A Tale of Two Prejudices

Below, I tell two stories. One short, the other long. Throughout, I try to expose certain prejudices while allowing for different interpretations of these stories. When I discussed these stories with my partner, she was skeptical about the sexism I saw in one, and, in the other, she told me the story could easily be in a "When God Winks" book if i told it differently. I want these possibilities that undercut my own interpretation, because these counter possibilities expose how our own intentions and self-interpretations are not the final story of our lives. Our self-understanding and self-projection of identity equals neither who we are or how we impact the world around us.

I believe a first step in overcoming a problem is acknowledging it. I tell these stories to acknowledge problems in myself and in the privilege inherent in men, white people, and the educated in the US. These are my problems, but not only my problems, and I need different people to complete not only who I am, but who I want to be and who I should be. Let me repeat, I need non-white, non-male, uneducated, non-US citizens in order to be the best me I can be. One way I need them, is to see how they see me and make myself better through their gaze.

The stories below are my attempt at  recognizing those gazes.

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When I conduct a phone interview, I open, "Hi, is this so-and-so?" Today my first question was, "May I speak with so-and-so?" The reason for the difference is sexism. To explain, let me tell you about my day today. It is Monday, August 18, 2014, and I'm a white, heterosexual male in the US.

My daily commute is a mile walk, two trains (Chicago Transit Authority 'L' lines Brown & Green), and another mile walk. I am a Student Office Assistant in a department that specializes in technology and science. The specifics of what "we" do is largely beyond me.

On my second walk this morning, I notice a man standing behind a water fountain. He has the fountain on, but he does not seem to be doing anything with it like drinking or washing. The closer I get, the less I look at the him, so as not to stare.

He speaks to me as I near him, so I respond. As I continue past, he continues speaking, so I turn to him, because all people deserve respect. The water fountain is now off.

I sigh on the inside, because I figure he is going to ask me for money. He tells me he appreciates how I look at him. He says this as he introduces his pitch. He tells me a lot of U Chicago students are nice people who look at black people like human beings, not black beings. I also look at him like he is a panhandler, which he either leaves unmentioned or unnoticed as he stumbles hurriedly to the money part.

He needs diapers for his granddaughter. He sees my wedding band and asks if I am married, if I have kids. "How long have you been married?" He sees my face change to pride and love as we speak about my partner briefly.

"I was just on my knees praying," he says as he beckons west towards areas known as "rough." Chicagolanders have wide eyes when they hear I walk to and from the Garfield Green Line station to campus. I tell job candidates that the areas surrounding Hyde Park are known as "sketch," and people generally don't recommend going West of campus, not even to Washington Park that borders the campus. (Recently the park was adjacent to an early afternoon incident. Two teenagers were shot during the Bud Billiken parade, one in the arm, the other in the hand. The second teen also had his keister grazed by a bullet.)

"I was just on my knees, [...] and I don't know if you're an angel."

If his story is true, I wonder, then I don't completely understand why he thinks I am an angel. If God didn't help him before now, why now? Why a chubby white man in jeans and a skinny knit tie? I make a mental note to tell him I am not an angel. His theology could be right in some places where mine is not, but I am no angel. He is wrong on that point.

$13.88 is how much the diapers supposedly cost. I don't have kids, so I don't know if that is right. A specific price makes panhandlers seem more truthful. Before he mentioned the price, from the moment I turned to listen to him, I planned to give him the three dollar-bills in my wallet. Now I plan to give him the other bill in my wallet; it's a $20.

I don't know anything about the veracity of his story, but I'm not completely naïve. Rather, I strive to be giving, compassionate, and hopeful, even if it means losing that $20 that was supposed to be saved for laundry. That $20 that I briefly lifted from my wallet earlier this morning, thinking I should leave it in the house or give it to my partner, because, otherwise I would give it away when asked. (I forgot about this moment until the moment I wrote this reflection on my commute home, riding the Brown Line towards Kimball.) I don't know why I put the bill back in my wallet this morning. God? An angel? I would put my money on a coincidence. If God is going to send anything, I would imagine God would send that man's granddaughter more than one package of diapers. But I don't even understand what the scientists and programmers in my office do, so I won't claim to know how the universe "exists" and "operates" (both of these words in scare quotes are metaphors when applied to things that are simultaneously our existence and the ground of our existence, both physical and metaphysical).

