Philip McKenzie on Brooklyn & Discovery

Philip McKenzie is a cultural anthropologist and strategist who founded InfluencerCon and hosts The Deep Dive podcast. A former Goldman Sachs trader, he has served as Chief Strategy Officer at MediaVillage, advises global organizations, and teaches at Hyper Island.

I think you know this already, but I start all these conversations with the same question. I actually borrowed it from a friend of mine who lives in Hudson. She uses it to help people tell their stories, and I love it so much because it’s such a big question. And because it’s so big, I tend to over-explain it before I even ask. So I want you to know you’re in complete control—answer however you want, or not at all. I just really love the question. And the question is, where do you come from? Again, you’re in absolute control.

Absolutely. Thank you for that. I think it’s a great question.

Where I’m from is Brooklyn. I talk about Brooklyn all the time, and I always very specifically introduce myself as being from Brooklyn—which I think is distinct from saying I’m from New York.

I’m a proud New Yorker, and I understand Brooklyn is part of New York, but anyone who’s a native New Yorker understands the specificity of the borough you’re from. Growing up, being from Brooklyn meant a lot. It shaped everything about who I am.

My parents are from the Caribbean—my mom’s from Barbados, and my dad’s from Guyana. I’m the only one in my family born in New York—born in Brooklyn. And Brooklyn has the largest Caribbean and West Indian population outside of the West Indies. All the islands are represented: Barbados, Jamaica, Guyana, Trinidad, Haiti—you name it.

That microcosm of being in New York, but specifically being in Brooklyn, feels very different from being in other parts of the city. So, long-winded answer, but: I’m from Brooklyn.

Beautiful. What part of Brooklyn were you from, and what was it like? Maybe tell me more—what does it mean to you to be from Brooklyn?

Oh man, it means everything. I grew up in Brownsville, then moved to East Flatbush. I grew up in New York in the ‘70s and ‘80s—I graduated from high school in 1990, which I kind of use as a clear demarcation point. That was actually the year with the highest murder rate in New York City’s history. Crime has been declining ever since—current narratives in the media aside. If you only watched the news, you’d think New York was the Badlands, but it’s definitely not.

Growing up in the ‘70s and ‘80s was just different. It was the New York people tend to mythologize, which, culturally, was very important to me—even when I didn’t realize it at the time. I remember Reggie Jackson, the Yankees winning in ’77 and ’78, the blackout... all of that.

I remember riots and looting in our neighborhood during the blackout in ’77. Those kinds of moments were just part of the world we grew up in. I joke with friends that graffiti was everywhere. The trains were covered in it. Back then, it was considered a crime. Now it’s a marker of gentrification—luxury condos feature graffiti murals to make them feel “authentic.”

It’s wild how those things come full circle. That’s part of the Brooklyn identity for me—watching culture shift. One era’s criminality becomes another era’s marketing aesthetic.

Yeah. That’s amazing. I mean, I remember all that too. We’re the same age—I graduated in 1990, but I was in the suburbs in Western New York.

OK, yeah.

But I definitely remember Reggie Jackson.

The straw that stirred the drink.

Do you remember what you wanted to be when you grew up? Do you have a sense of what young Philip imagined for himself?

Yeah, I think I went through a bunch of different phases—wanting to be different things without really knowing what it took to become any of them.

My parents got me a telescope pretty early—I must’ve been eight or nine. I don’t think I was ten yet. Cosmos was on PBS—the Carl Sagan documentary—and it just blew my mind. I didn’t understand all of it, but what I did understand was like, wow: space. The stars. That kind of wonder.

So in my mind, I was going to be an astronomer. But that faded as I got older.

I think I always had a curiosity, a desire to discover things. I used to go to work with my dad—he was a zoning consultant in the city. At the time, they were called expeditors, but zoning consultant is another term. New York City’s building code is a labyrinth, so architects and engineers would hire people like my dad to help them navigate their projects.

Each borough has its own Department of Buildings, and in the summers I’d go with him across the city. That’s when I first saw Manhattan during the day, saw people going to work. That made a huge impression on me.

