This happened about sixteen or seventeen years ago, when I was in my late twenties. One thing I know about myself is that I’m a babyface. Even now, at forty-four, I’m tall and I have an athletic build, so I get mistaken for a young twenty-something all the time, so you can imagine what I looked like at the age of twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Now, couple that with the fact that I’m a Black man, and you can just imagine what my life has been like! So, that’s my life in a nutshell: cursed to forever be the “young” Black man.
My team was having a retirement celebration for our manager, and we had a dinner party at a restaurant near our workplace after hours. The shindig ended up being about twenty-five to thirty people, mostly older — I think I was one of two or three people there under age forty — and it was nice. Our manager shed a tear or two, gave a nice speech, blah, blah, etc., etc. The restaurant was open for business, and there were other small parties, couples, etc., there, and they ignored us and we ignored them. But we weren’t segregated; we were seated toward the center of the seating area around a large table and a second smaller one.
Fast forward to the end of the dinner. We were all outside now, saying our final greetings and on the verge of dispersing, and I was among the group. A few people started to make their way home, and our group was now whittled down to about ten or twelve people. Other patrons and pedestrians were coming and going, like normal, and there we were just chatting amongst ourselves.
Notably, our manager was still there with his plaque, a relatively large picture frame, and a couple of gift bags, so it should have been evident to anybody who was in the restaurant for the last hour who we were. You would think.
And then it happened. A woman approached me.
Woman: “Excuse me?”
Me: “Yes, ma’am?”
Woman: “Here are my keys.”
Me: “For?”
Woman: “For you to get my car.”
Me: “I’m sorry, but I don’t work here, ma’am”
Woman: “I don’t have time for games! Here are my keys.”
As she was saying this, she tried to stuff her keys into my hand. Now, I was pissed.
Me: “If you put your keys in my hand, I’m going to throw them across the street and into the gutter.”
Woman: “Then why do you have a badge on?”
As she said this, she reached out to grab my work badge — WTF? — which was on a lanyard hanging around my neck down around my midsection. But before she could, I snatched it away.
Me: “If you touch me again, I will consider it assault and call the police. I don’t work here.”
She withdrew her hand, and I released my badge, which she proceeded to study for the two or so seconds it would take to figure out it was not a restaurant or valet badge.
I believe the restaurant contracted out their valet service, and having done valet work during college, I am fairly certain my business attire did not in any way resemble the uniforms — think tacky vest with logo and matching pants — of the two or three companies that were in my area. And furthermore, none of them did badges on lanyards.
Then, she looked me up and down, came back to lock eyes with me, and while starting to turn away, uttered that word (you know which one) under her breath.
Not gonna lie, it caught me off guard, and in the fifteen years since, I’ve thought of the perfect comeback more times than I care to admit. (That’s the other story of my life, sigh… But on the bright side, I’m prepared now!) But in that moment, I simply couldn’t force words to come out of my mouth. I just turned around and tried to shake off my shock and anger and proceed as if everything was fine.
Most of my remaining coworker group (a mix of Black and white) was aware of what had just transpired, but there was nothing to be said or done really, so we just kind of started small-talking again.
