That Moment In The Longest Minute

For years our race has 'ssh!-ed what we considered 'airing our dirty laundry' into silence. With the Imus Episode, we had to face our own hypocrisy...here's another dose of logic.


For the past month or so, I have been quite neglectful in my duty of service to others. With my new position, I cannot get to the food banks or outreach ministry programs like I used to. Service is just one of the tenets of the church organization of which one is a member. So when presented with a more than helpful remedy, I jumped at the opportunity. One of our members lost her housekeeper to pregnancy; she holds out hope that the young woman will return to her employ, but I believe the moment she laid eyes on her first bundle of joy, it was over! She is a 'can-do' type of girl and only needed 'assistance' with her house cleaning even though she employed the young woman full-time. We work side-by-side: talking, joking and occasionally taking 'tea breaks' and talking over spirituality. My family has used my cleanliness compulsion to their advantage for years (especially when I'm angry), it feels good to help out a family that actually seems to appreciate it.

One Saturday before Christmas, "R" was out running pre-Christmas errands; I stayed home with her youngest and helped him with research on the ancient civilization of Mesopotamia. The dogs began barking (they are great doorbells) and I went to answer the door. Their family has this great trick for keeping the dogs out of visitors' hair: they simply open the garden door and say, "Good boys go, go!" and the dogs fall for it each time. I opened the door to the garden, then the other to the UPS man; "I have a delivery.." "I'll sign" I automatically answered, while reaching for the electronic pad- as I have signed for many Christmas packages since I began helping out. "Who are you THE MAID?!" The young man guffawed, as he moved the electronic pad out of reach. I imagine I was wearing that face I perfected so many years ago when I am shocked and a bit wounded but do not want the person to know. It is a bit of a poker face: rather blank eyed and my voice while wearing it usually has a flat affect.

Things seemed to move more slowly, so one cannot tell you how long I stood there, with his question- rhetorical or not- unanswered. I am no stranger to that area: Hunting Valley is a well-known attraction for those who admire the affluence of its residence; the wealth of its history; and equestrian sports also. My ex-husband began taking me to the Corvin's farm before we married just to watch me ride- hair flowing and face flushed- as a type of pre-marriage foreplay. So Freudian! While going about our day on Saturdays, "R" and I have covered so much of the surrounding area that I feel ever more comfortable with the layout of the valley. Her neighbors (whether they are forthright or not) have been very friendly and casual with me when they see us together; none of the nervous faux pas's of prejudice that one had a notion might occur. Now I was standing face-to-face with an African-American man who was giving me the 'you obviously don't belong' snub- or worse, he was alluding to the idea that he believed the "S--'s" would not have an African-American in their home, lest it was in a domestic capacity.

During the longest minute, I also briefly thought about my great-grandmothers- both of whom were domestics by occupation. Both were graceful, poised and a bit 'bourgsie'( a folksy form of bourgeoisie). I assume they gauged their status by the type of family they were employed by, as most women seemed to during those decades. Both were employed by haute bourgeoisie (or genteel) families. My great grandmothers were both the epitome of the definition of 'Matriarch': hats, white gloves, high-end fashionistas, regal in bearing and wise...would I be ashamed to be in there class of employment? I would not, I decided in milliseconds. Here was someone in customer service, attempting to look down his nose at someone he thought of as a mere domestic. He could not essentially 'run' a household that was not his own like maids of yesterday and today have to! That took an inherent managerial streak, coupled with tolerance and poise and he simply did not look to have the minerals!

I wanted to let him know this, but I decided in that longest minute to say, "Yes I am the maid" with a big smile and direct him to come back later if he needed someone from the family to sign. At that moment I remembered little "L" upstairs- he was not upstairs! While I was thinking through this longest minute, I heard him descend the stairs. "Servants can't sign for packages" the young man in the UPS uniform- that my mind still will not allow to think of as an actual employee of UPS because he is so bad at customer service and they have a reputation to uphold- sneered at me. Just then little "L" came up next to me, and using a tone I felt sure his mother would not want him to use toward an adult, said "She's not A SERVANT she's my Mom's friend!" All the gall seeped out of the man holding the package. He lowered his eyes, rounded his shoulders and without looking, handed me the electronic pad to sign. I wordlessly signed and took the package from him...what was there left to say? His arrogant bubble had been burst by a twelve year old who had an eye for social interaction beyond his years. When I began, "R" and her husband introduced me as their maid's 'substitute'...he knew from the way I was treated and talked to that I must have been more.

After he left, in between chatting with "L" and later his mother who'd been absent during this event, I wondered whether it was my ensemble that led him to think I was a domestic. I'd gone to breakfast with "R" and her daughters earlier and no one we were around thought my outfit inappropriate or 'service-oriented'. I was wearing an Alvin Valley cashmere wrap sweater, Marc Jacobs velvet jeans and Ugg boots...do maids wear that to work now? Maybe teen maids- while shopping with "R" and the girls one of the sales associates told "R" her daughters were so cute, then asked if the one in the Bill Blass coat was the oldest. Fishing, fishing...with so many mixed families, one cannot tell. When Zahara Jolie-Pitt is a teen and opens the door to one of their homes, will the UPS man think she is the maid? "R" explained to the sales associate that I was her friend and too old to be her daughter. The sales associate marvelled at the fact that I am thirty-five; "R" is quite coddling and maternal toward me, but so are my other friends.

I didn't accidently bring a rag or a cleansing product to the door with me, so the only thing left to make him assume I was the maid...was the color of my skin. Odd...I have heard several African-Americans yell down people who claimed that Blacks were racists too. "They can't be by the very definition!" Touche!


Ignorance like this happens everyday. Be it a 'crabs in a barrel' mentality or the side effect of a race so downtrodden it hates itself, it still feels the same for the victim of it. To my friends: BTW, I did not call and lodge a complaint, like my great-grandmothers, I'm so much better than that!