But what if I occupy the space between?

“For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”     - Charles Bukowski

But what about if I occupy the space between?  

I do and I don't believe in God.  

I want to and I don't want to.  

I am drawn to and confused by the divine all at once. 

I cannot forsake the legacy of faith that I inherited, but I have made that faith my own, and now it is unrecognizable.  I hate street preachers and people that hand out tracts, but I could also live in the wilderness, barefoot, and talk about Jesus all day with locked hair, eating locusts and honey.

I feel like there is no space for a person who aches for justice and loves the prophets.  There is no space for me as I love mystics and meditation.  I wish that I had enough time in this life to learn Hebrew so that I could read the holy texts for myself.  I could also study in Tibet under Buddhist monks, shave my head, and wear saffron robes.  It feels right to stop what I am doing, abruptly set up my mat, and face Mecca to answer this global call to prayer.  I worship the moon and the tides and protons and neutrons and quarks.  I believe in science and evolution and germ theory and I believe that Ezekiel saw the wheel and that Jesus' spit and mud were a healing salve.  I believe in the holiness of blood as I watch a child born.  I honor my visceral instinct to worship mothers and their sacred wombs.  It makes me want to have a glass of wine and remember how this holy blood was also the life giving force that was shed for me.  I feel God when I read about deoxyribonucleic acid copying and editing itself and when I think about how mitochondria were once living things outside of our cells.  I feel fire in my bones when I sing counterpoint.  

I know that I cannot go inside the walls of the church, the church that I dearly love and miss, and belt its hymns at the top of my lungs.  I can speak the language and get by.  I know all the right words to use and I nod my head politely.  Eventually I betray myself.  I can see that I am a heretic.  I take my Torah up with me and leave.  Yet I know I am not welcom in academia with my eucharist either.  They eventually see that my gut reaction is lay my hands on everyone.  I leave them leading a small parade of the prophets behind me like ducklings.  

I have grown comfortable with ambiguity and inhabiting the in between spaces because I have to.  But it is lonely here.  I am lonely here.  

I have grown comfortable with my faith.  But my faith and my body and my mind require community.  And I don't know where to find my people.  I would love to belong somewhere.  

Dirty Birth

Advent is long gone, but it is my favorite time of year.  It is the only time that I feel like can blend in with the heard.  We are all waiting and hoping for light in a time of cold and darkness.  I was raised anti-catholic, and to fear Mary.  To give Mary any attention was to worship a false god.  Now I understand that fear of Mary has more to do with the patriarchy than an actual fear that we will deify her.

As I thought of advent this year, I meditated on Mary.  I wondered about her.  I couldn't stop thinking about her.  So I wrote down my thoughts.


Dirty Birth

She was so tired.  The traveling was a chore and a burden and not as exciting as she wished it was.  Her back ached so much.  She did not ride the donkey very much.  Getting on it was too cumbersome with her distended belly.  Her legs and thighs ached because of its heavy gait.  The donkey was old anyway and it was their only donkey.  So she walked.  Her back had a deep ache and the ache was getting deeper and deeper.  

*

On all fours she rocked back and forth on her hands and knees.  The woman that the property owner had brought to help her, a midwife, wanted her to try to get up and squat with a birth stool, but the squatting hurt too much. Even with the midwife offering her own body as support- Miryam refused.  She was just fine on her knees.  The contractions were too close together for her to move between them anyway.  As each one came and crashed against her body, she breathed as deeply as she could and involuntarily swayed her hips.  Her body was simultaneously grasping for relief and working hard to move a baby out.  The midwife rubbed Miryam’s back and a young girl, no more than 9 years old, stood rigidly against the wooden wall, eyes wide.  The child was ready with the birthing stool, a pile of sun dried rags, oil, and a wool blanket that was clean enough.  It was all they had had time to bring.  The midwife had her bag and barked orders at the sleepy girl to assist her.

The laboring mother groaned loudly and tears streamed down her face.  Her back and bottom burned from the contractions and she wished her mother and cousin were there to be her midwives.  She did not cry from the physical pain.  She cried because the young wide-eyed girl reminded her of her former self.  It was only a few years ago that she was 9 and old women barked orders at her.  So many things had happened in the span of a few years.  She was not ready to be a mother and a wife no matter how wonderful the child could be.  Miryam was not sure, but she had been laboring since before sunset, and it was going to be morning soon.  She did not feel favored during these hours.  In this hour she was utterly alone and unseen.    