My first thought was, “I want to be in business.” I didn’t know what that meant—I just knew I wanted to be a part of that world. My dad would be running around and I’d hang out at Barnes & Noble or Borders—back when Borders still existed. I’d get lost in the bookstores, reading, exploring.

But the thing that stuck with me was seeing people in suits, carrying briefcases. That, to me, was business. And I knew I wanted to be in those canyons of buildings, in and around Wall Street. And eventually, I did all that.

But I think the seed was planted back then—being in that environment, seeing those faces, and associating it all with success.

And that was Manhattan—you’re talking about the experience of Manhattan.

Yeah, exactly. Because the Department of Buildings used to be in the old municipal building. For those who might be familiar with New York City, the municipal building sits right off the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s this big, kind of Art Deco-looking building—like One New York Plaza.

The city, the police department is right behind it. You’ve got the court building nearby. But the municipal building is a big government building. It was probably more fully occupied back then than it is now, because, you know, things have changed.

Back in those days, the Department of Buildings was on the 20th floor. I used to spend a lot of time in that building.

Then there were all the bookstores I mentioned earlier, along Broadway. A bunch of other stores too—like Trinity Church used to have a bookstore. There were all these little outlets that had magazines, books—places I would just wander around. We lived in a different society then, where a 10-year-old could roam the streets of New York alone.

Right? And no one thought anything of it. Today, that parent would probably be arrested. But in the latchkey era? It was different.

I love that conflation of business and a bookstore. I am in the world of business. And the experience of being in the world of business... was a bookstore. That sounds amazing.

Yeah, yeah. Because walking to those bookstores was where I saw people doing things. Even the shoeshine guys—they always had magazines and stuff. That was a popular thing back then. If you watch an old movie from the ‘70s or ‘80s, you’d see someone getting their shoes shined on the street. I just attributed all of that to what, in my mind, was “business.”

Awesome. So, catch us up—where are you now, and what are you doing in the world of business? If you’re still in that world, how do you talk about what you’re up to?

Yeah, I’m definitely in the world of business. Officially, I’m a cultural anthropologist and strategist, and I’ve had my own consulting practice now for what feels like forever.

I kind of reject the term “futurist” because I just don’t like the word. But basically, I help organizations understand culture. It’s more than just trying to be predictive—it’s a practice rooted in rigor around foresight and applying that within a broader cultural context.

I use that to help organizations better understand their place in the world—not just to avoid pitfalls, but to identify potential opportunities. I’m happy with the work because it allows me to engage with a wide range of organizations. I always say I’m industry-agnostic—it doesn’t really matter what the business is, because it usually comes down to people.

There are some things I won’t do, based on my own ethical compass—like defense work or anything I feel is about harming people. But beyond that, I’m open to engaging. That approach has allowed me to build a business that puts me in active contact with many different people and industries. It’s broadened my horizons beyond what I could have imagined as a kid—or even as a young professional.

When I left business school, I worked for Goldman Sachs for many years. I was doing what I had envisioned as a kid: One New York Plaza, 50th floor, top of the world. Master of the universe on a massive trading desk.

And even though, at the time, that was the thing I most wanted in the world—and I killed myself to get it—it turned out not to be what made me happy or fulfilled.

Lots of lessons in there.

Yeah. And what was it, to the degree you’re comfortable sharing? What caused the shift? I mean, we’ve known each other a bit, so I know some of the story. But what happened—what was the shift from the 50th floor to cultural anthropology?

Yeah, you know, it wasn’t any one thing, to be honest. It was more of a gradual acceptance that I could have sat in that seat for a really long time—and made goo-gobs of money. Because a big part of my interest in that world was the money. I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

You know, I used to joke with friends at business school that, for a kid like me coming out of Brooklyn, this was the most money you could make without having to throw or catch a ball—neither of which I was particularly good at doing professionally.

So I was like, this Wall Street ticket is a huge opportunity for me. I went back to business school specifically to work at Goldman Sachs. I wasn’t even that enamored with Wall Street as a general idea—Goldman, specifically, was the draw for me. And trading, as an extension of that.

So, to answer the question, I only share that to emphasize how much I did want that job. And the reasons I left weren’t specific to Goldman Sachs. I don’t really have anything negative to say about Goldman specifically. I think Goldman was just part of a larger culture that didn’t align with my values over the long haul.

