If DEI had one statistic as its rallying cry, it would be this: since 1972, the Black unemployment rate has consistently been twice that of the white unemployment rate, in good times and bad.

This isn’t conjecture. It’s measurable, documented inequality.

Economists have long used resume audit studies to identify discrimination. The method is simple: identical resumes, different names. "Lakisha" and "Jamal" get fewer callbacks than "Emily" and "Greg." The evidence is overwhelming and consistent, replicated in study after study.

Sociologist Devah Pager found that white men with criminal records were more likely to be called back than Black men without them. Economist Dania Francis found Black girls were the least likely to be recommended for AP classes, even with identical transcripts. People even responded less frequently to emails sent by people with Black-sounding names.

This isn’t just about overt racism. It’s about bias we all carry — unconscious, subtle, systemic. We’re drawn to the familiar and skeptical of the unfamiliar. And when the familiar is overwhelmingly white, the consequences echo through hiring, promotions, education, and wealth accumulation.

The Gap That Refused to Close

The labor market doesn’t just reflect this bias — it compounds it.

Even when we control for education, the racial gap persists. A Black college graduate has an unemployment rate comparable to a white high school graduate. A Black high school graduate has an unemployment rate like a white high school dropout.

The story is the same when we look at weekly earnings. White men out-earn nearly everyone else, except for highly educated Asian men.

This is the structural inequality DEI sought to address. It didn’t imagine a utopia — it tried to correct for what we could already measure.

Lesson #1: Everyone Identifies with the Edge of Exclusion

DEI became a scapegoat for everything from job scarcity to plane crashes. You’ve heard it: “No one wants to hire a white guy right now.”

That sentiment reveals less about DEI than it does about economic insecurity. People feel their livelihoods are precarious, their opportunities fragile. In that world, any shift in hiring — even minor — feels threatening.

Let’s say Bank of America normally hires five Black tellers out of 1,000. Inspired by DEI, they raise that number to 20. Still far below proportionate representation, but a step. And yet, people respond: If they hire more Black people, I won’t get hired.

The economic pie isn’t shrinking, but it feels like it. That’s not DEI’s fault. It’s the fault of an economy that leaves people on the bubble, month after month.

People’s reaction to DEI isn’t just prejudice. It’s a cocktail of vulnerability, resentment, and a profound sense of unfairness. “You want to fix injustice for them — but what about me?” They’re not just pointing at racial preferences. They’re pointing at housing costs, healthcare plans, job creep, broken schools, greedy landlords. They’re angry, and DEI became an easy target.

This is a profound policy lesson: you poke the status quo, you hit more than what you're aiming for.

Lesson #2: We Don’t Know How to Talk About Zero-Sum in an Abundant World

Does helping Black workers hurt white ones?

The truth: our economy is not zero-sum. We don’t have a fixed number of jobs or promotions. Economies grow. Wages rise. The more people earning and spending, the better off we all are.

But that’s not what people feel. They don’t experience the economy. They experience their job application. Their college rejection letter. Their paycheck.

College, for instance, is an abundant system — almost anyone can go somewhere. But Harvard is zero-sum. Only a few get in. And if you didn’t, it’s easy to blame someone else.

Narratively, it’s harder to sell fairness than grievance. DEI proponents never cracked that code. They didn’t explain, convincingly, why helping others doesn’t mean hurting you. Or why a fairer economy is stronger, more stable, and better for everyone.

I keep thinking about Abigail Fisher, the plaintiff in Fisher v. Texas. She didn’t get into UT Austin, sued for racial discrimination, and became the face of dismantling affirmative action. But the truth? She just didn’t make the cut. She wasn’t in the top 10% of her class, which Texas law guarantees admission to. Outside that, it’s more selective than Harvard.

She wasn’t excluded unfairly. She just didn’t qualify.

But it didn’t feel fair to her — and that feeling changed national policy. That’s the power of perceived injustice.