Yes to Dignity: A Journey to Un-Slavery Through the Dirty White Ceiling of Federal Reserve

By Madhulina Bandyopadhyay

Money cannot buy merit, wealth is not a substitute for esteem, and power is not an alternative for respect. That is the underlying message of author Madhulina Bandyopadhyay's Yes to Dignity.

Yes to Dignity is a quest for acceptance of a first-generation American in an institutional culture of covert racism. As

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Sep 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885046961

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Yes to Dignity

Yes to Dignity

A Journey to Un-Slavery Through the Dirty White Ceiling of Federal Reserve

Madhulina Bandyopadhyay

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2022 Madhulina Bandyopadhyay

All rights reserved.

Yes to Dignity

A Journey to Un-Slavery Through the Dirty White Ceiling of Federal Reserve

ISBN

979-8-88504-580-3 Paperback

979-8-88504-925-2 Kindle Ebook

979-8-88504-696-1 Ebook

In Memory of my parents who taught me that no good has come without fight and sacrifice.

Contents

Introduction

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

Acknowledgements

Appendix

Introduction

I was walking through the crowded hallways of Atlanta airport dragging my modest carry-on luggage. It was a late Friday afternoon of May 28, 2018, the end of a long week of the final stretch of my project at the Atlanta Federal Reserve Bank. I was invited to work on a project there as a shared expert resource. Technically, I was employed for the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago, but it was common practice for the Reserve banks to share resources for relevant subject matter expertise and I had worked on many such projects before. Traveling was an integral part of such assignments and so were the inevitable travel uncertainties. This time was no exception. I had already found out my flight was two hours late, but I couldn’t care less. I just wanted to get home and call my mom back in India.

She had not been well the last few weeks, and my brother was concerned. He even told me it would be good if I could make it home sooner rather than later. What he did not say, but what I understood, was that I should get home if I wanted to say goodbye to our mother. She had been in and out of the hospital a few times in the last three months. I was planning to go see her and the family after this project was done—I couldn’t possibly leave the project halfway through.

The airport was full. Air traffic delays accumulated throughout the day, disrupting travel plans and resulting in many stranded and scrambling passengers. On top of overcrowding, construction work was going on around the departure lounge and the sound of machines and people was deafening. I was tired and just wanted to get away. Since I had a couple hours to wait, I looked for a seat, but parts of the waiting area were blocked off for construction and not a single empty chair was available.

How could I make the world between my mother and I just go away? I had started practicing meditation a few months earlier and thought if I could just stop thinking of my surroundings, I would be able to feel at peace.

Suddenly, I felt the vibration of my cell phone. Who would be calling me now? It was very early morning in India. I needed everything to be okay. I would be there in a few days. I took the phone out of my jammed purse. It was a message from my sister-in-law that just said, Ma is no more.

How could that be? There was so much I wanted to say to my mother. Most importantly, I wanted to assure her that I would be okay. The last time we’d spoken, I had told her about the challenges I was having at work. The indignity and discriminatory treatment at the Federal Reserve was discouraging me, and I confided in her that I felt beaten and wanted to quit. With her usual flair she had encouraged me not to give up without a fight and told me to have courage and faith in myself.

It was too late to tell her I was not giving up, but right there in the crowded airport I promised my mother that I would not give up the fight. I would make sure the world knows the dirty secret of authority without accountability. That is the story of this book: the story of a brown woman’s struggle to survive and make an honest living in a white man’s world, the story of my indomitable self-respect and my fight to protect dignity of labor. But most of all this book is my promise to my mother.

I could feel the wail rising in my chest and the dryness spreading through my throat. I needed to hold on just a few more hours before I let myself go. I couldn’t help thinking, where did it all go so wrong? My faith in ethical values was in serious peril. I had believed that working for a reputable and powerful supervisory institution like the Federal Reserve would spare me from discrimination. I expected a merit-based environment and looked forward to meeting the challenges. However, none of my accomplishments shielded me from discrimination to the point of indignity, being forced to work off-the-record, verbal insults, prejudices, and unethical treatment. The effort to silence my voice settled any indecision I had to write my story.

Before my world was rocked with an experience of workplace discrimination, I was quite advanced in my career as a woman, immigrant, and person of color. I came to America as a young graduate student with my own American dream of making it in the land of opportunity. In India I had a master’s degree in mathematics and came to the US as a PhD student with research assistantship at Bowling Green State University. I was up for any challenge. My hope was to be judged by my skills and attitude and not by my looks or gender. As a short and chubby brown woman with no aspiration of ever getting into showbiz, my comfort zone was mathematics, computers, research, and analysis. I saw plenty of room for growth in the rapidly growing technology area, until my rude awakening experience at the Federal Reserve.

