Let me in! Let me in!

So we've already established the type of neighborhood I am living in. It's lovely with all the amenities that privilege provides. Already I have found myself acting a "certain" way - Taking my tea on the porch after a hard days work, and upgrading my vocabulary to demonstrate my familiarity with the finer things in life, like solid education. My posture has even joined in that act, the top of my head aspiring to somehow kiss the ceiling. Don't get me wrong, I am definitely still very much myself, but its the version of me that has learned over years of exposure to privilege how to carry herself as if she belongs.

I say "as if" because I am well aware that aside from the lovely couple who have invited me into their home, I am very much an outsider in this neighborhood. Yesterday's incident with the gardener spoke a plain truth that I'd known since the moment I stepped in the door. There are not many people who look like me around these parts. With that, my double -consciousness* (see definition below) took residence on my left shoulder, eager to serve as Tinkerbell on this journey through Never Never Land - Never wear your scarf outside your bedroom, they wouldn't understand and it makes you look like Aunt Jemima! Never take the leftovers from the fast food restaurant into the house, it will make you look like you don't know how to make healthy nutritional choices, never get too comfortable with your speech, they might think you don't know any better.

These thoughts are silly, particularly when the family has made me feel so welcome, but they are part of my thought process nonetheless. In fact they are so much a part of my daily routine that I often find myself tired and mentally worn out. It was with much excitement that I woke up today, my day off, to a quiet house. I leisurely lingered in the bed, emerging only to grab breakfast. Feeling a bit brave, and protective of the twists I had done in preparation for a wavier look later that evening, I kept my head scarf on my head. I was a bit surprised to see Luella, my host mom, prattling away in the kitchen. She looked up, greeted me, and we chit -chatted for a few minutes. "Not bad," I thought. I felt perfectly comfortable. But with Luella it's hard not to. She's just that kind of person. Feeling a bit more comfortable I sent my double consciousness off to enjoy the day off too. I was relaxed and feeling at home.

Tina ( my classmate) came home a few hours later, and I, still in my pajamas and headscarf, joined her on the back porch for lunch. I am beginning to realize that a Black woman's commitment to a hair-do will give her the boldness to endure any kind of judgement. Tina was going to have to take me as I was, do-rag and all. After lunch I got a hankering for something sweet. Remembering the watermelon I'd purchased a week ago, and yes, I did feel apprehensive about bringing it in the house, I went to the fridge. I pulled the watermelon out and cut it into squares. The juices ran down my arm sticky and sweet. When I was done, I went to throw the rind into the garbage, but stopped short remembering that the Warbucks' do all of these extra things with their garbage. They don't just recycle, they compost, and sort and send some to Chile :), all this extra stuff. Anyway, I went out to the side of the house to put the rind from the watermelon in the compost heap. Did I mention the rind stayed pretty much in tact? Here's where the fun the starts!

Immediately after closing the door behind me I realize that the doors slam lock. That's right, you guessed it. I am now locked out. But, not only am I locked out, but I am locked out wearing my pajamas, and my do-rag. Oh, and don't forget about the HUGE piece of watermelon I'm holding in my left hand, scraped to the white part of the rind! I looked like Pookie Jenkins' mom coming home from a watermelon eating competition. I didn't know whether to cry or to laugh. I wanted to discard the rind, but there was no compost heap in site. All my worst fears had come crashing into reality I was a walking, talking, stereotype. Where was Tinkerbell when I needed her?

I scurried along the side of the house like a squirrel being chased by a five year old. Tina had retreated to her room for a nap. Further, she assumed I was in the house. Between fits of laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and many furtive glances to the left and the right, and down the street, I darted to the front of the house and lunged for the doorbell. Impatiently I dinged. Ding, one - ding, two - ding, three. It wasn't working, but my need was urgent. I began to supplement the dings with a bit of knocking, okay, pounding on the door. Ding, one - boom boom boom, ding, one - boom boom boom. I was shaking my head and laughing while all the while praying, "please God, don't let anybody come down the street. Tina finally came to the door. Her look of concern dissolved into a fit of laughter as soon as she saw me standing there mortified and frantic with an empty watermelon rind in my hand. I laughed too, hard, in fact so hard my side hurt, but not until I could do so from the comfort and safety of the inside of the house. Tinkerbell didn't find the incident too funny. She often gets frustrated with me. She thinks I'll never learn. I am hoping she's right.

***The term "double consciousness" originated from an 1897 Atlantic Monthly article titled "Strivings of the Negro People." It was later republished and slightly edited under the title "Of Our Spiritual Strivings" in his collection of essays, The Souls of Black Folk. He spoke of “this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity” ("Of Our Spiritual Strivings," p. 2), and of a two-ness, of being "an American, a Negro; [...] two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder" (The Souls of Black Folk, pp. 5)