I Worked for a Witch

Don’t judge. Many of my favorite bosses were women.  Some were mentors. Role models. Pioneers. But once upon a time I worked for a witch. She was a bully. A train wreck.   A trickster.  A predator.  A woman with no redeeming qualities. 

When she was in the office, the mood was ominous.   

When she wasn't around, she reared her ugly head on our smartphones, in the form of scathing emails.  No road trip, sickbed, vacation, family emergency, or act of God could stop her.  Like a witch, she hovered overhead on her broomstick, ready to swoop down and attack. She was a killer, sapping energy, shooting down ideas, and badmouthing the best of us. 

Full of jealousy and self-loathing, she also lacked poise, had  few no smarts, and was shameless. In her merciless campaign to be top dog, she ruined careers, schemed to get people fired, and battled every perceived threat to her ultimate goal.  

Powerful men, giants sky-high on the executive food chain, feared her. Unqualified for most jobs but wicked as Satan, she rose up the corporate ladder, because only a fool or an exorcist would dare to cross her.  

I watched her leave trails of dead bodies behind as she whooshed through the hallways wreaking havoc, without looking back. Those of us who were spared shivered in fear, hoping not to be her next prey.  

Lacking the skills of an exorcist, I vowed to do the next best thing, if she ever came after me. I’d put up my skinny dukes and fight like hell.

But I was caught off guard. 

She cornered me behind closed doors and claimed I’d been asleep at the wheel for a year. Worse, she'd penned a ruthless evaluation, full of fake accusations, claiming I was a waste.  And the witch read every word of it to me. Out. Loud.   

The hatred in her eyes was so unnerving even God would shudder.  When I opened my mouth to defend myself, my voice was faint.  I was visibly shaken, and that's when she went in for the kill. Pushing all of my buttons and stripping me of my dignity, she did not stop until I nearly collapsed. Then she dismissed me.

I staggered up and down the hallways, trying to pull myself together. 
Although I hoped no one noticed me, I saw the concerned faces of a few colleagues, and I almost lost it. I made it to the elevator. Then, dazed and shaken, I stumbled out onto the street and cried like a baby.

She got me.   I was on the ropes.  But not for long.

Why me? Unlike others she’d killed off, I posed no threat – I worked for her, and was no obstacle to her bloody fight to the top.  

Wait a minute.  Was this racial?

I’d never played the race card. Not when a brazen boss called me a nigger.  Or when my supervisor said, “They told me not to hire a black girl.” Not even when I overheard my manager refer to black people as “jigaboos.” I held my head high and let it go.   

But this wicked woman was threatening my livelihood.  No. Freaking. Way.

I built my case.

I was the only African-American on her award-winning team.  Is that why was I the only one whose job was on the line, after a successful year?  And why did she once offer me a well-deserved promotion and then deny it, until HR held a gun to her head? I went back over the years and found more incriminating details to bolster my claim.  

I called lawyers.  I contacted the EEOC.  My allegations led to an investigation.  

Investigators made frequent visits to our corporate headquarters, collecting evidence from others as well as from me and the witch. In a shameless attempt to push her "some of my best friends are black" agenda, she was seen parading an unknown black woman around the office. That’s when I knew the witch was running scared.

She wasn’t as badass as she thought.

It ended well for me.  I retained my dignity and good standing in the company. People of all colors, creeds and professions – friends, family, coworkers, and passersby who got an earful, supported me.

Legally, she could not retaliate.  I kept my job.

I slayed a witch.  

She had to eat so much crow I heard her choking on it.

I won.