The restaurant I was breakfasting in was nothing extraordinary, which is exactly what I like. When visiting a new town, I like to sit in restaurants listening to the locals visit. In the Silicon Valley region, I usually would overhear conversations about technology; website content, marketing plans, ideas for start-ups, etc. The conversations that I overheard in other areas tended to be more personal.
In a Starbuck’s in Northern Santa Rosa, I overheard a a group discuss the Bible, and the participants were honestly and genuinely debating some of the concepts therein. In Eureka, there was talk of fishing and job hunting. (There’s a nameless town in between that I make a point of driving past after I visited their public library and found an official sign in the bathroom asking the patrons not to pee in the floor drain) Perhaps the most unexpected moment occurred in the town of Lone Pine.
I was in a fast food restaurant when one of the patrons, sitting behind his white 12” MacBook said “the n****r,” and continued with his conversation. I was certain I had misheard. Then he repeated it, and again, and I came to realize that he was speaking of President Obama.
Although the conversation was loud, and many must have heard him, no one said anything. Finally, the person he was speaking to saw my face, whispered to the man, who fell silent.
When I finished eating, I walked past him on my way to dump my garbage. He watched from the corner of his eye but didn’t look up. I’m not sure what I would have said if he had. From there I drove to Manzanar, the site where the many Japanese-Americans were imprisoned during WWII, and just sat, reflecting. Cars entered and exited the main gate, and I saw people touring the prison, and visiting the museum. I stepped out walked around, photographed the guard towers, and drove off. I didn’t want to speak to anyone, didn’t want to go inside and see how these Americans were mistreated. The wound was still too raw from breakfast, so I drove off to return another time.
Lone Pine was not my first in-person experience with racism against President Obama. Years before I had been sitting in a gym locker in the city of Petaluma, while the tv on the wall broadcast the President speaking. A person in front of me looked for a moment, growled, and said: “You shouldn’t be allowed to be.” When he saw me looking at him, he became self-aware, regained his composure, and stopped speaking.
Progressives I know wonder how President Trump, a man who brags of being a sexual assailant and someone who traffics in racist and sexist language was elected. We blame the people in the (derisively described) flyover states, such as Kentucky and Louisiana. The answer can be found more closely in the people sitting and standing right next to us.