José vs. Joe

Of course, we’ve posted about issues discrimination and bias issues with resumes before, so this will not be surprising to our readers, but it’s a subject worth revisiting (and I was pleased to see this from a source like BuzzFeed!). 

From BuzzFeed:

 


 
From the Huffington Post:

His name is José Zamora, and he had a routine.

During his months-long job search, he says he logged onto his computer every morning and combed the internet for listings, applying to everything he felt qualified for. In the Buzzfeed video above, he estimates that he sent out between 50 to 100 resumes a day — which is, in a word, impressive.

But Zamora said he wasn’t getting any responses, so on a hunch, he decided to drop the “s” in his name. José Zamora became Joe Zamora, and a week later, he says his inbox was full.

As he explains in the video, “Joe” hadn’t changed anything on his resume but that one letter. But what Zamora had done, effectively, was whitewash it.

3 thoughts on “José vs. Joe

  1. I hope you won’t mind me doing this, but I simply had to comment on the post I just read on “What is it like to be a woman in philosophy,” entitled “What it’s like to be out of philosophy,” and I hoped this might be an appropriate place to do so.

    If this comment is inappropriate, please remove it.

    ====================
    How long will women–especially women of color…

    …and people–especially people of color–have to put up with this kind of treatment?

    And on the other side of the coin, why has such potential been removed from the ranks of philosophy? While such foul excrescences as those who would render such treatment are sheltered and preserved?

    Over the past few weeks, for some reason, I have been thinking of “Jose Campos Torres,” by Gil Scott-Heron. Perhaps it is the weather.

    Here is how it goes (trigger alert for poetic license with the N-word):

    I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
    I had confessed to myself all along, tracer of life, poetry trends
    That awareness, consciousness, poems that screamed of pain and the origins of pain and death had blanketed my tablets
    And therefore, my friends, brothers, sisters, in-laws, outlaws, and besides — they already knew
    But brother Torres, common ancient bloodline brother Torres is dead

    I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
    I had said I wasn’t going to write no more words down about people kicking us when we’re down
    About racist dogs that attack us and drive us down, drag us down and beat us down
    But the dogs are in the street
    The dogs are alive and the terror in our hearts has scarcely diminished
    It has scarcely brought us the comfort we suspected
    The recognition of our terror and the screaming release of that recognition
    Has not removed the certainty of that knowledge — how could it
    The dogs rabid foaming with the energy of their brutish ignorance
    Stride the city streets like robot gunslingers
    And spread death as night lamps flash crude reflections from gun butts and police shields

    I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
    But the battlefield has oozed away from the stilted debates of semantics
    Beyond the questionable flexibility of primal screaming
    The reality of our city, jungle streets and their Gestapos
    Has become an attack on home, life, family and philosophy, total
    It is beyond the question of the advantages of didactic niggerisms
    The motherfucking dogs are in the street
    In Houston maybe someone said Mexicans were the new niggers
    In LA maybe someone said Chicanos were the new niggers
    In Frisco maybe someone said Orientals were the new niggers
    Maybe in Philadelphia and North Carolina they decided they didn’t need no new niggers

    I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
    But dogs are in the street
    It’s a turn around world where things are all too quickly turned around
    It was turned around so that right looked wrong
    It was turned around so that up looked down
    It was turned around so that those who marched in the streets with bibles and signs of peace became enemies of the state and risk to national security
    So that those who questioned the operations of those in authority on the principles of justice, liberty, and equality became the vanguard of a communist attack
    It became so you couldn’t call a spade a motherfucking spade
    Brother Torres is dead, the Wilmington Ten are still incarcerated
    Ed Davis, Ronald Reagan, James Hunt, and Frank Rizzo are still alive
    And the dogs are in the motherfucking street

    I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
    I made a mistake

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