Normally, I am a fan of the awkward, because I am as awkward as heck. But sometimes, awkward gets real, REALLY real, really quickly. And then it’s just… horrible. Sometimes, when you least expect it, awkward turns a corner into okay. Blessed are the awkward, for they shall careen through life, occasionally wincing, occasionally standing tall.
I hate having things done on the house. I’m an… uncommitted housekeeper, but I don’t think I can ever have cleaners in because pride and my mother’s disapproving ghost (and she’s not even remotely dead) and I was a housekeeper myself. Also, I dislike people wandering around. I loathe lawn mowers, leaf blowers, vacuum cleaners, and losing my concentration. I do well enough distracting myself; having folk loose and about makes me twitchy, but at least for outside things, it’s got to be done. When we moved in here, the neighbors on either side of us, whose ages ranges from 60-80, both gave stinkeye, and one warned us, “you two take care of that house.” (You damn kids, stay off my lawn, was probably his next thought.) Tech Boy does a lot outside, but he also has a rapidly degenerating spinal situation, so shouldn’t and can’t do everything. Thus, we hire several lovely people with extension ladders and power tools as needed.
Anyway, what with those stupid liquidamber seed balls, not to mention pine needles and the still-falling leaves in between rain storms, we had to call a guy. I arranged and rescheduled him, and when he finally arrived he gaped at me as I opened the door, “You’re the lady I talked to? You?”
I nodded cautiously. “Um…yes?”
“Oh. Huh. Well…” he paused. “It’s just… you’re African American, you know? I didn’t expect that. It just… didn’t match in my head.”
Let’s pause a second. I’m sure I said something coherent, but seriously, pause. Awkward Moment Alert. Why should it be awkward for me? The “I didn’t know you were black” thing always comes across from people who mention it as if it’s… something I did. To trick them. Probably, “I didn’t know you were gay,” feels a lot like that, too. Nothing I do has any bearing on your perceptions of who I am, but whatever, right? I just stood there, a tight congealed smile on my face. He continued.
“I mean, I just met your husband one time, see, and I thought I was at the wrong house, you know what I mean? I just didn’t realize…”
He trailed off, but now my silence became unkind; the smile on my face went from unsteady to humorless. He looked at me, looked away, and kept digging the hole he’d fallen into. “I mean, after I talked to you, and all. Because you’re African American. And he’s white. It just didn’t match in my head. Not that I have any… I mean, it doesn’t matter to … I mean…”
Awkward.
Now, my friend Anne has this amazing little sound she makes when she’s rerouting a conversation. It’s “Ahh, uh-huh,” and on she goes, but because she has a Scottish brogue and talks fast, it comes out, “Ah-aha,” like the little cough a machine gun gives, just before she shoots out a hail of verbiage. So, I channeled Anne briefly with a brightly insincere smile and said, “Ahh, uh-huh, so the gutters are a bit compacted, I think, and the roof just drips for hours after the rain stops, so I’m sure you’ll have a bit of work to undo our neglect, so I’ll let you get to it,” and click goes the door, and I slither back down to my writing cave, somewhat mortified, but also somewhat baffled. Annoyed. Frustrated. Weirded out. Yes, I’m African American. I see my color in MIRRORS and other reflective surfaces, on the daily. I don’t need you to tell me what I look like – I already look like someone who wears too many layers and a ratty sweater that shouldn’t see the light of day, and did I comb my hair recently? Writers always look like they’ve fallen down a hole; I also don’t need you to tell me that I’ve somehow fallen short of your expectations in life because I’m AfAm. I … gah. Too much feels. Too much disruption. Stress. So, I shoved all the thoughts down…down, gone… and went back to work.
Or, tried. An hour of roaring leaf blowers, thuds as he and his partner walk on the roof, and hose blasts later, I’ve got nothing done, and he’s at the door again. But, I’m prepared. I grab my chequebook and hurry up from the cave. I don’t look into his face as I open the door, but focus on my archaic paper money. “How much is this going to run me?” I ask.
He pauses.
“I just want to say, the thing is, it wasn’t about value. I mean, I’m married to a woman of color, I mean, she’s dark and all, and it wasn’t about value.”
What? No. Not the “my best friend/wife/second cousin is dark,” defense, Lord, MUST he? Must I?? Aaaargh! I focused on his chin, the polite, listening smile affixing itself to my face without my permission.
“… It was just that… I met your husband. I talked to you. And your voice… I mean, you don’t sound… you sound like… you don’t sound like…” Heavy sigh, his voice slowed. “See, I’m getting in trouble again, I know it. I’m making everything worse. I felt worse after I talked to you, but the more I talked, the worse I felt like I was doing. It’s like, the harder I try this, the more it falls apart.”
And it was at this point that my conscience stepped hard on my foot, and I looked up, looked into his miserable, conflicted face. And at his heartsick expression, I internally gave myself a rabbit punch in the solar plexus, did that internal parenting thing that all of us have to do, the little tap on the back of the leg, the little nudge in the ribs. Stop. Being. That. Girl. I told myself firmly.
“You’re fine,” I said, dropping the smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not offended.”
“It’s hard to talk about race,” he said wearily.
“Sometimes,” I agreed.
“So, I just wanted to say, I just had pictured you as someone else, is all, but it’s like flypaper, the more I kept talking, the more I got stuck.”
“Okay,” I said, meaning, It’s like that sometimes. It’s okay.
It’s okay. It confused you that I spoke to you with Standard American English, which you equate with people of European ancestry, because African American Vernacular English is apparently what you’ve heard from every single person of African ancestry you’ve ever met, and perhaps you don’t think that people with dark brown skin can speak any other way. It’s okay, despite it being exhausting to hear that, to listen to you doubting my…existence as it stands, and awkward to hear to your narrow reasoning, despite it’s not being my job to accommodate and explain things to every single ignorant person on the planet. But, you know, it’s okay, because if we don’t talk about race, if I don’t listen and hear you when you try, if I don’t bear up under this awkwardness about race, we can’t move past it. Ever.
So, okay, Bob P. You’re okay. Awkward as all heck, but all right. Blessed are the awkward, for occasionally, they are very, very brave. It took chutzpah to come back and speak to me when I’m positive my expression said I’d like to drop him into a six-foot hole. Today I’m grateful for people like him who stumble into life’s china shop, break a few dishes, and know how to sweep up and carry on.