In West Texas, I used to go to one particular restaurant several times a week for dinner. The dirt lot was always crowded with plus-sized pickups and the restaurant itself full of oil field workers just coming off the job. One could describe them as scruffy I suppose. I'd park my subcompact rental car and go inside. Dressed in business casual, I'd stand there by myself waiting for a table, drawing long looks from some of the other customers. It was a little squirmy at first, but that dissipated after the second or third visit.
There was another place outside Shreveport. I was the only white man in there and it was packed to capacity. I received a few similar long looks there, but within minutes the waitresses were joking with me and I felt comfortable. I didn't belong there, I guess. But nobody told me that, and I enjoyed the whole thing immensely.
Last night I ate at a diner about five miles from where I live and about twenty miles form where I grew up. It was busy. All the customers were white, most have likely been here their whole lives, and no one gave me a second look when I came in. There was that excessive volume people use in bars when they talk. Exaggerated canned laughter. A harsh female bartender voice blessed with the regional accent pierced my ears. This is my home, allegedly. The place where I belong.
What the hell am I doing here?
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