1/2 ITALIAN - 1/4 IRISH - 1/4 GERMAN

The intersection of Ashland and Clybourn, Chicago

Morning

 

I was about twenty minutes into my day when a black male in a white light pick-up truck with company lettering (Orkin?) on the door asked: "What's your point?" His window was lowered only a few inches. He was wearing a white company hat. His face had a mix of baby-faced cuteness and adult handsomeness, giving him the appearance of someone you could trust. At first I pegged him to be asking me the question with the same engagement the black Camry driver was: Engaged to the point of inquisitiveness, but still a bit cynical.

"That's a good question," I began. I explained as best as I could in terms of my sign being sort of a parallel to a sign of a homeless person, but mine is a bit different, and if he drives through there often (he said he did everyday) it will become more clear. His eyes were tight the whole time.

After walking away from him, I began to wonder if my sign could be seen as offensive to black people. Could it be interpreted as "NOT BLACK AT ALL / HIRE ME"? I felt like the African American readers of this sign were a bit put off by it. It's possible that in my own head I perceived as disapproval those same indifferent or confused looks I get everyday.

Later, an athletically burly passenger in a Pepsi truck yelled to me, "What does that mean?" This truck was already moving with the green light, and had already traveled several car lengths past me. I just couldn't think of three words to shout in explanation, so I just shrugged. He shrugged back. Of course, I realized the perfect answer after the royal blue truck was long gone: My nationality.

Later, a big, round, bald, goat-bearded, 20-something, smoking white male in the passenger seat of a recreational van called me over and asked across a same-aged Latin male driver in glasses: "What does that mean?"

"It's my nationality."

"Okay..." he answered expectantly, implying "and...?" I nodded to him and walked on.

At one point, as I was standing at the corner, waiting for the traffic to settle before I began my walk, I noticed two African American women in a black car (the shouters of "five seven?" from the previous day?), positioned at the head of the line of traffic, looking at me as I stood waiting, murmuring to each other under their breath. I walked to the median separating the left turn lane as I always do, and I opened my sign as I began to cross in front of the car in the middle lane -- in this case, I was unfolding my sign directly in front of these two women. They laughed loudly and smacked their hands together.

Then there was the guy who really confused me. I was walking past his truck and he smiled and asked me "Are you bay?" He was Latin. I backed up toward him and he repeated his question. Am I what? Am I bay? Am I gay? I waved him off, initially, telling him I was not gay. "Look at your sign," he said in clear but broken English. "Are you bay?" It was clear he was engaging with me, so I came closer to try to understand. "Is your back wet?" he asked. "Are you a wet back?" I shook my head, and laughed very uncomfortably and walked away. He was being good-natured, but I just didn't get him. Even later, after asking a few of my Spanish speaking friends what he could have meant, they don't know what the "bay" was. I think he was somehow asking me if I was an immigrant.

No money or job offers today.

 

 

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