My White Former Boss Had No Problem Telling Me Her Racist Family Stories
The manner in which she would whitewash her words in describing her hate-filled father was beyond my threshold for respect or tolerance.
Let’s do lunch
What you’ll put up with can defy understanding when you need a job — what you’ll endure for a paycheck. Having been “in-between” layoffs for quite some time, landing in a job where I could get out of the rain for a spell was a welcomed triumph — a desperately needed tick of the box.
On my first day, the team was to meet downstairs in the common area for lunch. These “encouraged” team lunches were a focus of the CEO; lunches he himself would never attend. Every day around noon, my new boss (or another colleague) would swing by my desk and extend their invite: “it’s almost lunchtime, we’re meeting downstairs.”
Early discussions over these noontime meals started off innocently enough — sharing of origin stories, general “get to know you” explorations, and the occasional light-hearted comment about the seemingly crumbling world around us. Standard fare for newly introduced people in an unfamiliar setting. These exchanges were fine in practice and did provide a welcoming insight to my new colleagues.
Black or white
During one of those first “get to know you” lunches, I learned that my new boss was a huge fan of Michael Jackson. Who isn’t right? In a calculated effort to show interest, I probed a bit out of respect, and for new job preservation.
Rather than jump into the deep tracks of Mr. Jackson’s catalog, she took an unexpected right turn and went straight for… “Every time I played Michael Jackson in my room while growing up, my father would come in and tell me to turn it off.” I remember thinking this wasn’t atypical. A parent putting the hammer down on their kid’s music choice — sounds familiar. After these words hit the air space, however, and with little reaction from me, she doubled down with a follow-up to emphasize her apparent point.
“He didn’t want me playing ‘Black people music’ in the house.”
It was the manner in which she so cavalierly let this sentence roll off her tongue that shocked me the most. Not her father forbidding Black music to be played in the house but rather her indifference when mentioning this little chestnut. This unearthed memory on her part served as a springboard for future inappropriate, bordering on disturbing retellings of her father’s discrimination and ill will toward non-whites.
As I got to know my boss, it became clear she had a love-hate relationship with her father whom she would frequently discuss in between bites of her meal-delivered lunches. One minute she would throw hate daggers at the mere mention or thought of him, and the next, be the first to prop his accomplishments and defend his standing as a giant of a human being. This unwillingness to commit to a position, I never understood.
As a subordinate and on new job behavior, I took it all in; careful not to pass judgment or give her reason to regret her decision on hiring me.
At times my discomfort must have been visible. My inner conflict was always how best to remove myself each day from this involuntary storytime, yet this was a new job after all and I felt compelled (to a point) to put up with this crap for fear of making her turn on me. Ridiculous I know, but the things you’ll do when you need to pay the bills.
Each instance a troubling story of racism broke my ear tolerance barrier, I got the sense that her motive was to convince me she did not share in her father’s racist views — that her objective was to point out the indignity of his ideology while at the same time be enthused by telling me about his atrocities. I kept waiting to see another side of this person, hoping a conscience would appear and show empathy for those she painted as the innocent characters in her troubling stories of indifference. But that never came.
It was obvious that there were no boundaries she would not cross. One day, in a moment of unexpected confidence or overflow of being “fed up,” I questioned her on why she was sharing these microaggression-laden tales with me.
Her response… “I thought you would be interested.”
What?!
Why would anyone, especially a Black person, be interested in hearing such disgusting examples of racism? These weren’t typical yarns spun around a campfire (well, unless you were at a cross burning). What was my purpose here? Maybe I was hired simply as a showpiece, a token?
The bark is worse than the bite
Team lunches over the next month continued, as did the stories of her racist father — for whatever reason. Another instance, in particular, caused my attention to pique. While revisiting her father’s distaste for any and everything “Black people,” she began to chronicle yet another story. This one about the family dog, a dog she was very close to as a child. Her father, who dipped into his own supply and was often intoxicated with the hatred he had for the Black community, felt the need to train the family dog to not only bark at Black people but to attack on command. Her tone-deaf demeanor I remember not landing with any acknowledgment of the room or concern of how it might have come across to an audience — a Black audience.
The walks down memory lane did not stop at Michael Jackson or stories about Cujo. Her father, a mechanic by trade, owned “the most successful and profitable” (as she put it) shop north of Chicago and by his own admission would single out Black customers as a target for his fury — often sabotaging their vehicles just so he could squeeze additional money out of a repair.
Perhaps a common practice in the industry but the maliciousness of such action toward a specific race of people for nothing more than to take advantage of someone is fundamentally disturbing given the systemic racism in America.