She wept and dropped her head to the rough blanket they had given her on the dirt floor.  Her blanket was less than clean, but she did not care or notice.  It was dark in the stall and she was glad they could not see her cry.  She labored quietly, mind the groans and deep sighs.  She did not want to worry Yossef.  He was within earshot.  Or maybe he wouldn’t worry if she screamed and if she died.  If she were to die in labor, he would be free of her as his obligation.  He could start again.  He was a generous man.  He had kept his promises to her even when her belly swelled with child after she had been gone for months- living with her cousin.  People talked.  He stood by her and his promise.  She shook her head as if to shake the thoughts out.  If she survived this birth, she needed to prove herself strong and brave.  

Miryam would not scream yet.  She swallowed the cries with the next contraction.  She had torn her dress off an hour ago and thankfully the midwife was unalarmed to see a naked laboring mother, bottom up, sweaty, and mooing.  The dress was filthy from the walk and smelled.  It was better that it was off.       

The pain was unbearable.  Miryam wanted to rewind her life 40 weeks and say no to her blessing.  She wanted to crawl out of her skin and be back in the arms of her mother.  If she had the strength, she would have run away from the filthy stall.  She hadn’t forseen her life looking like this.  This was not how kings were born.  

Miryam didn’t know what she believed anymore.

“You are getting close,” the midwife said and firmly pressed on Miryam’s lower back.  She poured warmed oil on her fingers and massaged the laboring mother.  Miryam was so relieved to have the midwife touch her.  She felt momentarily less alone and the pressure on her back was a distraction.  No one had touched her in so long.  Yossef was- well- he was afraid of her.  He was distant.  She felt utterly alone.  Sometimes there were bouts of relief and she felt reassured that he trusted her.  She was glad to be his betrothed.  He had saved her from the disgrace of being alone and pregnant.  But he kept his distance and expected her to be the model wife.  She was humble, diligent, and obedient.    

She let out a cry and the midwife knew she was transitioning.

“I can see the head!”  The midwife shouted and used her fingers to make sure it was the top of the head she was feeling.  She motioned for the young girl to come to her.  Every birth was a new opportunity to learn.  The midwife would not tell her helper until later that she was glad to not feel an infant’s face, bottom, or feet.  The midwife was pleased that the soft spot of the infant’s head had a strong pulse.  Delivering dead babies was something she did often, but it never got easier.  Early in the labor, when the contractions were getting closer together, Miryam had nonsensically repeated that everything would be fine and that she was favored, but she also had a slight fever at that point.  The midwife didn’t mind a delirious laboring mother- she also didn’t mind if she did have a mother that was favored.  Uneventful births were happy births.  

Miryam continued to rock and her head was on the ground now.  She grasped the blanket tightly and pushed with every contraction.  The pushing helped bring small moments of relief.  But she was so very tired.  She had been having contractions as they walked into town.  She was able to walk through most of them.  As they got closer and closer to town, she had to stop walking for the duration of each contraction.  Yossef was clueless and frightened.  Miryam was clueless and frightened.  She boldly threw her arms around  him for the longer ones, which took them both by surprise.

She yelled out as she pushed.  She could not hear herself and she did not hear the commotion about her.  The young girl brought the rags and knelt down behind Miryam.  Newly born babies were slippery and the rags would help her catch the infant.  The young girl would catch the babe, the midwife would continue to rub the warm oil to sooth the burning that came with crowning.  All the women were knelt there together, taking up space on the modest blanket that was covering a filthy floor.   

Miryam’s back slouched and the midwife knew the young woman was exhausted.  

“You told me you would be fine and you are doing exceptionally well.  Maybe you are favored.”    Miryam’s head nodded slightly even as she rested it upon the scratchy blanket.  The stall they were in glowed dimly with the light of two meager lanterns.  Dawn was coming, but it was still very dark.  None of the women felt the chill in the air because they were working tremendously hard to birth a baby.  

“Now on this next one, take the biggest breath and push with everything you have and you can be done.  Prove to me you are favored,”  The midwife was both scolding her and encouraging her.  Miryam mustered all the strength she had left and lifted her head up off the blanket.  She inhaled and the midwife could see her back and ribs expand with air.

“That’s a good girl.  Now push!”

