Yesterday, I meet with my manager for our weekly meeting. As always, I was expecting to be blindsided by her turn of attitude. Her persona changing from the forced smile of undersexed, dance mom to that of the Devil wears Target.
She didn’t disappoint…
I stared at this control freak of a woman, who sat across from me, with what I can only hope was a neutral expression on my face. All the while, I was already mentally checked out of the meeting when she started up with, “Now for the negative…” half way through this unproductive conversation.
As she began to relay concerns from people ranging from her boss and my coworkers in regards to my “bad attitude”, I could only think of comedians who “shucked and jived” on stage, demonstrating the joke of having to appease a white person for some sort of gain.
Then my own caricature popped in my head. An unreal version of myself that was created for the survival of being a black face in the white corporate world. Her once long straight hair, which had been slowly curling, was now natural and almost wild. The fake, broad smile that stayed plastered on her face was now gone. What remained was her full lips curled up on one side, silently making the black woman sound of disapproval, “Hmmm.”
But the most noticeable thing about my caricature, she wasn’t dancing. She was standing there with her hand at her hip looking at me. Waiting on me. Judging me.
I tuned back into the one-sided conversational assault just in time to make a small defense for myself that wasn’t worth the effort. In my mind’s eye, I could see my caricature shake her head and walk away into the darkness of my brain.
The request, demand, or statement of telling a black woman to fix her attitude feels like an attack based on a false narrative rather than constructive criticism. When I, as a black woman, sit in a department meeting full of white faces I feel like my face is the only one picked on since it sticks out. While the room is full of expressionless, somber, or focused faces, somehow only mine seems to be deemed as something different and threatening to the team dynamic.
Why is it when I speak as honestly as my white counterpart, my words are seen as laced with attitude and hostility but not hers? She is thanked for her honesty and allowed to continue on with her work while I am pulled into private meetings with management to address my attitude. Once again, I am forced to swallow my pride and who I am because something about me seems bothersome to my white superiors.
“Just Smile…”
Such a simple action. But why do I have to smile when I am not happy? Why do I have to smile when my determine expression should be all you need to know I am here to work? Why do I have to smile when no one else is?
After my meeting, I decide it is time to look for another job. It is disappointing because when I started with this company I was excited that I was joining a company where there was female leadership and a sea full of black women with natural hair. Black women who came in all shapes and sizes and seem to not put on a persona to fit some image.
But I realized, many had their own stories of being told they were “bullies” or had “negative attitudes.” They too took the beating until some left and other are left behind waiting for their exit plan to take effect as well. Now it was my turn to find some place that wouldn’t demand a smile, but would create an environment worthy of one.
As I started to think about the things I would have to do to fit in at a new company or at least to interview, my caricature started to emerge from the darkness. She was flat ironing her hair and stretching her mouth in preparation for a massive smile. But what kept me staring at her the longest were her shoes. They were tap shoes and on the side in white paint were the words “Shuck” and “Jive.”
The Office Black Girl 