The time I met an American Billionaire
This here story starts with me, your esteemed author protagonist and debonaire having just graduated from University, and starting my first post-education job. I was positively geeked to have got the job, and was raring to go.
Roughly 6 months in, I remember the CEO of our parent company had a rush order on a report that he needed to get to a pretty big client, like asap. Only problem was that it was a Sunday, and no one seemed to be available, except of course for our dear old protagonist, moi. I remember that first year I didn’t leave my house without my laptop, even outside work hours and on weekends, in case i got a call that something needed to be done.
That diligence paid of (I guess?) because I was the lucky guy who in the middle of a social outing had to excuse myself, and go find a corner somewhere to work on this report that took me close to three hours to complete. I got the report done in time, sent it over, and to make a long story long, both the big-wig boss and the equally big wig client where very happy with the end result. So now little old me is on our CEO’s radar, and let me tell you I was GASSED.
Whew chile, nobody could tell me anything. The CFO called me in the following Monday, and told me that Mr. CEO Man thanked me personally, and was very grateful for the work. So here I was in my early twenties, first real adult job, and only 6 months in I’m BASICALLY on first name basis with CEO’s??? Talk. To. Me. NICE.
I promise you all this is relevant (kind of) to the story. So anyway, El Hefe knows who I am, and I’m pleased as punch. Fast forward a few more months, the CFO calls me over and asks, “Hey Sal, quick question: are you free this evening?”. Now me knowing full well I had a date lined up that same night, I look him dead in the eye and reply, “ No actually, my calendar is wide open.”
He told me to get ready we’re going to London to meet a important client, and madxawayna wants me there. So now I’m gassed/confused/hyperventilating/confused x2/scared/excited and like 57587 more emotions, so i mentally steel myself and try to maintain some kind of composure for the ancestors sake, and I ask him, why me? He tells me that the client was the one who needed the rush order for the report I did a few months back. As it all clicks into place like a well oiled plan, the CFO guy, lets call him money mike, tells me to get ready, we leave straight after work.
The company car pulls up, this plush Audi A8, the long wheel base version, me and money mike get in, and as a sink into my little cocoon of leather and upholstery I think it myself, fam I have really made it. This is it. I take some cheeky snaps to send to the mandem, without baiting myself out to money mike, take a sip of the carbonated water by accident and try not to barf, and finally settle in to my seat and just take it all in.
Half way through the ride, money mike starts to give the low down on the client, the meeting, what to expect, yada yada yada. At this point, the exhilaration of the whole shabang starts to die down, and I’m truly deeping what’s happening. Fam. I’m about to sit in a meeting with big big CEO, money mike, and the client, who I’ve just found out is some American billionaire. When I tell you the air started to get realllll thin? I was struggling to breathe. Imposter syndrome had me by the NECK. On a slightly more serious note though, I was actually bricking it. Here I was, 20-something black kid with his topman suit sitting in on something far beyond anything I had every experienced, or ever imagined I would actually experience. I felt like, why am I here? Should I be here? What if I say something dumb? Should I just stay quiet the whole time? But what if I miss a great opportunity? And what if CEO man or the client ask me a question? My mind was going a mile a minute and the panic was beginning to set in.
We pull up around 8-ish to this discrete plush hotel somewhere in central London, and head inside. I won’t bore you on specifics of how the hotel looked, because a) my writing is nowhere near good enough to do it justice, and b) fam just check booking.com. It’s not that deep.
We wait in some lounge for like 15 mins until some butler looking guy comes in and tells us the client will be joining us in the cigar room. We head inside, whole time I’m trying my best not to cough my lung out, and we take a seat in the reserved area.
The client finally ends up joining us, and our CEO follows short afterwards. We start talking, miscellaneous stuff initially. How was his flight in, hows the hotel, how long is he here for, etc. It was all so...ordinary. It feels weird to say, and maybe even weirder to read, but I didn’t expect everything to be so, normal. I was meeting characters who, in my head at least, seemed so much bigger than life, and I guess I expected the experience to somehow resemble that? But it really didn’t. We talked some more, for another two hours by my reckoning, covered the business stuff, and eventually went our merry way.
If you could get to the point just a liiiitle quicker..?
Bare with me now, because in that rambling, incoherent and somewhat humorous retelling of an experience I had, there is like, a tiny nugget of a point.
We exist in societies that venerate wealth and power, and anything or anyone that is associated with it. We put institutions and individuals on pedestals, and see them ( at least I do) as almost otherworldly. In their lifestyles, in their standing and even in their ability. If they managed to amass so much wealth, that must mean that that wealth is a reflection of their talent, ability and worth in direct contrast to mine/ours. Right?
But it isn’t. It really isn’t. They’re actually pretty ordinary and normal. Yeah he was an impressive guy, but not in like, a otherworldly capacity. To me, it was such an eye opening experience. It was that day that I truly saw Imposter Syndrome for what it was. These people aren’t inherently better than me. They’ve had the benefit of decades of more experience, and opportunities, of course. But thats it. That doesn’t somehow translate into something else or something more.
As minorities existing in societies that are not necessarily optimised for us, to contribute, participate and thrive, when we do enter into spaces, rarified spaces, we can (understandably) end up feeling quite a way. Like we’re somehow not meant to be there, that we don’t belong. That despite all the evidence to the contrary, we’re not qualified to be here. I promise you, you are. We are. So shake of the cobwebs of whatever internalised colonial hangover we are all dealing with, and seem these institutions and individuals for what they are.
Beneficiaries of certain privileges and benefits? yes, ofcourse. But that’s it. There’s nothing inherently special about them. You can do what they do just as good, if not better. Scratch that, definitely better. Give that Imposter Syndrome the middle finger, and go be excellent.
