So the husband and I were in San Francisco for a few days and on our last night, we headed around the corner from our hotel to grab some dinner. To backtrack for just a bit, we were staying in Union Square where there are a lot of homeless people and high-end department stores (yes, strange juxtaposition of extremes, but I digress). On our daily walks to whatever destination was next on our vacation itinerary, it was depressing to pass by so many outstretched hands--not because they were annoying, but because it is sad to see so many people begging on the streets of what is probably the most affluent city in America.
So on our fateful last night in town, a man calls out to me and says, "You know what? You're with a white guy and that is what is killing us brothers!"
SCRATCH.......................................................Huh? You talking to me?
I continued across the street but was unnerved for the rest of the evening. I didn't address the issue at dinner and I didn't want to write about it at the time because I needed to process why what he said felt like a sucker punch.
So let's compare reactions. First, let's go back to the moment when this confrontation caused my blood to boil: I am on vacation in CALIFORNIA, which has to be the interracial couple capital of the freakin' USA! And on top of that, I am in San Freakin-cisco, of all places! And not that it matters, but my husband isn't white... And who the F&%$ are you anyway, random homeless guy?!?
And now, let's examine why this incident still makes me feel exposed and raw: Out of all the people you could have chosen to insult on crowded downtown street, you chose me. Me, the overly sympathetic sensitive gawky tall freak whose over-developed sense of Catholic guilt is probably what led to this encounter (because I turned around when you called out to me...one does not easily forget years of Sunday school lessons and religion classes on how to treat the least among us). Thanks a$$hole!
Notice that the common thread in both reaction is 'why me'...
Not because I owe anyone an explanation about my life. I did not betray anyone by marrying the man who loves me just as I am --the overly sympathetic sensitive gawky tall freak with an over-developed sense of Catholic guilt. In the nine years that I have been married, it is possible that I have been walking around in blinders regarding my husband's ethnicity and how others react when they see us together. Or it is more likely that no one in either of our social or familial circles has the balls to say anything blatantly offensive. Even when we meet new people, those awkward moments of first contact can be diffused with humor; perhaps, the moments aren't all that awkward anymore. After all, this is the 21st Century and this ain't rural Mississippi.
So again, why me? Is it because I am not conspicuous enough as it is: being taller than the average woman; having a birthmark on my forehead that resembles a third eyebrow (or crap, as someone recently pointed out); or for having an eczema discoloration right under my nose that makes me look like Charlie Chaplin? And you call me out for walking down the street with my husband? Is that the best you can do?
The funny thing about writing this is that the stinger has now been pulled from my skin and whatever discomfort I felt a couple of days ago has subsided. I don't need to be self-conscious about my choices or about being me. People who have issues with me are just like that random racist homeless guy. Just sad.
No comments:
Post a Comment