Occupying My Space: My Navigation of Workplace Oppression

By: Felisha Nicole

I work as the administrative support for a law enforcement agency. Every day I sit in an office occupied by 98% men who carry guns. By default, I’m not one to speak my mind immediately and when I am offended or disturbed by someone or a situation, I tend to indirectly pause, ponder, then decide upon an act (preferably one that doesn’t land me in Angry Black Woman land) – usually by then, time has passed and the moment has expired before I can effectively nip said situations in the bud.

This way of being has been especially difficult to merge into a climate that is composed of individuals who are homogeneous in race, political standing, and view themselves as America’s upper crust of greatness. So yes, my patience, faith, and sanity are tested daily.

Some time ago, everything I had known myself to be took a plummet; my faith and a few health scares yanked me down to a zombie-like state of functioning depression. Adding to it, the toxicity of witnessing the very people I worked with align themselves with murderers that happened to carry badges like them.

I felt like I was dying inside as I was intrinsically bonded to the growing count of black bodies slain by law enforcement – whom some of my peers seemed to forget were people who had beating hearts, were valued, and loved. Internally, I started to develop my own ally-turned-activist point of view, then blindingly found myself grieving a good friend killed in the line of duty.

It felt like I was walking a wobbling tightrope between being enraged, insulted, sitting in the midst of people I did not trust with my life, while mourning the death of a friend that was indeed “one of the good ones.” Each day, I became more hyper-vigilant and anxiously shrunk into myself as tightly as I could as to not absorb covert myopic tugs at my (or people who caste my reflection) humanity.

Whirled into a knotted twist of values and seeking balance, I attempted to transfer to other job positions without success, lending to repeatedly entertained fantasies of walking out of that office without notice and never to return all for self-preservation. Coming to terms with how this job affords my family’s home and good living, I collapsed deeper into hopelessness.

Days turned into weeks as I  endured endless tears and fits of rage in between sleepless nights… in a solemn haze I recall, I’d hit a new dangerous bottom and really felt I had nothing to lose. By grace, I recognized the common denominator of everything I was experiencing was fear. I made the (initial moment to moment) choice to shift my gaze, my inner revolt, towards everything beautiful and reassuring to my existence by any means necessary.

I purposely crafted and immersed myself in a new tapestry of brilliant divine Black womanhood replete with a bout of therapy, affirmative music, pictures (vision boards), quotes, poems, TV shows, movies, and books navigating the cascading and stunning multi-dimensionality of Black women; following up with the safe and compassionate space of a sister circle to come undone as needed. All efforts lifted me above and beyond my outer circumstances, imprinting my conscience with energies that aided my choice to inhabit myself shamelessly.

Since then, days at work are leaned into with my natural coils popping, an intentional unapologetic aura dressed as me in jubilant and professional–self. I permit myself to immediately bypass or use my on-the-ready-venom for any covert respectability politics akin to folks wanting to touch my hair, nominate me as a bridge to their diversity questions, or having my voice stifled by dated tropes of “being approachable” or “having an attitude” as leashes on my right to exude my truth.

The most surprising gift of this experience? Although I have endured a lot, I am grateful for these people and spaces I have been a part of. How? They taught me that no matter what I say, how hard I work, how “approachable” I am – their view of who they think I am never had or ever will define me or block what is meant for me. They served as the lasso I needed to rope my spirit back to myself and author my own story.

To all who can relate to my story, in the sizzling and striking verses of our lady Audre Lorde, “I am deliberate and afraid of nothing.”

What are some of the ways you have both survived and/or thrived in oppressive spaces? Please share in the comment section below.