Commentaries by Cynthia

Upon reading it, Stephen realized he had been caught in a lie, and his cheeks turned red, the warm tint spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. Then he started stammering and stuttering when my attorney asked if he'd followed the proper procedure by reporting the complaint to his boss or to HR. This would be a necessary step for a manager to take if the company hoped to prove to a judge that they were capable of handling discrimination complaints internally. But Stephen had to give an honest answer because his boss, the director, was still sitting in the room.

It was a "gotcha" moment, and I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and smiled in satisfaction. It felt wonderful to see the last of the cool confidence slide from Stephen's demeanor as he began shifting anxiously in his chair. I knew then that it had all been worthwhile. The road trips, the hours of being deposed, and the money I'd invested -- all worth it to see Stephen guiltily squirming in the hot seat. Right then, right there, I fought the desire to raise my hands skyward and proclaim "Thank you, Jesus!"

(Author's Note: Three chapters left, but only one more excerpt left to post.)

Nearly a month later, I met with the same people in another small stuffy room and gave a second deposition.

Four hours into the process, my lawyer, George, began to get upset. “She’s told you all this stuff before,” he sternly informed the opposing counsel. “Start asking her new questions. It’s time to get on with it!”

Sue Ann began slinging her shoulder-length hair - you would think it was 1969 and she was at a Beetle’s concert the way she was acting. “I will ask her whatever I want to, George!” she yelled back. “And don’t you raise your voice like that to me!”

The Good Ol' Boys theme had to go -- as it's been overdone in society.
Poetic Justice also had to go. Besides, I received that a long time ago.
I also wanted to come up with a single word as the title of my book.

So here it goes....

(drum roll, please)

I awoke the next Monday morning, rolled over in bed and thought, "Thank God I don't have to go into work today." My relief was so great over the next two weeks that I noticed a drastic improvement in my depression/oppression and anxiety. I was getting back to being myself again. My laughter returned. My optimism returned. My hands stopped trembling. People even told me that the sparkle in my eyes was back.

I was also blessed to have the words pour out of me effortlessly as I wrote column after column for the local paper. Parts of my ordeal had already been relayed to an audience of approximately ten thousand readers. During the last six months of my employment, I'd written about the lack of respect and honesty in society and about extroverts thinking they were somehow better than introverts. In early December, I'd written about the significance of Human Rights Day and boldly stated that my employer could not discriminate against me because of my gender, religious and/or political affiliation (or lack thereof) age, race, or marital status. Another column delved into the irrational loathing some people feel and express when faced with someone else’s tears.

Andrew Clemmons was a nearby supervisor who often walked up to my desk to chitchat and flirt. He had a reputation for behaving this way with several women in the call center, but I still regarded him as a friend. So one particular day when he dropped by said, "I need to tell you something," I got up from my desk and walked with him into the break room.

Standing in front of the Coke machine, Andrew leaned forward and whispered, “You’d better watch yourself. Abner and Stephen were trying to wipe their hands clean of you when they went to HR, claiming you were harassing Stephen for training. But Reggie didn’t agree and had to remind Stephen and Abner the legal definition of harassment. Based on the e-mail evidence that Stephen took to HR, Reggie recommended the development plan.”

I might have said that I never wanted to get married again, but I didn’t say that I was planning to give up romance entirely.

It was six months after my separation and I had just turned thirty-two when I met Darrin. He arrived at my house one afternoon to install gas heating logs into my fireplace – a project I was financing with my annual tax refund. Watching Darrin work, I found myself feeling a foreign and carnal pleasure. He was almost picture-perfect with all the stereotypically handsome features of a chiseled face, lean hips, and broad shoulders. He also had the most beautiful set of blue-green eyes I’d ever seen. To say that I was interested in Darrin would be an understatement. I practically ached for him.