GUNS WERE POINTED AT MY HEAD

The Night I Was Mistaken for a Thief

I fit the description: a female driving a small blue pickup

Artwork by the author

It was a time of unrest, the 1970s, with anti-war protests, desegregation, and the Women’s movement converging when two guns were pointed at my head on a lonely stretch of a southern New Hampshire road.

Earlier that evening, I left the campus of Northeastern University, where I was attending night classes, furthering my knowledge in my new administrative assistant position to Mr Boston Distillers traffic department.

Our traffic was liquor: Scotch in containers from overseas which was then routed, along with alcohol products produced at the Boston distillery, all over the country via freight trains, airplanes, and trucks.

My job was facilitating and tracking the shipments, which often entailed long phone conversations with my counterparts at airports, freight, and train depots. I loved chatting with the men, rarely, women, who were responsible for our shipments reaching their destinations intact and on time.

The position required taking dictation and using shorthand. I knew neither when I applied. Thankfully, I wasn’t tested, thus avoiding demonstrating my lack of these skills in my interview. When notified I…