How may I be of service?

I am a Black woman. As such, I suffer a plight familiar to Black women the world over: no matter where I happen to be, people assume that I work there. At the supermarket, people ask in what aisle they can find things. At the courthouse, people mistake me for the judge’s clerk or the court reporter.

Until recently, I would respond with varying degrees of annoyance, irritation and sarcasm. Once at a department store, a lady stopped to ask how to get to the register. I gave her a withering look and said, “Of course, I work here. That’s why I am wearing my coat, carrying my purse and lugging 5 bags from other stores.” She scurried away; sarcasm has that effect on people.

But I have decided that other people’s ignorance, racism or obliviousness is not going to rob me of my peace. Once I made that decision, people seemed to stop asking me to point them to the mayonnaise. Until yesterday.

I walked into my gym in a very good mood. I had my new book under my arm and my earphones hooked up to my I-pod. My bottle of water was icy cold – just the way I like it. All was well with the world. I set my supplies down next to me and reached for disinfecting solution to spray down the parts of the treadmill that I was likely to touch. Gym equipment breeds bacteria – I know you’ve seen the guy who has so much sweat pouring off him that it’s dripping onto the machine – so most gyms put bleach solution by the machines.

As I wiped down my machine, a middle-aged White man on the treadmill next to mine motioned for me to spray his machine as well. I paused and looked at him. He motioned once again and, noticing my reticence, said “could you do mine as well?”

Of course I knew what he was thinking; how could I not know, it’s the story of my life. But instead of pointing to my stuff and giving him the finger (you all know I considered doing that), I smiled, stepped over to where he was, sprayed his machine and wiped it down. He gave me a cursory “thanks,” and pretended to focus on the television screen in front of him. I put the bleach solution back, put on my earphones and got on my treadmill. The expression on his face was absolutely priceless. No amount of sarcasm could’ve evoked the same expression. He quickly stopped his machine and came over. “I am so, so, so sorry,” he stammered. “I thought you worked here.” Of course you did. I smiled at him and said, “No problem.” Then I pretended to focus on the television screen in front of me.

He packed up his things and hurried out, red-faced and flustered. You want to know something? I bet that man is never again going to assume that every Black woman he sees is the help. Glad to be of service.