Shiftless negroes* and the sons of field hands

The Office of Congressman Elijah Cummings organized a job fair that was held today at the Fifth Armory Regent in Baltimore city (near state government offices).

Former coworker The Encyclopedia Veronica and I met up this morning in a spirit of joint industry and purpose to go to this city-sponsored event to peddle our resumes and show off our respective "I'm incredibly employable" faces and can-do spirits. Per the suggestion of the Web notice, participants should "dress for success and bring plenty of resumes." Check. Check. And we were off…

I woke at just a few mintues before 8 and my first thought was to get the Eight O'Clock coffee brewing and the shower head pounding. I was aware of a slight pinching sensation in my shoulder. I must have slept in an awkward position. My sister had just left for work. I could hear the dog munching on her dry food pellets with impressive enthusiasm.

After showering and getting dressed, I took one last gulp of coffee and walked downstairs. I pushed open the gate that separates my apartment complex from the main arteries of the Mt. Vernon neighborhood and saw that the EV was already waiting. I knew the job fair was close, but was unsure of its exact location, so I thought we'd just cab it. EV did know where to find it and suggested we walk. It's a brisk day, but I found myself in immediate support of saving the money and hoofing it—Chunky Mary Jane heels and all.

Just as we passed the corner of Charles & Preston to head west, I saw, in the distance, a n'er do well tenant of my former building—a guy who asked to "hold 30 dollars" a scant week after I'd moved in. To hear the onsite property manager of that building tell it, he did not pay a lick of rent, but instead lived off the disabled woman with whom he was shacking up. Incidentally, he proved to the most vocal, demanding resident in the building. He'd gotten a haircut, I noticed, and was wearing dark sunglasses and a trench coat, like some sort of Inspector Gadget meets Shaft hybrid.

Once he got closer, he said "Are y'all going to the job fair?" We indicated that we were. "It's garbage!" he spat.

EV and I exchanged looks.

"What about us screams Job Fair?" we mused. "Yeah, I mean, what if we were just going to our places of business or somewhere else?"

I told her what a questionable character he was and we pushed on. I went on to conjecture that "garbage" to him probably meant he got kicked out for being inappropriately dressed or not being able to hold audience with potential employers because of his checkered and likely criminal past.

Once we reached the crosswalk to head into the Fifth Regent Armory where the fair was held, we saw the throng. Traffic cops had been employed to help mitigate the cluster fuck. People were detraining the light rail carrying their resumes in translucent portfolios. The EV and I exchanged glances. Apparently, the entire city is unemployed our look communicated.

Finally, the cop motioned for us to cross and we joined said throng. There were easily 500 people moving to get into the building meshing with those who were already leaving. The crowd was overwhelmingly African American and for every person whose attire at least approximated business casual, there were 50 people in do-rags, jeans, and stained t-shirts. Of the t-shirt contingent, there was one man whose shirt bore a slogan that went so beyond the outer boundary of appropriate, that I still cannot quite get over it. "Son of a field negro," it proclaimed.

Even though a dress code was suggested and a photo id required in order to gain entrance, no official was on hand to verify that participants were dressed appropriately or that anyone had any sort of identification.

Once inside (with at least 1200 other people), we started to scope out the booths. Plenty of city government representation. The Deparment of Labor, Licensing and Regulation was there. No, more accurately, there was a sign bearing the agency's name. The station was unmanned. There were no pamphlets, applications, or brochures for passersby to take. Every other company booth's line was at least 50 people deep, and if you chose to stand on those lines, then what?

I took what I thought was a conservative number of resumes with me. I expected to take a lot of business cards, if nothing else, and e-mail any prospective employers with whom I felt any type of professional simpatico. Instead, EV and I looked at each other. "Do you want to try to stand on some lines, or should we wait it out until things drop off a bit, or do you just want to leave and get on with your life?"

We left to get on with our lives.

On our way out, we saw people sitting on flat beds hastily filling out applications, or wandering aimlessly, hedging their chances of talking to someone against making the next light rail back home in time for lunch.

A man with a lisp (who had troubled to wear a suit, poor thing) complained bitterly that no company reps wanted to take the resumes he'd "made up." No one
took resumes at this job fair.

So, what are two ironically distanced unemployed girls to do? We headed to our neighborhood Bistro for an early lunch—The Disenfranchisement Special—and decided that this would make an excellent absurdist French film.

We parted ways at Mt. Vernon Square—EV home to her cat and a nap, and me to the dog.

Disclaimer: "shiftless negro" is an old expression that is particular to African American subculture. Literally, a negro without a shift. No job.