These environments can be really toxic. And I think a trading desk—particularly when I was trading, in the late ’90s into the 2000s—was a prime example. I can’t speak to what it looks like now, and maybe it’s better. Someone listening might say, “Oh, it’s not like that at all.” But my experience was that it was a very toxic environment.

It can really grind you down. And even with that, those weren’t necessarily the reasons I left. I’m just recognizing what the environment was like. Because, in a lot of ways, I fit the profile of someone who would do that job.

I’m a former athlete—high school and college—and trading desks are full of those types. A lot of military folks, ex-athletes, or a mix of both. It’s a very male environment. And the women there—again, when I was there—mirrored that. They often out-maled the males in many respects, in their demeanor and style.

That doesn’t work for everybody. That kind of constant, what our president once called “locker room talk,” doesn’t align with everyone’s personality. It didn’t really bother me that much—but I knew it wasn’t going to make me happy in the long run.

So I decided to leave. And I didn’t know what I was going to do next. It’s not like I left for a thing—I left just to leave.

I spent some months in Argentina and Brazil. Then I came back, and that led to this second iteration of myself as a professional. I started working with some friends I went to school with—friends and fraternity brothers. They had started a nonprofit, and that eventually led to us starting a multicultural agency called Free DMC.

We published a magazine called Free Magazine, and we were fully engaged with lifestyle brands around multicultural marketing—helping them reach this elusive audience they didn’t fully understand. And we were part of that audience. That audience was shifting tremendously at the time we were growing the business, and we just plugged right into that. That’s really where all of my interest in culture led to what I do now.

Yeah. I’m so fascinated—I just did a project on young analysts and associates, the recruitment experience for investment banking. I spent a lot of time in that space, and I feel like you and I could probably talk for hours about the anthropology of that whole recruitment process and the culture of those banks. It is a crazy process, but it also—and I saw this from the other side, too—it really speaks to how significant finance is in our broader culture. There’s this extreme hazing or initiation process around it that’s just... in plain sight.

Oh, yeah. Absolutely. I ran the summer analyst program at Goldman. Because at Goldman, you wear multiple hats. My job-job was on the trading desk. But they ask professionals to run a lot of these programs. So it was me and two other folks, in different areas, who ran the summer analyst program for equities.

And it was the same thing I had experienced as a summer associate: 80, 90 kids jammed into the bullpen, being run around the city for 10 to 12 weeks. Right. You were just expected to live, breathe, sleep the “Goldman experience.” Stay late, get there early, go out socially with Goldman people. It was full-on—like, it never stopped.

Yeah, it’s a crazy thing. So I want to talk about... what’s an example? Can you tell a story about the kind of work you love to do now?

Yeah—two examples. I work with Hyper Island, and this is more of an academic example, but I love what Hyper Island is all about. I’ve been working with them for a few years now, basically as a supervisor for students going through their IRP process, which is essentially their master’s thesis.

You really get the opportunity to get under the hood and help someone younger—though not necessarily young, because it is a master’s program, but younger than me. Which, at this point, is not miraculous in any way—just a statement of fact. Class of ’90.

Exactly.

You get to work with these folks on shaping what will be their final thesis as they finish the program. And selfishly, I learn a lot from these students. Honestly, I think they impart more to me than I give to them.

But you also get to provide some real, practical knowledge based on what you’re seeing out in the field. So when they’re building a research project or a product, or incorporating research into their thesis—I’ve done all that. I’ve done a ton of ethnographies.

I’m big on the qualitative side of the business. I think there are really important stories to uncover through longer-form interviews and deeper engagement.

What I’ve noticed with this newer generation is the opposite—they’re very focused on just doing the quantitative stuff. They’re not necessarily strong with numbers, and they’re often skeptical of qualitative work... but they don’t really know why.

They just feel like, “My thing is data”—whatever that means to them. So I get the chance to talk to them about opening up to the qualitative side. Because that’s the culture piece. That’s the human layer. Working with those students has been really incredible for me.

So that’s one engagement. And then, on a completely different side, I work with a client in venture—helping them figure out how to do venture in a way that creates better outcomes. Not just for investors, but also for the founders.

