So, yeah I am in New York for my 31st wedding anniversary. My husband and I are going to see Hamilton on Broadway. It’s a bit extravagant, but he’s trying to make up for not giving me a gift for our 30th anniversary. Which I must admit stung a bit. I had gone out of my way to surprise him with a customized gold monogram ring to replace the one his mother had given him which had been stolen from him many years earlier. I made all the arrangements for a trip to Maine (from RI) and he figured that the get-away was gift enough for the milestone.
Anyway, a year later we are in New York. Only this time he has made all the arrangements – accommodations in Time Square and a Broadway play.
On our first night we ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant in the square. The brisket tacos were delicious. We got dessert to-go. When trying to hail a cab back to the hotel failed, we started walking, slowly. I have Multiple Sclerosis and slow is always my best plan for walking.
Let me set the stage. I am a black woman in my late fifties. before I left for NYC, my Senegalese friend hastily fashioned four twists with gray extensions in my hair and put a bun at the base of my neck. My husband is a few years older and while he is fairly handsome with attractive green eyes, he is otherwise an average, aging white man – without the gut. Even within the diversity that is New York, among the multitudes of people that crowd the streets of Times Square 24 hours a day, we are a noticeable couple walking hand in hand.
The first person that speaks to us is a dark-skinned man in his late twenties or early thirties. He moves next to my husband. He is talkative and though I am not listening closely through the din of Times Square, I hear him comment on my husband smoking and ask if he has a light. We stop strolling so this dude can get a light.
“Where are you guys from?” the young man asks.
Speaking to strangers just because they speak first is not my style.
“Rhode Island,” my husband responds.
“Nice. When are you leaving?”
My husband gives me a look like here we go. ‘”Whenever we want to,” he says.
“Do you like comedy?” the stranger asks. Obviously, he wants something.
“If its funny,” I say. We all chuckle and I take my husband’s hand again.
“You want to check out the Comedy Club, Wednesday night at 7?” He pushes a discount ticket toward my husband.
“No, thanks,” he answers.
As we near the curb to cross the street, the man turns his attention to me. He is handing the ticket to me now. “It’s a great show and I can save you on the entry.”
I look down at the ticket and then up at the man. “I’m gonna pass on that,” I say.
People start to cross the busy intersection and we follow.
“Of course,” the man retorts, “your light-skinned.”
Me? I’m light-skinned?
As my husband and I step into the street to cross, the man stops and I hear him say, “Uh huh, you a house negro.”
A house negro!
“Did you hear that?” I ask my spouse.
“I heard it,” he says. Then we hear a car horn and look to our right at the traffic coming straight at us. We had just blindly followed people walking against the signal. My partner pulls me toward the curb on other side of the street and while we avoid being hit by a car, we step in front of two bicycles. The two young male cyclists stop short and put their feet on the road. As I step up – onto the side walk, I make eye contact with one of them. He looks at me then my husband.
“That’s the best kinda couple right there. That’s where I come from!”
Racial insult to exaltation within 60 seconds – only in New York.