At the LA Central Library today: while taking a tour with four elderly folks from Orange County, one of the gentlemen asked me where I lived. I told him I just moved into Inglewood. His next question he asked with a puzzled look on his face was: "And are you going to stay there?" He wanted to know if I knew anything about the town before I moved in.
Yes I did, I told him. (I'm pretty sure he was so perplexed because Inglewood is in "South LA," which is predominately African American). And then I explained I was part of an internship program living with five other interns at an Episcopal church. I don't think that really satisfied him. I guess I wasn't really surprised by his reaction, but it threw me off.
There have been times I have felt self conscious here--usually everyday waiting for the bus ride home from work when I look around at the intersection of Crenshaw and Stocker and see no other white folks around.
Sitting at that bus stop and this interaction today make me wonder why I go to communities that aren't my own and where I don't really fit in to do things that a lot of people wouldn't consider a "real job." Something to think about....
My friend nancy shares this feeling of displacement with me; she is the only woman in her fire fighting classes right now.
And this is kind of unrelated, but I am so proud of her: Nancy is totally kicking some manly butt in the physical training!! She came in third out of like forty guys on a hilly run the other day.
So Very Proud Am I.
My review of Fredrik Backman's novel, My Friends
4 months ago