Today something happened which was quite unsettling. Early this morning, I was speaking to a co-worker in his partitioned cubicle. It was close enough to hear the receptionist greet a client. I could gather who she was from the greeting. It was an early morning meeting to work out the finer details of this prototype job I’d been involved with over the last few weeks. I had told our receptionist that I was expecting this customer, would be awaiting her arrival, and that she should be escorted to the shop floor to meet me.
At this point the receptionist felt it necessary to mention, “There’s no missing him. He’s a hundred kilos of man-meat.”
My stomach sank. I felt like a dog as I followed them into the factory seconds later, pretending nothing happened. Growing up as an ethnic minority in the South, you would think I’d have a thicker skin. I mean, I was called nigger like it was my surname. But this was all too real and cut too deep. I was upset the rest of the day. Having grown up with the respect of others as one of my father’s highest priorities, this somehow blindsided me.
Even now that I’m home enjoying a Scotch, it’s wearing on me. Am I being too precious? Should I make a stink about it, or should I just let it go?
Tags: minority, racism, sexism, work
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