Barbara Mullenex

Rooted in Authenticity

Barbara Mullenex jokes that being an architect is the best party conversation opener. People gush that they always wanted to be one if only they were good at math. Luckily, she always was, and she always loved the rigor of drawing up architectural schematics.

But an introverted artist Barbara is not. Sitting in front of a vast blank canvas terrified her. She likes being out and about and getting a sensory overload of a place. What she loves most about her job is that it allows her to peek inside the vantage point of people from all different walks of life and industries—law firms, telecoms, manufacturers, federal agencies. She can craft a world that works for them because she studies who they are and what they need.

Growing up Mennonite, she understood at a young age how to put herself in other people’s shoes. You are part of a community that expects a higher calling than just clocking in or self-aggrandizement.

Her family has deep roots in Appalachia near the lumber town of Elkins, West Virginia. Her grandfather learned how to write his name so that he could sign up for food stamps during the Great Depression. Her grandparents lived off the land and sold anything else for pocket money. To Bobby Joe, her childhood nickname, this was no condition of misery. She has wonderful memories of making syrup from Maple trees, picking wild berries, collecting dandelion greens, canning peaches and knitting clothes. She lived “farm-to-table" with joy.

Her dad had a fierce sense of social justice. He went to MLK Jr.’s March on Washington and joined the NAACP as a white man. She remembers going to “colored” swimming pools because he would not have it any other way. Her family moved around as her father completed his studies (he would become a mathematics professor).

Her parents made sure Barbara knew that the world was her oyster and not to let being a woman get in her way. In 1974, when she went to a high school career fair, she stopped by the architecture booth. The guys manning it scoffed at her: “We’ve only met one woman architect,” they said, “and we’d hardly call her a lady.”

At architecture school, her male peers were confused as to why she was there. Every woman in the year ahead of her had already quit. She put one foot in front of the other, steeling herself through to graduation.

In the 1980s, Barbara’s first DC gigs were no glitz and glamour. She found purpose in the mundane, putting sprinklers in endless miles of federal buildings or specializing in ADA-compliant bathrooms.

When the 1991 recession struck, it wasn’t clear her career was going anywhere. She took a three-year break and moved to Florida with her family before being enticed back by an old boss to manage a firm (OPX).

She had a great run of it, doing transformative projects like the ATF headquarters and the nearby metro station, which together nurtured a new NoMa neighborhood around them.

In 2013, she jumped higher to lead the DC office for the global firm Perkins-Eastman and where she would work on a gigantic, neighborhood-creating project—the Wharf. Her role there was more as a storyteller. She explained the Wharf to the community: how it embraces cutting-edge sustainability techniques, how it weaves into the city, how it connects people with authentic experiences, and how its buildings create a public realm that welcomes and raises all boats.

At Perkins-Eastman, she takes building a community culture very seriously. At the beginning of the pandemic, she wrote a firmwide email to close out every day, reminding everyone it would all be OK, ending with: “Can’t wait until we are all back together again at One Thomas Circle.” It became a thing. She passed the end-of-day email to others, who expressed their happiness, loneliness, desperation or anger. The emails reminded everyone they weren’t alone. Post-pandemic, that sense of connection, of community, holds strong.

Through it all, Barbara never lost sight of her humble, Mennonite roots. Her grandfather’s farm will always be a magical place for her. Her siblings organized to make the one-room school that her mother and grandmother attended into a museum celebrating Appalachian Mennonite heritage. She still makes maple syrup from trees on the land, the original authentic way. ■