My Name Changed. My Roots Didn't.

By: Marilu Marshall, SVP, Executive Management, Global Chief Inclusion, Diversity and Equity Officer, Estee Lauder 

As a young teenager, I took a bold step that can be called many things:  code-switching; denial of my heritage; pretending to be someone I was not; or, maybe, even cheating.  I call it covering, and I had a very important cause, my own doorway to higher education.   

But let’s go back to the beginning.  My beginning was my birth. I was born Maria Luisa Garcia in New York City to Cuban parents, who were both well positioned (“bien conocidos”) in the Cuba that existed well before Castro.  My father had a government role based in New York and they were living here when I was born.  As political turmoil ensued, my father was recalled to Cuba, and we never saw him again.  My mother, a lady with all the social graces and no education beyond Sacred Heart convents and finishing school, had no idea how to go about trying to find out what had happened; her letters to government officials went unanswered, her friends back in Cuba knew nothing (or said nothing).  She ultimately brought her mother up from Cuba to take care of me, put herself through secretarial school, moved us to Florida and got a job with J. Walter Thompson advertising agency as a bilingual secretary, skills that were in short supply back then.   

Life went on for us.  By the age of eight, I decided I wanted to be a lawyer, putting bad people in jail and making the world a better place.  This idea was not welcomed by my traditional grandmother, who believed that “ladies should marry well” and not work – but my mother, who had been forced into the workplace by our circumstances,  encouraged me to work hard and dream big, knowing that financial aid would be required to get me through college and law school.  With the Cuban immigration into Florida post-Castro, a level of bias arose that we had not experienced before.  Our surname, Garcia, drew frowns from the local communities; my grandmother’s inability to speak English was the subject of derision from my schoolmates; and we truly felt like outsiders, both with the white American community that surrounded us as well as with the new Cuban arrivals, who viewed us as having tried to assimilate without providing assistance to our countrymen. 

Being subject to this bias, I was fearful that it would impede my ability to obtain a scholarship, despite my excellent grade point average; I was afraid that my birth name would not have a chance against  Mary Smith or Betty Jones.  My mother and I discussed this every night, and together we made the decision to go to court and  legally change my name to something “American”.  We bought a book of names which also gave definitions to various surnames, usually linking them to the work that was done by the person – names such as Carpenter, Baker, represented the livelihood of the individuals.  In looking through this book I came across Marshal(l) – the title of law enforcement officers.  Aha, I said, that’s what I want to be – a prosecutor is a law enforcement officer, that’s what I want to be!  And that is who I became – Maria Luisa became Marilu and Garcia became Marshall!  And Marilu Marshall received seven years of full tuition scholarships, enabling my big dreams to come true.  The first woman in my family to go to college, the only person in my family to earn a law degree, and my first job out of law school was that of a federal prosecutor in Washington D.C.   Whew! Dreaming big was the start, but working hard was also part of it,  and that was a valuable lesson learned from “mi madre”. 

But that’s not the end of the story.   

Immediately upon receiving my first paycheck, I began to plan how I could give back with gratitude for my good fortune.  My own donations  initially were paltry, but I became active with various Hispanic/Latine- serving institutions who were in turn assisting students with high academic performance and equally high financial need.  I became a Board member of the Hispanic College Fund (now merged into the Hispanic Scholarship Fund).  I engaged in fundraising and hired HCF students as interns and then full time employees, with many of whom I remain connected to this day; I have provided mentorship, sponsorship and career coaching advice to young people, who like me, did not have college graduates as role models in their family and were happy to find a place to ask questions and seek assistance.  And I endowed two scholarships at my law school in my mother’s and my husband’s names. 

I was lucky to have the understanding and encouragement of my mother in my hopes to succeed beyond what she had achieved.The important undercurrent here is that I never stopped being the child of my Cuban parents, the granddaughter of my monolingual, Spanish speaking grandmother ; I never turned my back on where I came from, our traditions, our culture, our religion.  My name may suggest to  others who I am, my heart and soul tell me who I am.  It was important to me to give back to the community that gave me my identity and the drive to beat the odds. 

I lead the inclusion and diversity function at my company, and in that role, I have been able to broaden my focus,   developing a culture of inclusion and belonging for all employees and our consumers, ensuring that we are all respected and valued for who we are; and never losing track of the importance of our respective heritages. 

Years later, I met and married the love of my life, and we were together for 43 years before he passed away last year.  He too taught me lessons similar to those I had learned from my mother.  He had a multi-racial heritage and, like me, came from a family of modest means.  Getting through college and law school was a challenge, one that he met with the same passion that he exhibited on the football field.  And he also believed in the value of giving back and paying it forward, motivating me to do the work that I do, and inspiring me to endow a scholarship in his name. 

Together we understood that there are many talented young people whose names, backgrounds, accents, or circumstances may shape how others perceive their potential before they've had an opportunity to demonstrate it. That understanding has shaped how I approach leadership. The responsibility of those of us who have found success isn't simply to celebrate how far we've come. It's to examine the barriers we encountered, question why they existed in the first place, and use whatever influence we have to make the path easier for those who follow. 

Sometimes that means providing a scholarship. Sometimes it's offering an internship, making an introduction, advocating for someone when they're not in the room, or simply being the person who sees potential that others have overlooked. These may seem like small acts, but I know firsthand how profoundly access to opportunity can change a life. 

I don't regret changing my name. It was a decision my mother and I made with hope, determination, and a very clear goal in mind. And it opened doors that changed the trajectory of my life, of our lives. But I also recognize that no one should have to change a part of who they are to have their potential recognized. 

I began this story as Maria Luisa Garcia, a young Cuban-American girl with a big dream who worried that her name might stand between her and her future. Today, as Marilu Marshall, I have the privilege of helping create workplaces where people are valued for what they bring, rather than how closely they fit someone else's expectations. 

I changed my name to open a door for myself. My hope is that the doors we open today with education serving as the key to opening those doors will make that choice unnecessary for the next generation.