He finally asks me if I can get him the diapers. I hand him the $20, and he showers me with more flattery. He then mentions something about needing a bus fare. Did he see the bills remaining in my wallet? Was he really asking for more money after I handed him $6.12 more than he claimed he needed? I told him he had what he needed in the $20, and that he could do what he wanted with it. He thanked me, saying he just wanted to make sure. Make sure of what? Did he think I expected him to bring me change?

"If anyone tries to bother you or your wife, I'll be the first one to come help."

"Let's hope it never comes to that, but thanks, [name omitted]. And, listen man, I'm no angel!"

I head off to work, and he continues speaking. I'm late now, so I walk away as I turn my head to return pleasantries.

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Five minutes past 1 PM CST, I make a phone call to someone who wants to be a bioinformatician in the office in which I work. I have never seen this name before, so I hope I don't say it too wrong, assuming there are levels of wrongness.

"Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak with [mispronounced name omitted]?"

"Yes, this is she."

I apologize for my tardiness, and give her my spiel, but my mind is on how I opened the phone call. My heart dropped the moment she identified herself as the person with whom I wanted to speak. I expected a man's voice. I expected a man's voice so much, that I could not imagine I was speaking with the applicant when I heard a voice in the soprano register. I really thought I was speaking with the man's mother, sister, or female partner.

I was sexist. I am sexist. I am a privileged inheritor of systemic misogyny with an ignorance of "non-white" names. The first step to fighting the problem and spending out the inheritance? Acknowledgement. If only more white men in the US (especially the heteronormative) would stop scoffing at the existence of sexism, racism, heteronormative oppression and start fighting the existence of these evils. If only.

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My commute home goes alongside U Chicago's sports fields, behind the DuSable Museum of African American History, enters Washington Park, and then continues for two blocks along 55th St/Garfield to get on the Green Line. Just as I leave the building and walk towards the soccer field, I try to remember the name of the man with my $20. Was it biblical? No. It shared a name with a street I pass on my commute. I remember, and my mind drifts to other things.

Before I reach the tennis courts at the western boundary of campus--not even 5 minutes after recalling his name--I see the man with my $20 who shares a name with a street I pass. I was going to say hello, make sure he knew I remembered his name, and keep walking. I'm an introvert, and I am always in a hurry to get home for dinner and my partner.

I say hello, and he recognizes me. Of course he recognizes me, I handed him a $20 bill, and I'm wearing a bright bright shirt and a horizontally striped knit tie. I stand out a little. As I awkwardly stand listening to him, I adjust my tie, and he comments on it. He is observant. This morning he noticed my ring as I fidgeted with my coffee cup, passing it from hand to hand. If he is a regular panhandler, he is good at it. However, I would prefer a short story with little talk about me. Don't flatter me, just ask me for the money. Whether a sucker or generous, I'm probably going to give it if I have it. Of course, he doesn't know that about me.

He thanks me for earlier, and he tells me about his sister, granddaughter, and, I think, wife. This morning he told me he wished he had gotten married, at least I thought he had. I didn't fully listen to or understand everything he said in the morning or afternoon. It doesn't matter if his story is completely or partially true or false. He said someone cried when he told them that a white man gave him that money.

This, too, leads to a supplication. I hadn't realized this conversation could have been a pitch. Maybe he remembered the greens peaking out of my wallet this morning after I handed him a $20: the last $3 in my wallet. He was going to get something to eat. If he was already on his way, why did he need my $3? But the money was out of my wallet and transferring hands before I gave a second thought. I send a text to my partner immediately after this chance meeting, telling her I'm soft.

I finally make sure he knows I remember his name, and he smiles when I do. He has a jacket and a bag in his right hand, so, instead of shaking, he presents his fist, and our knuckles meet. He tells me that if I ever need anything or anyone is messing with me, then I should  tell him. (... as if I would know how to find him. I've walked that same path for a year and never seen him until today, when I saw him twice, the man with my $23 who shares a name with a street I pass daily.)

And so we part. I leave without any cash in my wallet; he leaves with $3 more of my dollars, dollars from either a sucker, a man striving towards compassion, or someone somewhere in between. Whatever I am, I'm no angel. Angels don't give away each of the twenty-three dollars in their wallet the same day they expect a qualified job applicant to be a man based on her qualifications and decent application materials. Angels don't wonder if they'll soon see the man with my $23 who shares a nam with a street I pass because the man thinks he found a soft target. Angels don't send text messages to their partners stating they shouldn't be allowed to carry their money very often because of how often he gives it away.

Angels give more than $23, too. Right? Oh God how I wish they would. Amen?

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*Update: As of today, August 31, 2014, I have yet to see the man again or carry money in my wallet on my commute.