A restaurant in Kansas

Although my plan was to go back over our summer’s journey chronologically, I find that some stories float to the top and compel setting “to paper” more immediately.

I soon realized as I traveled that there are small stories that are just as necessary to tell as some that more in-depth interviewing/research can produce. In fact, as a journalist observer I believe that at times simply observing without inserting a third party (me) can produce a fairly accurate portrayal. (And, as it works out, this can be suitable for a person such as me who is actually shy under some circumstances.)

Toward the end of our trip, Lyla and I were travelling on back roads through the eastern part of Colorado and into west Kansas. Finally, the weather had cooled enough that I could occasionally stop at a restaurant and safely leave Lyla in the car. Although this particular off-the-beaten-track restaurant advertised home-cooked food, all I really remember about the meal is that I can’t recall at all what I ordered and that it was not very tasty. In fact, it was one of the rare times that I didn’t take a bit of leftovers (which I always have) out to Lyla because I didn’t think it would be good for her.

But I truly wasn’t all that interested in the food. I was far more interested in hanging out near the “real” people of the west, which can be done best in local restaurants. I seated myself in a booth with a good view of the entryway. In front of me was a couple dining with an older man and they seemed to be discussing local topics. Unfortunately, it was a busy time in the restaurant and a bit difficult to hear more than a few snatches of conversation about water supplies and the price of gas.

Near my booth was a young soldier dressed in military garb accompanied only by his cell phone, which made for a lively texting companion.

Then, to my delight, in strode an authentic-looking cowboy with leather chaps, a whiskery face obviously impacted by weather and maybe a few headfirst tumbles from a horse, and of course, the cowboy hat. He joined a few others in a booth around a corner, so I never got more than a couple of glimpses. I did see him leave in a beat-up-looking pickup truck that fitted his obvious western lifesyle, however.

Distracted by these colorful characters I didn’t at first pay much attention to another scene unfolding. I saw the front door open and a neatly-dressed young black man struggled to push in a baby stroller with a tiny infant swaddled inside. With him was another black man with a child who was perhaps five years old. Neither of the men were older than mid-20s and it was a bit unusual to see such young fellows shepherding two youngsters, especially the infant. In my imagination I saw them as young husbands giving their young wives an afternoon off by taking the kids out for a meal.

I feel I need at this point to say that this thin slice of several people’s lives may or may not actually portray reality. But my gut feeling is that this fleeting glimpse of interaction (perhaps 15 or 20 minutes) revealed an all-too-common interplay that perpetrates an abiding feeling of unfairness and contributes in small and great ways to far-reaching and long-lingering racial tensions.

The young man with the infant parked the baby’s stroller next to their table just as a restaurant employee approached with a rolling cart on which dirty dishes were stacked. She gave the young men a glare and muttered that the stroller was in her way. While the aisleway was not wide enough for both vehicles, the tone in the employee’s voice was neither polite nor welcoming. The man with the infant glanced up with a perfectly expressionless face to see that no quarter was to be given, no assistance offered, no “I’m sorry, but it might be better to park the stroller elsewhere.”

No words were exchanged between the customer and the employee, but the black man looked away, seemed to be contemplating how to fix the situation and then arose and awkwardly removed a carrier that was part of the stroller. He carefully placed the carrier with the sleeping infant on the booth bench and began to maneuver the stroller back down the aisle and through the double doors. No one offered an assisting hand and after he bumped the stroller back down steps he folded it into a car and quietly re-entered the restaurant.

A server appeared, gave a perfunctory greeting, tapped a foot while waiting for the five-year-old to decide between French toast and a sandwich and disappeared with their order. Even the child seemed subdued, as though without being told, knew he was in a place where acceptance was really just barely tolerance. The infant slept on in a blissful ignorance that might last a few more months.

Now I’ve been in restaurants and other public places where the sight of a wee one catches glances and frequently comments such as “what a cute baby,” or some such. That did not happen here. After being served the four were not looked at or spoken to, although I suspect they were noticed. I am ashamed to say that even I, sitting directly across from this young family, did not say some encouraging, civil word to them. One struggles with the thought that, as equal human beings and citizens, all people deserve the respect from others to not feel an obligatory comment should be made. On the other hand, civilized people often speak civilly to complete strangers. I know that I do. But I didn’t this day. And it may have made no difference at all if I had. But then again, maybe it would.

Throughout my trip I wrestled with the notion of going to Ferguson, Missouri, where the unarmed black man Michael Brown was fatally shot by a white Ferguson police officer after being stopped for questioning about a nearby robbery. Racial tensions throughout the country rose during the next year, with spotlights on other fatal shootings of blacks by white police officers, including that of a 12-year-old black boy in Cleveland, Ohio who was “armed” with a toy pistol. I wanted to see for myself what the streets of Ferguson looked like a year after the shooting. In the end I drove by on the interstate, a scant 10 miles north of Ferguson, snatching glimpses of the dark skyline. It was one of the few times I did not live up to a challenge I set for myself and I told myself I backed out partly because there was no safe place to leave Lyla – I could not take her on the streets because of her aversion to and likelihood of attacking another dog.

I truly am at a loss as to what one white woman can accomplish. I can say that I am (as are many, many others of all skin hues) appalled that in the year 2015 – 150 years after the American Civil War ended – the origins of one’s biological background can cause hate, divisiveness and a lack of common civility.