Surprisingly, the talk of innocent people her father would target with his ire would be shelved if the lunchtime numbers were more than she and I. An occasional slip-up would eject a quip of discrimination, probably as the rest of the team — white team — never questioned the subject matter.
It seemed these little nuggets were just for me, and for my discomfort only.
She did have an ally who on occasion would laugh along at the absurdness of her father’s unabashed attitudes toward Black people: although I could never tell if he was amused or in alignment with her father’s view of the world.
This former colleague, a self-proclaimed nihilist, whose unfiltered, uninhibited style, would frequently be the star attraction in group settings as his takedown of conventional conversation left people stunned. I found his complete disregard for people dysfunctional, but oddly, laughable. The manner in which he would dissect and judge every aspect of life was an embarrassment of riches for an amusement-seeking listener, yet it was a pleasant distraction from the library of racist volumes I had to suffer through during those highly encouraged team lunches with my boss.
Enough about me, let’s talk about me
The lunchtime stories would commence almost immediately once cheek hit seat in the common area. I often wondered if an evil experiment was at hand or if I was being tested — if she was trying to push my tolerance level and see if I would react a certain way. Twisted. But she presented herself as someone who generally thought her audience — me — wanted to hear these abominations of familial racism. Maybe because of my not calling her out, she felt empowered to continue her one-woman show leaving little doubt as to whether or not I was all in with bated breath.
It was survival, nothing more.
Maybe she was trying to cleanse some deeply hidden guilt imposed upon her by the patriarch of her family.
Did she need me to absolve her of past proclivities as only I could, because I am Black?
I don’t recall signing up to be a captive audience for such a bizarre and tasteless therapy session.
In the short period of time we worked together, my former boss never once asked me about myself, where I was from, or offered any probing inquires about who I, her new employee, was. Her only concern seemed to be whether or not I would be a sounding board for her confused relationship with her racist father.
Perplexed by her inability to inquire about those around her, my mind frequently went to questioning this person’s authenticity and their general lack of care for others. The ease with which she would talk about herself, her accomplishments, her exaggerated desire for elitism, leaned into self-promotion leaving me with discomfit. That is privilege personified.
More than just a color
There are many misnomers about the Black community, that we are consumed by race, that we let race define us. Being Black has many layers. We are not a monolith but in many instances are considered as such by the white community. This is where race plays a leading role in one’s perception of another.
Being proud of your ancestry and cultural background is something everyone on the planet should claim. Defining others because of an inherent need to identify someone’s outward appearance or as a preconceived stereotype goes beyond defining, it is marginalizing. Getting a rise out of chronicling anecdotal accounts of past racial injustices is only an extension of this thinking.
There have been times in the past when someone’s curiosity or overt aim to convince me of their allyship has come across as an experiment in racist tolerance.
Transparent in its appearance but never without complete conviction by the author’s crafting of an agenda, I’m always leery of this strategy, having been on the receiving end many times throughout my life. In a professional setting, it’s always a challenge when management especially, the very entity that controls your livelihood practices such abhorrent engagement.
My effort to stay clear of race-baiting narratives has been a challenge over the years. If you are Black, at some point you will undoubtedly be sucked into someone’s world of categorizing; if not out of convenience then for their own amusement.
Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in! — Michael Corleone
Try as you might to ignore, one thing you cannot do is control others or their narrative.
No thanks, I’ll pass on the second helping of racism
If memory serves, there haven’t been many instances in my past when someone would launch into stories drenched in racist overtones in an effort to capture my interest.
Though my stint at this job was brief, I was there long enough to understand how to navigate new colleague dynamics and how those relationships can impact one’s mental fortitude while in the workplace. In a setting where senior management seems more focused on their team rallying behind them with unwavering ideological zeal (or interest), the wisdom of bringing past biased viewpoints into a place of business can be equivocal at best.
Most likely we have all experienced less than ideal work environments. It’s unfortunate that what makes up the majority of our day and is our direct link to how we make a living can be so influential on how we not only see ourselves but how we view others. What we bring into these situations also affects how we interact with our colleagues on a daily basis — good or bad.
Perhaps more attention needs to be paid to the actual work and less on trying to use the workplace as an opportunity for self-therapy or as a confessional.
Survival is important, perhaps most important but so are self-respect and respect for others. We all have family baggage. Some we would prefer to leave behind or at the very least, mine for those times when we are paying an hourly rate. Understanding what is appropriate and what is not should test even the most steadfast, self-appointed narcissists.
What have you put up with for a paycheck?
Thank you for reading!
