Somewhere Between Jesus and Huey P. Newton
I saw one of the laborers (lowest level worker at the sandbox, not unionized, not an Opposite of Dog employee) from the sandbox at Kroger last night in the self checkout area.
He was like, “Do I know you?”
I was all, “Yeah, I work at the Sandbox.”
And he comes back at me with, “Now I see why you wear long sleeves all the time.”
“Yup,” I retort.
We chat a bit further. Carter is in the cart so we talk about him for a minute and then he finishes checking out.
What struck me about that conversation was that I barely see this dude 2 times a week in passing, maybe more, maybe less.
The one thing about me though that stands out in his mind is that this dude is always wearing long sleeves, even if it’s 90° and sweltering in the shop.
He must not be alone. I’ve found that your blue collar worker will ask you why the fuck you’re wearing long sleeves when it’s 90° outside, the engineer will not. I’ll typically be straight with the blue-collar worker and tell him I’m heavily inked and I don’t want to stifle my career, to the engineer I will not (unless I know they’re cool.)
Because I face this discrimination and prejudice. In that way I have a kindred bond between the angry feminists I was arguing with in the past. We are both being discriminated against because of something about us. I understand what it’s like to be stared at. I understand what it’s like to have your opinions questioned for no other reason than what you look like. My glass ceiling is covered in ink.
I have no control over my urge to become more and more heavily tattooed. I’m taping into something that’s been done for over 5000 years by humans. It’s been passed down from the iceman on.
I really, really, really want to get neck and hand tattoos. At that point the discrimination would be over the top and I’d most likely be out of a job. I still have a lot of torso and all my lower body left though.
He was like, “Do I know you?”
I was all, “Yeah, I work at the Sandbox.”
And he comes back at me with, “Now I see why you wear long sleeves all the time.”
“Yup,” I retort.
We chat a bit further. Carter is in the cart so we talk about him for a minute and then he finishes checking out.
What struck me about that conversation was that I barely see this dude 2 times a week in passing, maybe more, maybe less.
The one thing about me though that stands out in his mind is that this dude is always wearing long sleeves, even if it’s 90° and sweltering in the shop.
He must not be alone. I’ve found that your blue collar worker will ask you why the fuck you’re wearing long sleeves when it’s 90° outside, the engineer will not. I’ll typically be straight with the blue-collar worker and tell him I’m heavily inked and I don’t want to stifle my career, to the engineer I will not (unless I know they’re cool.)
Because I face this discrimination and prejudice. In that way I have a kindred bond between the angry feminists I was arguing with in the past. We are both being discriminated against because of something about us. I understand what it’s like to be stared at. I understand what it’s like to have your opinions questioned for no other reason than what you look like. My glass ceiling is covered in ink.
I have no control over my urge to become more and more heavily tattooed. I’m taping into something that’s been done for over 5000 years by humans. It’s been passed down from the iceman on.
I really, really, really want to get neck and hand tattoos. At that point the discrimination would be over the top and I’d most likely be out of a job. I still have a lot of torso and all my lower body left though.
Labels: Anarchy, Angry Feminists, I'm an Artist, Tattoos
posted by lawryde at
10:13 PM
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