In Texas, driving north from the border that is the Rio Grande, I hit an INS checkpoint. The uniformed officer who flags me over is red-haired and freckle-faced. And young. She calls me "ma'am." Her eyes sweep over the chaos that is the interior of my car - tent, sleeping bag, carton of books, my backpack spilling over the passenger seat.
She asks me where I'm coming from, what was I doing there, have I been out of the country, am I a citizen of the United States. I answer and she waves me on. She doesn't look under the quilt that's spread out in the back, a quilt big enough to hide two illegal aliens (three if they're petite). The quilt is covering only my cooler and a heap of laundry but she doesn't know that! She doesn't even ask to see my driver's license. I could be anyone! But, of course, I'm not. I'm an aging white woman in a suburbanite's vehicle with Ohio plates, decreed to be totally benign. Which, of course, I am.
I know that I've reached the age of invisibility on the beach and that construction workers, if they whistle at anybody anymore, are not going to whistle at me, not that they ever did. That part's more than OK with me. I'm less comfortable with the assumption that, based on my appearance, I'm harmless. I don't think I like being written off that way.
I'm mulling this, wondering if I should do something - anything - to alter the image I present to the world - spike my hair, get me some gangsta gear, wear bright blue fingernail polish (OK - I've already done that a few times). As I listen to one more NPR discussion of the Trayvon Martin tragedy, I scroll through recent memory revisiting erroneous assumptions I've made about people solely on first impressions and think maybe I should buy a hoodie.
It might remind me not to be so damn judgmental (I am), and maybe I'll look just a little bit dangerous when I wear it (but not in Florida).
About Me
- Jan C. Snow
- Since 1984, my light commentary, Marginal Considerations, has been a feature of Weekend Radio. Moving into the 21st century (yeah, I know - a decade late and more than a dollar short), it may be time to explore the format known as "the blog." (Still on the radio, BTW.) I am the author of A Natural History of Socks, illustrated by the late Eric May, You May Already Be a Winner (and other marginal considerations) and The Nonexistence of Rutabagas, plus maybe 1K features, essays, book and arts reviews in newspapers and magazines nearly everywhere, except perhaps Kansas. I live on Lake Erie one city to the west of Cleveland with too many musical instruments, several large plants and no cats. My front door is purple. I collect dust, take up space and burn fossil fuel. I kayak, knit, hike, sing, canoe, write choral music and play hammered dulcimer, but not all at the same time. I read too much and don't write enough, but what's new?
You travel alone to exotic places and do so many other amazing things. I for one, think you are a bad ass.
ReplyDeleteDear Jan, . . . I left blogging a month ago to pursue a dream. Now I'm back and I want to thank you for visiting my blog and commenting. I do so appreciate the views of others on what I write.
ReplyDeleteI truly enjoyed the tone of and the message of your hoodie posting. Right now, at 76, I'm feeling invisible here where I've lived for three years. I don't like the feeling. So I understand your wanting to stand up and say, "Here I am. I'm not who you think I am! I'm an interesting and vital and vibrant human being! Look at me!"
Peace.