I get it. I understand why people often ask me what my race is. But today, I wasn’t in the mood.

My SO and I woke up late this morning. I didn’t get to brush my teeth or fix my hair before we hurried out the door.

He was late. I was running late. This was a problem, seeing as I thought I would have time to buy my lunch before work. So, I bit the bullet and went to 7-11.

I had hoped to find Easy Mac: delicious, easy to make, and low-cal. To my astonishment, there was none. I then spent too much time trying to figure out if I should opt for the cheap but high in sodium and calorie option or spend more for the low cal & low sodium option. I spent more on today’s lunch than I had planned to spend for the next two days.

As I’m buying the soup and piece of fruit, the cashier asks, “Are you Spanish?” I don’t like being a bitch, but if I didn’t get out of there pronto, I was going to be late. “No,” I replied, intentionally not making eye contact. “Your ancestry, is Spanish?” He wasn’t letting this go. “No,” I said again, trying to swipe my card, grab my stuff and go. “Really? What’s your ancestry?” FINE! “Native American, Irish, and Black.” “Really?” I grabbed my receipt and left.

I understand it’s hard to place my face. My skin is light and my hair is nice. If you were to guess, I could be any number of nationalities. But to keep pushing the question, to ask me three times when all I want is to pay my $4 and go to work… I’m glad I did not scream, yell, or hit him.

He was certainly not the first. He probably won’t be the last. But dammit, he picked the wrong time to ask me the race question.

Categorised as: Emotional | Random

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