I’m frequently asked if I’ve encountered racism in my travels.
I used to live in the U.S. south. Wha’d’you think?
Admittedly, not having grown up steeped like a teabag in racial confrontations, I missed many of the subtler cues when I was younger, but maybe in some instances that was good–you can’t insult someone who’s too stupid to realize she’s being insulted. Then I married a man who’s frequently purposely clueless, and at times we’re a double act.
Alabama, 1998. I was in the UK; he was on a new job in the US. Our phone bills were painful. Because of the time difference, he’d call me while he was at work and, eventually, we roped his office mates into some pretty hilarious British/deep south conversations. I got to ‘know’ people by voice—the ornery foreman, the sassy secretary, flirtatious construction guys who thought I sounded sexy. We all looked forward to my flying over, meeting in person, and hanging out.
When I finally landed in Alabama, hubby drove me straight from the airport to his workplace because everyone was excited to finally meet me. He marched in and proudly announced, “Here she is!”
I hammed it up. “Ta da!”
And eyes bulged, jaws went slack, coffee spoons stopped stirring. For the next five seconds, you could’ve heard an ant fa…I mean, fumble. Then came:
“H..hi.”
“Soooo, ho…how are ya?”
And my personal favorite: “Uuuhhhh….”
I stage whispered to hubby, “Didn’t mention I was black, huh?”
He thought a moment. Then, “It didn’t come up. Why?”
The five white faces staring back at us turned glow-in-the-dark red.
-Gotcha!-
Sometimes, I’m a single act. In England,1997, to the Buxton cashier who bent her wrist at unnatural angles trying not touch me when she gave me back change for a sweater, I said, wide-eyed, “My skin won’t bleach if you touch me, honest. I’ll be safe.” She looked mortified when people looked around. I felt bad for her then.
Oddly, my harshest encounter with bigotry came in my own homeland, from other blacks, way back in 1995, at a seaside 
bar on Lower Bay Street. That time, my then-fiancé (no hubby) saved me jail time, bless him.
He and I went to grab a free hour after work to start wedding planning. As he bought drinks, two chunky men appeared.
We found a bench out on the sand and sat, trying to coordinate his spread-out family with my insane schedule. The steaks-on-legs stayed in view. A cop, too, appeared and stood staring at us. Fuse short after my long day, I started toward the cop to ask his problem but my soon to be husband said, “Let’s go.” It was at the exit that he calmly dropped a bomb on me.
“That’s ridiculous,” I blurted. He and I weren’t dressed “on-the-make”. We wore work clothes—his name tag still clipped to his shirt, me in knee-length cotton and flat shoes for the long hours on duty. I wore an engagement ring!
“Forget clothes,” he said. “Look at me. Look at you.”
Finally I did: I was dark-skinned; he wasn’t. These pea-brain locals could therefore only think of me being one thing—a hooker.
“They think I’m a WHAT?” I shrieked. The meat-heads were still hovering nearby, still watching. “They think I am, ‘cause their mammas are!” and I headed back for them.
Jon dragged me bodily from the establishment, shoved me into the car. I resented it, but now I’m glad he sidelined my brawl.
By the time we went to western Europe over a decade later, and finally settled in one place, I had grown more prickly due to my increased awareness, not less. I assumed negative reactions would be because I’m black. Then we began learning the local language and another veil lifted away. What I discovered was that some people had never seen a black person in “real life” (in the 21st century! Whodathunkit?) and were curious, not racist. Others thought we’d be like some who moved to the country and thirty years later, haven’t even tried to learn the language. Once I began butchering vocabulary and grammar (both German and Spanish), smiles blossomed and conversation poured out faster than I could keep up.
Bottom line, it can be a challenge to remember that, although there’re isolated idiots everywhere, most people just want to relax, chat about life, and tear down fences, not bear them up. I, for example, can always find someone who understands my disgust at how skinny Europeans strew divine sweets everywhere, uncaring of my inability to say ‘no’. I mean, c’mon, people. Close a bakery, burn a cupcake, something. Help a chunky sister out!
I have a smile on my face from ear to ear…….
Please don’t forget the time when people cleared out of the thermal baths in Budapest when you and I stepped in…….Mass exodus. I thought someone had P….. in the pool……..
M.E.
But then came the positively soul-cleansing massage by the coolest (and most thorough) masseur with the truly gifted hands. My feet didn’t touch ground all the way to Heroes’ Square and back down Andrassy Utca to the hotel. All in all, the Széchenyi Thermal Bath and the rest of Buda and Pest were worth a repeat. (There’re idiots everywhere. I ignore ‘em.)
Margaret, such a great, frank read. And I am from Trinidad & Tobago, so you can imagine the Afro/Indian mix and many of the images you experienced are multiplied.
Best wishes
My own experience is this: The mass ignorant will always be with us. It’s human nature to need to have someone else we consider “not as good as” to help us feel better about ourselves, give us a sense security and place in the big scheme of things. However, when I deal with ‘em one by one, matter-of-factly showing them that they are ignorant, usually they’re quite embarrassed. This either 1) changes their attitude to one more aware…or 2) gives me a great change to take the p…out of them! Either way, somebody wins!
You are so talented with the ability to transport your reading public..and sooooo funny with it.. the hallmark of a gifted author!
Thanks, Margaret! But, you know how they say, “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life”? Well, they lied.
hey Bird, I think the phrase dumb about not seeing black or white should have been naive….. Same as an Iowa girl who did not know prejudice because i had not been exposed to it.. Here is to more Flomarkt in the future. [and more exercise]
It wasn’t until university that it hit me that our old neighbors who babysat us sometimeswere white. I just knew Auntie Barbara always had sweet biscuits and Uncle Dominic told really corny jokes. Now I find it hard to ‘box’ people based on superficials because that wasn’t my daily childhood experience. And friends like you and others from diverse backgrounds show it isn’t an automatic race/color thing, but a socialization/experience thing. Now…can someone pul-lease tell me why I wasn’t raised to dislike cake? It would really help right now. And need to run a booth at a flea market this year. Too much surplus stuff!
Interesting insights about your encounters with racism. As a sister with a Caribbean background I have heard similar experiences that leave the most bitter taste in the mouth coming from the place you’d least expect it–some of your own hometown folks! Thanks for posting. Keep up the great work!