To Find Work, I Came Three Times

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By Guadalupe Navarro Hernandez


Guadalupe (right) working in the United States

My name is Guadalupe Navarro Hernandez. I migrated to the United States three times. The first time, I was 12, the second time I was 23, and the last time I did it was not long ago.

I migrated to the United States because I could not find a job here, in Mexico, and

because the little money that my family earned was not enough to support my children or to pay for our most pressing needs. Leaving my family was very painful, but I wanted to be able to provide for them. I wanted the American Dream.

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Son of a Farm Worker Family

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By Jonathan Cortez 

My name is Jonathan Cortez. I am 24 years of age and I am from Veracruz, Mexico. I currently live in Fellsmere, Florida. I am the oldest child and I have three younger sisters. I was born on February 2nd, 1989. I attended Sebastian River High and I went to Indian River State College for two years. My current occupations include: DJ, photographer, video and film producer, web developer, computer technician and computer repair specialist.

I came here to the U.S when I was about six years old, and my life as an immigrant has been tough. We came here to this country to have a better life and a better education. My parents spent over 10 years as migrant farm workers, so I never got to finish a year in school because I had to move so much. It was sad moving from state to state, but my parents recognized that it had to be done to support our family.

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My First Time Feeling Discrimination

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By Matt Allen G.

I have never felt discriminated against in my life, not for anything: race, religious beliefs, nor disability.

Not until yesterday at my equal opportunity employer. When I was first interviewed at this retail location (that I have always loved and was excited to work at) I disclosed my Multiple Sclerosis limitations right off the bat. My disclosure was met with the assurance that everything would be done to make sure that my limitations would be properly accommodated. I was happy.

Things were great for the first week or so. I was hired to cover the electronics department and I was told that sometimes I would have to venture into other areas of the store. I didn’t mind that; a small department working on things I was knowledgeable with, low temperatures, probably low stress, and little physical work. Just what I needed.

After a week or two though, I started noticing subtle changes in the way people talked to me as well as what they expected of me. Soon I was in charge of electronics and toys and then infants and then seasonal and then I was running around all the departments of the store while trying to cover electronics. There was much more physical work and I was now breaking a sweat. I started noticing my schedule saying that I was working the floor instead of electronics. It was like they noticed I was more reliable than others to get things done so they threw them in electronics and had me doing the tougher stuff. I didn’t complain because I was happy to have a job and I don’t like to say “I can’t”.

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The Whole World Should Know What Happens Here

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By Freddy Estrada

I started to work for Coca-Cola in Carlstad, NJ, in May 2005. I was 28 when that happened. My life changed. I was so glad to work for a big company thinking that life will be better for my family and for myself.

Later on everything started to change. I was harassed by a supervisor. I wrote some grievances on him, and that’s when my nightmare started. Other managers and supervisors started to attack me and retaliate against me.

I used to be so happy with my daughters and wife till I became so angry. My attitude changed due to the stress on me and the nightmares I was having — I would not wish this for anybody who has been a victim of racial discrimination and harassment and retaliation. It’s not a joke!

It affects you and your family. I’m not married anymore. I’m going through a divorce. I don’t see my kids like I used to, thanks to Coca-Cola that destroyed my life and my family.

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This is What Race and Gender Discrimination Looks Like

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By Yvette Butler

I am a single mother of three children. I was hired by Coca-Cola in 2003 as a production mechanic at the Maspeth, Queens (New York) plant. I was the only female African-American mechanic until my termination in 2008. For five years, I faced constant racial and gender discrimination, unfair work assignments and sexual harassment from supervisors and co-workers. My complaints to managers and the Human Resources Department were ignored.

Throughout my employment, I was denied essential training on machines alongside my co-workers while white male mechanics were given this necessary training. I was constantly harassed on the job by male co-workers and supervisors who made comments like, “What is it? That time of the month?” A white female co-worker refusing an assignment went unchallenged when she openly said in a meeting and in my presence, “What am I, a Nigger?”

A maintenance manager persistently asked me for dates and made sexual jokes as I worked on the machines. The harassment and abuses escalated after I refused his advances. He told supervisors to assign me to dangerous and hazardous jobs alone, jobs that are normally done by two or more mechanics, thus jeopardizing my safety. None of my male and non-black counterparts had to work alone on these jobs. Another supervisor even instructed me to use a cigarette lighter to heat and soften up a hose in a room full of flammable chemicals. Instructions I fortunately did not follow and found another way to fix the hose.

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Working While Black: 10 Racial Microaggressions Experienced in the Workplace

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By Robin M. Boylorn

I have worked, on and off, since I was fifteen years old.  My summer office job financed the name brand school clothes my mother couldn’t afford and grounded me in the work ethic I learned from watching the women in my family go to work from sun up to sun down cleaning houses, dismembering chickens, doing customer service or janitorial work, bookkeeping, caregiving, answering phones.  I watched them get up early and come home late, carpool with other working women, and barter with each other to make sure every day needs were met.  They smiled when they were tired and went to work when they were sick because they understood that they constantly had something to prove on their job (as black folk).  They also knew that showing their humanity jeopardized their jobs.  They had to be superwomen, they had to compartmentalize their emotions, they had to separate the work they did from the people they were.  I learned from them that my work does not define me, I define myself.  So even though my aunt cleaned other folks’ houses she was never a maid.  And even though my grandmother kept other folks’ children she was never a mammy.  And even though I was college-educated and ambitious in my twenties, I was never privileged.  Working while black, regardless of your circumstances, carries with it the weight of blatant or casual racism.

Talking with a friend I likened being black and successful in the workplace to being a so-called model minority.  Model minorities know their place and don’t stand out or shine.  Model minorities grin and bear micro and macroaggressions and call them coincidences.  Model minorities on the job are mediocre minorities who live out minority stereotypes.

