Roar

Shortly before Momma died, I began to take stock of where my life was and how things could turn out for me should the worst-case scenario occur. I stood at the tail-end of a two-year battle with depression, leisurely reconfiguring my life and easing back into a world that had gone on without me.

After walking away from my last paid writing position in 2018, the only income that came my way was the two government-issued COVID relief checks most Americans received by early 2021.

As my outlook became direr, I recalled a conversation with a good friend about their current job and the company that hired them.

“They’re constantly hiring,” they relayed, “so I could probably get you in.”

On a hope and a prayer, I reached out to get more info.

The job seemed simple enough: Recruiting potential sales agents.

You read a short script in hopes of booking people for interviews for about $20 an hour. My friend said they would contact their supervisor ASAP on my behalf, but I asked them to temporarily hold off as my main priority at the time was Momma’s declining health.

Less than two weeks after that conversation, the priority met an untimely end.

After an all-too-brief grieving period, I reached out to my friend once more and told them to make the call. A supervisor interviewed me for the position two days later, and less than a week after that, I got the job.

It is, undoubtedly, one of the worst decisions I've made in my 41 years of life.

From the beginning, I have had multiple issues with the company’s practices that I've tried and failed to ignore. When I did feel comfortable speaking up on these issues, I would either:

a) be addressed by leadership in passing without any follow-through or compromise, or

b) be singled out for being the loudest lemming in the bunch, seemingly trying to shake up their cushy positions.

At the start of the year, new management took over our branch. As one might expect, with the new regime came significant changes to the company; some were decent, but most were more deplorable than the last. Within days of the switch, multiple employees across the board - from team leaders who had worked with the company for decades to recruiters alike - handed in their resignations, including the friend who got me the job.

Looking back, I should’ve taken that as a sign of the shit show entering its second act, with a particularly troublesome, power-hungry team leader-turned-supervisor becoming its breakout star.

And with that mention, I'd like to segue into a few of their biggest, show-stopping moments:

They once claimed in open chat that I was “taking advantage” of grace periods between phone calls - as I was having a panic attack.

They've made repeated racial microaggressions toward me, including comments regarding the tone of my voice, body language, and overall "New York" demeanor.

They've hijacked private meetings I’ve organized with other supervisors to discuss my grievances.

They openly play favorites with some recruiters, especially those they spend time with off-the-clock.

I'm also aware that I'm not the only victim of this supervisor's wrath, as they were the final factor in my friend calling it quits. This decision followed a flurry of migraine-inducing, soul-sucking experiences that felt too personal and Mean Girls-adjacent for anyone’s liking.

Be that as it may, none of these issues currently hold a candle to what has become my most resounding complication:

My fire isn't just burning again. It's raging.

As with most work-from-home opportunities, I have the privilege of keeping up with the best and worst of social media while on the clock.

When I’m not actively complaining about my job online, I’m engaging with like-minded individuals (and sometimes differing ones) on hot topics of the day. While scrolling through Twitter late last week, I came across a tweet from a controversial entertainer who attacked multiple facets of my identity with their ignorant words (I’d rather not say their name - they don’t deserve more stage time).

Within an instant, my fingers flew across the keyboard, ready to go with a lengthy, multi-tweet rebuttal. And man, it was going to be a good one, but… it simply wasn’t enough.

Not anymore.

Over time, I’ve come to believe that responding to ignorance or misinformation on the internet isn’t just about “dunking” on someone (which can be fun but isn't always the main goal).

To me, it’s to ensure others that such ignorance will not go unchallenged; at the very least, not on my watch. Words have power. I have power. And despite some doubt over the years, I know I was given this voice... this power, to be brave, bold, and loud - and not just for myself.

“I am a champion,” Katy Perry once sang with all her might. “And you’re going to hear me roar."

After deleting my response, I tweeted the following:

“The more I see controversial figures speak over, under, and around marginalized voices, the more I feel that gut-deep rumble within, triggering and igniting a truth I’ve fought against for some time:

This pen isn’t dry yet.”

On that day and at that moment, I remembered that I am a writer - present tense.

Everything else I’ve done or will do, no matter what the act, is just a means to an end.

I still have my voice. It took me a long time to believe that again, but trust me when I say that I believe in it with my entire being. I’m ready to roar again: for Momma and myself.

I am a writer. And dammit, I need to be writing.

I don’t plan on quitting the hell job before I find something a little less anxiety-inducing (bills are still a thing, of course). What I can admit is that I’m grateful for this experience, which attempted to silence, belittle, and negate me - because it ended up giving me the room to hear myself louder and more clearly than I have in a long time.

I am not a recruiter.

I am not a lemming.

I will not be silenced.

I am a writer, and I'm ready to fucking roar!