Distinction

The warehouse was a giant metal monster standing as immovable and unyielding as a statue in the wharf district. Steel girders and corrugated sheet formed a structure so large in dimension and design that it seemed almost futuristic in the sprawl of 1950 North Carolina. The northern shore was a choreographed chaos, with loaders, movers and droppers taking almost as long to convey sacks, cartons, containers and boxes to rickety trucks as new steel-hulled ships took to float them halfway around the world. Within a swirl of cacophonous noise, human and mechanical, the man was no different to any of the workers around him. He had the same threadbare cotton shirt pulled over his shoulders, a trail of moisture tracing his spine; the same dark felt trousers, scuffed to a light grey at the knees. In fact, very little creativity was shown by the wharf workers whatsoever. And yet, with a simple glance, managers, clients and captains enforced a divide so strong it seemed more than an echo from a past society. 1

The man lifted a sack onto his shoulder, his muscles rippling at the strain, and began to trudge towards a storage container deep within the warehouse. The sun was a constant assault in the height of summer, seeming to bend the boundary between energy and a physical force. It was relentlessly vigorous, motivating rivulets of sweat to trickle down the contours of his face, in time to laboured breaths. Delivering the burlap to a growing stack, he returned to the heat. Before he heaved the next onto his shoulder, a sharp whistle bit the air, and workers abandoned their stations, streaming to the shade of the huddle of trees at the end of the warehouse. 2

He took a different path.3

The back of the warehouse was almost as deserted as the front was chaotic; yet another contrast in a world where the lines weren’t blurred. Right at the end, nestled in the crook of the L-shaped building, was a set of water fountains.4

The one on the left had cooled water, run through a new set of pipes to a strong, streamlined mouthpiece. The other was off to the right. Connected by a rusty pipe to the first, a continuous stream of water leaked from a loose bolt. This one lacked the newfangled cooling system. This one delivered a spatter than seemed to hit everywhere but the mouth. 5

This was the one the man bent to.6

Because, despite the fact there was no witness, despite the fact there was no fear of reproach, he obeyed the rules, and tasted the hot, dirty water that did little to quench his thirst. Even while eying the fountain to his right, which promised deliciously cold relief. Call it the pressure of centuries of social inferiority. Call it a simply ingrained behaviour. Call it what you want.7

The signs above the fountains left little confusion about what was expected.8

White. Coloured.9