Although he was an older man, who was dressed in a light-colored plaid shirt and jeans, something about his way held vestiges of Woodstock, camping adventures, and acid trips.  Nowadays, he worked in a quiet, off-brand, book store; but I could tell that if I met him in an airport bar (where we stranded travelers oft make unlikely friends) he could tell me of adventures that were far more exciting than what was in those aisles of books.

He pushed the large stack of books over the wooden counter, closer to me and my aunt, and pleasantly asked, “Would you like a bag?”

Promptly, my four-foot, nine-inch aunt stretched herself to four-feet, nine and a half inches, perched her lips, squinted her eyes and said curtly, “Of course, we’d like a bag.”

I don’t know if it was due to too many acid trips or to great customer-service but the hippie- turned-book-salesperson, acted as if he didn’t notice my aunt’s tone, and affably put our loads of books in a large bag.

Not more than two steps out of the store, my aunt steamed, “can you believe his ass wasn’t going to give us a bag after all these books you bought?  What kinda mess is that?  We were probably his biggest customer today.  Really Randi, you shouldn’t bought all that.  But I just can’t get over that man.  People are so damn crazy.”

I smiled and let her talk.  First, I love seeing my aunt fired-up, especially when she’s trying to protect me.   Second, I’m Southern.  I’m grown but my aunt is grown-er; and I was raised that elders are right even when they are wrong.

We walked. I let her vent.  And finally, I shared, “In California, they charge you for bags.  It’s always about saving the world – putting my hands up in air quotes.  So they will ask you around here if you want a bag.”

“Reeeeealllllyy,” she exclaimed!  California sho’ is different.  And then we went on to discuss how different California is, which allowed me to continue enjoying her in her fired-up state.

My Aunt wasn’t the first person I had to share the little knowledge I had about California.  Just the week before, my best friend had been visiting when a serviceman came to connect my new washing machine and dryer.  He had long hair – somewhat like a mullet – and an easy-going nature.  As we would exchange small talk, he’d often respond, “right on.” 

Soon my best friend hissed in my ear, “This fool has one-mo-time to say ‘right on.’”  I hate when White folks feel as if they have to use slang when they talk to us. 

I laughed, “Girl I feel you; but these folks say ‘right on’ out here. It ain’t a J.J. /Good Times Right on but a surfer dude ‘right on.’”

And I did feel her – just as I understood my Aunt. I immediately understood why they reacted the way that they did.  We, Black folks are on constant alert for some racist-bull-shiggiddy.  

As much as I fly, I swear my shoulders tense every time an agent questions, “premeire”, “first class”, or “Clear” when I stand in a particular line.  They ask everyone that question (I know because I have stood back just to check) but it still triggers me.  It still makes me want to say, “Of course I’m premiere.  Would I be standing here if I weren’t?  Why are you questioning that? Is it because I’m Black?”

I’ve been in places where I am the only Black person and a person or table of people have stared at me.  I’ve always assumed it’s because they don’t think that I belong there; but there have been times where people have complimented my outfit, or told me that I was beautiful, or recognized me from somewhere when I didn’t recognize them.  I misjudged them.  I’ve felt regretful in the moment for my negative thoughts and rolled eyes.

But, many other times I have been right. 

I have been followed in stores, directly accused of stealing, questioned about belonging in my own neighborhood or graduate school.  I have been cut in front of in line countless times, passed over by butchers and store clerks; had my credibility to do my job questioned by far less-educated people; asked for extra identification at the bank.  I have received notably less professional service at almost every type of business than fellow customers beside me.  I have had to justify my presence countless times; and made to feel absent many more.  I am a Black woman in America, and this is my truth.

So, understandably I, my aunt, my best friend, and every other Black American can be sensitive to poor treatment.  I use the word understandably purposefully.  As many show understanding to the abused dog who growls at the kind stranger who is only trying to pet him; or the abused child who can’t sleep with the lights off; so should the world be compassionate to the Black American, who may appear tense or oversensitive at times.  Historically, we have been and continue to be abused in America.  Not one day passes where we don’t read about it or see it on television. If it’s not us, it’s one of us.  To the Black woman or man, whom makes less for the same job, who suffers microaggressions weekly, who sees Black people getting beaten and unfairly arrested, who has people avoid them on streets and on public transportation, who gets touched like a zoo animal, who can’t get good service in business establishments, who observes a judicial system that is designed to oppress them, who has difficulty catching a taxi or an uber, whose products are always locked up at the drugstore, remaining unscathed is a remarkable, if not an impossible feat. Any “sensitivity” should be entirely understood.