And as the midwife yelled at her to push Miryam groaned loudly until her body heaved with sobs.  The young girl caught the baby.  The midwife relaxed back on her heels.  Miryam collapsed forward on her side and before she knew it the 9 year old girl had already placed the baby on her sweaty chest.  Her hair was tangled and dirty and matted.  The baby cried out with life in her arms and she swept her hair away from her face to get a look at her child.  The midwife tied a string around the umbilical cord and wrapped the pair in the larger blanket.  They helped Miryam to sit up and nurse the baby.  

Her contractions continued and they would continue until she delivered the after birth.  Miryam felt them and she was aware of the discomfort but it did not matter to her.  Her body hummed and glowed with the warmth of her healthy baby.  Her betrothed was not there, and she was unclean, so he would not come too close.  She would be tended to by her family if she was at home.  But for now, she was all alone and in place that was not her home, in a room that was barely fit for animals.  She wept softly, overcome, but she did not feel sorry for herself.  

Maybe she was favored after all.  

Everything is like birth. And everything is like death.

*I wrote this in April but it was way too much to process at the time.  I am a safe distance from these things now, so I can share.  

My grampa’s one year deathaversary was just last week.  I spoke to my grandmother on the phone and we were able to enter into that sacred space of being candid and vulnerable and imperfect.  She has not slept well this last year without her partner and friend of over 60 years.  I told her I could not believe it had already been a year.  It feels like he just died.  My father died almost 17 years ago and it feels like he just died yesterday.  So much time has passed and the wounds are fresh and tender.  

Me: Gramma, does it feel like he [grampa] just died?

Gram: Sometimes yes and no.  Sometimes it feels like he has been gone for too long.  And sometimes it feels he was just here.

Me: Yeah.

Yeah.  That is exactly how it feels sometimes.  I remember holding his soft cool hand by his bedside as he lay there dying.  I sang him hymns.  He struggled to breathe.  I compulsively checked his radial pulse.  His heart just would not quit.  His face was gaunt.  He did not speak.  We waited and watched.  We waited for his death.  It took him a very long time to let go and to die.  It feels like it just happened yesterday.  Every pain and smell and sound is so near.  

Last week I was able to see my best friend give birth.  I was there when her first baby was born.  Six years ago her daughter was born in a hospital.  She had an epidural and I held one of her legs and her husband held the other.  She breathed and pushed and her daughter was born.  Today her daughter is leggy with golden pink hair and a coy smile.  I held that kid once as a swaddled burrito, her belly button scab came off on my shirt and I thought I broke her.  The 6 year old (that she has magically become) and I have a mad crazy bond.  She will always be my first kid, my first baby that I desperately love.  It is strange that she talks to me in full sentences.  It is strange that she knows stuff.  And she knows so much stuff.  It feels like she was just born yesterday.  

Last week I saw her sibling born, at home- a natural tub birth.  It was much different from watching my friend labor the first time.  I still held a leg, though.  The labor was long.  There was breathing and prayer and encouragement.  There was hand holding and grasping.  There was waiting.  There was listening and checking for the baby’s heart beat; it was so loud and strong- that little beat.  The labor was 16 hours.  For her 6th child, that was a long labor.  But then she pushed, and her son shot through the water in the tub and bobbed to the surface.  

The stark similarities between my grandfather’s death and my friend’s birthing are not lost to me.  The events were so similar, but they were so different.     



  

Safety Not Guaranteed

For as long as I can remember God has been my center.  I knew this even as a small child.  Now, as an alleged grown person, I wonder what that means.  I was raised with a simple faith.  I do not think my family meant to give me such a flimsy faith, but they could only give me what they had.  I was told to put a Bible under my pillow to protect me from bad dreams (it has never worked and I still suffer from bad dreams).  I was taught that you pray.  I somehow absorbed that if we pray we can get everything that we need.  This is simply not true.

I have to tell you that every single time I realize that there is no safety net as I walk this high wire, it is as if my body is being slammed onto a brick wall at a high speed.  It just sucks that there is no protection for us.  So I have always struggled with prayer and to figure out who this God is that I am drawn to, whom I beg to stay by my side.  

Dear God, please be with me.  

I always thought that my safe passage in this world was guaranteed because I was in the God club; I was saved.  Isn’t that what saved means?  As a girl I had many prayers: that we could live in a house, that the scars on my knees would go away, and that my dad wouldn’t have cancer anymore.  My dad died of cancer.  I never lived in a house with my dad.  My knees are still banged up.  