This is the story of walking away from a paycheck that required compromises I could not live with. This is a story of personal experiences, experiences of indignity millions of people have endured over and over again, and demeaning experiences created by individuals protected by institutional invincibility. It is the inside story of a powerful employer told not by a silent victim but by an undaunted fighter.

I may not change the system, but I will build awareness and send a warning. Money cannot buy merit, wealth is not a substitute for esteem, and power is not an alternative for respect. This institution can masquerade but not deliver, posture but not earn respect, intimidate but not coerce submission. It can print money, but it cannot buy silence.

For those who have been discriminated against, this book will try to explain their experiences. Those who have experienced discrimination would understand my pain and for those fortunate ones who have never experienced what discrimination feels like, it may help to comprehend and above all understand the experiences of a small number of those who did not surrender their dignity and found a voice, and why they find it difficult.

Discrimination happens no matter who you are and what you bring to the table in the face of racism and bias. This book will provide a guide in making decisions about where to work and will ensure that you are not blindsided if this happens by empowering you with an exit strategy. Nothing worthwhile is easy, and as Swami Vivekananda once said, The greatest religion is to be true to your own nature, have faith in yourself. That belief alone guided me to be able to walk away from indignity toward a world of infinite potential.

I hope this book will help lift up the spirit of anyone who feels like an outsider and is struggling for acceptance. If you feel like you are not valued for who you are and what you contribute, where you are is not your right fit. Remember strength is life, weakness is death; expansion is life, contraction is death; love is life, hate is death. Above all, value yourself, because nobody else will if you don’t.

CHAPTER 1

I never worry about action, but only inaction.

—Winston Churchill.

If that is the best I can do, then I would sign the contract, but do you think it is the best? I asked my lawyer, desperately hoping she would say that we could fight and win my case against the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. I was on the phone with her, trying not to give into the overwhelming helpless feeling sweeping over me. My legs started trembling as I walked to the couch to sit down.

It was early afternoon of December 15, 2020, a cold day in Wisconsin. Daylight was short-lived, and darkness was spreading. The gloomy gray sky outside matched my feelings. The usual festive holiday atmosphere was rather muted that year after the onslaught of a devastating global pandemic. This year had been challenging for everybody, but for me it was more than that. The impending holidays seemed gloomier than other years with the looming legal battle staring in my face.

My discrimination case against the Federal Reserve Bank had been going on for little over a year but felt way too long. I had been conflicted ever since I started working at the Federal Reserve Bank. It started without any major warning signs. Things moved slower than I expected but I was told that was the culture and if I just waited it out, everything would fall into place. I was too eager to comply and too naive to see the red flags. I took the publicity at face value and trusted the promises made at new hire orientation—promises that everyone was treated equally and respectfully, hard work would be the pillar of a successful career, and speaking up against unfair treatment was encouraged.

I woke up to the realities before long. They were far from the sales pitch.

As Daniel Kahneman once said, People don’t choose between things, they choose between descriptions of things. I chose to trust the description of fairness in policy. I was wrong. That had been a painful realization during my short experience at FRB Chicago. I raised questions and complained against unfair treatment. I believed that was the right thing to do, only to realize that practice did not match the FRB sales pitch. It was only an effort to manage public perception.

I did not consider the consequences until my performance evaluation in 2018 informed me that I did not meet expectations. I did not meet the expectations of being a woman who is ingratiating and obsequious and imitating and obsessively passive and silent. Reality was the requirement of silent compliance. Any expectation of fairness by an Indian female laborer was considered noncompliance. I also did not speak loudly enough for anybody to hear, so I must do it now. As Audre Lorde said in Sister Outsider, I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.

But could I do that if I agreed to settle the case?

My lawyer advised me to accept the terms proposed by the defendants and sign the settlement contract. I didn’t want a settlement—I wanted to expose the covert practices of discrimination. I had left the job not to give up, but to fight. I found myself trying to decide if I really wanted a quick and cheap fix for an experience that would haunt me for the rest of my life, or take the risk of not settling and engage in a long, drawn out battle that would test my financial and psychological strengths.

Yes, I advise you to accept the offer. It could have been worse, my lawyer replied.

What happens if I don’t accept the offer?

Well, then we would need to go to court, but it can be dismissed at the summary judgment level and never go to actual trial. That is highly possible, as you don’t have any direct witnesses to the comments by White. In any case your bills are going to add up and I may have to consider withdrawing from the case if the dues go unpaid.

Did you make sure there is no gag order? I could not let them silence me.

They insisted on a settlement condition that you would never say a disparaging word to anyone regarding what happened at the FED and also that you’d never apply for a job there again. They would not settle without that.

I don’t want to touch the establishment with a twenty-foot pole, but I intend to expose it. Is there any way not to agree to silencing mandate? I asked.

