Typical Day
I was waiting for the bus when I heard, "Excuse me, sir."
I turned and saw a small, thin Chinese lady looking at me querulously. I raised my eyebrows and bent slightly, to better hear her.
"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question about your heritage?" She asked.
At least she was polite about it, so I smiled.
"Sure, go ahead."
"Do you wear a skirt because you are Scottish?"
I held the smile. She was genuinely interested and obviously meant no insult. A kilt just wasn't something she knew about.
We chatted for a while. I told her it was called a kilt and that she could see lots of them in the upcoming St. Patrick's Day parade. Then I told her I wasn't Scottish. I was Irish and a lot of the Celts wore kilts.
She asked about bagpipes and sporrans and all the usual questions and I answered all her questions gladly because she was so polite.
When the bus came, she thanked me earnestly for the knowledge.
When I got off the bus, there was seven or eight Hispanic guys standing on the street corner where I had to cross. I've seen these guys around. Gang bangers or drug pushers.
Waiting for the light to change, I heard giggling and the word, "puta," a few times. I crossed when the light changed and didn't look back.
Later in the day, standing outside my store, a lone Hispanic guy stopped and pointed at my kilt.
"What's with that?" he asked. It was a bit rude but he didn't seem to be intentionally insulting.
I put a thumb over my shoulder at my store sign.
"It's called a kilt. I make 'em here."
He looked at the sign and back at my kilt, puzzled.
"What is that? Like, your heritage?"
"Yup. Irish."
He seemed pleased with that answer.
"Okay, man. Cool," and he left.
That's a fairly typical day for me.
I turned and saw a small, thin Chinese lady looking at me querulously. I raised my eyebrows and bent slightly, to better hear her.
"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question about your heritage?" She asked.
At least she was polite about it, so I smiled.
"Sure, go ahead."
"Do you wear a skirt because you are Scottish?"
I held the smile. She was genuinely interested and obviously meant no insult. A kilt just wasn't something she knew about.
We chatted for a while. I told her it was called a kilt and that she could see lots of them in the upcoming St. Patrick's Day parade. Then I told her I wasn't Scottish. I was Irish and a lot of the Celts wore kilts.
She asked about bagpipes and sporrans and all the usual questions and I answered all her questions gladly because she was so polite.
When the bus came, she thanked me earnestly for the knowledge.
When I got off the bus, there was seven or eight Hispanic guys standing on the street corner where I had to cross. I've seen these guys around. Gang bangers or drug pushers.
Waiting for the light to change, I heard giggling and the word, "puta," a few times. I crossed when the light changed and didn't look back.
Later in the day, standing outside my store, a lone Hispanic guy stopped and pointed at my kilt.
"What's with that?" he asked. It was a bit rude but he didn't seem to be intentionally insulting.
I put a thumb over my shoulder at my store sign.
"It's called a kilt. I make 'em here."
He looked at the sign and back at my kilt, puzzled.
"What is that? Like, your heritage?"
"Yup. Irish."
He seemed pleased with that answer.
"Okay, man. Cool," and he left.
That's a fairly typical day for me.
