Sistahs.

The only real people (in that their facade matched their souls…is there really anything wrong with that?) were African American girls I worked with. Maybe it’s not “PC” to say and maybe I shouldn’t notice those things, but it’s been true almost everywhere I’ve worked, and especially my last position. These women often got me through very rough times, and they know it now, because I told them before I left. Two in particular ended up in my department. They were demoted, frankly. Their department was a branch of our overall section of the company. They took a pay cut to be there. They had no choice but to stay and take it. Is it me or does this happen a great deal in companies like this with entrenched management and low-paid employees? When I started there were five Caucasians and one sistah. When I left there was me and three sistahs. The job I interviewed for started out pretty evenly apportioned, but that turned all honkeys by the time I left. Is it too much of a reach to see a class division even in that?

I miss those two gals, and I hope they find happiness, but not all class wars are imagined. They worked hard and followed the rules. They did what the posters on the wall said. They gave it their all and didn’t cut corners or take shortcuts. And I’m certain they both left nothing in the toilet when they left it. One chick told me that the ladies room was nasty. She told me there was the odd used tampon on the floor, left by a sistah, she assumed to me. I loved it. Can you imagine? What a culture.

Once I asked a sistah (a different one) if she wanted to go to lunch with me. Once the words came out of my mouth, I felt a wall go up. Not because she didn’t like me. But because in her world, the concept seemed so…odd. It wasn’t a date or anything. I liked her. But there you are!

I like to believe lots of things.

 

Stay strong, Sistahs. I love you.

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