Today, during the last meeting of my hectic workday, I received a text from one of my girlfriends. She sent the link to an article on the Posse website. The article depicted my experiences with a previous employer in an incredibly positive light. Upon seeing her text, my anxiety sky rocketed. It didn’t really matter that my boss was sitting next to me, I went to my phone and opened the article. I immediately became sick to my stomach. In my experience, that employer was horrible. Why would Posse post this article without stopping to ask me about it first? In the midst of wondering this, I began to shake. This is my usual response to extreme anxiety. Through the shaking, I managed to text the Posse program manager. She didn’t respond immediately and I figured she was busy. I called the New York Posse office and was able to speak to the VP of External Affairs. He corrected the mistake by redacting my name. Problem solved, I guess.

Most of the time, I feel like I am suffocating. That’s why I created this entire thing. Who knows what will come of it? Will I share it with specific people or announce it publicly for all to see? As of right now, I think it’s best that this blog exist for me. I am suffocating on a daily basis. It is only a matter of time before I suffocate and transition to the past tense. I know it is often said jokingly, but I mean it seriously when I say, “I have a lot of feelings.” These feelings are consuming me. My feelings of anxiety and betrayal are suffocating me.

In actuality the problem was never solved because I was still suffocating. Repeat. I am still suffocating. This incident isn’t unique and I am suffocating because I have yet to be provided with oxygen. In this case, oxygen exists as some level of validation. The Posse program manager attempted to validate my experience by sending long messages about the various Posse scholars who have enjoyed their experiences with that employer. I hope my sarcasm is clear. But, I find myself in this predicament quite often and the frequent nature of it all only contributes to my feelings of suffocation. When I speak on my experiences, I feel that people believe I am being dramatic or over exaggerating. I may be loud, obnoxious, and even rude when I convey my experiences, but I am screaming for my truth to be heard and understood.

My experience at Fidelity Investments was horrific. In hindsight, I think my feelings about the situation are so negative because I was so fed up walking into it. I graduated this May, but prior to, I experienced four years of torment on the basis of gender and ethnicity/race. My undergraduate experience was traumatizing. I refused to relive that negative experience because of my employer. Centre College was enough and then some. I graduated with a whole lot of racial trauma and a whole lot of intolerance for complacency, tokenry, and racial bullshit as I shall call it. So, when incidents of racial violence happened at Fidelity, I would respond fiercely. Why respond with compassion, understanding, and or empathy? I have been suffocating for twenty two years because of another’s privilege and ignorance. Why should I move the needle forward? I’m fucking tired.

So, when a Fidelity higher up sat down next to me and described my family’s immigration story as Fidelity’s greatest security threat… I wasn’t feeling like being understanding. Let’s back up to the story. During my time at Fidelity, we endured numerous background sessions on a variety of topics. For the security briefing informational session, the presenter (high up) mentioned that “the illegals were Fidelity’s greatest security threat” because of the issue of dual social security #s. I was suffocating throughout that session. I couldn’t say anything at the time, but then again this man was describing exactly how my grandmother immigrated to this country. Yes, I am the proud descendent of an undocumented immigrant. I own that. I never in a million years thought I’d find myself in a room where my grandmother would be criminalized for searching for improvement in the United States. It’s so easy to attack the individual undocumented immigrant, but difficult to identify the systemic factors that contribute to their inability to become documented. It hurts to hear the word illegal alien spoken aloud. I suffocated. Nobody understood how pointed my distress was in this case. I am here today because Benigna Escano decided to enter the U.S. under the guise of “borrowed papers.” She sacrificed in hopes of improving her situation, that of her family, and future families. But, I am still suffocating. It’s been 22 years of life for me. It’s been 40 something for my mom. 60 something for my grandma. I am still suffocating.