My Skin Color Is My Uniform

On Thursday, November 05, 2015, I was struck over the head and reminded of my blackness with a simple question.

A woman asked me if I knew if there were stairs that lead to the lower level of the skilled nursing facility that I was about to exit after visiting with my mother.
Benign query, right? Yes, until I set the scene for you…

Mother Moore is at a skilled nursing facility for physical rehabilitation therapy (I had to write physical because Mom tries to get a rise out of people by making them believe that she’s in for drug rehab – sick humor!). She has been at this facility before. It is wonderful, and she receives stellar care there. The staff members treat her like royalty, and make it difficult for me because I am unable to give her the same platinum level care at home. But I digress...

This nursing facility is in lower Westchester County, and is unbelievably “un-diverse.” (I made that word up, y’all.) I haven’t been able to count ten (10) people of color at this 197 bed home. And I'll be damned. I have consistently been approached as if I work there.

As I stood with my big a** Dooney and Burke tote bag on my right shoulder and another tote bag in my right hand, while signing out at the guest book in the lobby it happened. A woman came from behind, asked me the question I shared above. Now, not a big deal except for this: I was in my regular “street” attire, and I was actively engaged in a function that other visitors engaged. There was the woman behind the desk that she SHOULD have asked, but she asked ME.

The people who engage this behavior/line of questioning of/ with me are typically residents or visitors, but I did have two (2) incidents involving staff. I have been asked for towels, nightgowns, “ice cream for my wife,” medication, the code to the elevator, you name it.

Here’s the thing about this place. If you are a member of the nursing staff, you wear scrubs. If you are in housekeeping, your uniform consists of khakis and a blue polo shirt. I don’t know what the dietary staff wears. I do know that the administrators and therapeutic staff’s dress code appears to be business casual.

Now, I am not immune to racism, racist comments and all of that. Heck, the first time that I encountered racism was as a four year old living in and going to school in Verona, Italy. I attended the St. Maria Goretti School for pre-kindergarten. My teacher was Sister Gabriella. Percy Morris was the only other black student enrolled. I don’t know what his experience was, but I was called “nigger” almost every day, and almost every day, I fought. Yes. I had fist fights. The next time that I was targeted, was as a college student. One Friday night on North Campus, some yahoos in a truck drove up and called me and my friends “niggers.” Oh, and since I am putting it out there, I had a classmate who, during a recitation session declared that “the only reason Black people are at Cornell is because they are rich or on scholarship.”

I am exhaling right now. I had to write this just to get it off of my chest and just put it out there, and hopefully let it go. And if I told you what happened at the bank afterward...

To co-opt a portion of DeRay McKesson’s mantra: I love my blackness; just don’t put it in a box.