God, I am so tired.  I need strength.

So with my heart and guts wrenched out, why is it that I still find myself praying to this God?  

God, you have thousands upon thousands of angels.  Can you send one in please.  I know you can.  

So what the shit is prayer for anyway?  I met a girl in college who I grew to love.  I knew that I could not live without her.  But I was so afraid of her dying.  She was so sick.  I wanted to pray for her healing.  I wanted to ask God to let me keep her.  I knew prayer did not work like that.  I prayed anyway.  My prayers were always frantic and beggy.  They still are.  I wept and sobbed.  I carry with me so many stories of unanswered prayers: stillborn babies, orphaned children, uncured illnesses, burned down and flooded homes, small wounds that led to amputation because there wasn’t enough money to see a real doctor, a starving mother with twins who only has enough milk to nurse one baby.  I hold these tragedies in my heart, and carry them with me wherever I go.  My natural inclination is still to pray.  

Please, God.  Please help.  Send help soon. 

[cricket chirping noises]

There isn’t anything else to do but pray.  That is why I still do it.  I get so mad sometimes that God brought me into this world.  I did not agree to the terms of this life.  Yet here I am- alive.  This life on this earth is so very, very, painful.  I have lost things I cannot live without.  I will continue to lose people I cannot live without.  We are subjected to great suffering here.  

God, I am so tired.  

Why am I still here?  Because I can hear God calling me to stay.  It feels like I am treading water in the cold open ocean and the sharks can smell blood.  Every now and then, I feel warmth, I get a deep breath, someone lets me rest my head on their shoulders and swims for me.  The girl I met in college is healed.

God, thank you.  Just- thank you.  Help me hold on to this relief.

Before I feel rested I am back to treading water again with salt water up my nose, chapped lips, and a sore body.

Ugh, God.  I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

I still hesitate to pray.  It is hard to ask when the answer seems to so often be a still and silent- no.  I just cannot resist prayer.  Even when I am filled with doubt, my mind does it anyway.  I ask for the easiest way out of things, and the only thing God gives me is God.  I am not promised safe passage through this world.  I will continue to have my heart wrenched out of my chest.  God will continue to be there by my side like a faint whisper.  

Conclusion to the Harassment Saga

I ultimately decided to speak with my HR person.  I was very nervous and my stomach made a lot of unwelcome noises.  I also have a hard time catching my breath when I get nervous- so that was a fun thing that happened, too.  I told her everything.  I told her about all three incidents.  She was most appalled that I was harassed about my ethnic ambiguity.  I explained to her that my defense is to joke about things, so I did my fair share of that while my boss was harassing me.

And it was like the mighty waters of the Red Sea parted before me.  My HR rep said, “Our supervisors are trained on this type of thing every year.  They know that even if the person goes along with the harassment or makes a joke- it is still wrong to do.  This was not ok.  I am glad you said something because there is a good chance that someone else on your team feels this way and doesn’t feel comfortable enough to admit it.”

Wow.

She affirmed my experience and she also threw in a bit of support and encouragement.  Is it sad that all of that was shocking to me?  I got so burned the last time I stood up for myself at my work place, that I forgot that some people actually do their jobs and care about professionalism and proper conduct in the work place.

The HR person did tell me that there had to be an investigation (and I almost crapped right there when she said that).  She was very clear about my rights during all of this.  I told her I was concerned that I would not be voted on as an official employee(your coworkers vote to keep you on the island during your first few months).  She was clear in explaining the confidentiality that had to be kept about this and she told me to come speak to her again if my bosses were treating me differently.  She told me, 

“You have rights and you will be protected.”  

2nd Wow.

It was really hard.  I am glad I did it.  Both my supervisors admitted to acting inappropriately.  Neither of them have been unprofessional towards me in any way or treated me poorly.  It is a relief and I am glad to have it behind me.

Even though all things confrontational and harassment related are settled at work, I still feel uneasy about something.  I feel uneasy about how I felt and about how I handled it.  I was afraid and I wanted to hide.  I expect more from myself.  I assumed that I would be braver and louder, sooner.  I actually considered not saying anything.  I really wanted to sweep it all under the carpet and pretend like it hadn’t happened.  I knew that ignoring it all would make me bitter, and it wouldn’t change anything, but confrontation is just awful. 