It’s been an incredible ride. It’s an incredibly strong team, with a clear focus and a sharp investment thesis—so all the boxes are checked. But what’s really inspiring is the foresight the partners have. They’re thinking about how their firm fits into a much larger infrastructure.

Just like how Wall Street has its own culture and way of being, venture has its own rhythm, its own norms—and especially with the way technology shapes so much of our world.

That’s the bigger story. And the fact that they see that clearly, and want to think long-term about how they grow their business—that’s been deeply inspiring to me.

Yeah. What do you love about the work? Where’s the joy in it for you?

The joy is in discovering really big things—and then bringing them to life. I often tell clients, prospective clients, or collaborators: I am not the holder of the answers.

There are a lot of people in this space who present themselves as having the answers. Like, “Work with me and I’ll help you increase your ROI,” or, “I’ll make sure your strategy moves in the right direction.”

I stay away from that approach, because I don’t think it reflects what any of us can actually deliver. We don’t know. And because I work with many different types of organizations, I’m not going to be the expert on every business I walk into. That would be impossible.

What I do try to discern is: where are there foundational similarities across industries? What universal themes can we discover and work through together?

All of my work depends on teams and deep collaboration. I can’t do this if I walk into an organization and people aren’t willing to give me truthful, accurate answers. I can’t just make it up myself.

So it really depends on the willingness of the organization to share. What I’ve found—and then I’ll stop here—is that a lot of times, an organization will come to me with one project. But once I start digging in, it often has very little to do with what they originally presented.

They’ll say, “We just implemented these new systems, and we’re having trouble getting people to use them. Can you help us understand where the gaps are?”

And then I dig in—and it has nothing to do with the systems. For example, I worked with a media company that had grown by acquisition. They had done three or four fairly large acquisitions over four or five years. So the company had grown quickly.

They had reporting schedules, forms, processes—all the usual stuff. But they said, “It’s not working. What’s the problem?” And the issue wasn’t the forms. It was that people didn’t trust the reporting lines inside the organization.

The company had all these formal lines—this person reports to that person, and this team feeds into that team. But after working with them for a few months, I realized the place was full of indirect lines that no one was seeing or acknowledging.

They thought things were working in a static, top-down way—but they weren’t. It wasn’t about the reporting methodology at all. The real issue was trust within the organization.

Right. So those are just a couple of examples, I guess.

Yeah. I mean, it’s hard to say whether I advocate for it. What I’d say is—I just use it. You know, these distinctions we lean on... to a certain extent, they’re kind of false. Right? We’re caught in these dichotomies—right brain vs. left brain, technical vs. non-technical—and we treat them like gospel in professional settings.

People throw around terms like “hard skills” and “soft skills,” or “skilled” vs. “unskilled” labor. But all of those definitions miss the richness of how we actually interact to solve problems.

From my perspective, as someone who leans toward long-form interviews—like yourself—yeah, of course I can send out a bunch of surveys. But I find that surveys usually just lead me to more questions.

The structure of a survey is set up to check a box or fill in a field. But there are very few things in life where I can give you a meaningful answer just by checking a box. So the whole model feels kind of weird to me. And then we try to compensate by saying, “Well, we’ll send this to a lot of people,” as if volume will make up for depth.

But to me, you’re just collecting a bunch of half-answers—or assumptive data—that often fits into a narrative you’ve already built. You’re looking for something to prove it out, hoping the numbers will materialize a solution. And I find that hard to believe.

I just think you’ve got to get under the hood with people and ask them more questions. Even if the sample size is small, that doesn’t mean the observations aren’t deep. Like—I don’t need a hundred 70-degree days to know I love 70-degree days. I kind of only need one.

Have you ever heard this? I share it too often, but there’s that quote that goes around: “The plural of anecdote is not data.” It’s one of those popular phrases people throw out. But when you dig into it, that’s actually a bastardization of the original quote. It came from a Stanford economics professor, and what he actually said was: “The plural of anecdote is data.” We just have this weird bias toward numbers and measurement. I love how you were describing surveys—this idea that just by measuring something, it somehow becomes more real.

That’s it. And maybe I’m overstating it, but I try to bring these things together. Because even the word data—it’s loaded. It pushes you toward a very technical or technological understanding of the phenomenon you’re trying to explore.

