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My daughter and I went to a French Bistro on 57th and 6th Avenue in Manhattan while we waited for her appointed time to audition for a High School. The setting was nice. We were seated by the maitre'd and everything, including the ambiance was nice. We were seated in an exquisite part of the restaurant that allowed us to people see and witness all that is NYC. There was Sunday morning traffic, people scurrying to brunch and other endeavors, and the street exemplified a typical Sunday in NYC. My daughter was excited about her audition and about having a restaurant experience that was so unexpected. We had not planned on it, and were rather taken aback when we discovered that our 8:00 AM appointment at the art school was a precursor to the actual audition; essentially they corralled 250 potential students and their parents into the lobby of the school and gave them all appointment to come back that day after assessing the turnout.

My daughter and I decided to stay in Manhattan instead of returning home to the Bronx and found an arcade in which she could play the games she so loves. After doing that for a while, I told her of a restaurant I had scoped out while perched in a window seat while she was playing. It looked like a wonderful, intimate place, and we made our way there. It resulted in a wonderful meal, and provided time for my daughter and I to talk intimately. We had a great time and the Fried Calamari was great. The tab was paid and my daughter and I prepared to walk the short distance to her audition. As we approached the door, an elderly couple came in, the husband preceded by his wife, he holding the door open for her. She came in and proceeded to follow the maitre'd who beckoned for her to do so. The husband was behind her staring at me with a look of fear and he stumbled, trying to find his feet. My daughter looked at him, a little concerned that he seemed to be falling, and upon him finding his footing, continued out of the first door of the restaurant. I, the whole while, looking at him, familiar with the panicked glance as he perused me, looking fugitively, as if he wanted to run, but couldn't because his wife was unaware of the situation.

The situation, as I perceived it, is this man was not used to seeing an African-American person in that restaurant or, for that matter, in any capacity that reflected an equal standing to the one he found himself. He was so taken aback that he stumbled at the sight of me, and, I think, thought something wrong was happening in the restaurant and did not want to enter it. Seeing me and my daughter, both whom were taller than he, I think, he thought something was amiss. I chuckled to myself as I moved forward and past him while he looked at me with fear in his eyes.

This is an occurrence that has happened to me often, in varying degrees, in my life. The arched eyebrow of someone which tells me that I am not in the right place. I shouldn't enter the same Ivy League classroom that they are occupying except to empty the trash bins. I must have the wrong building. I should not enter the mortgage office and ask the secretary to direct me to the office in which the closing on my apartment is taking place. I can't possible be the woman who is buying an apartment. I am leaving a restaurant that has provided my daughter and I with a memorable time, and upon exiting this restaurant, I am slapped with reality of someone shocked at my being. I have caused confusion when entering places as I don't fit the bill of what should have presented as appropriate. I don't "look" like a person who should be there. "There" is their universe that is not multi-toned. Theirs is a universe that is not multi-chromatic. They have to get over it and stop stumbling, and staring, and stammering. It is truly not that serious.