When I was younger and less bitter, confrontation did not bother me as much.  Perhaps it was because I did not know any better, I was more optimistic, I had way more energy to deal with these types of things.  Maybe I did not want to say anything at work because I know that all one needs to do at work is be professional.  I do not feel like I am being an agent of change at my workplace.  The only lesson my bosses only learned was to be quiet- there was no internal struggle or change.  They don’t know why the things they said to me are inexcusable, oppressive to me, and self oppression.  

And I am so fucking tired of contributing to and operating in a system that confuses proper conduct with liberated critical thinking.  This thing- this situation- is exactly what is wrong with our system, our culture.  The HR person said it perfectly, “We can’t change what people think.  They can think whatever they want.  But they need to know better than to say these things out loud.”

I nodded.  

I nodded because I know that it is not on my workplace’s agenda to do in depth diversity training in order to change the way people think about the world and the folks they share it with.

But therein lies the problem: we just walk around and slap band aids on everything.  HR’s job was to slap band aids on things and force apologies (much like my parents used to do).  My brother and I would smack each other and my mother would force us to apologize to each other AND forgive each other.  We would apologize through clenched jaws and we knew once our mother was out of sight we would start our quest for the justice that we really wanted- the last punch.  We learned nothing from our fights  about how to treat each other with respect or talk about our feelings or working together as a team/family.  All we learned was how to say the right things to get authority to leave us alone.  

My bosses did not learn about why the things they said to me were way out of line other than- stop saying illegal shit or this person is gonna sue us!  It is hard to be an active participant in that kind of ineffective system.  

And I just don’t know what to do with that.

Adventures in Anti-Semitism at Work: Part 2

Is this a bad dream?  When will it end?

So after my supervisor harassed me about my ethnicity for almost an entire shift, I got to have a break; my offending supervisor was out.  I had a day to think about how I wanted to handle things.  However the people that I had planned to talk to, my team leader and the HR person, were both off today.  My shift was going well, even when the person I was trying to avoid came up to me to shake my hand.  I am pretty sure she knew something was up because I am a very firm handshaker.  Today I barely returned her shake and she held on for awhile as if trying to resuscitate my hand.  For her- my hand has a DNR order.  

I decided to just keep my mouth closed unless she said something to me or asked me about my race again.  I did not speak to her or look at her if I did not need to.  I could tell that she tried to initiate conversation with me about produce and cooking, and she isn’t the type of person that participates in small talk.  I am glad she knows that I am not playing around.

One of my other supes (there are 8 total- and yes, that is insane), Let’s call her S, was returning from helping a customer and she looked wilted and devastated.  Customer service is a brutal business, y’all.  We often get treated poorly by customers and we just have to take it. 

Me:  Oh no.  What happened?

S:  I have never been so disrespected in my life.

Me: Crap.  What happened?

S:  She just kept saying to me, “Listen to what I am saying to you.  No! You are not listening to my words.  Do you hear what I am saying?”  She treated me like I am stupid and beneath her.

Me: I am so sorry dear, I know you guys get all the rudeness at the desk.  People are mean to me sometimes, but they spew all their garbage at you.

S: Yeah, and it was one of these types of customers [as she said ‘these’ she hovered her hand over the boxes that she had in her hand.  I work in a grocery store so it is not a mystery that she was holding food.  I just had not noticed what kind of food she was holding- because everyone is holding boxes of food at our store.  She was holding 2 boxes of matzo.]

I cannot remember what I did when she said that, but I know I thought, “AGIAN?!?  Are they trying to kill me?”  S tried to recover.

S:  You aren’t one of these are you? [She hovered her hand over the box again as if she was asking me if I was matzo, or if I was the sort of person that eats matzo.  But I knew what S was really getting at.  She was asking me if I was Jewish.]

Me: No.  But I wish I was. [I have a tattoo in Hebrew clearly visible on my wrist and there are Jewish folks in our department.  I am dizzy with disbelief]

S: I know there are a lot of good ones.  But there are also bad ones, too [insert her fumbling story trying to justify what she just said.]

My heart pounded as I returned to work and I all I could think about was how I have only worked at this place for 3 weeks and my ears have been on the receiving end of a lot of oppressive talk.  I was upset with myself for not being more forthcoming with my supe when she was harassing me.  So I decided that I would tell S that what she said really bothered me.  

