This morning, in a Starbucks far from home, I watched a brown skinned girl play with two lily white blond Barbies. The dolls and the girl resembled each other only to the extent that their hair was frizzed and tangled.The brown skinned girl clearly had the upper hand, but she didn't seem to notice.
I could tell the girl was a regular; she bantered with the barristas as she played, her mother occasionally peering over her newspaper with one eye to make sure she was towing the line. The girl appeared happy, articulate, loved. The dolls, partially clad with an occasional limb twisted in an unlikely direction, seemed, nevertheless, loved. They had gotten that way from hours of devoted play, I assume, and not from any intentional abuse.
Recently, in an Uber far from home, my driver struck up a conversation. Black, not brown, a man not much older than I but boasting of multiple grandchildren and his lingering friendship with the woman who was once his wife but from whom he had long ago split. I thought about how easy my life is, as passenger, not driver. I listened politely, even tucked my latest Words With Friends game back into my purse.
Henry told me how much he loved his new vocation. In a few short months, he had met all sorts of people from all sorts of places, had told his story and heard countless others. He used my name frequently, committing it to memory, sewing me into the fabric of his autobiography. Henry and I quickly found common ground; faith -- though not necessarily in the same higher power, pride in having raised children, how lucky we feel when we wake up to a warm and sunny day.
Henry told me he had no patience for negativity. Life had dealt him plenty of blows, but he never dwells. He told me he had a lot of friends who had been depressed since November. November. If he hadn't already commanded my attention, he certainly did then. November? I asked him, though I knew immediately what he meant. The second Tuesday in November, 2016, the day on which I felt betrayed by a country I no longer recognized.
He chastised me for being discouraged, reminded me I had no right to complain unless I did something about it. I write, I told him. I renewed my subscription to the New York Times. I've signed dozens of petitions. He wasn't impressed.
But what surprised him the most was my shock. Not my shock that a deranged man child was about to move into the White House. Not my shock at the things he has said and continues to say. What surprised him was that I felt betrayed, that I no longer recognized my country, that I thought something had suddenly changed. That I had no clue how racist this place is, and the only thing that had changed was that it was now okay.
In my well-heeled suburban bubble, in the Starbucks far from home where a brown skinned child plays with lily white Barbies, I still find it hard to believe this is so. Then again, I know plenty of people who have no trouble looking the other way if there's a chance their portfolios will swell. All things being equal, it's a lot easier to have money than to not.
I like to think Henry is wrong, but Henry is so obviously wise. Maybe he will reach people as he drives them around the parts of New Orleans that are as foreign to him as hate and racism always seemed to me. Like Henry, we all have a job to do.
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