Quick assumptions are often erroneous
Winter is fast becoming a cruel and crushing season in my mind. At least it feels that way today, as I sit alone in River Park Square eating a soggy sandwich, my first meal of an already long morning.
Before ordering the sandwich, I retreated to the restroom to wash my hands. Trapped in front of the hand dryer (no wasteful paper towels in this ladies room), my shoulders squeezed into an agonizing pinch. The elderly woman at a nearby sink soon turned my way, and I knew her quick glance at my cozy winter coat, turtleneck, jeans and short dark hair would elicit a particularly painful response.
“Are you sure you’re in the right area?” she asked.
“Yes, just like you are,” I said, and turned to leave, my hands still damp and cold. Her next words and slightly nervous laughter followed me around the corner and out the door. “Oh yes,” she said, “your voice sounds like a little girl.”
It’s the clothes. And our culture’s habit of responding to snap judgments. In the late spring and summer, I rarely am mistaken for a boy. My warm weather clothes include capri pants, skirts, sandals, cheery colored blouses and sleeveless tops. In winter, I love cargo pants, down vests, and warm and bulky shoes good for walking in the snow, and I pay the price.
This miscalculation of my gender is nothing new; in fact, it’s a very old piece of my history. I grew tall early and still stretch an inch higher than the average American man, who measures 5 feet 9 inches. Height combined with a body that is defined more by lanky muscle than soft curves adds up to extra opportunity for quick assumptions.
Though I have yet to read Malcolm Gladwell’s book “Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking,” we have been talking in recent days at work about his assertions. It has us mulling over the idea that our instantaneous reactions to people are often erroneous, which can perpetuate horribly prejudiced stereotypes. A white woman may pass an African-American teenager in the grocery store, his baseball cap slightly askew, and instantly clutch her purse more tightly. A husband and wife may see me perusing the greeting cards in the section labeled “Birthday Love” and cringe at the thought of the “immoral” sex I engage in. In both cases, snap judgments completely ignore who the teenager is or I am as an individual.
The fact that I curl up on the floor to build Legos with my son or that I travel to California specifically to spend time with my 91-year-old grandmother is lost in the blink of an eye. She looks like a boy, what a sicko.
I do the same thing. I see a truck with a little silver fish stuck to the tailgate and immediately mutter, “What a creep, he probably professes to love Jesus and cheats on his wife at the same time.”
These assumptions are reprehensible, theirs and mine. I’m trying something new this week. I’m going to open my eyes a little wider and blink a little slower. I’m going to see the person not the skin color or clothes, gender or age, T-shirt logo or bumper sticker.
What do you want to bet I’ll be dazzled?