bethofalltrades

I voted today.

It's a rough day for a variety of reasons, but I made it that far.

I was just walking to the train. I passed the tentament where the losers hang out. They catcall. They say disgusting things.

Today it got to me. That last "bring that pussy over here, Snowflake" broke the camel's back. I can deal with "hey bitch" or "fucking dyke" (I followed that one up recently with "say hi to your mom for me") but Snowflake... I gave them all the finger as I walked away.

They exploded, the whole group of them screaming obscenities. They were a jumble until the fat on who'd called me snowflake hit upon the perfect insult. The others picked up on it and joined in.

"Fucking MCCAIN BITCH!"

I turned around and screamed "BARACK OBAMA MY FRIENDS" and then kept walking.

A woman with a stroller who had seen the whole thing told me not to let them get me down. I was a little unnerved. I live every day as a white woman in a black neighborhood. Up until now, the only racially-tinged interactions I've had were actually friendly; the man who yelled, "Hey white people! Happy fucking new year" was using it as a means of identification, like "girl with the green jacket."

Today at the polling station, David and I were the only white people. I was uncomfortable, because I am gentrification. I'm an obvious Other. My whiteness and their blackness doesn't matter to me, but I am always concerned that it IS an issue from the other side.

Today at the polling station, I heard a man who was older than my parents by a decade explain that this was his first time voting. I saw two girls with cameras taking turns snapping photos as the other emerged from the voting booth. This moment was big enough to demand documentation. I saw the guys who hang out on the corner and tell me I'm pretty before offering to sell me drugs. (I thank them for the compliment and decline their wares.) I saw women with children taking their little ones into the booth with them.

I was the obvious Outsider, but I was welcome there. A woman walked past and asked how I've been--I recognized her from the laundry. People I didn't know smiled at me and the woman who checked my district (99) called me sweetheart.

I think we all had the sense that we were part of something.

As I walked away from the crude boys club at the tentament, the woman with the stroller reassured me. "I know you're not for McCain," she said. "Have a good day and keep your fingers crossed that our boy wins."

I said I would. I knew when she said "our," she meant me too.

Love,
Beth