You are calling me black bastard.

As I grew older, it became more prevalent that the color of my skin mattered. As a cashier at a well-known grocery-store chain, a district manager told my boss that I was a “Black bastard.” Additionally, I remember applying for my first “real job” as a receptionist at a doctor’s office. I had arrived for the interview a little early, the waiting room was full of (mostly Black) candidates. I listened as the hiring manager, a doctor, called the candidates one-by-one for their interview: Keisha, LaQuitta, Otishia, Tishia. They’d go in and spend five minutes (maybe) with the doctor. Now it was my turn. Wendy Kelly. I go in with a smile on my face, resume in hand, and a completed application. “Finally,” he says, “a person whose name I can pronounce. I thought you were white.” I was so shocked at what I had just heard, I had no idea how to respond, so I sat and smiled. He never took my resume, only the application that he placed on his desk. He asked me two or three questions, and that was it. I left that interview confused, but I was not sure about what. For some reason, I still wanted that job. Why? I guess because I still wanted a “real job.” It wasn’t until I got home that I realized this man was a racist. I had no idea about the EEOC, so I called my state representative at the time, who was white and simply told me, “We will look into the matter, and someone will get back to you.” Twenty-five years later, I am still waiting. “Is This Because I’m Black?” But racist incidents were never as prevalent until I started working in corporate America. Throughout my career, when compared with other non-persons of color, I have found that I have been grossly underpaid or passed up for promotions. But it wasn’t until a few years ago that I finally said enough. I was working for a well-known management company as a senior manager. I had been asking for a raise for about a year, during which time I had two managers. By the time the third manager came along, I was frustrated and tired and expressed my concerns to him. A few weeks go by and my direct report resigns due to relocation. Eventually, we found a replacement. I saw “we,” but actually, I was never included in the selection process. A week goes by, and a colleague who is on another team says to me, “Did you see Sonia’s rate of pay?” “No,” I replied. “I deliberately did not look, and to be honest, I do not want to know.” Until, that is, curiosity got to me. Lo and behold, Sonia, who had no advanced education, no experience, and was my direct report earning close to $11,000 more than me. I was furious! I went into my manager’s office and informed him of what I just learned. His response to me was, “Wendy, I am sorry. I have been trying to get you a raise, but it is being shot down. This is wrong.” When I asked if it was because I was Black, he had no response. In the end, my manager was fired, I ended up receiving a raise, making the same amount as my direct report, and left three months later