DEI Died This Year. Maybe It Was Supposed To

My position feels more precarious than ever. It's a question that I sometimes toss out in the company of friends who--like me, and maybe like you--have a complicated relationship to their job. I've worked at WIRED as a writer for eight years, and with much success. Eight years is also an eternity in news media, and especially if you are Black. All industries suffer from unique growing pains. Ours just so happens to have laughably high turnover rates, a distaste for racial and gender diversity, and the dubious distinction of being perpetually on the verge of extinction. So on nights when friends and I gather, trading war stories of workplace microaggressions and corporate mismanagement under damp bar lighting, we wonder how we've lasted as long as we have. The only reason I've survived, I joke, is because I'm Black. It's a silly thing to say, particularly because I have no actual proof of it other than the occasional feeling. What I do know is that I've been The Only One in more spaces than I care to remember, and rarely by choice.