Drilling rigs are crowded, bustling places with a definite social structure. At the top are the company men, who represent the oil company that is paying for the use of the rig, sometimes at the rate of half a million dollars per day. Then there are the numerous personnel of the drilling company, which owns the rig, followed by the company that takes care of the food, laundry, cleaning, etc. These are people who take grief from most people on board, usually behind their backs. Finally there are the third party personnel or “hands” as they are referred to. Service people, from mechanics to technicians to engineers are on board for various lengths of time. I am one of these.
There were four of us on duty; Hand 1, Hand 2, myself and the boss. The boss is Chinese, 1 and 2 are deep Louisiana Cajuns, and I am a garden variety Mississippi boy. Not quite a redneck just returned from twenty years around the world and in the upper Midwest. We are working the night shift and the boys are explaining America to the boss.
“You gotta understand” 1 said. “These people working in the galley and cleaning our rooms used to be our slaves.”
“Yeah, they were, and they still should be” said 2.
“The only good Nigger is a dead Nigger” said 1.
I just stared. I was speechless.
“Whoa, Hoss, be careful. He might be married to a black woman or something” said 2, gesturing to me.
“Are You?”
“Nah” I managed. They were looking straight at me.
“Good” said 1. “I didn’t think you looked like a Nigger lover.”
That’s when I walked out, into the cool night to think about this. As the new guy, I was at the mercy of these guys until we hit land again, in a month. It was cowardly of me not to say anything, and I knew it. I felt ashamed, because I am usually an opinionated smart ass and anywhere else I would have welcomed the opportunity to argue and try to change their minds. I also knew that they knew that this kind of conversation, if reported to HR, would land them in the unemployment line. I also knew that offshore is a dangerous place and accidents happen all the time. I also did not want to be the different guy again. The election had just taken place, and I was the guy receiving the emails accusing Obama of being a Muslim traitor and many other things. Because I went against the tide and said that I supported him. Because I was different in a company culture that celebrates conservative white values, the foremost of which is a sense of unjustly fleeting entitlement. I said nothing, but hated them for making me hate myself.
A couple of days later, in the galley, we lined up for midnight meal. The food is usually very good, and there is plenty of it. We sat down, but 2 slammed down his plate and walked out of the room, leaving us to wonder what had happened. Later, we found him and asked what had happened.
“Son of a bitch told me I couldn’t have a steak.” He said.
“There was steak?”
“Yeah, left over from the main lunch today. I asked him to throw me one on the grill”.
“And what did he say?” I asked.
“He said they were just for main party personnel. No steak for service hands.”
“Ain’t that some shit.” Said 1. “He got a lot of nerve.”
“Guess we’re lower on the totem pole here than we think.” I said. I would not miss this opportunity. “Looks like everybody is somebody’s Nigger.”
There were four of us on duty; Hand 1, Hand 2, myself and the boss. The boss is Chinese, 1 and 2 are deep Louisiana Cajuns, and I am a garden variety Mississippi boy. Not quite a redneck just returned from twenty years around the world and in the upper Midwest. We are working the night shift and the boys are explaining America to the boss.
“You gotta understand” 1 said. “These people working in the galley and cleaning our rooms used to be our slaves.”
“Yeah, they were, and they still should be” said 2.
“The only good Nigger is a dead Nigger” said 1.
I just stared. I was speechless.
“Whoa, Hoss, be careful. He might be married to a black woman or something” said 2, gesturing to me.
“Are You?”
“Nah” I managed. They were looking straight at me.
“Good” said 1. “I didn’t think you looked like a Nigger lover.”
That’s when I walked out, into the cool night to think about this. As the new guy, I was at the mercy of these guys until we hit land again, in a month. It was cowardly of me not to say anything, and I knew it. I felt ashamed, because I am usually an opinionated smart ass and anywhere else I would have welcomed the opportunity to argue and try to change their minds. I also knew that they knew that this kind of conversation, if reported to HR, would land them in the unemployment line. I also knew that offshore is a dangerous place and accidents happen all the time. I also did not want to be the different guy again. The election had just taken place, and I was the guy receiving the emails accusing Obama of being a Muslim traitor and many other things. Because I went against the tide and said that I supported him. Because I was different in a company culture that celebrates conservative white values, the foremost of which is a sense of unjustly fleeting entitlement. I said nothing, but hated them for making me hate myself.
A couple of days later, in the galley, we lined up for midnight meal. The food is usually very good, and there is plenty of it. We sat down, but 2 slammed down his plate and walked out of the room, leaving us to wonder what had happened. Later, we found him and asked what had happened.
“Son of a bitch told me I couldn’t have a steak.” He said.
“There was steak?”
“Yeah, left over from the main lunch today. I asked him to throw me one on the grill”.
“And what did he say?” I asked.
“He said they were just for main party personnel. No steak for service hands.”
“Ain’t that some shit.” Said 1. “He got a lot of nerve.”
“Guess we’re lower on the totem pole here than we think.” I said. I would not miss this opportunity. “Looks like everybody is somebody’s Nigger.”
