[& that's where the beach was|| that's where the sea]
I'm not one for getting all worked up about most things. Despite my hyperactive nature and the occasional frothing at the mouth, I spend 99% percent of my day in a relatively mellow state. Occasionally, I'll get mad at ignorance or at the scanner not working and I'll cuss at it but nothing serious.
Today, was a different sort of day.
Knowing that Valentine's Day would be absolutely swamped with people going out to dinner, buying gifts, and generally partaking in the lovey-dovey, vomit inducing PDA that David and I are both looking to avoid, he decided that dinner would be tonight somewhere nice rather than me cooking something. And to Olive Garden we go, the one situated in Largo on Ulmerton Rd., a place we had both been to countless times before, together and apart, wanting something nice but nothing too over budget with the economy singing faster than the Lucitania.
There was no line, not really. It was a Monday night and the manager was acting as the hostess. Looking squarely at David, he asks, "Table for one or will you be expecting?" before David places a hand on my shoulder and says simply, "Two." This seems to take the manager aback but he seats us close to the kitchen, in a back corner, shooing all other waitresses and waiters away to attend to us 'personally'.
His 'attention' was to take our orders and make us wait for 45 minutes. I had hardly noticed because the both of us had struck up conversation with another bi-racial couple that was seated next to us that were well into their thirties, celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary. Until the woman, who was black, hushed me so we could listen through the swinging doors into the kitchen:
"I took their orders Bob. Yeah, I'm hopin' they leave. Damn niggers will probably pay us in food stamps anyway."
I of course, sighed and intended to wave over another waitress so we could pay for our drinks and leave when the woman, Lilian, looked at me.
"You hear that?"
"Yes. And so we're leaving," I said, shrugging. David nodded as well and said some choice language in addition that the husband, Paul, found amusing.
"We put up with things like that in the 1980's. So you didn't have to. Where ever you go in life, and you both seem like smart kids, don't just accept it. Don't just say it's the way things are. Because some people would rather *die* than change."
I realized then that I accepted racism. Not in a way that I supported it. But in the way that I just accepted it with a quiet resignation, saying that--giving the excuse that--it was the older generation, they'll die out at some point and you can't change ignorance. But I wouldn't have the desire (and now the papers from the state of Florida) to teach if I really believed that. The counselor that told me in 8th grade that there was no point in signing up for honors classes because I "would just end up pregnant like the rest of the black girls", the security guards in International Plaza that follow me anytime I step foot in there, the waiting, at the table for 45 minutes when people were served and long gone--I was letting these people know that it was ok to do that. That 'slight racism' was fine as long as it wasn't overt.
And it wasn't. It's probably a little more insidious because not everyone realizes it when it happens.
I know some white people feel that they are the victim of 'reverse racism' (hint: no need to add the reverse in there, Oxford scholar) or those that hold their religious belief close to their chest feel that "gay people are trying to destroy marriage". And I say to you this: Having felt that, having figuratively "walked a mile in the other person's shoes" in your eyes...how can you do the same to some one else? How can you strip part of someone's humanity away and turn them into a swatch, a stereotype, a statistic? And why would you try to deny them the one thing, the very same thing you are looking for--happiness?
It took me awhile to go home, cool off and relax before I wrote this. I'm not a philosopher. I'm not a poet. Hell, I'm not even twenty five. I'm not asking you to accept me or like what I do, who I date, or what color my skin is or what color David's skin is. I'm asking you to see me and everyone else, regardless of their skin, their partner, their religion, as a human, as a citizen of this Great Experiment called America.
After all, it's all you would ask of me, isn't it?
I sign this letter,
a concerned citizen, with love.
Goodnight and Good Luck.
Today, was a different sort of day.
Knowing that Valentine's Day would be absolutely swamped with people going out to dinner, buying gifts, and generally partaking in the lovey-dovey, vomit inducing PDA that David and I are both looking to avoid, he decided that dinner would be tonight somewhere nice rather than me cooking something. And to Olive Garden we go, the one situated in Largo on Ulmerton Rd., a place we had both been to countless times before, together and apart, wanting something nice but nothing too over budget with the economy singing faster than the Lucitania.
There was no line, not really. It was a Monday night and the manager was acting as the hostess. Looking squarely at David, he asks, "Table for one or will you be expecting?" before David places a hand on my shoulder and says simply, "Two." This seems to take the manager aback but he seats us close to the kitchen, in a back corner, shooing all other waitresses and waiters away to attend to us 'personally'.
His 'attention' was to take our orders and make us wait for 45 minutes. I had hardly noticed because the both of us had struck up conversation with another bi-racial couple that was seated next to us that were well into their thirties, celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary. Until the woman, who was black, hushed me so we could listen through the swinging doors into the kitchen:
"I took their orders Bob. Yeah, I'm hopin' they leave. Damn niggers will probably pay us in food stamps anyway."
I of course, sighed and intended to wave over another waitress so we could pay for our drinks and leave when the woman, Lilian, looked at me.
"You hear that?"
"Yes. And so we're leaving," I said, shrugging. David nodded as well and said some choice language in addition that the husband, Paul, found amusing.
"We put up with things like that in the 1980's. So you didn't have to. Where ever you go in life, and you both seem like smart kids, don't just accept it. Don't just say it's the way things are. Because some people would rather *die* than change."
I realized then that I accepted racism. Not in a way that I supported it. But in the way that I just accepted it with a quiet resignation, saying that--giving the excuse that--it was the older generation, they'll die out at some point and you can't change ignorance. But I wouldn't have the desire (and now the papers from the state of Florida) to teach if I really believed that. The counselor that told me in 8th grade that there was no point in signing up for honors classes because I "would just end up pregnant like the rest of the black girls", the security guards in International Plaza that follow me anytime I step foot in there, the waiting, at the table for 45 minutes when people were served and long gone--I was letting these people know that it was ok to do that. That 'slight racism' was fine as long as it wasn't overt.
And it wasn't. It's probably a little more insidious because not everyone realizes it when it happens.
I know some white people feel that they are the victim of 'reverse racism' (hint: no need to add the reverse in there, Oxford scholar) or those that hold their religious belief close to their chest feel that "gay people are trying to destroy marriage". And I say to you this: Having felt that, having figuratively "walked a mile in the other person's shoes" in your eyes...how can you do the same to some one else? How can you strip part of someone's humanity away and turn them into a swatch, a stereotype, a statistic? And why would you try to deny them the one thing, the very same thing you are looking for--happiness?
It took me awhile to go home, cool off and relax before I wrote this. I'm not a philosopher. I'm not a poet. Hell, I'm not even twenty five. I'm not asking you to accept me or like what I do, who I date, or what color my skin is or what color David's skin is. I'm asking you to see me and everyone else, regardless of their skin, their partner, their religion, as a human, as a citizen of this Great Experiment called America.
After all, it's all you would ask of me, isn't it?
I sign this letter,
a concerned citizen, with love.
Goodnight and Good Luck.