Domestic workers stalwarts of ambition
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. Those uniforms represented what I didn’t want in life. It’s one thing to do what we called “day’s work,” but donning the white dress with the buttoned-up front and starched collar translated into subservience, being treated lesser-than. Geevie greeted her employers with “Ms.” and “Mr.” — even when cleaning house for one woman nearly 20 years her junior. They, however, called her by her actual first name, Shirley. That was 1984. Decades later, domestic workers are still not getting their due respect.
While political shoutouts for pay equity and the calls for women to supportively “lean i n together” are important and positive, they largely focus on (and resonate with) professionals. But they do little to acknowledge the efforts of “non-professional” women of color. Their sacrifices, obstacles and triumphs are equally significant and valuable. Black women have long strengthened their families through domestic work. These women are positive images of service who’ve paved the way for me — and others — to advance.
Good pay in Richmond during the ’80s was $100 to $130 a week. Yet, in 2015, the 741,000 women working nationwide in private households typically earned $313 weekly, the Bureau of Labor Statistics found.
Their hard work holds dignity and is just as worthy of respect by all, regardless of race, class or economic standing. The women in my family were my first allies and champions.
••• My aunt woke before daybreak to travel the 30-plus miles to clean the homes of well-to-do white families. She washed their clothes, changed their bed linens, vacuumed their floors, scrubbed their bathrooms and meticulously wiped the tarnish from their silver. It was respectable work that allowed her to build a brick home for her family and treat herself to gold jewelry and a full-length black mink coat. But at their homes, she couldn’t eat their food or drink their sodas unless they offered.
Still, she did better than my maternal grandmother, who supported her children by working the tobacco fields of their small family farm with my grandfather. To her, being a secretary was the best job a black woman could achieve.
Geevie would wear the uniform without question. My mom refused.
“I’m not wearing anyone’s uniform,” I remember Mama telling me, with characteristic sass. “They can keep their job.”
Mama did day’s work much of her life, too, but she dressed regularly to do the kind of housework that with age draws at your back muscles. If her employers had kids, she’d help take care of them.
I loved traipsing along to dust the baseboards, breaking to play with the daughter my age. But there were noticeable differences: Mama was welcome to have whatever food and snacks were in the icebox or pantry, and she called the lady of the house “Betsy” or “Linda.”
Once, Mama interviewed with an elderly lady whose living room was filled with delicate porcelain trinkets and sterling-silver serving pieces. She referenced the “girls” who had worked for her before as she pointed out how she expected her treasures to be cleaned just so. She gingerly ran her fingers across the Venetian blinds, and directed Mama how they should be cleaned every week. My mom never went back. Back then, Mama was a lot more strong-willed than my aunt, and for that, I’m grateful. Each generation of women in my family taught me to strive for something bigger than what they could dream for themselves. Because I witnessed my grandmother pick tobacco in 100-degree heat, I knew I could do more. Because my aunt wore a maid’s uniform, I knew I wouldn’t have to. Because my mom did day’s work to help put me through school, I worked even harder to become the first in my family to attend college, graduating from Howard University.
With my journalism degree came a new title: professional. It was one that I worked four years to earn, and that Mama, Geevie and Granny all celebrated. My accomplishment makes it that much easier to appreciate the black women in my life.
There is integrity in domestic work, and no level of achievement will make me lose sight of that. And when you see a woman in uniform, acknowledge her. Greet her. Smile. Say “thank you” — it’s the respect she deserves.