On Assumptions

The thing that stings about being mistaken for something you’re not is that short period of denial. Surely, the assumptions a person will make about you are beyond your control. But what if you already knew that? What if the proverbial corner you turn around doesn’t always yield you the destiny you think you rightfully deserve? What if destiny is actually a bike that comes out of nowhere, speeding past, only to clip you on the shoulder? What would you do? Would you be in shock? Would you hold onto and not let it go?

Oftentimes in the age of uncertainty, there is always the risk of being taken apart for putting yourself out there. In speakeasy terms, the type of reaction that you put out says everything about you. If you bug out, you’re too sensitive. If you cry, you’re a wimp. I, for one, don’t believe those things. Bugging out is a reaction. It’s a moment that you sometimes allow your reptilian mind to overtake. Crying is just a release of a really stuck emotion. For the case of when discriminatory incidents happen, you’re called upon to practice equanimity. Once that period of calm passes, when you’re in the safety of your home, you tell yourself that what has been said to you does not affect you. You were courageous enough to let it roll like water off a duck’s back. But did you really let it go?

Eventually, the cowboys come to lasso up all that you feel. It could be minutes, hours, days later, when you take the bait and start to believe that you’re different from other people. You make your experience visible after the experience of being invisible for much of your life has gotten you through. Hell, for most people of color, you probably ended your day at work make a killing and doing your damned best to convince others that your worth is attached to your achievements. Because that’s the only thing that really matters, right? Imagine that, you’re existing, until someone you do not know or know reveals to you that you’re not exactly what you have dreamt up in your mind.

To them, you are something else.

In the case of the past few days, I had to think about this. Did the man at the front desk really not think I live in the apartment building that I pay thousands of dollars to live in? Did he think I was a deliveryman? Did I dress a certain way? Was it really his coworker’s fault for not telling him, and was that a valid reason for why he was confused? Did my coworker think I work in the kitchen? Did that other one at that other job really think I work as a handyman? Did my boss at my second shift find it okay to tell me it’s my fault for being sick? Did my friend’s mother think I was a bad influence? Were the clothes I was wearing a reason for why I was treated the way I was?

I guess I’ll never really know. What I do know is that it must suck to live in those people’s minds. For that, I think I can let go.