September 13, 2016 - 01:57
My friend Portabella, who’s white, and I walked into Wawa at 1:30 am on Saturday night/ Sunday morning and we began perusing the store. We were standing in line to pay for our food and these two black men in suits walked into the store. One of them, who I will call John, looked at Portabella and said, “Nice dreads.”
“Thanks,” Portabella responded.
“Do you make art?” John asked. Then John and his friend, who I will call Sebastian, and Portabella and I started talking about art. Sebastian said that he was into photography. Portabella talked about how she’s still in school and that she’s a painter. Portabella said she was an art major.
John told us he and Sebastian worked in a country club. They said they just got off work.
“Where did you get the flowers?” Portabella asked.
Sebastian responded, “We were working a wedding and there were extra flowers. We were waiting to give them to someone.” Sebastian proceeded to get down on one knee and handed each of us a full bouquet of pink and white flowers.
“Aghh thank you so much. That’s so sweet of you.” Portabella responded. I lost control of my jaw and my face reddened. The flowers were beautifully and neatly arranged.
Then Sebastian said, “Can we have your numbers?”
Portabella responded, “I don’t have a phone.”
Sebastian replied, “Yeah our phones are dead.”
“My phone’s here.” I handed Sebastian my phone and he proceeded to put his number into my phone and then John did the same. Was this wrong? What was I doing? Was I aiding this racist/ problematic interaction?
“It was nice meeting you. You all should come hang out at the apartment sometime,” Portabella suggested.
“Yeah we’ll text you all,” I responded.
“Have a good night,” John called back.
“Goodnight,” Sebastian said.
Too many feelings. I wanted to say, “Get up” when they were down on their knees. You’re getting dirt on your nice pants. Are you going to have to clean those pants for me/us/ because of me/us? Are you serving me/us? How much control do I have over the situation? Don’t other people deserve those flowers more than us? Woo. Such a fraught, complicated, fucked up history of black men serving me, my representation- white womyn. Yet it would be dishonest if I didn’t acknowledge that I wanted it to just be a “good experience.” They were being generous and wanted to strike up a conversation. The conversation was nice. We learned a little about each other.
Agh… another conversation about dreads on a white girl! Why was that/ did that have to be what sparked our interaction? Yet, what were their intentions with the flowers? Who were these men planning on giving them to?
We went home and Portabella put the flowers in a vase with some water. I walked back to my room, flowers in hand, feeling some mix of shame, discomfort, uneasiness, and flattery in my fingers. I wrote a note to my friend, who I will call, Sophia, which described her qualities and what I appreciated about her. I left the note it in front of her dorm room along with the flowers weighted with guilt.
Why did they ask Portabella if she was an artist? Because she has dreads? Yet, Portabella and I enjoyed the small chit-chat and their company. Why couldn’t it be simple? Were we not just strangers having light, easy conversation? If only… or not.