check_other (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} check_other) wrote,@ 2005-10-31 23:43:00 |
|
Story 1: 16th Street
. Focused on getting home from work, I was already switching focus in my mind back to my daily spotting of the curiously large, greening White Man's bust on its angel-flanked column by Park Road. "Good Afternoon, sir," I uttered in passing as I forced eye contact with a thin, older Black gentleman and meant to continue on my way without giving it a second thought. I began my daily walks up and down 16th St. by making the effort to note people's faces, clothing, skin tones, eye shapes, as I wished friendly "good mornings" to everyone I passed. Observation quickly melted into routine.
. After two weeks, "good morning" and "good afternoon, sirs" quickly became mundane and automatic on my walks edging neighborhoods of El Salvadoran immigrants: People tend to stare at me and I'm not one to lower my eyes trying to ignore some vague feeling of vulnerability and un-belonging. I note now that I spoke only to the men: A harassing comment is easily caught off guard with a formal "Good morning, sir," accompanied by a good look in the eye. But after two weeks, I'd stopped really looking at people, even if my eyes seemed to do so by habit. My "Good morning, sirs" were no longer to wish anyone a good morning.
. But then the man tipped his hat to me.
. Now I was the one caught off guard, as I forgot all about the greening statue to look back at the kindly old gentleman. Just as I had begun to assume that every look was one of female objectification, I remember I'm also in an ex-Southern town of gentleman and ladies, of Baptists and Jews, on a temple-lined that passes the richest and poorest neighborhoods in N.W. D.C. History lies in the pavement, the houses, the churches, in the greening statue and in the end, through every person I pass daily. The unnecessary, annoyingly disrespectful "hola buelita"s that slipped through my preemptive "good morning, sirs" disappeared with the humid DC breeze that carried them to my ears, only a flicker in the history of this neighborhood that will be entirely different once again in 10 years. A tip of the hat will remain forever in my memory.
. Sometimes now I even remember to mean it when I say "Good morning."
. Focused on getting home from work, I was already switching focus in my mind back to my daily spotting of the curiously large, greening White Man's bust on its angel-flanked column by Park Road. "Good Afternoon, sir," I uttered in passing as I forced eye contact with a thin, older Black gentleman and meant to continue on my way without giving it a second thought. I began my daily walks up and down 16th St. by making the effort to note people's faces, clothing, skin tones, eye shapes, as I wished friendly "good mornings" to everyone I passed. Observation quickly melted into routine.
. After two weeks, "good morning" and "good afternoon, sirs" quickly became mundane and automatic on my walks edging neighborhoods of El Salvadoran immigrants: People tend to stare at me and I'm not one to lower my eyes trying to ignore some vague feeling of vulnerability and un-belonging. I note now that I spoke only to the men: A harassing comment is easily caught off guard with a formal "Good morning, sir," accompanied by a good look in the eye. But after two weeks, I'd stopped really looking at people, even if my eyes seemed to do so by habit. My "Good morning, sirs" were no longer to wish anyone a good morning.
. But then the man tipped his hat to me.
. Now I was the one caught off guard, as I forgot all about the greening statue to look back at the kindly old gentleman. Just as I had begun to assume that every look was one of female objectification, I remember I'm also in an ex-Southern town of gentleman and ladies, of Baptists and Jews, on a temple-lined that passes the richest and poorest neighborhoods in N.W. D.C. History lies in the pavement, the houses, the churches, in the greening statue and in the end, through every person I pass daily. The unnecessary, annoyingly disrespectful "hola buelita"s that slipped through my preemptive "good morning, sirs" disappeared with the humid DC breeze that carried them to my ears, only a flicker in the history of this neighborhood that will be entirely different once again in 10 years. A tip of the hat will remain forever in my memory.
. Sometimes now I even remember to mean it when I say "Good morning."
