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Story Eight

….the thing is, what they do is kind of sneaky and it can be hard to explain why it is wrong to other people. But it is like water dripping on the ground all the time, making a hole that gets bigger and bigger. Sometimes it’s things like calling me by the name of a Black woman that used to work here that everyone hated and said was lazy. My name is nowhere close to hers, but if I say something they are like “oops”. But they do that when they think I haven’t done something I should have done. And because I am a woman, I am always on the roster to wash the dishes and clean the toilet. The guys are never put on for those things. Or the fact that only the white guys get the regular shifts, and all of the colored folk and women have to work the crap split shifts. Or how they can all be laughing and then get quiet when you come in the room and then they all stare at you. Or asking what’s up with the braids, if I worry about animals getting in there and nesting. It’s exhausting to have to go to work, to be on edge all of the time just waiting for them to pick on you. I can’t remember there has been a day without something, but they tell me I’m too sensitive if I try to say something.