wrap it up.
“And that,” she said, “is what all this is about. Bearing witness for Bessie by looking out for all the hardworking colored women people never even see. That’s why I do what I do, and if you decide to come and work for me, that’s what you’ll be doing, too.”
It was easily the most intense job interview I’d ever had, if that’s what this was, and it was impossible to resist. My work was already about saving women. Of course I wanted to bear witness for Bessie. I was already doing it for Maria and Ashima and Migdalia and Shanequa. It was the same testimony, and I had already been sworn.
“But that’s what you’re already doing, isn’t it?” she said, watching me closely. She was good at this and she knew it. Now she was ready to close the deal.
“Yes, I guess it is,” I said. “What can I do to help you?”
As if on cue, there was a soft tap at the door. Ezola pushed the buzzer to admit a white-jacketed waiter bringing our food in covered silver dishes like room service.
“Now
that,
” she said, standing up and waving him in to set things up, “we can talk about over lunch.”
Which was exactly what we did.
9
By the time I left Ezola Mandeville’s office, we had hammered out the broad outlines of a relationship that seemed mutually beneficial, and my job search was over before it got started good. She was interested in targeting immigrant and refugee women to offer her services, and she needed my help to reach them effectively. It was a great idea. Many of these women needed immediate temporary work to help support their families, and they were motivated to work hard by the dreams that had brought them to America in the first place. I was happy to make the hookup. If they were going to be doing service work, Ezola’s operation would be more protection than they were going to find anywhere else, decent wages, and even a few benefits. It seemed like a winning combination all the way around.
Plus, the money she was offering me was enough to cover all of Phoebe’s college costs and let me put a little aside for myself. The only problem was, I had a company. So I made a counteroffer that allowed me to start working for her freelance while I finished my current projects. She reluctantly agreed and I promised I’d be on board full-time in three months. How I was going to get it all done was something I’d have to figure out later. But for now we shook hands to seal the deal and enjoyed our coffee with a slice of sweet-potato pie.
Outside, I gave my ticket to the young woman at the valet stand who stamped it
paid
and called for my car to be brought around front. As I stood there waiting, I could hear the radio she had playing quietly beside her. She was listening to black talk radio, something I almost never do, since I can be ignorant all by myself. An indignant woman was urging the show’s listeners to support the first black
American Idol
winner because she thought he wasn’t getting as much airplay and publicity as the white runner-up had gotten, including being featured solo on the cover of
Rolling Stone,
a magazine this woman had probably never read in her life.
“Buy his CD on day one,” she was urging all those within the sound of her voice. “These white folks need to be taught a lesson once and for all.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Sometimes these Atlanta Negroes drive me crazy. All they ever talk about is race! Not race in the sense of the human family. Not race in the sense of the complexities of living in the global village, with its awe-inspiring displays of cultural diversity. Those discussions would be interesting, certainly challenging, and might even result in some concrete changes in lifestyle or public policy.
But no! In Atlanta, racial discussions continue along the lines established all those years ago when former governor Lester Maddox was at his segregated restaurant handing out pick handles to keep the Pickwick the bastion of white
“And that,” she said, “is what all this is about. Bearing witness for Bessie by looking out for all the hardworking colored women people never even see. That’s why I do what I do, and if you decide to come and work for me, that’s what you’ll be doing, too.”
It was easily the most intense job interview I’d ever had, if that’s what this was, and it was impossible to resist. My work was already about saving women. Of course I wanted to bear witness for Bessie. I was already doing it for Maria and Ashima and Migdalia and Shanequa. It was the same testimony, and I had already been sworn.
“But that’s what you’re already doing, isn’t it?” she said, watching me closely. She was good at this and she knew it. Now she was ready to close the deal.
“Yes, I guess it is,” I said. “What can I do to help you?”
As if on cue, there was a soft tap at the door. Ezola pushed the buzzer to admit a white-jacketed waiter bringing our food in covered silver dishes like room service.
“Now
that,
” she said, standing up and waving him in to set things up, “we can talk about over lunch.”
Which was exactly what we did.
9
By the time I left Ezola Mandeville’s office, we had hammered out the broad outlines of a relationship that seemed mutually beneficial, and my job search was over before it got started good. She was interested in targeting immigrant and refugee women to offer her services, and she needed my help to reach them effectively. It was a great idea. Many of these women needed immediate temporary work to help support their families, and they were motivated to work hard by the dreams that had brought them to America in the first place. I was happy to make the hookup. If they were going to be doing service work, Ezola’s operation would be more protection than they were going to find anywhere else, decent wages, and even a few benefits. It seemed like a winning combination all the way around.
Plus, the money she was offering me was enough to cover all of Phoebe’s college costs and let me put a little aside for myself. The only problem was, I had a company. So I made a counteroffer that allowed me to start working for her freelance while I finished my current projects. She reluctantly agreed and I promised I’d be on board full-time in three months. How I was going to get it all done was something I’d have to figure out later. But for now we shook hands to seal the deal and enjoyed our coffee with a slice of sweet-potato pie.
Outside, I gave my ticket to the young woman at the valet stand who stamped it
paid
and called for my car to be brought around front. As I stood there waiting, I could hear the radio she had playing quietly beside her. She was listening to black talk radio, something I almost never do, since I can be ignorant all by myself. An indignant woman was urging the show’s listeners to support the first black
American Idol
winner because she thought he wasn’t getting as much airplay and publicity as the white runner-up had gotten, including being featured solo on the cover of
Rolling Stone,
a magazine this woman had probably never read in her life.
“Buy his CD on day one,” she was urging all those within the sound of her voice. “These white folks need to be taught a lesson once and for all.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Sometimes these Atlanta Negroes drive me crazy. All they ever talk about is race! Not race in the sense of the human family. Not race in the sense of the complexities of living in the global village, with its awe-inspiring displays of cultural diversity. Those discussions would be interesting, certainly challenging, and might even result in some concrete changes in lifestyle or public policy.
But no! In Atlanta, racial discussions continue along the lines established all those years ago when former governor Lester Maddox was at his segregated restaurant handing out pick handles to keep the Pickwick the bastion of white
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