I'm not racist...really

September 22, 2010

Before moving in June, I had specific schematic ideas associated with the concept "Kansas City." As a child whose family vacationed there at least 6 times in an 8-year time frame, I equated "Kansas City" with Worlds of Fun, Royals games, Stephensen's Apple Farm, and Cool Crest putt-putt golf course.

A little further down the road--but not too far--"Kansas City" brought to mind jazz bars, the Country Club Plaza, street musicians, Gates barbecue, and black people. Lots of black people. It isn't that I had a particular prejudice, I just didn't see much ethnic diversity in my K-12 education in Nebraska's Lutheran schools or my college years in the northwest corner of Iowa. And yet, in the four months that I've been in Kansas City, not once have I blogged about this anticipated cross-cultural experience. 

Granted, I've blogged less than 10 times since moving, but that isn't the reason for the apparent lack of color. It's more due to the fact that I spent my first three months in Overland Park, surrounded by Johnson County children, Johnson County business men, and the unmistakable Johnson County moms (the ones that hire people to texture the walls of their three-story homes, go for mid-morning runs in their $300 trainers (shoes), sip on glasses of wine after their kids are in bed, and eat expensive salads when they "do lunch" with the other members of the PTO). 

But now I have moved to Kansas City, Kansas (KCK) - an area that is the epitome of diversity. My house is located in a predominantly Latino  neighborhood. The closest eateries are taquerias, paleterias, and mercados. Two blocks from my house is "yuppy street", the block where the wealthy cattle owners built there houses a hundred years back, and on which the Irish families still live. A few blocks south is one pocket of the Bhutanese refugee community (most of whom are Nepali by descent and were living in refugee camps on the Nepal/Bhutan border up until a year ago). Every now and then you might see an Asian family, but not too often.

Yesterday, (which was a beautiful day to be unemployed), I went for a bike ride and ventured farther north and east than I had previously been when running around my new part of Kansas. (I was outside the borders of my designated "safe zone," but seeing as I was on a bike and it was only 5 pm, I didn't think it was all that risky.) I wasn't too far beyond my boundries before I discovered the local "hood".

I was pedaling my way along a residential street when I heard the low steady bass that underlies all generic rap music. I looked for a low-riding vehicle with the windows rolled down, but as I got closer to the source I realized it wasn't coming from any tripped out car stereo. In front of a small gray split-level on the right-hand side of the street a couple of plastic tables supported two massive stereo speakers and an amateur DJ's laptop. A handful of dark-skinned "young people" (I'm bad at guessing ages) were outside talking, laughing and swaying to the strong, rhythmic beats of the music. A truck zoomed by, and then - as if it were an afterthought - flipped a U-turn and pulled along the curb. Seven people piled out, joining the others in what looked to be an impromptu dance party.

As I made my way up the street (which also happened to be uphill) I received a number of evaluative and somewhat critical looks. I've rarely been the minority and so very conscious of the fact. No one gave me any trouble (they had better things to do I'm sure). They just stared as the little white girl pedaled her magenta Magna toward Central Avenue.

Further down the road I passed an older dark-skinned man. He was sitting outside a small white house that showed similar age and wear; evidence of the many years it has seen. "Hey!" he called out abruptly. "Where'd you get that bike?" The demand in his voice caught me off guard. As he rose to his feet and moved toward the street I picked up pace and turned my eyes back to the road ahead of me.

Eventually, I reached Big Eleven Lake - a small pond located just across from Gates Barbecue that has evidently been claimed as part of the "black neighborhood." (It sits right on the intersection of 11th and State Avenue - both of which have become signivicant border streets). Attracted as I am to bodies of water and clumps of green space and trees, I ran around Big Eleven as soon as I found it on my KC map.

Usually when I'm running I don't attract much attention. My last run around the pond, however, had led to unprecedented runner-observer interaction. "Hey girl" a park-dweller called out. (I think I'd seen him the last time I was running that route, which was only a few days earlier.) "Can you dance?" It seemed a strange question at the time, even for a pick-up line. It was only later that I realized the shorts I'd been wearing had the word "Dance" plastered across the back. "Uh, yeah," I'd called back, as I continued my route.

As I pedalled up to Big Eleven, I noticed my "friend" at his usually picnic table. "It's about time you got a bike" he said. I laughed - at myself, at my situation, at how easily I am amused. I headed home, passing a small Hispanic girl and her Chihuahua on the way. Welcome to KCK.