Born during the same period as my Father, although, unlike my octogenarian Father, raised in the north. Hair, the color of cumulus clouds in the sky. Face speckled with age spots which slowly appeared out of nowhere over the years. She was sitting on a park bench in the middle of the day. More than likely, resting from a day of shopping,. Her bags shared the story of habits for breakfast, her favorite afternoon snack and food for Mittens.

She probably lives alone. Her husband of fifty plus years, long since gone. Children, residing a few blocks up on her beloved upper east side. All of whom had made she and her husband proud. Careers on Wall Street and in television with a corner office at 30 Rock. Besides her inability to get around like she use to, she had no complaints. Her petite frame still in relatively good health due to years of conscious eating and exercise. Early to rise, early to bed. She was a stickler for taking care of oneself. Lessons learned decades ago from her Irish immigrant parents. She herself an early immigrant as a young girl.

I noticed her a few minutes before taking a seat. Consistent, present racial tensions; phone calls against African-Americans reported to the police. Guilty of “existing while black”. With ample room on either side, unknowingly, I made the conscious decision to settle on the side opposite her personal handbag. I looked over and gave a smile, another questionable gesture on my part to place her mind at ease.

I soon heard the sound of rustling bags. It was the relocation of the remainder of her bags, on the opposite side, the side farthest away from me.

I’m not oblivious to what I offer to some people in our society. What my milk  chocolate skin, naturally coily, puffy hair represents. No matter where I live, how many degrees I possess, which schools I attended, no doubt, alumni to her beloved children. Or that my children and her grandchildren could possibly attend school with one another. She clearly missed my humanity. Let alone my unnecessary desire to reason with her, to validate my presence in my head. She didn’t see any of those things, nor does she care to see. With no true acquaintance to my kind, she sees uncertainty. She sees a potential threat to her well-being, a thorn in her side. A thorn in her America.

I was taken aback for several moments, then quickly brought myself back down to earth. She reminded me of who I am in this country. What my existence represents to others.

After plugging my ears with soothing music in an attempt to calm my bruised inner soul. After her reminder or what she thought of me, I reminded myself of who I am. Recited one of my favorite quotes by Mrs. Roosevelt, my mentor in my head, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

After my time there was complete, I glanced over to her and gave a brief smile before wrapping up my stay. She quickly turned her head. I stood tall in my place, shoulders back, head up, slowly gathering my belongings. Gently, I brushed away the imaginary lint from my skirt, smiled to myself and strolled away.

~ Grateful Badass

Writing as While Black