But we take in so much information, and we sense so many things. That’s actually the language I prefer: What we take in. How we make sense of the world. Can you try to break that down into data? Perhaps. But I push back on this idea that we’re machines. We’re not computers.

This logic-heavy worldview has become the dominant story—and it’s not a new story. It’s a 500-year-old Age of Enlightenment story. But it’s a broken story. Because it doesn’t allow us to put equal weight on the things that truly matter.

It reminds me of the trading floor. People would say, “To be a trader, you’ve got to be able to process tons of information and manage risk.” And yeah, that’s true. That’s what they talked about—managing risk, operating with imperfect information.

But it was also a place full of emotional ding-dongs.

I always said the trading desk was just an excuse for adults to act like children.

Throw things. Blow up. Break things—literally break things. Phones, monitors—all kinds of stuff.

And that behavior was just chalked up to testosterone and “being a man.” But when you see emotions expressed in other bodies, in other spaces, we discredit them. Exactly. Emotions held in some bodies make sense. In other bodies, they’re dismissed.

That’s what I try to unpack. I try to move away from these binaries. People say, “Turn off your emotions. Be logical. Don’t get emotional.” And I’m like—I’m emotional about everything. Emotions are what make us feel alive.

Yeah. I love that. I love what you’re saying—it’s a perfect segue into your podcast. I want to hear you talk about where it came from. I’ve been introduced to so many ideas and incredible thinkers through it—especially from corners of the world I wasn’t familiar with. So how do you think about what you’re doing with the show, and how do you invite people into the conversation?

Oh, thank you. I appreciate that. And I appreciate the kind words about the show. It’s called The Deep Dive, and I’ve been doing it for five years now. I actually came to podcasting through a previous show called Two Dope Boys and a Podcast, which was an homage to OutKast’s second album, ATLiens—specifically, the track Two Dope Boyz in a Cadillac.

It was me and Michael Brooks, who has since passed away. Michael really introduced me to podcasting—he was already part of that world. He co-hosted The Majority Report with Sam Seder.

Michael and I were just friends. We’d sit around my kitchen, put a bottle down between us, and just talk—about all kinds of b******t. And at some point, we were like, “Man, these conversations are pretty awesome. People might actually want to listen to them.”

That became Two Dope Boys and a Podcast. We did that show for a little over two years—amazing team, and I loved working with him.

He passed away—not due to COVID, but during the COVID period. Michael was a huge, huge star. I often wonder, in the times we’re in now, where he would be, and what he’d be building. He had already built so much.

He was really my entry point into podcasting. Later, he launched The Michael Brooks Show, which was his own thing. I wasn’t looking to start another podcast or get back into that world. But the opportunity came up to create The Deep Dive—a show where I could just sit down, have a conversation like this one, and see where it goes.

And so The Deep Dive was born. It’s a Culture & Insights show—at least the way I define Culture & Insights. I try to talk to a wide range of people who I think have interesting ideas. There’s connective tissue between episodes, but it’s not the kind of show where you’re going to hear me talk to the same type of guest every week.

They probably skew toward design, and there’s always a lot of economics, history, and politics woven in. I think those are inseparable from how we view everything else.

But I say I’m in it for the books and the good conversations. Not everyone I interview has written a book, but many have, and I get to dive into some really dope ideas with great people—folks I might not have a chance to talk to otherwise.

For example, I’m going to be interviewing Cory Doctorow again in a couple of weeks. He’s always writing—super prolific. He’s got a new book coming out on “enshittification,” which is a term he coined to describe how tech systems deteriorate over time.

I asked him, “Hey, want to come back on the show?” and he said, “Yeah, I’m down.” I’ve got the book, I’m reading it now, and we’ll probably record in October.

But like—if I just emailed Cory Doctorow out of the blue, I don’t know if he’d sit down with me for 90 minutes. He’s got a lot of stuff to do, right? But having The Deep Dive gives me that kind of access.

Another example is Saree Makdisi—I’ve interviewed him twice and will again later this week. Just another incredible thinker whose work I admire. So the show is really my greedy way of getting into people’s worlds and having great conversations. That’s what it’s about.

