The Interview At the
Demobilization Centre, after the usual round of medical inspection, return of
service equipment, and issue of allowances and civilian clothing, I had been
interviewed by an officer whose job was to advise on careers. On learning that I
had a science degree and varied experience in engineering technology, he
expressed the opinion that I would have no difficulty in finding a good civilian
job. Industry was reorganizing itself for post - war production and there was
already an urgent demand for qualified technologists, especially in the field of
electronics, which was my special interest. I had been very much encouraged by
this, as I had made a point of keeping up with new trends and developments by
borrowing books through the Central Library System, and by subscribing to
various technical journals and magazines, so I felt quite confident of my
ability to hold down a good job. He had given me a letter of introduction to the
Higher Appointments Office in Tavistock Square, London, and suggested that I
call on them as soon as I had settled myself in "digs" and had enjoyed a short
holiday... Shortly after my return, I visited the Appointments
Office, where I was interviewed by two courteous, impersonal men who questioned
me closely on my academic background, service career and experience in industry.
I explained that after graduating I had worked for two years as a Communication
Engineer for the Standard Oil Company at their Aruba Refinery, earning enough to
pay for postgraduate study in England. At the end of the interview they told me
that I would be notified of any vacancies suitable to my experience and
qualifications. Two weeks later I received a letter from the Appointments
Office, together with a list of three firms, each of which had vacancies for
qualified Communication Engineers. I promptly wrote to each one, stating my
qualifications and experience, and soon received very encouraging replies, each
with an invitation to an interview. Everything was working very smoothly and I
felt on top of the world. I was nervous as I stood in front of
the Head Office in Mayfair; this firm had a high international reputation and
the thought of being associated with it added to my excitement. Anyway, I
reasoned, this was the first of the interviews, and if I failed here there were
still two chances remaining. The uniformed attendant politely opened the large
doors for me, and as I approached the receptionist’s desk she smiled quite
pleasantly. "Good morning." Her brows were raised in polite
enquiry. "Good morning," I replied, "My name is Braithwaite. I
am here for an interview with Mr. Symonds." I had taken a great
deal of care with my appearance that morning. I was wearing my best suit with
the fight shirt and tie and pocket handkerchief; my shoes were smartly polished,
my teeth were well brushed and I was wearing my best smile--all this had passed
the very critical inspection of Mr. and Mrs. Belmont with whom I lived. I might
even say that I was quite proud of my appearance. Yet the receptionist’s smile
suddenly disappeared. She reached for a large diary and consulted it as if to
verify my statement, then she picked up the telephone and, cupping her hand
around the mouthpiece as if for greater privacy, spoke rapidly into it, watching
me stealthily the while. "Will you come this way" She set off
down a wide corridor, her back straight and stiff with a disapproval which was
echoed in the tap-tap of her high heels. At the end of the
corridor we entered an automatic lift; the girl maintained a silent hostility
and avoided looking at me. At the second floor we stepped out into a passage on
to which several rooms opened; pausing briefly outside one of them she said "In
there," and quickly retreated to the lift. I knocked on the door and entered a
spacious room where four men were seated at a large table. One
of them rose, walked around to shake hands with me and introduced his
colleagues, and then indicated a chair in which I seated myself. After a brief
enquiry into my place of birth and R. A.F. service experience, they began to
question me closely on telecommunications and the development of electronics in
that field. The questions were studied, deliberate, and suddenly the
nervousness which had troubled me all the morning disappeared; now I was
confident, at ease with a familiar subject. They questioned me on theory,
equipment, circuits, operation; on my training in the U. S. A. , and on my
experience there and in South America. They were thorough, but I was relaxed
now; the years of study, field work and postgraduate research were about to pay
off, and I knew that I was holding my own, and even enjoying it.
And then it was all over. Mr. Symonds, the gentleman who had welcomed me,
leaned back in his chair and looked from one to another of his associates. They
nodded to him, and he said: "Mr. Braithwaite, my associates and
I are completely satisfied with your replies and feel sure that in terms of
qualification, ability and experience, you are abundantly suited to the post we
have in mind. But we are faced with a certain difficulty. Employing you would
mean placing you in a position of authority over a number of our English
employees, many of whom have been with us a very long time, and we feel that
such an appointment would unfavorably affect the balance of good relationship
which has always obtained in this firm. We could not offer you that post without
the responsibility, neither would we ask you to accept the one or two other
vacancies of a different type which do exist, for .they are unsuitable for
someone with your high standard of education and ability. So, I’m afraid, we
will not be able to use you." At this he rose, extended his hand in the courtesy
of dismissal. I felt drained of strength and thought; yet
somehow I managed to leave that office, navigate the passage, lift and corridor,
and walk out of the building into the busy sunlit street. I had just been
brought face to face with something I had either forgotten or completely ignored
for more than six exciting years my black skin. It had not mattered when I
volunteered for aircrew service in 1940; it had not mattered during the period
of flying training or when I received my wings and was posted to a squadron; it
had not mattered in the exciting uncertainties of operational flying, of living
and loving from day to day, brothered to men who like myself had no tomorrow and
could not afford to waste today on the absurdities of prejudice; it had not
mattered when, uniformed and winged, I visited theatres and dance halls, pubs
and private houses. I had forgotten about my black face during
those years. I saw it daily yet never noticed its colour. I was an airman in
flying kit while on His Majesty’s business, smiled at, encouraged, welcomed by
grateful civilians in bars or on the street, who saw not me, but the uniform and
its relationship to the glorious, undying Few. Yes, I had forgotten about my
skin when I had so eagerly discussed my post-war prospects with the Careers
Officer and the Appointments people; I had quite forgotten about it as I
cheerfully entered that grand, imposing building... Now, as I
walked sadly away, I consciously turned my eyes away from the sight of my face
reflected in the large plate-glass shopwindows. Disappointment and anger were a
solid bitter lump rising inside me; I hurried into the nearest public lavatory
and was violently sick. The officer at the demobilization center thought it was hard for the author to find a job.