Social Profiling

A lot of times when I’m asked for my name and it’s not important, I respond by saying Tony.  I figured this is easier than telling people my real name, then going through the process of how to pronounce it, then having the conversation whether it means anything or not, and concluding with the country of origin the name came from. Too much! I figured I avoid any confusion and tell them that “My name is Tony.” Last week I went into a local restaurant in the city of Detroit to order lunch. The lady behind the counter asked me about my name so I told her. "What?" she quickly replied! "Tony," I said, confused to why I even bothered telling her my real name in the first place. Without missing a beat she replied: "You would be a Tony." I hadn’t thought about that until that day, and truly I didn’t care. This perfect stranger made an assumption about me, stereotyped me, and put me into a box that she believed I fit under. I thought it was amusing, but it did not bother me. I do it all the time! Whether we like it or not, we all do it. The government does it; the Transportation Security Administration does it, and so does the Department of Homeland Security. Dare and go through a border security looking like you belong to a certain religious group and you will be “Randomly Selected.” Zimmerman did it, and the whole county shook. To be honest with you, profiling had always just been there for me; never put much thought into it. I know people profiled me and I profiled others. The way I looked at it was simple: our experiences in life shape our future decision. Every flower shop I have ever walked into smelled delightful; therefore, it is safe to ass-u­-me that all flower stores smell lovely.

What prompted me to write this blog was an encounter I had last Thursday.  After a late meeting at work, I stopped at the local corner store to get something to drink. Nothing was special about that day, except the exceptional warm weather. As I pulled into the parking lot, there she was, the girl of my ghetto dreams. Only parked two spaces away from me she stood, radiating beauty, turning passersby into envious green monsters. She was a perfect Black on Black 1964 Chevy Impala sitting on 5x4s (That’s 20” rims for the white people out there). She had Lamborghini doors riding clean and the Alpine blasting Young Jeezy in the back.  Black neon light shined in the backseat only highlighting her beauty. I had to stop and gaze.  I look up and see a young black man approach me. His icy chain was swinging to his jeans and he had stylish clothes with a hat sitting sideways. Nice car," I said to him as he passed me by.  He gave me the look of a disappointed mother, got in his grey Honda, and drove away.  A simple thirst crunching stop turned into an exploration. I felt like an anthropologist doing a field study, trying to spot the potential owner of this automotive miracle.  I look to my left; I look to my right; but no one fit the buck.  My synapses were misfiring while my brain kept beeping, like the last 10 seconds before an explosion, spewing error messages. Could it be Becky? Well I don’t know what her name was but there was a teenage girl buying a Slurpee who looked like a Becky. Of course not, Becky drives a Ford! But there was no one else. A little Ashkenazi Jewish boy was in the back getting nachos; but, it couldn’t be him either. We all know Jewish people drive Toyotas and/or Volvos. The driver perhaps was in the bathroom. I waited a few minutes then I asked the teller: “whose car is that?” He pointed at the Jewish boy as if to tell me “I know, right.” I was shocked, my whole world was shattered. This guy looked nothing like a rapper. HE HAD FLIP-FLOPS ON… People who drive these types of cars don’t wear shorts, and flip-flops with socks. He even had the kippah on his head. His Rabbi wouldn’t approve of this boy’s choices. For the first time in my life, I entered a flower store and it didn’t smell like I expected it to. Or maybe I just didn’t know the whole story. This is how this boy got to drive this car: When he was a child, he was adopted by an African American family. They raised him as their own and they even allowed him to practice his real parents' religion (hence the Kippah.) The night in question, his 1989 Toyota Corolla wouldn’t start; so, he asked his older brother (who happens to be a rapper) if he could borrow his car. His brother said no at first, but then felt bad, and since his manager had taken the Bentley, the Impala was all that was left. He drove it to the store to get some nachos and that’s when I walked in.  Yeah, this is exactly how it happened. Now it all makes sense.  For a second there I thought my judgment and stereotyping were the problem, where all along this young man had no business driving his older brother’s car. Did I mention his brother is a rapper?