I open the door. There are five people sitting at a long, mahogany table.
"Hello," I say. They don't respond. "Good morning?"
I sit down across from an elderly white male with a blank stare.
"You can't get the job," says the man. "You are unqualified." The way he says that last word makes the room tremble.
"Sir, I have a doctorate. I went to Harvard," I argue.
"Not possible. You can't afford that," he responds. "You're not good enough. You're not smart enough."
I hand him a copy of my diploma as well as my lengthy resume.
"You're fired," he says, to no one in particular. My papers suddenly catch aflame in his hands. The four other people immediately stand up and leave the room. I can't even hear their footsteps. I stand there in silence, staring the man right in the eyes. There are words on the tip of my tongue, but I can't seem to swallow them.