blacks

Back in 1990, while working as an assistant at a film production company, my daily mail chores acquainted me with the postal worker across the street. One Friday, as we said our goodbyes, I said, \”See you Monday,\” when she corrected me: Monday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

I didn\’t know if my office would be closed, I said.

Her eyes flashed as she said she would take the holiday even if it weren\’t given to her, because \”it\’s our holiday.\”

In that flash, I saw the different worlds we inhabited in the same country, my skin color having allowed me to forget it. I knew our meant black. I wanted to tell her it was my holiday, too, but I didn\’t know if it was. Back at the office, I learned that it was an optional holiday — whoever wanted to take the day off could, but the office would be open. I told my boss that I would take the holiday. I later learned from a co-worker that the boss was annoyed with me, that in her opinion \”the only person who should have the day off is the receptionist — the only black employee.\”