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Reflections on Fighting Age-Discrimination to Build Unity

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By John McDevitt

Two summers ago I was hired in a phone interview at the now bankrupt A&P foodstore. I mentioned in the interview that I had previously worked there as a teenager. The manager, anxious to hire someone with previous experience, hired me by phone and sent off the offer letter for the position. A little more than a week after I began working, I received a call on my day off telling me, “I’m sorry, but we are not going to need you anymore because we think the work might make your back hurt.”

I was surprised because I had stocked all the shelves, kept the dairy aisle in order and completed all the tasks on time, even early. It was odd to me since I never raised having any back pain. It was only afterwards that I began to think about the reason.

After I moved to New Mexico in 2015, I was hired as a security guard at a local casino. I was told by management: “We have the older guys work outside, not inside of the casino.” The position outside paid $1.50 less an hour. My 80-year old Latino co-worker who worked day shift was not considered for an indoor position, but worked outdoors during the day due to his poor night vision. He was still working because he could not survive on the Social Security of a worker who had earned minimum wage his entire life.

I’m new to being seen as an older worker, but having arrived at this stage in my life I have come to know what we call age discrimination. I’m telling this story not to adopt a new identity as an “older worker,” but to build the maximum unity of workers of all ages to stand up to this discrimination that impacts younger and older alike.

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Engineer Took All the Right Steps But Still Didn’t Receive Fair Pay

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By Cheryl Hughes

Cheryl Hughes headshot

Cheryl Hughes

I was a divorced mother of two when I began pursuing an engineering degree in 1982. I had to overcome many obstacles such as an overwhelming male majority in the field, time management constraints, child care dilemmas, and finding a balance between motherhood and being a student. However, there was one obstacle I couldn’t overcome — pay inequity.

I was hired by a manufacturer on February 1, 1995, as an associate engineer with a starting salary of $39,600. When I asked for more money, I was told it was not in the budget. I decided to accept the offer and prove that I was worthy of a higher salary.

While working there, I befriended a white male engineer. He had asked the salaries of our white co-workers. In 1996, he asked my salary; I replied, “$44,423.22.” He told me that I, an African American woman, was being discriminated against. The next day, he gave me pamphlets from the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. Despite learning that I was underpaid, I worked diligently to improve my skills. My performance evaluations were good. When a young white woman was hired at my firm, my friend told me that she earned $2,000 more than I did. At this time, I had a master’s degree in electrical engineering and three years of electrical engineering experience. This young woman had one year of co-op experience and a bachelor’s degree in engineering.

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Women’s Writing in the Philippines

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By Marivir R. Montebon

New York City – My women writer sisters in the Philippines have given birth to a new news website, WomenWritingWomen.org and I share their happiness and triumph. I have been in touch with them scarcely but as what women say they will do, the website is born, on March 7, a day before International Women’s Day! Here is to profound, fun, and quality reading to all people all over the world. Thank you to my friends who think outside the box, Diana G. Mendoza, Pinky Serafica, and Diosa Labiste. Welcome to our brave and safe writing space.

Dear Diosa Labiste, this is a long time coming. I miss reading you.

Diosa Labiste writes on WomenWritingWomen.org:

This social news site emerged out of despair by some writers, feminists, activists and, (as they call themselves), witches rolled into one. Some months ago, a news site where we honed our skills as writers and which we continued to support, through falling revenues, readership and enthusiasm, had closed down. Its demise was inevitable for reasons that we rather keep to our sad selves. It’s safe to say that it reached a cul de sac and the barrier was quite high to hurdle. But as the ink has started drying, we grew restless. We wondered if we could live without writing as women and for women. How do we recreate a community of women writers and connect with new ones. Is a community of writers still relevant in the age of social media when one can easily have a platform for airing one’s views and assemble followers who could click, like, tweet, retweet one’s words? Fake news sites, for example, would buy bots to make their accounts viral.

However a community of women writers is a different space. First, it is a space for teaching and learning. We learned that long ago when we were starting out as writers. We watched how seasoned writers polished our stories, taught us the basics, and tempered our idealism with reality. Second, it is a space of resistance. For example, our editors helped us make sense of the women’s movement in the Philippines and convinced us why writing about women crucially contributes to strengthening the struggle for equality of women and men. We allowed our stories to reveal various forms of sexual and structural discrimination as a function of societal differences like gender and class. Third, it is a space for empowerment. Through our writing, we enacted our politics and registered our protests against injustices and gender oppression that we saw and experienced in our lives.

Having experienced that kindness, it became apparent to some of us, younger writers, that perhaps it is our turn to do the same.

Continue reading here: 

https://womenwritingwomen.org/2017/03/07/we-were-warned-things-were-explained-to-us-nevertheless-we-persisted/ 

Marivir has a blog at www.justcliquit.com

 

 

Lewd Mr. Matt

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By Jamie C. Baker

My first job was working at what is still one of my favorite fast food restaurants, specializing in chicken. The schedule was perfect and the benefits of free meals on break definitely appealed to me as a 16-year-old. I was quickly moved from a fry station to drive-thru based on my customer skills and speed.

Each location was independently owned and our owner, Mr. “Matt,” seemed to be a fairly good boss. Granted, he was way too enthused about giving me a 15 cent raise, but all in all he treated employees well. 

One night, I was mopping the bathrooms after the dining area had closed, doing women’s first and then cleaning up in the men’s. Mr. “Matt” opened the swinging door and I assumed he was checking in on me, so I let him know that I was nearly done. He proceeded to unzip his pants and use the urinal in full view of me. And I mean in FULL VIEW. No 16-year-old girl needs to see an over 40-year-old ding-a-ling and I high-tailed it out of there!

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