My name is Kevin John McCarthy, and the reason why you're hearing my story starts back in the fall of 1973. I was a senior in high school deciding on where I would attend university. When I told my college advisor my dream was to go to Stanford, he told me I was high. I knew then I had to give it a shot. So my list of universities read: Stanford, Brown, Tufts and Trinity. I was a three-sport athlete and a Deans list student with board scores over 1350. My chances were good, but my classmates were some of the brightest the school had ever seen, and it was their competition I was most worried about. But I've always swung for the fences. And this time would be no different.
I heard from my cousin that Boston College had a "black talent" program where they sought out academically qualified Black students from all over the country — especially the greater Boston area. One of my cousins went to BC, so I paid him a visit. I immediately realized that the housing on campus was segregated — with all the black students living together in a dormitory on upper campus. But this was the same area where they housed all of the scholarship athletes. From my perspective, it was a segregated community of students that, in my opinion, didn't come to BC through the front door. They were there because of a unique capacity. Whether it was athletic ability. Or the color of their skin. And in some cases, it was both.
I knew back then the world had a segregating system that could be based on your name, your skin color, where you came from and many other factors. But if I was to attend Boston College, I wanted it to be on my academic merit. This mattered to me, because my family had invested in making me the best I could be academically. And I knew I could get into BC on my own merit not because of my skin color. I was ranked in the top 10% of students academically across the country. Then and there I made the decision to not to tell Boston College that I was black when I applied. I needed to prove to myself and everyone else that I could get in regardless of my skin color.
It was 1973 and all applications were handwritten and sent by mail. The BC application form had a section on personal demographics that included race, but it was optional, so instead of listing African American I listed "other" for my race. When they asked my religious preference, I chose other. I listed my name, Kevin John McCarthy, as male. I said I was born in Boston, raised in Cambridge, and that I attended Noble and Greenough School in Dedham—one of Boston's most prestigious secondary schools for boys. I did not mention that I am a Black man of Afro-Caribbean and Indigenous ethnicity.
I'll never forget the day I opened that letter from BC. It said "Congratulations, you have been accepted to the Boston College Class of 1978." Later, I was also awarded a 100% academic scholarship.
In the days before computers, you arrived on campus and they sent you to a big hall where you stood in line to review your information, your transcripts, your classes, etc. There I was, in line with all the freshmen that were arriving at BC in the fall of 1974, a young Black kid from Cambridge entering Boston College on his own merits. Ironically, it was the beginning of forced busing at Boston public schools.
I know it was my (white sounding) name that swung the pendulum in my favor and allowed me to be the first student to attend Boston College from Nobles. And that was just the beginning of my journey when it comes to bias and stereotyping around my white sounding name. Seven years later, in 1981, I saw an ad for a new football coach at Wellesley High School. I called the number in the paper and spoke to the athletic director who requested that I fax him a resume. I had coached at Nobles for 5 years and my references were good, so about a week later Wellesley called me in for an interview.
Per my directions, I went to the office of the Athletic Director. The door was open, I entered, saw no one and called out good morning. A middle-aged white gentleman popped out from behind the desk. Looked at me and pointed as he said, "Oh the Metco office — that's down at the end of the hall, turn right." And then he went back to whatever he was doing under the desk. I walked over to his desk, stuck out my hand, and said, "My name is Kevin McCarthy and I have an appointment with the athletic director for the football coaching job." I will never forget the look of consternation on his face as he stood from behind his desk, extended his hand, and said, "I am the athletic director, come right this way Coach McCarthy." I shook his hand and that was the beginning of what turned out to be one of the best professional relationships of my life, but I don't know that I can say I would've gotten there if it weren't for my white sounding name.
Years later, that man would give an emotional speech where he admitted, assuming I was white, and admitted the surprise he had felt upon actually meeting me. But more importantly, he told the story to impart a vital lesson about bias and the ways it can impact you both positively and negatively.
That coaching career at Wellesley gave me the opportunity to provide support and mentorship to young Black men. I believe it is not an exaggeration to say that one of the main reasons they went on to be successful — some going on to become coaches, others working in education leadership — is because they were able to see themselves reflected in positions of leadership around them. That's why this matters.