Black, Nappy, & Corporate (FICTION)
It’s 2016 and although I’ve scrolled through Twitter and have read stories about young girls being suspended from school for having locs and women being fired for natural hair styles, it all seemed so distant to my own experience in the work place. Well, until I found myself in a meeting with my boss for the same reason.
Loretta sent me an email after the staff meeting saying she would like to meet with me immediately. I know it’s because I was a few minutes late this morning. It’s not like there are many brown faces in the company that would help disguise my tardiness anyway. Plus, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone else pointed it out to her. I felt people scowling me as I tiptoed in and took my seat. Sometimes I feel like I’m walking around the office with a target painted on my back and everyone is waiting for me to mess up. I can try to explain that the trains were running late, but then she’ll say I should have left the house earlier to accommodate New York rush hour. Whatever, I’ll just take my punishment like an adult. When I reach her office she is checking herself out in a full length mirror hanging on her closet door. I knock before walking in.
“Hi Loretta. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes Naomi. Step in and please close the door behind you.” Here we go, this must be more serious than I thought.
“Have a seat.”
I’m definitely getting fired. It was fun while it lasted. Who am I kidding? I hate it here.
“Do you recall last week when we had our talk about being presentable to uphold the Posh Magazine brand at all times?”
Do I? I wish I could get that stupid speech out of my head. It makes getting dressed in the morning ten times harder and then I end up overthinking it. Everyone in the office walks around in designer clothes I can’t even pronounce let alone afford. I’m sure the dress she has on now costs about as much as my rent. I thought I’d tweaked my style enough to match their so-called chic aesthetic.
“Yes.”
“Good. I think you have a very um… eccentric look. It’s fun, but not exactly appropriate for our office.”
I look down at my plain green dress and wonder how much more corporate and boring could I get? Maybe I should stick to black from now on. Is this why I’m here? I don’t get it. I don’t respond, straighten posture straight, and continue to make a conscious effort not to screw up my face to as a reflection of what I am thinking.
“I am glad that you are making more suitable choices, but can I suggest that you tone down the jewelry a little more. It’s beautiful but a little too chunky, but neither here nor there. What I wanted to suggest to you is that you wear your hair in a different style.”
So that’s what this is about. My afro.
“Now personally I get natural hair, but you know it scares white people. They just don’t understand it,” she says imitating what I assume is her black girl voice.
My body goes numb and none of my limbs are mobile. The only sign of life is a slow blink of the eye and my left foot that is nervously bouncing up and down. Back in high school it meant someone was anxious or angry enough to fight. Right now, I’m a little of both. Did she just say what I think she said? First of all, don’t play me with a change of voice like we’re homegirls. At least insult my intelligence without using a black card I’m sure was revoked a long time ago. I’m trying my hardest to look away, but I can’t. How can another black woman sit here and look in my face and tell me I am too ethnic? If anyone should be able to understand me I thought it would be her. This is deeper than the way I dress, my hair, my position, or ever hers. Is this what corporate does to the self-esteem of the black woman? Does it tear her down and make her hate herself?
I don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to educate her on us “ethnic” women and no matter how many promotions they give her, both of our ancestors picked the same cotton. I think back to brunch with one of my mentors who warned me about working in a predominantly white corporate environment. I thought she was exaggerating when she said our own can be just as crude to us than anyone else. Now I understand. The cut is deeper when it’s your sister who’s holding the knife.
“You know what I mean girl?”
I want to choke this misplaced fake ghetto girl accent right out of her. Lord please give me enough strength to remain professional and leave this office without acting out of character. I wonder if it has crossed her mind that I could be recording her? Aside from blatant racism, I’m sure this qualifies as some kind of harassment or discrimination case. I guess there is no polite way to tell me I am too “black” for her liking.
“I think you should wear it flat ironed, press it out, or whatever you did the day of the interview. It was so pretty.”
Why is my blackness so offensive? I can feel the tears building and I have to get out of here and fast. I wouldn’t dare cry and give this color washed heathen the satisfaction of knowing she has finally gotten to me.
“Got it. I’ll wear my hair straight from now on.”
“Perfect. Oh, and one more thing. Make sure you’re smiling when you’re walking down the hall. I have to remind myself too from time to time because I tend to frown up. When people see you walking down the hall it should look like you’re excited to be here.”
Great. Now I’m the token angry black girl too. She’s right. I should be so appreciative that master has allowed me to intern in such a fine establishment even though I have worked twice as hard to sit in an edit row with a bunch of spoiled girls whose mommy or daddy picked up the phone and called in a favor. I can feel my emotional guard crumbling. I can’t take another minute. Without asking if she’s done I stand and open the door.
“And of course this little chat stays between the two of us.”
“Sure,” I give her a weak smile that crumbles as soon as I close the door behind me. She hasn’t even begun to hear the last of this little chat.
