around her. She sat there, spewing obsenities, semeingly becoming more
andmore enraged the more she spoke. They all stared at her, not wanting
to encourage, helpless on how to disarm her. Her tongue held heavy
artillery. She was locked and loaded. She was shooting to kill and had
been undefeated. An urban Medusa, she had become the one to avoid. Folks
avoided her eyes out of fear, their hearts would become stone. She spat
it out like patois: hard and fast. "That spic"
It sounded foreign, stunning them as it rang in their ears.
She quieted. The first wave of anger passing over them as they all
sighed, lucky to have ridden the tsunami out.
The refused to speak, the pink elephant in the room looming over them.
Yet, they still ignored it, not wanting to deal with the ramifications.
They were disgusted.
She started up again. Determined to cause more chaos, she grew louder.
Her voice echoed throughout the office. Her anger seemed manufactured
now. Her grievance not justifying the her actionsm as if any could
justified. Bolder now, she said it again.
But, there was one among them. Refusing to be quiet, she revealed her
sword and sliced against her throat. She informed management of the use
of the racial slur.
Will Medusa lose her head?
(*this is a dramatization of what happened at work on Saturday while I