"Look, there goes another one!" I whispered, nudging my husband as we walked through the Wal-Mart entrance. "Do you think we should say something?"
He gives me the 'Are you serious?' look then tilts his head as if it wasn't such a bad idea after all.
We're counting black people.
We're not racists. It's just taking some time getting used to being a true minority.
We moved here from Arkansas. Before then, we lived in Mississippi and in Memphis, Tenn. Lots of black people. Lots of Latinos, Asian, Middle Easterners even – lots of color.
Here, not so much.
I never thought of myself as a person who needed to be around other black people. People are people right? I even avoided attending an HBCU so I could attend a college with more 'diversity'.
Of course, diversity looks different on this side of the Mason Dixon line.
It only took me three weeks to break down and sheepishly ask a black woman if she knew of any places I could go to get my hair permed.
She replied with a knowing smile and wrote down the number to a kitchen sink beautician and told me that might be the best I could do.
It sounds strange, but I feel like I took my culture for granted before this move. Things that weren't important to me before are pressing issues now.
Things as simple as the lack of R&B songs on the radio, or my daughter wanting to wear her hair down everyday instead of the multitude of plaits, twists or braids she liked so much before.
And who do you talk to about all these feelings without sounding racists?
On the bright side, I'm pretty sure no one at work notices how badly I need a perm.