A Discriminating Silence
by Joy Zeigler
The other day, my next door neighbor Pete, a plump middle-aged plumber who actually wore baggy please-don’t-bend-over blue jeans, said “Load of crap” to no one specific. He and his wife were sitting on my patio, he reading the newspaper while she nursed her youngest, waiting for the hamburgers I was grilling and French fries I was frying, while his kids ran riot in my back yard, even through my garden, though I’d chased them off several times. Then he turned to his wife Mabel. “You know that black guy who sued a bank for hiring a white guy instead of him? He won! The bank’s got to pay him for income he supposedly lost, and give him a job paying the same as the one he wanted. He’s gotten away with bank robbery, legally! I swear, it’s us blond-haired blue-eyed guys who are discriminated against.”
Pete scratched what was left of his grey hair and turned his blood-shot brown eyes to me. “No offense, Emerald.”
His self-righteous, condescending tone inspired in me a desire to shove one of those hamburger patties down his throat, along with my fist. I tried to divert my thoughts. I reminded myself that I am valuable, like the jewel Mama named me after, no matter what Pete or anyone else thinks.
Kids used to tease me, call me “Emerald City,” but I’ve been stuck in Kansas my entire life, figuratively speaking. No glimmering red shoes to click together for a wish or two. Momma’s inspiration for my name came from an emerald ring given to her by my father, a man I’ve never met. She doesn’t wear it anymore, but she did back then. I guess she had her hopes. We all have our hopes.
I don’t show anger easily. My cheeks don’t redden, being “dark as night”, as I’d overheard tittering old ladies at the First Baptist Church describe us, the members of St. Paul’s Evangelical Episcopal Baptist. We’d attended their church a few times after their pastor invited our pastor, Brother Andrew, to help him “bring the light of racial reconciliation” to the town. When I asked why they didn’t come to us instead, their congregation being half our size, Brother Andrew said he supposed the light wouldn’t have shone as bright in a black church.
Keeping my back to Pete, I responded, “None taken.”
It was a lie.
I seem to take offense at every slight I hear these days, which keeps me offended most of the time. Especially at work.
I used to have one of those bosses Pete loves to hate, who hired me, a black woman, just because I was more qualified than anyone else who applied for the job. Imagine that. But then he retired, and the new guy still hasn’t adjusted to me, his Assistant Director.
Not that he says anything. The idea that he would ever look at me and say, “Emerald, you do a damned fine job” is as likely as him saying “Emerald, you’ve won the lottery”; “Emerald, you’re the next President of the United States”; “Emerald--,” well, you get the idea. When he speaks to me at all, it’s a perfunctory “Good morning, Emerald. Good night, Emerald. Have a nice weekend, Emerald.” Or, “Type this, file that, get such-and-such on the phone. Please.”
Always the impeccably polite “please”.
I rank highest among his administrative support staff. My previous boss was color blind, an odd fellow for this town. He expected a lot from me, as he did from all of his support staff, and I rose to the challenge. He knew he was lucky to have me, and he didn’t mind telling me so.
The new guy is color blind, too, I guess. He sees everything in black and white.
My job is easy now, since he expects very little from me. Maybe I shouldn’t mind. He’s never complained about my work, or threatened to dock my pay, or given me any reason to worry about losing my job. He just treats me different than the other “girls”. Not that I want him to call me “girl,” like he does all the other female staff. With them, he’s the affectionate, paternal open-door-policy boss-friend, and they love him. Everyone loves him.
At least, all the white ones do.
Ah, there it is, loud and clear, the collective moan of half of my readers, accosted by another ‘poor-me-the-mistreated-minority’ whiner. Another affirmative action charity case who can’t make it on her own. Another African American/Asian/female/fill-in-the-blank who stole your job or got the raise you deserved.
I have it all, right? An easy, secure job, a position higher in rank than most black women would ever aspire to. So what’s my problem?
My problem is the silence.
When I ask questions --“Where do I file this?”, “How many will be at your meeting?” “May I have the address for this letter?”—he won’t answer. He literally turns away.
As silly as it sounds, I must go to one of the other administrative staff for the answer. If she doesn’t know—and how could she? She’s not his assistant—she can always ask him. She can walk right into his office, wait for his open-door-policy smile, and ask him just about anything.
Once, I made the mistake of asking a personal question: “How was your weekend?” Along with his eyes traveling to the stapler on the edge of his desk, his mouth turned down. My forwardness had rankled him. My ignorance of the faux pas embarrassed him. So the possibility of discussing questions dearer to my heart, like “May I have a raise, at least to the level of my coworkers?” is slim.
Lord knows I’ve withstood criticism before, been shouted at until my ears rang. No matter, I know how to shout back, to stand up for myself.
But this silence that discriminates based on the color of my skin…how do I stand up to that?
Joy Zeigler lives in The Woodlands, Texas with her husband, daughter and cat. She teaches math at Lonestar Community College, and is currently revising a mystery novel.
