Frankly Speaking with Adrienne P. Whitaker

Frankly Speaking with Adrienne P. Whitaker “Shaping Culture, Elevating Impact, Championing Inclusion.”

07/29/2026

This month I was not as excited about America turning 250 as I thought I would be.

What excites me more is what America can become.

Our history is worth celebrating. It’s filled with extraordinary courage, sacrifice, innovation, and progress. But it’s also a reminder that America has never fully lived up to its ideals, and every generation has been called to move this nation a little closer to its promise.

Workplace Civility Doesn’t Disappear OvernightOver the years, I’ve worked with some exceptional leaders. I’ve also worke...
07/02/2026

Workplace Civility Doesn’t Disappear Overnight

Over the years, I’ve worked with some exceptional leaders. I’ve also worked around a few who confused intimidation with leadership.

When people talk about workplace civility, they often imagine the big moments—the explosive meeting, the executive who loses control, or the person everyone quietly warns you about.

What I’ve learned is that hostile workplaces don’t begin there.

They begin with the small moments that everyone chooses to ignore.

Three experiences from my career still stand out.

The first happened when I was in my twenties.

I had already managed a team and had moved into a role supporting the rollout of one of the company’s most profitable product lines. It was demanding work. Long hours were normal.

One evening, while working late, I overheard two senior executives in a heated conversation. They were discussing another executive, and the language was harsh, personal, and profane. As the conversation ended, one of them said, “She can sit on it and spin.”

I froze.

I quietly gathered my things and tried to slip out unnoticed.

I wasn’t successful.

The next morning, the head of the division came to my office and apologized.

Not for what he said.

Not for how he said it.

He apologized because I heard it.

That distinction stayed with me.

Even as a young professional, I realized there was a public culture and a private culture. The apology wasn’t about respect. It was about exposure.

Twenty years later, I found myself on another executive leadership team.

One of my colleagues had a habit of raising his voice in anger. No one was immune—not even the CEO. It wasn’t considered unusual. It was simply “how he communicated.”

I made two decisions.

First, if he ever raised his voice to someone on my team, he would discover that I was perfectly capable of having difficult conversations.

Second, if he ever raised his voice at me, I would resign.

No drama.

No debate.

No second chances.

In fact, I kept a letter of resignation in my padfolio and updated it regularly.

Eventually, he yelled at a member of my team.

I calmly walked into his office, closed the door, and addressed it directly.

Then, as I expected might happen one day, he yelled at me.

That month, I submitted my resignation.

People sometimes ask why.

Because every leader teaches people how they deserve to be treated.

That includes ourselves.

The third experience was different.

Another senior executive.

Another organization.

Another reputation for explosive outbursts.

This time, people explained it away by telling me he had a personality disorder.

Maybe he did.

I actually liked him.

A lot.

But here’s what I’ve never believed:

Understanding someone’s behavior is not the same as excusing it.

Compassion should never require everyone else to absorb the damage.

So I had a conversation with him before there was ever a problem.

I told him my boundary.

Interestingly, he respected it.

He yelled around me.

He yelled around my team.

He never yelled at us.

What do these three stories have in common?

None of them started with screaming.

They started with smaller behaviors that became accepted.

Someone rolled their eyes.

Someone interrupted.

Someone humiliated another employee in a meeting.

Someone made disrespect part of the culture.

Someone excused it because the person was brilliant.

Someone ignored it because they produced results.

Someone decided confronting it would be uncomfortable.

And one day, the organization wakes up and wonders why people are anxious, disengaged, afraid to speak up, and quietly updating their résumés.

Hostile workplaces don’t suddenly appear.

They’re built one ignored act of incivility at a time.

Workplace civility isn’t about being nice.

It’s about creating an environment where people can disagree, debate, challenge one another, and still treat each other with dignity.

High expectations are not hostile.

Accountability is not hostile.

Disagreement is not hostile.

Humiliation is.

Intimidation is.

Belittling people is.

Leadership by fear is.

If you’re a leader, here are three questions worth asking yourself:

• What behaviors have become “normal” on my team simply because they’ve gone unchallenged?

• Do people feel safe disagreeing with me without fearing embarrassment or retaliation?

• Am I rewarding results while overlooking the behaviors used to achieve them?

Culture isn’t defined by the values framed on the wall.

It’s defined by the behavior leaders are willing to tolerate.

Ignore disrespect long enough, and eventually disrespect becomes your culture.

06/29/2026

Frankly speaking, Megyn Kelly, what are your talking about?

06/29/2026

Megyn Kelly, what exactly are you talking about?

I Am Black History.  Today, I return to my alma mater, the College of William & Mary, to celebrate the 50th anniversary ...
02/09/2026

I Am Black History. Today, I return to my alma mater, the College of William & Mary, to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Mu Upsilon Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated—chartered February 7, 1976, as the first Black sorority on campus.

Ten years later, on March 22, 1986, the chapter became the first Black sorority to have a house on campus. I remember that day.

When I graduated from William & Mary, only six Black undergraduate students graduated with me—out of approximately 1,400 students. My four years on campus were marked by resistance and prejudice—yes, even in the late 1980s. But they were also filled with joy, friendship, deep connections, and the finding of my voice.