It’s been really well received, and I’m so grateful for the support. I get amazing responses from listeners all over the world, and honestly, I have no idea how they even find the show.

I’m not on a network. I don’t buy ads on Facebook. I’m not even on Facebook. But people find it. They share it. A lot of teachers and professors assign it, so I’ll see spikes in older episodes and realize—“Oh, that must be on someone’s syllabus now.”

It’s incredibly rewarding. And I’m always grateful when people agree to come on, because I know it’s a real commitment of their time and energy. But they go down the rabbit hole with me, and I love that.

Nice. Well, congratulations on what you’ve built—it’s really wonderful.

Thanks.

I have two questions I often ask—I tend to combine them, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it’ll make sense to you. First: do you have any mentors? Who are the people who’ve influenced you? And second: are there any touchstones—ideas or concepts—you find yourself returning to again and again?

Yeah. I’ll do mentors first. That’s a tough one. I have a few obvious ones I can name. Some of them might sound cliché, but my dad is definitely someone I’d put in that category. He showed me everything about New York growing up. He took me everywhere. I know the city as well as I do because of him.

While a lot of kids were just hanging around Brooklyn, my dad would take me and my sister into the city. We went to the top of the Empire State Building. The Statue of Liberty. We did the Circle Line, the Day Line.

He took us on all these little adventures. That had a big impact on me as a kid. It gave me a deep appreciation for the city I was in.

I love New York. I love Brooklyn—even though it irritates me sometimes, the way it’s changed. But my deep passion for all things New York and Brooklyn really came from those trips with my dad. My high school track coach was another major influence—Mr. Malik. Shout out to Mr. Malik.

He gave us lessons that weren’t just about track—they were about life. We were really close as a team. Going to Brooklyn Tech was another huge turning point. That’s where I started running track, so it all came together.

It’s kind of a perfect New York story. For those who don’t know, Brooklyn Tech is one of the three specialized high schools in New York. We were mostly a bunch of immigrant kids from all over the city. My graduating class alone was almost a thousand kids—so it was also huge.

And we all got along. That was the thing. I was in high school during some pretty polarized times in New York City. There was a lot of regular violence, but also police violence. The Central Park Five case happened when I was in high school—those young guys who were falsely accused and later exonerated.

There was Howard Beach. The Bensonhurst killing. It was a time that, if you only looked at the headlines, seemed incredibly polarizing.

But then you had us—these super diverse kids from all over: Queens, the Bronx, Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island—and we all got along.

One of my closest friends was this white guy—I won’t say his name here to protect his privacy—but he’s an awesome dude. One of my best friends in high school. He gave me Led Zeppelin IV. The first time I ever got that cassette tape, it was from him. We were on the track team together. He gave me that tape, and it changed my entire trajectory on music.

And that’s just how we were. I can’t say we were always super kind to one another—we were just regular kids—but we didn’t bring the b******t that was going on around the city into Tech.

We had our friend groups, but we got along. So when I hear all these stories now about people not getting along, I’m like, how the f**k is that possible? We were dealing with so much more, and we still found ways to coexist.

Anyway, I’ll leave the mentor piece there. There were others—people on the team. One guy I ran with was a sophomore when I was a freshman. Coach Malik used to give us our summer training program. Since we were from all over the city, we didn’t see each other again until the fall.

He never checked up on us. We kept our own calendars. One day we asked him, “Coach, how do you know we’re doing the workouts over the summer?”

He said, “If you do the workouts, I’ll know. And if you don’t do the workouts, I’ll know. It’ll be obvious.”

It was one of those early lessons in trust.

And that older teammate? He called me up and said, “Hey, we live kind of near each other. Let’s run together over the summer.” That summer between my freshman and sophomore years, I made huge progress—physically, yes, but more than that, I learned something deeper. He didn’t have to train with me. He extended himself.

He pulled me along. And that became a lifelong lesson: always help people. In every part of my life, someone has helped me—sometimes when I didn’t even realize I needed help. Someone always extended a hand.

So I try to carry that with me in everything I do—personally and professionally. It’s one of the saddest things to me: how helping others has become commoditized. People say, “If you want 15 minutes of my time, you’ve got to do this, book that...” F**k off, man. Just take the f*****g call. Answer the email. Who cares? I will die on that hill.

