It’s early morning, and the ladies hover around the bus stop gossiping about the day ahead. At 10 years old, I stick close to my aunt Geevie as we wait for the next city bus headed toward Windsor Farms, a part of Richmond, Va., where men don’t mow their own lawns. Geevie and I each hold twine-handled bags filled with goodies to hold us through the day: Baby Ruth candy bars fresh out the freezer, potato chips and two bottles of Coca-Cola.
On this day, Geevie wears a billowy floral blouse and polyester pants. “That’s so old fashioned. People don’t wear polyester pants anymore.” I tease. Her clothes make me pay more attention to what some of the other women are wearing.
“Geevie, why do they have on white nurses’ uniforms? They aren’t nurses.”
“Sometimes you have to wear a uniform.”
“I would never wear a uniform to clean a white lady’s house.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wearing a uniform,” my aunt responds. “I wear one if they ask me to or if I’m serving at a dinner party. What’s wrong with that?”
Her forehead creases as she stares at me with wide brown eyes, perplexed by my declaration. I glance at the women again in their cookie-cutter dresses and feel a slight pang in my chest.
[For more of this story, written by Arnesa A. Howell, go to http://www.usatoday.com/story/...ic-workers/89907846/]
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