Racial bias and AI squander dreams of highly qualified immigrant workers in the US

(Photo by Rodion Kutsaiev via Unsplash)

I landed in Houston, Texas from Karachi, Pakistan on a warm, sticky evening in May 2023. With four suitcases, three cats, and two trolleys, I entered U.S. soil for the first time.

As a woman of color in Pakistan, I carried a lot of privilege. Not only am I educated, I also drove, and had full freedom to go out with friends, by myself, and even to places deemed dangerous. I had financial freedom and mobility, unburdened by things like bills and responsibilities.

I started working straight out of university. As an older student (a tale for another time), I was given a lot more responsibilities than my peers, and the expectation to “act my age.” So when it came to joining the workforce, I entered with the mindset and work ethic of a 35-year-old woman used to taking the lead, making decisions, and getting sh– done.

Come COVID, I found myself a remote job based out of Washington D.C. In my naive little mind, I thought that this role would help me lay the groundwork for landing a job in the U.S. when I came here.

And it did, in a way. Three years at the company gave me more experience than I expected.

I joined as a copywriter. But I took up every task and every project handed to me because my goal was to build a base for myself. I was helping run the business, and while the leadership recognized and acknowledged it, they weren’t willing to give me a salary that matched my Western colleagues doing far less with barely a third of my experience.

That should have been enough warning. But as I said — naive.

As a woman of color from a middle-class family, having a job and a career carries a sense of accomplishment and pride that little else does. There’s a sigh of relief that comes with having your own income, not relying on a male figure, and having financial freedom.

But it also carries whispers of upward mobility; as a WOC, having a job also means bringing your family out of survival mode. So when I say that working women in developing countries have a lot to prove, I mean it in the heaviest sense possible. That’s why I had to lay the groundwork and make sure that before I even stepped foot in this country, I had some social capital to fall back on.

But things don’t always work out the way you want them to.

I resigned from my U.S.-based job a month before I came here. It made sense: they weren’t interested in paying me a living wage, and I wasn’t interested in continuing to work at a toxic workplace, especially since I was going to the land of opportunity, where I thought my talent would be recognized and appreciated.

Three months in, I finally got my work permit. I started applying to jobs the week I came here, but with a work permit, I could apply to in-person and hybrid positions, and U.S.-based positions more freely.

I wasn’t too worried, though. I had the experience, the talent, the expertise.

What I didn’t have — I realized fairly quickly — was a white-sounding name. I didn’t have a university that showed up in the drop-down menu in applications. I didn’t have people to vouch for me to the hiring manager at new workplaces.

As hard as I had worked over the years to ensure that silly little limitations like bias and isms didn’t touch me, I forgot that the algorithms are biased against me.

The algorithms, bless ‘em, favor certain educational institutions and systems, certain names, as prerequisites for consideration. And if you don’t meet them? Well, you can forget about the applicant tracking system looking through your resume, let alone a real person.

It’s a well-known fact that the historical standards of the West lean towards a Caucasian ideal – I don’t think there’s anything new in that. In fact, there’s a term for it: “brain waste” is when highly skilled migrants are forced to take low-income, low-skilled roles due to discrimination. Imagine asking your local Iraqi cashier at Target what they did for a living back in their home country, and being told that you’re speaking to a neuroscientist.

I’ve got family members with U.S. and Canadian passports carrying degrees from some of the best medical and engineering universities still driving cabs or working in grocery stores because they still haven’t managed to beat the system.

And the emotional impact? Hot, steaming humiliation. An embarrassment that snakes through your body like a buzzing wasp trying to get in through the screen door.

While researching for this piece, I realized how much deeper the humiliation of this runs for people of color. No matter how much effort we put into bridging the gap, the playing field is still uneven.

I tried every trick in the book: I tailored my resume and experiences to fit the job descriptions; networked with the right people; used all the formulas for cover letters and reached out to all the recruiters. But still, when I get into an interview — if I get one at all — I’m faced with, “Oh wow, your English is so good! You speak it so well! So, your husband lets you work?” and never, “Tell me about your strengths, what can you bring to this role, how does your experience fit into the job description?”

Whether intentional or unintentional, these interactions don’t just contribute to the perpetuation of biases in the professional landscape – they confirm it.

So how do I overcome the stereotypes and land a job at the same time? I decline to confirm my race. I avoid sharing how long I’ve been in the U.S. I don’t talk about my work experience in my country of origin until asked (and I’m never asked).

But how else can I be part of breaking down the barriers for future generations who don’t fit the traditional mold of the ideal candidate? What can I tell my 7-year-old niece, who wants to work for NASA, about how to overcome these stereotypes? How can I explain to my 10 year-old nephew, already pumped about the idea of designing toys for Lego, that his name will be the first thing they’ll judge him on?

Perhaps the answer lies in a room full of white men, but I’d like to be a little more hopeful: perhaps it’s in acknowledging and voicing these concerns, giving life to them, so that we can take a little bit steadier of a step towards dismantling them.

In the tapestry of my professional journey, the hues of expertise, leadership, and global experience are overshadowed by the dominant colors of a system that favors the familiar. My journey from Karachi to Houston is not just a personal narrative but a reflection of the broader challenges faced by individuals who bring diverse perspectives to the American professional landscape. As I continue to navigate this intricate web, I invite readers to join in the exploration of a narrative that challenges the status quo, pushing the boundaries of recognition beyond the confines of a name or institution.