I remember job hunting in my shoddy
and nervous working class youth,
how I had to wear nylons and white
gloves that were dirty in half an hour
for jobs that barely paid for shoes.
Don't put down Jew, my mother
warned, just say Protestant, it
doesn't commit you to anything.
Ads could still say "white" and
in my childhood, we weren't.
I worked in better dresses in Sam's
cut-rate department store, $3.98
and up. I wasn't trusted to sell.
I put boxes together, wrapped,
cleaned out dressing rooms.
My girlfriend and I bought a navy
taffeta dress with cut-out top, wore it
one or the other to parties, till it
failed my sophistication test. The older
"girls" in sales, divorced, sleek,
impressed me, but the man in charge
I hated, the way his eyes stroked,
stripped, discarded. How he docked
our pay for lateness. How he sucked
on his power like a piece of candy.
Marge Piercy, Made in Detroit (Knopf, 2015)
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