I was born in Colombo, Sri Lanka, and came to the United States in 1958 with my parents and my brother because my parents thought it was important for us to have an English-language education—which was more difficult to get after Sri Lanka left the British Commonwealth. They would have liked to go to Australia, but that country was just ending a decades-long, whites-only immigration policy, and as I tell people, I’m a latte: My father was a British Methodist minister, and my mother was Sri Lankan—a prima ballerina in the national dance company.

Like so many of us, I’ve experienced multiple turning points—moments when, looking back, my life took a very particular turn. I attended Portland State University thinking that I’d be an anthropology major, but realized it wasn’t a good fit. I switched to business because it seemed like easy grades, to be honest, and put myself through school by working at a small brokerage firm. After graduating I went to the local Merrill Lynch office and interviewed for a job. This was the late 1960s, and the nice man there said, “Honey, none of these Oregon farmers will trust their money to a woman. Can you type?” No, I couldn’t type. In fact, I had flunked typing. I thought, “Okay, I’ll apply to the top business school. If I don’t get in, I’ll figure out Plan B.”

At HBS I was one of three women in a section of 70 men, and half of the grade depended on speaking in class. Most of the men could really talk. I was intimidated and could barely think of anything to say, unfortunately, until finally one of my professors told me I’d better start contributing unless I wanted to flunk out. So, I gumptioned up and did. My second year I had the opportunity to work with five classmates on a project to determine whether Columbia Records should get into the business of soul music. Our report indicated that Columbia could outpace Motown and Atlantic, the leaders in that genre, in three years. And they did, but in nine months, which had a lot to do with Clive Davis, who was president of Columbia at the time.

After HBS, I worked at Columbia for two years before deciding I wanted to get into film. I went out to Los Angeles and answered an ad to work in the accounting department of Roger Corman’s New World Pictures, which was distributing foreign films in addition to making B-movie classics like The Wild Angels with Peter Fonda and Bloody Mama with Shelley Winters and Robert De Niro. I dumbed down my résumé and got the job but was outed as a Harvard MBA when the Hollywood Reporter did a piece on the soul music project, which has been expanded upon and published by Columbia executive Logan Westbrooks. When Roger learned I’d gone to HBS, he asked me to do a study of his leadership and management style. It turned out many of the people who worked at New World found him cold and intimidating, but he took it in stride; and it should be noted that filmmakers such as Ron Howard and Jonathan Demme credit him with their start in filmmaking.

In addition to the movie business, I spent more than 25 years in radio in Los Angeles and San Francisco, working as a business manager while being surrounded by music, which has always been one of my passions. When I was working for Columbia, I hung a poster on my office wall with a quote from Henry David Thoreau: “The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.” While my life has had its ups and downs, I’m glad to say it hasn’t been lived in quiet desperation. I’ve followed my love of music, film, and management, and found so much joy in work—and for that I’m truly grateful.

Marnie Tattersall is a hiker, traveler, and principal with GrayMatter Consults.

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