Most people are friendly the first time they meet me. Why wouldn’t they be? I go out of my way to extend my smiliest smile, my warmest, politest manner, adopted in childhood to try and ingratiate myself with a hostile world that stared. So the Look, when it happens, is unmistakeable. The look of disgust and disdain. As if I am something brought in by the cat, unwelcome in their sight.
You see it. You feel it. It shoots a needle into your brain. A painful injection of “What are you doing here? Your place is not in my space. You are unwanted. Stay away from me.” I’ve encountered it twice in the last couple of weeks.
I know what it is and yet I make the most strenuous effort to deny it, to make excuses for that person. “Oh, they’ve had a busy day. They’re tired. I’m a stranger.” I don’t want to be defined by my appearance. I am everything except what they have judged me to be. This small brown woman, casually dressed, no make-up, with a big dog or a parcel to return is just going about her day. She is educated, articulate, friendly, warm. She treats people as she would wish to be treated. She gives the benefit of the doubt. She bends over backwards not to offend you. And yet here you are, with that familiar look of revulsion on your face. And despite your training, despite the urbanity of your life, you cannot prevent that look from infecting your face.
You make me feel like a criminal for returning a package without its bag to a high-end supermarket (where I have been a customer for 30 years.) How dare I have the temerity to return something to your store, as if I deserved to have it in the first place. Knowing my lot, I probably stole it. I show you the returns email on my iphone and how dare I flaunt expensive technology?
I park the wrong way round in the car park because I’m late for class and my car is big - bigger than yours - and I don’t want to risk scratching it, and you decide to come as I leave class and give me a lecture about how wrong I am. But you don’t mean the parking. You mean the act of turning up in Your space in Your class.
Born a mile away from where I live now. Working away at the heart of my community and you can still make me feel like this. I know, I know, I know that this is a YOU problem. But you’ve now made it a ME problem. My presence in your world irks you but here’s the thing: I am taking up my space and you’re not welcome in mine.
I complain to the supermarket on behalf of all of the other, less articulate, less privileged people who have ever encountered this look or are still to encounter it. In a small, fun, training class what am I to do? Perhaps ignore, ignore and converse with everyone else who has made me feel welcome. And watch you stew.
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