Sige here... a brief intro

I am of the working class. My co-workers are people in transition, people with rich histories, people with more than one life story. Ex-taxi cab drivers, folks fresh out of rehab, a grandmother who, along with her daughter and grandson, call a motel ‘home,’ college students, retired school-teachers, a 65-year-old-woman who finally ran away from home and more than one military vet (Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan). And, until several state laws went into effect-- convicted felons. (Trust me, the loss of employment opportunities for felons due to a couple of new state laws is one of those quiet crashing stories of people falling in America that needs to be told.)

So yeah, I’m a working-class woman in one of the lowest wage-scale professions in the U.S. I worry the debit card I use for a cuppa at the coffee shop across the street is going to bounce. One day it will.

I like my co-workers. I like my job. I like my bosses. Today, one of my bosses got pissed. One of those “having a moment who is closest” yell out-loud fits. Guess who was closest? Do I take getting yelled at out-of-nowhere well? Who does? I tried all the things a body does when someone else is losing it, a bit of cajole, a lot of calmness, an ounce of iron and finally, walking out of the line-of-fire.

Our hours are flexible and by walking out of the line-of-fire, I walked away from today’s chance to make money for those occasional coffees and the ever-due bills. I briefly chatted with the Big Boss and another supervisor; the guy’s temper is legendary and the general consensus was to give him time to shake it off, let him come down on his own. Come in tomorrow.

I am of the working class. I am also white, married, have no obvious scars, neat, friendly. I have a stable address, food in the fridge, two paid-off vehicles. Most people smile when they see me coming. I’m one of those women who will pick up what some else drops, listen when they tell me how their day has gone, shares her tea and quinoa. I’m also pretty good at this job. I produce. I’m polite. I’m about as threatening as a sleeping cat.

And what if? What if I wasn’t any of those things above? Flip one of them and tell me how today’s story might have ended. I can tell you. I’ll bet ten-to-one you can tell me too.

I am of the working class and I hear stories every day. I thought I’d start with a snip of mine to give some context to the stories to come.