No one is that busy. I don’t believe it. Either you’re lying to yourself, or you’re lying to the rest of us. That’s my thing. And I learned it from that teammate—and I’ve tried to carry it with me ever since.

Yeah. And the other question—what was it again?

Touchstones.

Right, right. Touchstones. That’s a weird one, but I’ll keep it short.

One of the best decisions I ever made was going to Howard University. It changed everything for me. And I bring that up because it was another one of those pivotal, transitional moments.

Like I said earlier, my parents are from the West Indies. They didn’t go to college in the U.S. My dad took some college classes while on a student visa, but didn’t finish. My mom didn’t attend college at all.

So the Black college experience was foreign to them—and to me, initially. But during high school, I started to find my political self, which was different even from my parents’. I watched Eyes on the Prize, Roots—all of that. My life as a progressive person was taking shape.

And Spike Lee was right across the street from my high school. He took over an old firehouse, turned it into his studio and home. I’d see him all the time. He filmed a video for School Daze—that “Doing the Butt” scene—in my high school. That’s how present he was in my world.

And School Daze, of course, is all about a fictional Black college, modeled on Morehouse. So everything in my politics was pointing me toward an HBCU experience. Howard was, in my view, the best. So I said, “I’m going to Howard.”

None of my teachers understood the decision. My dad would go to parent-teacher night, and my AP English and AP History teachers were like, “Philip is so well-adjusted... we’re surprised he wants to go to Howard.”

It was this existential crisis for them.

Even my coach was surprised at first. Howard was a big running school, and I was tracking for a track scholarship.

He actually reminded me of this recently—about a year ago—when I saw him. I explained why I chose Howard, and he said, “Once you told me that, it made perfect sense. I never second-guessed you after that.”

To me, it was important. Getting an education in an all-Black environment is no less valuable than getting one in an all-white environment. So it was a political and philosophical decision. And I surrounded myself with some of the greatest people I’ve ever known. We’ve all joined the ranks of the many Howard alumni who’ve gone on to do amazing things.

It changed everything for me. I pledged my fraternity there. Those are the people who have carried me through my life since I first set foot on campus. Lifelong friends. People I’ve worked with. My fraternity. So shout out to all the bros—and yes, going to Howard was the best decision I ever made.

That’s such a beautiful story. And maybe I’m being super naïve, but—what were they surprised about? Was it just the perception of historically Black colleges being inferior?

Exactly. And it doesn’t make them bad people—it was just the prevailing bias. Being at Brooklyn Tech, the expectation was that I’d go to an Ivy League school, or a top engineering school—RPI, Carnegie Mellon, something like that. Howard wasn’t even on their radar.

The underlying assumption was: “Howard isn’t as good as the places your son could be going.” But I was decked out in Malcolm X gear, all of that. Actually, I was going through some old storage stuff recently and found one of my drafting notebooks—because I was an architecture major at Tech.

Oh, right—your dad worked in zoning. Is that what got you into it?

Yeah, exactly. So I opened this old notebook, and it was filled with Black radical stuff—“By Any Means Necessary,” “Black Panther Party,” all of that. And I thought—yo, I was always this dude. If people think that came later, nah. This was 14-year-old me. It was Public Enemy. Boogie Down Productions. Hip-hop at the time.

All of that was politically shifting how I saw the world and my place in it. That led me to Howard. And Howard led me to everything else.

Yeah. I mean, I feel like we could talk for another hour. But I want to thank you so much—this has been such a joy. I really appreciate you accepting the invitation. I love what you’re doing.

Thank you. It was great to be here—thank you so much. Oh, thank you, man. Anything for you. You call, I answer. And I love what you’re doing. Like I told you before we started recording—I listen to the show, I check out the transcripts. Sometimes it’s actually faster for me to read than to listen.

Same—I’m a reader too.

You bring on such amazing guests—thoughtful, deep thinkers. I love that, because we need more thoughtfulness in the world, not less.

Yes. If we can model some thoughtfulness and curiosity, maybe we can make the world a better place. Thanks, Philip.

Thank you.

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