“Amy Cooper, a white woman who last year became a symbol of the routine racism that Black people face in their daily lives, is suing her former employer for firing her, arguing that she is a victim of racial discrimination.” — The New York Times, 5/26/21
I’m not going to deny that last summer, when I called the police on Mr. Cooper in Central Park, I was out of line. I shouldn’t have called the Brooklyn police — we were in Manhattan. According to records (me), when I allegedly said, “I’m going to tell them there’s an African-American man threatening my life,” I was referring to a totally different African-American man whose last name was also Cooper.
I am so delusional I barely even remember my own words or actions. I am also not a racist. But firing me from a company whose reputation I possibly caused permanent damage to through a slew of bad press and public outrage? That’s racist. And since you can’t call the police on an entire company, my next best option is to sue them into oblivion.
You think you know me, but you have no idea who I really am. I am not the vindictive woman the media and video recording of my exact words and actions made me out to be. Yes, I may have overreacted and called the police preemptively when I probably should have called the fire department first, but my complete lack of self-control, self-awareness, and common decency is no reason for a company to fire me. Judging me as a fit employee based on how I deal with innocent people minding their own business is racial discrimination.
Two wrongs don’t make a right, but suing a company could make me a lot of money, and I know I’m right because I’m a white woman named Amy. I’ve literally never been wrong in my entire life. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. What I meant to say is that in this situation, I am confident that I am white.
You may be surprised to hear this, but I have a lot of Black friends. They might not know I’m their friend, but I know we are great friends, and that’s what matters. Tina is Black and we are such good friends. We get coffee together every morning because she is a barista at the Starbucks a block from my apartment. Her name might be Tiffany. I don’t have time to stop and chat in the morning because I’m usually too busy reporting the Hispanic family that lives below me to the superintendent for having toddlers that make noise.
Call me “Karen,” but I don’t think companies are allowed to fire people who do things that don’t align with their internal policies. They probably wouldn’t be thrilled to hear about the slanderous reviews I left on Glassdoor when everyone forgot my birthday, the false sexual harassment complaint I filed with HR when John didn’t compliment me on my new pants, or the thousands of dollars worth of Whole Foods salads I charged to the company card. But they can’t fire me because what I do on company time, with employees of the company, or company money is none of the company’s business.
That’s it — I’m calling the police.