| Written by Penelope Gay Dane
llustration by Justyna Green
To Whom it May Concern,
My supervisor will not tell me who you are. I do not know if you work from home, the outline of your head distorted by a green Zoom background with a contrasting gold logo and moniker. You have decided the university where we work will not increase my pay because of the budget. We may charge clients more than double what the university pays me hourly for my labor, and I helped bring in over $500,000 of contracts to our division, but, in university math, that does not add up to a $160 a month raise. Since you will not look at me, I'm going to describe my face. Curly hair frames my face. I got my first gray hair in my 20s, and at 47, the hair around my face is completely gray and white. After graduate school, I thought I looked too old for anyone to hire me, so I hennaed my fast growing hair a fiery auburn. Every two weeks I stained bowls and my fingers as I mixed henna powder for my roots. Because of my gray, I had to do 2 applications of the henna to get the brown hues in. On the weekend, it took up ¼ of my weekend to demonstrate to the world I was worthy enough for a job like this one. Like so many other women, I stopped dying my hair during the pandemic lockdown. My growing out mullet looks a little mushroomy these days. I get a haircut once a year from a hairdresser who cuts curls well. I can't afford more than once a year haircuts. How often do you cut your hair? My supervisor, who makes 3 times my salary, gets her haircut every six weeks. This is my forehead. It is high and wide. My forehead is the billboard of my face. "Here is Penelope, shower her with love!" it says. It is my father's forehead, my grandfather's forehead. On Zoom, my forehead reflects overhead lights and appears too red at the same time. Which is an impressive feat. Right now, it is furrowed and tense. I helped bring in over $500,000 of contracts, but, in your math, that does not add up to a $160 a month raise. If I had the forehead of a superhero, I would cast this migraine into sonic waves that would hit your forehead. Last night I collected job listings on a spreadsheet. On Monday, I walked outside of my windowless office to get some fresh air. I realized the 3rd floor stairwell is perfect for jumping. I imagined my body splayed on the tile below, with a sign on my back that read "Toxic Workplace." These are the kind of thoughts my forehead wrinkles around from time to time. If I did suicide at my office, the talk would be of how they did not know about my mental health challenges, but they always suspected. As far as university administration who demand exceptional work from employees they pay 30% below market wages are concerned, the workplace tragedy would be that I did not tell anyone I was struck by an urge to kill myself at the office. The other employees would understand. I think their foreheads have hidden thoughts like mine. Maybe they drink a little too much or over-exercise or over-work or zone out on Netflix, but it's the same pain. Our pain is not the pain of a person sitting protected in a room writing policies and emails but not looking at our faces. I am sure you have struggles, hidden person with power, but it is not the agony of a paycheck which does not cover your living expenses or health care. I am sure you have struggles, hidden person with power, but it is not the agony of a paycheck which does not cover your living expenses or health care. These are my eyes. They are my mother's eyes, ones she thinks are too small. When I was 12, she taught me to use an eyeliner halfway across the lids to trick other people's eyes into thinking our eyes were larger. Which I did today. As I tried to work on a job application, the screen was blurry and hard to see. When I'm angry, my eyes can turn mean as a cobra's. I would like to look at you with my cobra eyes. I would enjoy watching shock and disgust flush across your cheeks when you registered the cold hate in my face. This is my round nose, which my sister calls my ski jump nose. When I cry in Zoom therapy, it is the reddest part of my face. Now I know about the hide self view feature, so I do not have to look at my bright nose while I cry to my therapist. It is just as easy for you to pretend I am not a real person as it is for me to click hide self view on Zoom. This is my mouth. Today my lips are thin, dry, a little bluish, because they work hard to hold back the words I want to say at work. When I give poetry readings about claiming madness and queerness and fighting back, I lipstick my mouth a brilliant red. And finally, this is my soft chin. A dentist who wanted me to get some work done said I had a weak chin. My neck clamors to join my face when I smile. So what? What appears soft on my face is strong, defiant. Trembling or stubborn, my chin is more powerful than you can imagine.
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