Readers, I’ll cut to the chase: This is an uplifting tale.
On a recent getaway weekend with my boyfriend, I spent 36 hours exploring uncharted territory: Upstate New York. While this NYC girl was thrilled to view the fall foliage and sample Catskills-farmed raw cheese, something nagged me that I couldn’t quite place. When we crossed the George Washington Bridge, the impulse became more clear - I felt a sudden urge to scream and jump out of the moving vehicle, desperate to return to the confines of the concrete jungle.
I dramatically imagined walking into diners and coffee shops and bars in small, rustic towns and feeling - once again - like the only black girl in my AP history class when we learned about Jim Crow and my white classmate snickered at images of lynchings. Or, like that time in a Missouri Walmart when none of the cashiers would help me at checkout. They turned off their aisle lights as I approached with my allergen-friendly pillow, telling me they were “on break”. Their breaks conveniently and simultaneously ended, however, when my white castmate approached behind me, holding the same hypoallergenic pillow. The castmate later said that I was overreacting; maybe they really were all on break. Maybe they didn’t see me, maybe things move slower in small, sleepy towns. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The white castmate and I became less close after that day; I didn’t have the energy to walk them through what it’s like being passive aggressively cold-shouldered by mild mannered racists across America. I didn’t have it in me to explain.
If you know, you know.
When we approached the small town of New Paltz, I felt myself tense up, bracing for impact. While my boyfriend parallel-parked outside the diner, I stared in wonder at the tree-wrapped town, asking myself two big questions: Would they serve gluten free pancakes (they did not) and... where is everybody?
Where are all the POCs?
Where are all of the mild-mannered racists?
Was it too early? Would they be at home, plotting?
Would the neighbors peek their heads out of their sleepy shuttered windows, see a black girl and a Filipino boy walk into a diner, and call for reinforcements?
Images from Jim Crow movies my dad made me watch as a kid flooded my brain. Walking into a diner and being told We don’t serve Negroes, No Coloreds Allowed. Thinking of my grandfather in the army, eating over a dumpster around the back while his white friends ate inside because the cook refused to serve a black man at the counter.
As the door to the small diner swung open, I prepared for the eyeballs. The deafening silence, maybe even some whispers. But, all I got was small-town charm, a hot pot of coffee, and arguably the best home fries I’ve EVER had. No investigative snooping from bigoted waitresses, no stares from truckers in corner booths. Just kind eyes and polite smiles and nods and murmurs of good morning from seasoned patrons who probably eat their Saturday eggs there every weekend. No other black or brown people, but a whole bunch of very friendly upstate whites.
I left scratching my head with a big container of leftover home fries.
Hmm.
***
The next day, we went to Beacon. The weather was outstanding and we stumbled upon a weekend farmer’s market. While I expected to see plenty of sunny white faces peddling farm fresh eggs, I was shocked to smell…
What is that? Oxtails?
Oxtails? HERE?
Not only that, readers.
Greens, cornbread, fried chicken, and other soul food delights being peddled (and purchased) by an assortment of black and brown people. Next to the soul food stand was a Filipino bakery, complete with Ube pancakes and gluten free rice krispy treats. My boyfriend and I strolled hand in hand through the farmer’s market, chatting with almost every patron: Black, white, Filipino, and everyone in between. I sampled sauces, cheeses, handmade art, blown glass, and observed black and brown people living seemingly blissful upstate small-town lives.
Shocked and delighted, I left with Ube and raw soft cheese (sold to me by a very cool highly-pierced questionably non-binary white farmer from further upstate).
On the way back to the car, we passed a large soul food restaurant. I peered in and saw loud and boisterous whites and blacks, laughing and munching on ribs and oxtail.
Who knew upstate could bring me such peace?
***
The point of this tale, readers, is that my fears of upstate were monumentally dashed.
Sure, there are pockets of racists plotting the demise of all POCs in this country.
Sure, there are diners where I wouldn’t feel welcome.
And, sure, maybe the Walmart cashiers really didn’t see me (they did) and maybe things really do move slower in sleepy, small towns.
But, this much I know to be true: There are pockets of upstate New York that are bustling with black and brown people. We are cooking and eating, buying and selling, laughing and exploring, and dining on Ube and oxtail and home fries.
So, Upstate New York: Where is everybody?
We’re right here.
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