As I approached the front door of the office building where my Tuesday night acting class is held, I couldn’t help but notice you leaning on the front door, smoking a cigarette. I called the security box and asked to be let in the building. As I was buzzed up to the office and you grabbed the door behind me.
I said, “You’re going to have to be buzzed in.”
You said, “I’m making a delivery. I was just taking a smoke break.”
The lobby was dark. After hours, the building was desolate. In my head I replayed brutal scenes from that one book about misguided women who didn’t trust their instincts. I replied, “I just can’t let you in unless you are buzzed in by an office.”
You pointed to your delivery boxes that were already in the front lobby. The insignia on the packages matched that embroidered on your front shirt.
You were telling the truth.
“Oh.” I said, embarrassed. “You understand. Don’t you?”
“Yeah, I understand,” you said cynically, anger flashing in your eyes.
I wanted to explain to you that it wasn’t because you were black. It wouldn’t have mattered if you were a Jude Law look-alike; I was not going to let a strange man accompany me into a deserted building in downtown Chicago.
I am not a racist. I’m just a paranoid city dweller who isn’t going to put herself in compromising situations.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
I am not racist. I promise.
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2 comments:
It's true, sir. Carrie is a bit paranoid, but she has good reasons. I've walked her home several times in a fairly crime-free neighborhood, even at 10:00 at night, because she asked me to.
You did give the guy your blog address, didn't you, Carrie? Good, because I want him to see this.
Oh, dearest. You have my permission to cease feeling guilty, if that's what you need -- permission.
Look, in all honesty, you would have done the same thing to a white man. In fact, you'd probably have done the same thing to a white woman. And frankly, from your side of events it seems that you feel he made a value judgment against you which you didn't like.
Here's some food for thought: Perhaps he did understand. He might tell his mother and girlfriend to do the same thing, because there's a lot of whackos on the street. It's just always hard when you're suddenly cast as the whacko.
Now, I'm not judging you -- I am simply on a kick in which I try really hard to see everybody's side. I think you made a good decision to protect yourself, and that's number one. Furthermore, I wonder if I'd have the balls to tell someone that I couldn't let them in, and I'm not sure I would. So good for you.
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