Much has changed—on the campus, within the chapter, and within me.

Today, I am proud of the university’s commitment to inclusion. It has been a long journey since Hulon LaVaughan Willis, Sr. became the first African American student admitted to William & Mary in 1951, earning his Master of Education in 1956. Later, Lynn Briley, Karen Ely, and Janet Brown Strafer—the “Legacy Three”—became the first Black undergraduate and residential students in 1967.

As I prepare to drive to Williamsburg, I reflect on the fact that I was not the first in my family admitted to William & Mary. Two decades before me, my father was accepted—but did not attend. His parents, my grandmother especially, feared sending him to a university in the Jim Crow South that might never truly accept him. Instead, he attended Fisk University, where he was nurtured. He later earned a MBA from Golden Gate University and a third degree from George Washington University. Throughout his academic journey he earned all As and one B.

Though he never attended William & Mary, he carried Tribe pride through me—right to the end, even making spirited comments about William & Mary versus Harvard in his final days.

And I wasn’t the last in my family either. My cousin Bert Ashe earned his PhD from William & Mary.

So here I go—back to where my sorority life began — a lifetime commitment to service.
And as I return, I whisper, “Go Tribe.”

Because I earned it. ❤️🔺💚💛

I Am Black History: How It Started (👉🏾 recorded narration in the comments).  Activism is in my blood. I was raised in a ...
02/07/2026

I Am Black History: How It Started (👉🏾 recorded narration in the comments).

Activism is in my blood. I was raised in a home where politics, justice, and social issues were part of everyday conversation. Our living room held three tall bookshelves—our family library—filled with the works of Amiri Baraka, Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, Angela Davis, Toni Morrison, and other Black writers and thinkers. These were not books I discovered later in life; they were required reading while I was still in elementary school.

My mother was an avid reader who made sure I didn’t just read these works—we discussed them. She taught me who the authors were, why their voices mattered, and how their words fit into a larger struggle for dignity and liberation. My father, whose first of three degrees was in history, carried a deep passion for American History. Summers at home often came with assignments, discussions, and impromptu lectures. History was not something I memorized; it was something we interrogated.

I also learned early that social consciousness requires action. I still remember the day my mother was arrested for protesting a Denny’s that was discriminating against Black and Hispanic customers. That moment made something clear to me: awareness alone is not enough. If you see injustice, you speak up. And if necessary, you put your body, your voice, and your reputation on the line.

So yes, I was nurtured to be socially conscious. But more importantly, I was raised to act.

What I came to understand later is that my commitment to justice did not begin with my parents—or even with me.

My story of activism stretches back more than a century, to my great-grandparents and extended family—the Saunders, Johnsons, Rahmings, and Rolles—who immigrated to the United States from the Bahamas. Over the course of this month, I will share their stories and the reasons they came. Each journey holds lessons about courage, survival, and the pursuit of opportunity in a country that promised much and delivered unevenly.

Today, I begin with one ancestor whose life continues to shape how I understand leadership and resistance.

Alexander Rahming (1884–1922)

Alexander Rahming was born on February 24, 1884, in Nassau, Bahamas. As a young man, he emigrated to the United States, eventually settling in New York City after marrying his wife, Alice Dean. In Harlem, Rahming emerged as a political activist, organizer, and powerful public speaker during one of the most transformative periods in Black American history.

Rahming was deeply involved in the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA), serving as president of its New York City chapter—the largest in the world. In this role, he worked alongside UNIA founder Marcus Garvey and radical socialist Hubert Harrison. He became widely known as a “street scholar” or “stepladder orator,” part of a generation of self-trained Black intellectuals who brought African and African American history directly to the people.

On Harlem street corners during the World War I era, Rahming delivered speeches that educated newly urbanized Black communities about African history, Pan-African philosophy, and the global dimensions of racial justice. These gatherings were often described as both the “university and the church of the streets,” spaces where working-class people could learn, question, and imagine new futures for themselves.

Rahming did not shy away from controversy or confrontation. He was an outspoken critic of police brutality and led organizing efforts in response to violent assaults against Black residents in Harlem. In 1918, he publicly mobilized the community to demand the transfer of a New York City police officer known for targeting Black residents, calling on Harlem citizens to sign petitions and demand accountability.

He also understood that the struggle for Black liberation extended beyond U.S. borders. In a 1921 pamphlet, Rahming explored how African Americans might position themselves in the event of a war between the United States and Japan, critically examining American racism, global power dynamics, and the contradictions Black Americans faced when asked to defend a nation that denied them full citizenship. He recognized the Black freedom struggle as both racial and economic—a fight against racism and exploitation alike.

Alexander Rahming remained a key voice in the UNIA until his death in 1922, at just 35 years old. Though his life was brief, his impact was profound. He used his voice to educate, organize, and challenge systems of power—leaving behind a legacy of courage, intellect, and unapologetic advocacy.

When I look at my own life—my leadership, my insistence on equity, my refusal to be silent—I see him.

This is not just family history.
It is inheritance.
It is responsibility.

I am Black History.

👉🏾 link to narrated version is in the comments.

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