You make me sick. I’m enjoying my tasty tomato and mozzarella hot panini at the local Panera Bread, but then I see you. You heartless narcissistic b****. How could you do that? They are just children. People like you I will never understand. You have your nose in the air as if you just smelt my sweaty gym socks that sit in my locker all week. Well hey lady, I here’s one finger raised to you. Proudly, I’m flipping you off.
Who am I kidding? I would never do that. I have class. You are twice my age and add a few years and I have stronger morals than you. What is wrong with you? I see that your son caught your glare. He rolls his eyes in shame, and I don’t blame him. You deserve it. I see your husband too. God bless his soul. I have absolutely no idea how he could spend the rest of his sad and pathetic life with a termagant like you. You whisper in to him, a murmur I can not hear, but he rolls his eyes just like your son, and refocuses his attention to his iPhone.
I think about this day all of the time. I’m sitting there. Looking out the window. You are yammering on and on across the way from me. Your son and husband are statues. Motionless and silent. You are talking to a wall. Then They walk by. A happy family. A happier family than your’s will ever be. There are three children. Two little boys playing with their Nintendo DSs and a little baby girl in a stroller. They are well dressed. They are polite to their mother. Before the slide in to their booth they hug her. She smiles and kisses their heads. She sits down next to her husband and they begin to eat their lunches. He takes her hand and holds it as if he never wants to let go. They are the picture perfect family. There is absolutely nothing wrong with them... except the color of their skin. They are indian.
I noticed you glaring as they walked on by. One by one you looked them up and down, and you made this little scrunched up disgusted expression, the similar one I get when my brother leaves boxers on the bathroom floor. They are not boxers. They are not dirty. They are just different from you.
It’s skin deep my darling. That’s all you see. That’s all you will ever see. Grow up. This isn’t high school, lady. I try to look at this situation from your point of view, but it is impossible for me. I can’t even pretend like I am you. Cruel and insensitive. How you could sit there and judge CHILDREN? They are CHILDREN for crying out loud.
I am disappointed in myself. How could I just sit there and do nothing, say nothing? To be honest I was speechless. You blew my mind. I bet I would have gotten through to you. Being called out by a stranger, I bet that would affect you. Make you feel something. Whether spite or remorse, at least you’d be using your heart for something. A nice change for once.
I would like to take this time to apologize. I am judging you right now, making assumptions of your character, and I don’t even know you. How does it feel? Do you like it? Do you want me to keep going? I can go on forever. But I won’t. As I write this i realize. I am not you. I should not be apologizing. I am not judging you by the color of your skin; you are white just like me. I am judging you by your actions, the way you portray yourself. I may look like you, but I sure am not like you. I am not intending to be heartless and cruel as I say these words. I am speaking from my heart.
If I could go back, and do it all again. I would. I would muster up the courage to stand up, walk over to your table, and tell you how I feel. I hope you learn. I hope you learn your lesson well. Because one day, one day soon, you will be in that family’s shoes. You’ll be wishing you had a heart to feel the pain.