S and I spoke and she knew right away that she had offended me.  She said my facial expression dropped as she was speaking (for years people have been calling me out about my face revealing my every thought- so you would think that my co-workers know when I am offended by their words).  She apologized and said she knew better.  She knew better because people say horrible things to her.  S is a white South African.  There are a lot of things we can all judge a white South African person for.  S also gets shit for not being a Black African.  It is complicated, right?  You would think (I would think) she knew better.  I also vaguely told her that someone was asking me my race repeatedly and that that was illegal.  She agreed and was shocked to hear about that happening to me.  She even said, “That IS illegal.”  So, yeah- I am going to have to talk to my department head about this.  Snarfblat.  

I was speaking to a dear friend of mine about making a social experiment of myself and how that backfired in a really bad way.  She was encouraging me to tell my team leader about the harassment.  I confessed to her a fear that stops many of us from telling our stories- I am afraid of being THAT person.  And then she said this to me:

But you are that person.  You are sensitive about race.  And that isn’t a bad thing.

She is right.  I am that person.  It is ok that I am that person.  Someone has to be.  Someone has to see these things and remember that they are important.  I did not intentionally pray about this, but I did say in my head, “Oh my God!?  Why the heck does this keep happening to me?  Why am I the one seeing this?  It is so ridiculous...it doesn’t even seem real.”  

I wonder if this 3rd thing happened to me because it has me so tired and so done that I have no choice but to speak with my team leader about E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.  I hope he is ready for an ear full.  I am afraid of not being voted on as a team member, but I also don’t think my workplace wants to have a person with a solid review record not getting officially hired because they complained about racism.  That wouldn’t look good for them.  So I am reminding myself to be courageous.

"What are you?": The question that I cannot seem to handle.

     I really do not mean to be melodramatic, but I have to tell you that I am done with almost everyone.  For the remainder of Lent I want to give up stupid people.

     Last week I had to tell my boss of two weeks that one of my superiors said a really terrible thing.  When this person said the offensive thing they said, I thought, “what fresh hell is this?  I left my old job so I could work in a safe and respectful environment and you had to go and be racist right away?!”  This is what happened at work last week.

Me: Working customer service is hard.

Cool supervisor: Oh yeah, I have some stories.

[Witty banter that is hilarious.  It is nice to let off steam.]

Me: When people do not make a 10 cent donation, I judge them harshly.

Cool supervisor:  Yeah.  At my old store people would walk all the way to the customer service desk to get their dime back.

Me: That is just insane.

Cool Supervisor:  Yeah.  And I hate to say it but this area is really-

Me:  Wealthy!  The houses are HUGE around here!

Cool Supervisor:  No.  I was gonna say that this area is super Jewish.

Me:  [cricket noises and rapid eye blinking that in morse code reads “are you fucking kidding me right now?”]

Formerly Cool Supervisor that is horrendously racist: I know that sounds bad but I have two Jewish friends that are dating.  Going out to eat with them and splitting the check is ridiculous!

Me: [Holy God.  She is digging the hole deeper.]

Currently horrendously Racist supervisor: I mean one will say to the other, “I will give you 50 cents if you let me have a bite of your sandwich.”  Isn’t that insane?

Me: [Why does this shit happen to me?  I am so tired.]

My face at work today.

     My supervisor thought she was a good person because she would donate a dime or buy her friend dinner- all while being a horrendous and blatant racist.  And therein lies the problem.  She thinks she is morally superior while still being trapped inside of these thoughts that place value judgements on entire groups of people.  

     I did not say anything to her because I was shocked, tired, and did I mention that I am done hearing people say stuff like this?  I had a fight in my head that made me feel guilty for not saying anything to her.  Ugh.  I am beneath her and I am new and these folks have to vote on me in 2 months so I can officially be hired.  I need this job and if I tell someone, there is a good chance she will know I said something.  I ended up telling my big boss and he was super awesome about it.  He made me feel listened to and he was disappointed because this racist person is in leadership.  Unlike my last job, I was reassured that it would be handled in an anonymous way that reminded folks to be mindful of the diverse and professional environment that we work in.

     Hold on to your underpants because I am going to tell you about what just happened to me at work today.  

