the Change I Wish to See

And I'm entering the front door of my building which, it's relevant to mention, is listed as one of Washington's "Best Addresses." I walk in right behind a woman in a red gown; she's late 20s, white, my height in heels. We head in the same direction, the stairs rather than the elevator; apparently she also lives on the second floor. She at one point moves toward the mailroom and it reminds me, since I can never remember when the mail gets here, that I hadn't gotten mine. As I move to the mailroom, she moves away towards the front desk where the security guard is. I check my mailbox, close it quite audibly, though unintentionally (this is important because it establishes that I have a key). When I come out, they both turn to me and the guard asks if I live in the building - needs the room number, last name, etc. I ask if there's a problem. He says there isn't, there's just been a bunch of people coming in the building "confused" that night. She says there isn't; that she's just checking to see if she has packages. Packages. Nearly 3 am on a Saturday, in a gown, she's checking all of a sudden for packages that didn't seem so pertinent 4 minutes ago. It also seems odd that her reply to my inquiry comes first sequentially. So before the guard even offers his "there are people who keep keying themselves in to a building they don't live in" explanation, she found it necessary to explain herself. Also seems odd since in two months I've never seen a security guard access the package room for anyone in the middle of the night. Seems the role of contracted security guard wouldn't include mail management and distribution, especially at 3 am.

I suppose it was bound to happen. I suppose there's a certain inevitability to being black and suspicious. Truth is, I don't know, and won't presume for the sake of argument to know, what the foundations for her perceptions may have been. So, I suppose, all else assumed constant, that had I not been black everything may have transpired exactly as it did. Yet, my concern is as much human as racial. I've never even thrown a punch. So the idea that someone is afraid of me shakes me to the core. We've all been through the drama in numerous situations. Stores are infamous looking glasses into the classism festering in soccer moms: "Where are your...?" questions are great when I'm wearing a green shirt and shorts in a Staples. And I can also now say that what happened early this morning is nothing like a store owner following you around the store. What happened this morning was much more debilitating: someone thought, for whatever reason or motivation, that I intended to commit a crime against her person.

My rage was quickly overcome by numbing inadequacy and shame. For all of you who think you're the type of person who doesn't care what people think of you, wait until someone thinks you're a monster. Wait until you see it in their eyes. Though I hope you never do, because I feel like her whispered allegation is tatooed on my forehead. And I wonder if all the tears I've cried today, and will tomorrow, could ever wash it away.

What a funny mirror, this thing called skin.

P.S. Got upstairs and realized after all this that there was almost an entire dog turd stuck to the bottom of my shoe.