1.56 – Not What You Think

I pass the gas station after a long day of work. (Update: I’m kicking this food poisoning things ass but its definitely waged its war on my energy). There is an officer that does night duty at this gas station. He says hi to me all the time. To be honest, I think he’s crushing on me. This is not to sound vain, but a girl knows when a guy goes out of his way to make conversation and why he’s doing it.

So, he steps outside to have a smoke while I’m buying some juice. I walk outside to go to my car and he stops me to ask where a good place to get a tattoo would be. (You see the convo starter). Blah blah, I recommend a place for him. I tell him they are really good because they are very knowledgeable about colors and skin tones. (I’m caramel so blues and yellows fade on my skin). He’s probably a little darker than me.

He asks me what I am. I say, I’m Puerto Rican. He says he’s black and Italian. Great, we now know our family origins. I really just want to go home and drink my juice and lay down and watch a movie. So I say kbye and start toward my car. He stops me and whispers, “are my eyes okay,” with this dorky smile. I say “um, yeah, I guess.” He smiles and says “you know how it is, with all this work stress, a mans got to kick back sometimes.” I say “ew. Thats just ew.” He says “oh come on, it aint that bad. You don’t?” Thats when I get in my car and drive away.

You don’t smoke weed? No, I don’t. I don’t partake in any drug activity. I don’t even drink.

The fact that an officer of the law asked me if I smoke weed does not bother me. Hell, I’ve seen my fair share of crooked cops. What does bother me is this…

What about me makes you think I’m a fellow druggie? What about me makes you remotely think we can relate on such a disgusting level?

Apparently, something about me screams “drug addict.” Well, here’s a clue: your vision is skewed. When you look at me, you will see a dedicated mother, a hard ass worker, an independent woman, an aspiring writer, a girl who skips on fashion to guarantee my son has the very best, a girl who merged book smarts and street smarts to become a better woman.

I cannot even count the number of times people question me the minute they hear I’m a New Yorker, I’m Puerto Rican or any of the other “red flags.” I really should make a freakin’ sign.

Yes, I know drug dealers. No, I’ve never sold drugs. No, I don’t do drugs. Yes, I know who my real father is. No, I am not on welfare – I bust my ass like every other tax paying citizen and make due. Yes, I know who my baby-daddy is – I was married and we planned my sons conception. Yes, I was born in this country. No, I am not an illegal immigrant. Yes, I speak English – I’m just ignoring you. Yes, I recognize that you and I have a different dialect – I say wash and you say warsh. Yes, I finished high school and went to college. I have tattoos and piercings and I can rock a suit like nobodies business.

I can cut you to shreds with a smile just as easily as an F bomb. I’m an equal opportunity individual. If you’re stupid – I hate you all the same. Swallow your assumptions and keep it moving.


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