The Utter Nonsense
“You Seem Nice”
It’s hard to believe that someone could live their whole life in America and never have a Black friend.
Several years ago, my husband and I were having dinner at a hotel restaurant in South Beach, Miami while we waited for our son, who was attending a Bat Mitzvah in the same location. It was a Saturday evening and the restaurant was busy. We happened to be seated next to a large family celebrating their patriarch’s birthday. He was turning 85-years old; I overheard a family member acknowledge this milestone. Throughout dinner, I could feel various people at their table looking our way. They didn’t engage with us though and our evening progressed as usual. We asked our server questions about dishes and our sommelier, questions about wines. Still, the birthday party guests watched us.
When the evening concluded, I walked ahead of my husband towards the elevators to leave. When I arrived, I noticed some of the birthday party guests were waiting in the elevator lobby. As I neared, the oldest woman of the group touched my arm to get my attention. I turned in her direction. She said, “Hello, I just saw you and your husband in the restaurant. You are a beautiful couple.” I said, “Thank you, looks like you have a handsome match yourself,” nodding towards the birthday boy whom I’d established was her husband when they sang happy birthday. She looked smitten and said they’d been married for over 65 years. They were high school sweethearts back in New York.
When the elevator arrived to take us to the ground floor, my husband had just approached to escort me. All of a sudden, the older lady hooked arms with me and said, “let’s ride together.” My husband yielded and followed behind us onto the elevator. My new friend chatted on the elevator ride like we were old friends. But, I noticed one of her sons didn’t seem pleased. He looked tense and on high alert, like a bodyguard looking out for danger. I watched him whisper something to another family member while keeping an eye on my new friend and I. He was uncomfortable in some way with mom and I getting along, it seemed.
As the elevator doors opened, we still had a good walk to the exit of the hotel. She once again linked arms with me and we talked and walked together. She told me about her family, pointing out everyone at the birthday affair. I told her about my family and where I was from; she hung onto every word like a child discovering something new. She was relaxed and having fun. We could’ve talked all evening.
As we arrived into the lobby of the hotel, our meeting was coming to an end. Then, she turned to face me and said, “I’ve never had a Black friend before, you seem nice.”
She watched my reaction cautiously, as if I would reject her admittance. I responded, “I’m sorry, how did that happen, why haven’t you ever had a Black friend before?” She told me growing up, anytime Black people moved to their neighborhood, her parents would feel it wasn’t safe anymore, so they moved out — white flight. She mentioned that her school was all white and that her parents always made sure she and her siblings were in a zone where Black children couldn’t attend. She said she went to a private school later in her life, guaranteeing that she wouldn’t be around Black students. She said, “My father knew Black people couldn’t afford private schools. It wasn’t for Black kids.” Every aspect of her life, she said, did not include Black people. And, because that is what she learned, she did the same in raising her kids. My new friend talked so freely about her experiences. She seemed proud about her upbringing. I took the moment very seriously, carefully listening before thinking of a response. She said she never told anyone this story in this manner before. She was whispering close to my face the whole time. She now stood waiting for my reaction.
I controlled my shock in her declaration and warmly said, “That’s too bad. You’ve missed a lot in your life and I’m sorry. How unfair that your family didn’t allow you to have Black friends. But it looks like you still had a good life. You seem like such a beautiful lady.” I told her that my mom would’ve been about her age if she were still alive and that they could’ve been great friends. I told her that the best experiences in my life, the ones where I knew I was growing spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually, were moments surrounded by lots of different people. She smiled when I said that I was a better person for having all types of friends because we challenged each other, trying to be better humans everyday. When she asked about my kids and their upbringing, I continued saying I couldn’t imagine my life or my childrens’ lives without so many rich experiences around different people. She looked lost for a moment. Her eyes were cast down and her shoulders lowered. Her smile was neutral. I then said, “You can’t erase the past, but it’s never too late to make a new friend.” She looked me in the eye. I smiled.
Her neutral expression morphed into a more positive one. She said, “Can we be friends?” I nodded and said, “Of course.” I couldn’t miss the rigid reactions of her adult children standing nearby. They didn’t engage with me at all.
I understood the many reasons why her family would be circumspect about their mother making friends with a stranger, especially a Black person she just openly admitted to having no interest in before. She wrote her number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. She re-linked arms as we walked out the main doors together, like I was her new best friend.
She appeared lighter, like a burden had been lifted.
She asked me to make a promise that I’d call her, seemingly eager in the moment to reconnect. To not upset anyone, I decided to take a different approach with her phone number exchange. I gave her my number instead and said, “I’m sure your beautiful family keeps you very busy and I would hate to impose. Why don’t you call me when you are free?” I lifted my eyes from hers to scan the faces of her family. I wanted them to know I understood their posture well. They were not used to or interested in Black people.
As she left, she reached out and hugged me by surprise. She said she would invite me over for coffee. But, she never called. It made sense. Her invitation was just another unintended gesture from a white person or maybe thwarted by her family and friends. As much as she enjoyed my company, 85-years is a long time to unlearn something you’ve grown accustomed to. I was content knowing I made an impression on her, allowing her to feel safe revealing her truth. I may have briefly been her only Black friend, a position my husband and I have found ourselves in several times.
Brief encounters with white strangers fitting similar profiles and stories happen to us specifically. When it occurs, my family has learned to follow their lead, knowing the moment is about something beyond us, we are patient with older people. We’ve learned from many seniors that talking with us was like a cleansing, a way to absolve guilt they’ve carried by not embracing Black people before. As older people get to the end of their lives, they seem to reflect on the choices, experiences, and legacies they will leave behind. For older white people, race relations appear to be a highlight in their stories, some sort of regret for their part in our oppression. They see someone like me and my family, seemingly “nice” and “beautiful,” eating in the same restaurant, laughing and enjoying ourselves too. Then, they decide we are different from other Black people they’ve only imagined. She chose me as her first attempt at a Black friend, because I seemed “nice” enough. I was safe. She lived a long time without one. I am not sure our brief encounter made a difference.
