It all started back at the beginning of the month. I was sitting in my old apartment wondering what I'd been doing with my life, when the idea hit me:
"I want to get my face on an elementary school wall every February!"
I knew what I had to do. I moved out. My old place was nice, but there was probably one black person on every floor. I wasn't gonna make history there. No, I had to move somewhere else. Somewhere where my hue was needed. Now, traditional logic would assume that moving three blocks down the street wouldn't really make much of a difference, but DC defies all logic.
I signed a lease on Saturday and moved in right away. That following Monday I learned that we had a doorman who worked on the weekdays. Talk about "We Shall Overcome." I'm still coming to terms with having central air, and now I have someone to open the door for me? Soon there will be rose bearers. But I ran into a little snag. I walked up to the door and the doorman didn't open it. Somehow I figured out how to transition from inside the lobby to outside the lobby without his assistance, but the whole experience was disappointing. Maybe his mind was somewhere else and he didn't see me.
Then, I came back home. This time I was carrying groceries and walking about 50 feet behind a random white lady. He opened the door for her and when I got to the door...nothing. I used my key fob and let myself in. Interesting. So later that evening I went out and came back to find the doorman gone for the evening. The concierge was at the front desk, but instead of being buzzed in like she'd done all of the people who walked up before me, I heard a pop. "Can I help you?"
Now part of me wanted to say, "Didn't you just see me leave? I'm standing in front of a locked door. You're sitting in front of a button that opens said locked door. What do you think you could do in this situation to help me? Huh?" I didn't say that though. Dr. King didn't get anywhere by being sarcastic, but I was fresh out of speeches. I let myself in, walked over to the desk and gave her the "Michael Jackson at the Super Bowl" long stare. Like Mike, I didn't say a word. I just stood there and stared.
She blinked first. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you lived here." I introduced myself, told her it was okay and went on about my business. The next day I introduced myself to the doorman and shook his hand. I haven't had a problem since. Now, I'm waiting for my rose bearers.
[Editor's Note: I've been here a month. Still haven't seen another black person yet. My Black History Postage Stamp is just one integration away."
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