A Book By its Cover

So, what’s a blog for, if not for the confession of a few dirty little secrets.

You know how they say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover?

Yeah, me too. I know better. I’m in NYC tonight, trying to find an apartment for my son. But last night, as I was falling asleep here in Brooklyn NY, I thought of all the ways that I’d done exactly that:

The guy in the front of the airport’s first class ticket line? I thought he was in the wrong line. He was old, bent, and African American. The gate agent, they guy behind him and I — we all decided he couldn’t be flying first class. A few people tried to redirect him. He was seated in the front seat of our airplane. Right there in first class.

The flight attendant? The blond lady I classified as bimbo as soon as I saw her? She has a website for her art, and one of her pieces is hanging in some very rich (drop name here) guy’s home in Manhattan.

And then there was the little boy on the subway. I visited with him for a while and was feeling a little sorry for the tyke. Trying to remind myself not to speak about things he might not understand, or value. I was trying to think of NYC as being culturally different. I assumed poverty, limited opportunity. I didn’t want to assume that he liked school, or reading, or any of the things my children did.

Truth? He and his dad were on their way to Manhattan for his weekly Suzuki violin lesson. His dad held his instrument for him while we chatted.  After that, we talked strings and twinkles (you Suzuki folks know what I mean) and Bach.

You’d think I learned my lesson. But I’m still working on it.

At the front desk of the hotel, a couple came up and asked to rent a room for an hour.

I’m in a location I don’t understand, and can’t wrap my mind around. The grocery stores here have almost no fresh fruit or vegetables. The people walk differently, dress differently, get around differently. Everything moves faster. You swipe your subway card quickly, not carefully. Imagine trying to do it at about 50 miles an hour, or at a dead run, and you’ll get it right. The stores are small. The streets are crammed with cars. The noise is almost deafening, never ending. The streets are never quiet.

There is an elevated train outside my window that sounds (every ten minutes) as though someone were dropping a steel coffin down a flight of stairs on a metal fire escape. All night long.

Very hard to sleep through.

Part of me wants to declare the city a disaster area and run screaming to the airport. But tonight I ate at Miss Dahlia’s, owned by the most kind and personal AA lady, who made my waffle herself, with her own two loving hands. Not everything is as it seems.

Not everything is as it seems.

I shall try to remember NEVER to judge a book by its cover. I know better. Now, if only I will live it.

What about you? In what ways do you find yourself judging people you do not know?

Bette

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One Response to “A Book By its Cover”

  1. okwusi lorrietta Says:

    nice intuition and you re right

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