Yikes...

A few days ago I made a mistake. I walked into a room filled with people I don’t know in hopes of learning more about their support group. They were mostly men and I tend to use the girly thing a little to make everyone laugh and put them at their ease. I pulled out some name tags and markers and began to pass them around saying, “Now boys, everyone needs to print very neatly…” I moved on around the table getting things set up and the interviews began.

About half way through, one of the men stopped in the middle of a sentence because he had to get something off his chest. He looked right at me. “You called us ‘boys’.” I was startled and had to think for a moment to remember what I’d said. And then I realized – I was in a room filled with African American men. I had waltzed into a group of strangers – Black men in their 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s – and I had called them ‘boys’. Yes, I would classify that as a big mistake.

The thesaurus is filled with words that attempt to describe how I felt. Mortified. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Breathtakingly stupid. But I did my best to meet his eye and apologize with all my heart. To him, to all of them. And I thanked him for being so gracious in calling me out. He hadn’t raised his voice or stomped out of the room, or said anything mean. He just very calmly pointed out my lack of respect and complete ignorance. It was devastating, and also revelatory.

How many times had I done that before? Said something silly or thoughtless that I thought was flirty or funny or clever, only to hurt someone without knowing it. No, I may have meant nothing by it, but that doesn’t excuse my cluelessness. I have been hurt by words in the past. And I have used them to wound when I needed a weapon I could rely on to cut deeply. I know their power.

Hopefully, in the future, I will use that power for good. After all, with power comes great responsibility.

An Exit Row Kind of Day...

Sometimes when you travel, nice things happen. You get to the airport on time – even a little bit early. There are plenty of spaces in long term parking and just as you walk up to the shuttle stop, the bus arrives to take you to the terminal. Which isn’t really that crowded, all things considered. People are reasonably polite, the security line is reasonably efficient, and nearby children are reasonably subdued. It’s not like it’s the best day of your life or anything, but it’s not bad.

And then a kind of magical thing happens. You know the flight attendant. He isn’t a super-close pal, but he’s a neighbor you wave to and who has a nice dog you give a pat when you’re walking by. You look up from your cramped coach seat and there he is, demanding your boarding pass and telling you you’re in the wrong seat. Suddenly, you’re in an exit row. An empty exit row. Leg room! Fanny room! Spreading out or curling up room. And at that moment, my friends, life is good.

I like to travel. Even when I don’t have a magical exit row day, I like to be heading towards a city I’ve never seen or revisiting a place I want to explore further. Call it wanderlust or call it nosiness – I just want to find out more about people in other places. I want to see their monuments and taste their cuisine and try out a bit of the local lingo. Today I’m heading to Philadelphia. First time and I’m totally frustrated ‘cause I’ll be there such a short time I won’t get to do much of anything but attend the meetings that are the reason for the trip. No Liberty Bell, no Constitution Hall. But I’ll get a glimpse of the skyline and of course, I’ll get the best bit – I’ll get to meet a room full of people from this foreign land called Pennsylvania. I am hopeful that with their guidance I will uncover the perfect example of what is known in their language as a “cheese steak”.