Olivia Brink: A short week, a long history

Bounding up the hill to Rowland Hall, gosh it is sticky out. Why do these people walk so slowly? Are they not as eager as I am to get their day started? Was supposed to be remote, but here I am at the office. Do people think I’m a doctor? Faculty? Can they see through me?

The automatic doors won’t open. They do not sense my presence. Likely story. Ah, here we go — the AC covers me like a chilly blanket, and I pound forward to the elevator.

“Good morning,” the security guard says.

“Yes, it is a good morning. Short week this week with Thursday off,” I say back without hesitation.

“Oh, I do not have Thursday off,” she says.

I pause. The discomfort waves over me.

“That is such crap,” I say. “I’m so sorry — I’ll bring a treat on Wednesday to make up for it,” I add quickly, without much consideration for what I’m promising.

“You are too cute, but no need,” she replies shortly.

“What’s your name again?” I ask with a soft smile.

“Angela, and you?” she says back.

“Olivia.”

I walk away to the elevator with my head down.

Thursday is June 19th. The holiday commemorates the day in 1865 when enslaved people in Texas were finally informed of their freedom — over two years after the Emancipation Proclamation. It marks a celebration of black liberation, delayed and honestly still not fully realized.

Angela is black. I am white. I have off work on June 19th. Angela must work on June 19th. The irony fills my stomach as I ride the elevator to the fifth floor. Thoughts race across the streets of my mind.

Does she like working as a security guard? I don’t know. But she stands tall, alert, always greeting me with a smile — steady, unfazed, even when most people pass each day without looking at her. Maybe she chose this job and maybe it fits with her life. I imagine her walking down City Avenue after her shift to visit loved ones nearby. Maybe she’s working her way through school and this job pays the bills. Maybe it’s just what’s available right now.

Does one have to aspire to something “higher” than security work? Who decides what’s worthy?

Is there more dignity in a salaried office job than in showing up every day and keeping a building safe and secure?

She might have dreams she’s still chasing, complicated hopes as vivid as mine. Or maybe this is the dream, or very close to it.

But then I catch myself — why am I filtering all of this through her skin? Through race — a construct we created to categorize and control. If she were white, would I be analyzing her job?

Her imagined story? No. I probably wouldn’t give it a second thought. Would I care that she doesn’t have Juneteenth off if she were white? I doubt I’d even notice.

So why the hell do I get off and she does not?

It feels wrong. It is wrong. Someone must protect the building on June 19, 2025, I guess.

Maybe she’s happy. Maybe she’s getting time-and-a-half and planning something for Friday.

Maybe she doesn’t feel like celebrating at all.

Maybe she’s exactly where she wants to be, and maybe not.

Olivia Brink writes about identity, work, and the quiet tensions of everyday life. She is pursuing her Master of Public Administration. She believes that the smallest moments often carry the deepest truths.