Sistas need love too…


Me and Mondays.

I hopped off the train this morning, eager to escape the moving sardine can of corporate slaves, people talking too loudly on the phone, and people who self-medicate every morning on books and ipods (i am one of these people).

At the West End DART Station in Downtown Dallas, TX, the ratchetness of my people is unparalleled. I’ve witnessed more face and breast tattoos, single mothers with mulitple kids as if her mistakes are cds stuck on repeat, and more negroes hanging around than a jim crow summer. While i’m comfortable around my people at ANY rate, in this place decent black people are the equivalent of water in the desert. When i see one, i tend to treat them as such, mentally gravitating towards them, my eyes cherishing them like the oasis that they are.

As i walk the two and a half blocks to my job, I notice a young, petite black woman in blue scrubs, more than likely a nursing student at the community college nearby. My mind still stuck in narrative mode from my morning reading, i alter my path to work slightly, aligning it to hers. I watch her and narrate accordingly (mentally, of course; i don’t need anyone thinking i’m any crazier than i already am). Her hair is a perfect soulful brown, tamed by a hair band up front but fully unleashed behind her. Its bounce gives in slightly to her walk, and she is beatifully bespectacled. Even beyond her scrubs i can tell that she is bow-legged and perfectly-proportioned for her small stature (i promise i wasn’t checking her out), and mild mannered. She walks as if she is in her own world, and only the pusre she clutches under her right arm can relate to what she sees.

My stride eventually out paces hers, and i pass her without acknowledgement.

We cross the same street on opposite sides, i casually glance over at her. To my surprise, she is eyeing me with dissappointment masked by attitude. She turns her head, the sista girl in her neck smacking me DIRECTLY in my face. Eyes closed, lips poked out, she pats her fro, and strides across the street hard enough crack the brick pavement tha pays for my indiscretion. I realize that she is not only pissed that i failed to acknowledge her as I passed, she’s also hurt that i wouldn’t even speak to a member of my own ethnicity, to cheap to spend a hello on her. As i walk in to the predominanatly white office where i work a block later, i unconsciously say good morning to the white woman who holds the door for me.

I feel horrible.


About micthemessenger

I be chillin.
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