i say something? — nope. smile.

I went on to stay with the company for a year and a half and he was fired a few months later for an unrelated cause. [i also forgot to mention it was my birthday. he mistakenly fired me on my birthday and then didn’t even say happy birthday — thanks Doug.]

yes, i have had terribly traumatic experiences over the years, a lot of which i have compartmentalized. i don’t necessarily reflect on these memories negatively. i was blessed to even attend private school. i learned how to play hockey. i learned that squash is both a gourd and an arguably intense sport. i learned how to speak Chinese and had a $130,000 company car for a time. i made friendships in zip codes that i never would have traveled to, or known existed for that matter — some that i still hold to this day. but ultimately, my silence stemmed from continued discomfort.

i never knew what to say, really. my black friends might shame me for not being “black enough”, and i might make my white friends so uncomfortable that i strain our friendship beyond repair. regardless, i’ve since learned that communication can solve a lot of problems — and i now want to be a part of the important conversation, publicly.

through it all — one emotion proved the most consistent: sadness. i was genuinely sad when walking into a friend’s home for the first time, uncertain of what reaction i might receive. i was genuinely sad when sitting in a board room, full of white executives, and not being looked in the eye for the entire meeting — even as a co-founder. i am still genuinely sad that my sister has had to explain to all of her friends why her hair is different, from the age of 5. but — i hope, with constructive dialogue (and vast reform), comes a better world for everyone.

“For years now I have heard the word wait, it rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This wait has almost always meant never. Justice too long delayed, is justice denied.”

-MLK

TLDR: Black lives fucking matter.

Simple. We matter. We have mattered. We have suffered. We have tried. We ALL have failed. — to my white peers, you need to do better. speak up, read, act — donate if you can. there are people that are hurting — there are a lot of Black people that are hurting, and Black people really need a hug right now.

don’t shy away from talking to your friends and family about the uncomfortable topics— my father went through insane racism as a Boston fireman in the ’80s that i just learned about. i’ve connected with some of my white peers, black peers, and aunts even, about important racial topics around privilege and injustice. because the truth is — i won’t know how my friend’s parents feel about me until i ask. i won’t receive respect in the board room until i feel confident enough and valued in my own skin to speak up, to demand equity — regardless of my audience.

we all need to be more intentionally vocal in the present social landscape — going viral isnt cool anymore. there is a lot of hate and bigotry out there, i strongly encourage you to share your story and hear others — promise you’ll learn something new.

it is also everyone’s responsibility to learn. learn about the differences between the Roxbury and Weston communities. learn about historical redlining and microaggressions. learn about Jim Crow, the origin of the American economy and why the Confederacy was so adamant about the continued marginalization of Black people in America. George Stinney, Emmett Till, Trayvon Martin, George Floyd. i fear saying one when I can’t say them all. there is no pedestal here — i am consciously making the time to learn even more myself. one should always be curious —

in a recent conversation with a close friend, discussing our varied experience attending a PWI, she offered this:

“Whatever the reason might be, we have to stop making such an effort to conform to the opinions of others. By doing this, we are only ventriloquist dummies of our peers, and the idea of identity slowly escapes us.”

i’ve decided to change the public perception of myles — i’m Black, on the inside and out — i don’t have to prove it to you. i’m intelligent. i treat others how i would want to be treated. i speak up when something is wrong, now. i’m not really that funny but i’m super nice, i swear. i’m weirdly passionate about marketing and consumer brands. i love my Trinidadian heritage — ackee and saltfish, plantain and bake, and oxtail — don’t even get me started. but i also love country music. we’ve gotta start having these personal conversations, good and bad, to address the generational ignorance and racial disparity that has blinded our society for centuries. relationships will be jeopardized, and feelings hurt — however, these are conversations your “friends” should want to have. we can no longer wait.

i originally thought my voice didn’t matter — but your story is different than mine. if i remained silent, i would be allowing my peers to continue to define me by their standards and not my own. i would be diluting my innate Black pride and joy. no longer.

so, that’s me — 24 year old Black man trying to make it in America.

on a lighter note — vote, and more importantly, VOTE LOCALLY. research your local reps and senators. send them an e-mail about the change you want.

and like Troi said — don’t be a ventriloquist dummy.

— myles.

this was written with 1942 Flows by Meek Mill on repeat.