Today, I visited a high-class department store to buy a new watch. The young, white, immaculately-coiffed saleswoman kept, well, watching me as I checked out what they had on display. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to, for she had a distrustful expression on her face, as if I would grab a couple of those expensive (and frankly ugly) watches, shove them into my purse, and run out of there. Even wearing my most respectable dress couldn’t stave off the racial microaggressions. Or maybe she just hated my dress? American history consists of nothing but sartorial hate, right?
Written on the spot
Copyright © 2015 by David V. Matthews