No, they insist on total silence, but this case would be on record, and anybody can look into the details.

Okay, I would sign it but the fight is far from over. The agreement would settle the court case but not my fight against discrimination. I put the phone down, exasperated. I had mixed feelings. First, I felt relief. These regular phone calls with the lawyer stirred up the unpleasant experience and painful memories from my stint at the Reserve Bank, and they added to my legal dues, billed by the hour. It felt like I was sinking in an abyss and the darkness was engulfing me.

Before I took the FED to court, I had promised myself that I would see it to the end. The immoral and unethical treatment I was subjected to would be exposed. Irrespective of the outcome, I would win morally if I could expose the treatment I endured. I did not have the money or the strength to fight anymore. It felt like the entire world was conspiring against me. I would have to retreat and find another way to let my story be known. To tell my story…

My purpose for telling the story is not to disparage anyone. I cannot change anyone else, certainly not an institution like the Federal Reserve Bank. I hope my experience informs unsuspecting victims and empowers them to protect themselves against institutional racial biases.

CHAPTER 2

To make a goal of comfort or happiness has never appealed to me; a system of ethics built on this basis would be sufficient only for a herd of cattle.

—Albert Einstein

I accepted an offer to work at the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago at the end of June 2015. The job paid less than what I was making in New York working for the Office of Financial Research, a division of the US Treasury, but my house in Milwaukee needed TLC, especially in harsh winter weather and was a big consideration for my decision of relocating to the Midwest. The cost of maintaining two residences was unsustainable, and I also missed the tranquility of my quiet neighborhood.

Chicago also had a special significance to me. It was the first American city I’d landed in en route to attend Bowling Green State University as a doctoral student in mathematics. My first experience of America was exciting and scary at the same time. I was looking forward to the opportunity, but the first hurdle was getting through customs and immigration. My luggage consisted of an almost-bursting hardcover suitcase full of books and a softcover suitcase with mostly traditional Indian clothes, which would turn out to be pretty useless in the cold Midwest weather. My mother, without any idea of the harsh winters, had set aside my fancy traditional sarees and kurtas to take with me. Those, along with $750 in cash, the maximum amount of dollar currency allowed by the Indian government at that time that could be taken out of the country, consisted of my entire belongings when I first arrived in this country.

As I pushed the trolley with my luggage to the customs and immigration counter at Chicago O’Hare Airport and toward a big man in a stiff blue uniform, my throat dried up. I was not used to conversing in English with a native English speaker. Like most other incoming Indian students, I had attended a number of orientation sessions at USEFI (United States Educational Foundation in India) and rehearsed, I am here as a student for higher education. I have a student assistantship to support myself. I plan to go back after finishing my studies, …blah…blah…blah… a million times.

The customs officer was a stern-looking, big African American with a very official and almost mechanical voice. He must have dealt with hundreds of aspiring foreign students hoping to make it in America. He looked tired and bored. His face was shiny with a thin layer of sweat even in the cool ambient temperature in the airport. A long day of work and boredom was evident in his demeanor. That made my nervousness even worse. I was very aware of the consequences if I could not convince him of my innocent dreams. I did not even have the plane fare to go back home if he denied entry. To this day, I have no idea what the conversation was about other than the fact that two adults were talking in what both believed to be the English language but communicating absolutely nothing.

After a few minutes of trying in vain, my student admission documents and student visa paperwork saved us both from continued frustration. I was finally allowed into the country. Even today whenever I travel through Chicago airport, the memory brings a smile to my face. I was thrilled that I passed the first test, and Chicago still extends me a sense of acceptance. I don’t get stressed at the prospect of talking to airport employees anymore but have instead come to appreciate the thankless job these people do on a daily basis trying to keep the country safe and screening the strangers with big dreams. I was convinced Chicago would bring me good luck and success. I was excited at the opportunity to go there for work.

One additional consideration for relocating was that I wanted to complete my PhD. I was halfway through the program at the University of Wisconsin at Milwaukee. The Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago offered tuition support for career development courses at an accredited university with supervisor approval. I thought this would be terrific. I had just passed my preliminary qualifying examination and achieved dissertator status. I had completed all the required classes and could concentrate on research with no fixed requirement to be on campus at certain times, which would afford me flexibility to finish the PhD program. I was fairly confident that I would get help and be able to complete my degree. But I just had to wait a year to be eligible for tuition assistance per policy.

I had hoped FRBC would be my long-term career and wanted to equip myself with everything I could in order to justify my aspirations. Furthering my education and acquiring coveted certifications in the financial industry were part of my long-term career goals. I registered for minimal required hours as a dissertator at the university and planned to complete my CFA (Chartered Financial Analyst) charter examination. I had mostly paid tuition and fees out of my own pocket, but any assistance would surely be helpful. I just needed