well, boss man must have woken up this morning knowing he had to fire me today. he sent me an email at 6:47am asking if i could come to a meeting in his office at 1pm. sure, boss man, i replied. but can you tell a nigga what the nature of this meeting is? (sorry folks, i’s letting it all hang out today. WHAT.) boss man replies not. so the tone of my day is set. when i arrived, right before 9, i went to the mini-fridge and took out my soy milk. came to my desk planning to eat breakfast like a good girl. had granola in my drawer. hung up my sweater, washed my hands, logged in. when i saw his message, my appetite departed. marched back to the fridge/thoughts of a black woman facing unemployment: i may need to save that food. i put it away and started thinking about my life. today, walking my 11 year old to school, i thought, i look like i’m still in high school. i felt like it too. my body is the same, minus the stretch marks, 3 pounds, and 14 years. i wore a gray hoodie, tight skinny jeans with rips in them, pumas, and a black t-shirt i picked up in manhattan that reads GAY IS THE NEW BLACK. not exactly the best outfit to get fired in. but hell, maybe it’s perfect…. i stood in my office, right next to my open door and took my shirt off, paisley bra and breasts paused in the cold a/c air. fuck it. i reversed it. deodorant stains. put my long black sweater on. went to the basement office to interrogate the (black) administrator (the only “other one”). by now, it’s all a conspiracy and i’m the only one left out of the loop. i press her for details, and she eventually tells me to uncle tom it a bit. fuck that. “be nice,” she says. what else would i be? i’m not angry. my hands are cold as ice right now and i need a new job. needed one before today. i didn’t spend 100K in student loans to edit math and science textbooks. i’m a writer. and a single mother. and a black woman. and an american. so maybe this is where the story really begins. again.
Sometimes I drink too much.
Nonfiction Woman 