     The nature of my ethnicity is, for some godawful reason (rather- the reason is historical and obvious, but I am completely over it), a topic that interests almost everyone.  I almost thought I was out of the dark at my new job.  I have worked there for almost four whole weeks and no one has come up to me and said, “what are you?”  I think part of that is because we don’t have a lot of down time to be social and exchange pleasantries.  But today, as I was with a customer, one of the big supervisors of my department came up to me and dropped the bomb.  

Black female supervisor who I think should know better: What are you?

Me: Hmm. [frown]

Black female supervisor who doesn’t know better: You know- like what is your ethnicity?

Me: . . . what do you think?

Black female supervisor who I lost all respect for: Well we thought you are a mix of Latino and Black.

Me: [sweet god, she said “we.”  These assholes have discussed it.] Well- I am not Latino. [I love to tell people this because it really confuses them.]

     I continued to do my job (because I was at work and that is what I am supposed to do) and for the next two hours she kept randomly coming up to me and listing ethnicities.  I wanted to try a new approach to handling this question because I am so sick of being asked.  But I am suddenly dreading the fact that I have made myself a social guinea pig.  Fuck me.  I would be with a customer and I would hear yelled to me, “Native American?!”  I shook my head.  I was stacking up baskets and I heard, “Grecian?!”  I was hoping that she would drop it.  Then the other floor supervisor came up to me, “Armenian?”  

     Now two people were asking me.  Then my supervisor goes up to a co-worker and starts talking about it.  She thought it was light hearted, but I wanted to hide.  I said nothing.  All three of these women made about 15 guesses over the span of 3 hours.  Just when I had forgotten about it, I would get another question.  At the end of my shift, my supervisor came up to me and said, “Jewish?”  

     I know that I am ethnically ambiguous.  I know that in this country, in this world, I am can only go so far on my brain and my wit and my grit.  I know that I am probably one of the smartest people in my work place.  I am also a very hard worker.  I come from a long line of workaholics.  I am also fucking brilliant, folks.  I don’t shout it out often, but I am intelligent and I will wreck the curve in a hot minute- do not tempt me.  In my first lab class in college we had to pick partners and I dreaded it.  All I could think was, ‘I need to find someone nearly as smart as me because I do not want some idiot that I have to drag around for the semester.”  I am ruthless.  

But my skin is not white.  

     I do not just get to float on by, undisturbed with my white skin.  No, I have to tell people my race so they can figure me out.  My brain does not mean as much, it does not weigh as much, as white brains.  My work will never speak for itself.  It is hard to be reminded of the fact that I have to prove myself; I will always have to show people my papers.  I want to tell you that I have gotten used to it.  I want to get used to it.  I have very thick skin.  But this thing chases after me and I keep running as fast as I can, hoping that I can outrun it.  It gets me every time.  

     What makes it worse is that the three people who harassed me about my race today are Women of Color.  I wanna get up in their faces and say, "You should know better.  The same way you want to categorize me is the same sort of thing that boxes you in and allows people to label and limit you.  Way to oppress all of us.  Thanks so much."  

     I also want to blame myself for what happened today.  If I would have just told her, like I usually do, I could have avoided this.  But that small voice inside my head, the same one that didn’t want an idiot for a lab partner, knows that this was not my fault.  At one point I spoke up to my supervisor.

Me: I am sure this is illegal.  You can’t ask me this.

Black female supervisor who I lost all respect for: It’s not illegal.

Me: It is if you are only asking me and singling me out and making me uncomfortable.

Black female supervisor who I lost all respect for: I know everyone else’s race, though.

     She handled this with smiles and laughs.  

     The sad thing is- I just told my department boss about what happened with my other supervisor last week.  I do not want to be THAT person.  I do not want my voice and my complaint to be watered down because I am complaining to my boss again.  This fucking sucks.

     Right now, I know that the right thing to do is to tell.  I always want everyone to tell.  We always need to tell.  We always need to hold people accountable.  But I cannot lie.  I don’t want to.  I am too tired.  I am afraid of being that person.  I want to curl up inside of myself and just talk to the few people at work who (I think and hope) are gonna leave me alone about my race.  I feel like I am betraying myself and so many other people by staying silent.   

I am tired.

I am so confused.

I am sick of being in awkward work situations.

I don’t want to have to be the one who speaks up, and teaches people how to act, and does the right thing.

     If I don’t tell, I will not respect myself and I don’t think you should respect me either.  If I do tell, I am going to be afraid and anxious all the time.  

I feel ubiquitously fucked.