Ku Klux Koffee

Dear Oppressed Black Woman at Starbucks,

I just wanted to let you know that the baristas passed you over by mistake. I was right behind you in line, and it happened to me also. At least two people who ordered after me were served before me. We both got screwed over a bit. I wasn’t too angry though, because I knew I wasn’t skipped on purpose. You, unfortunately, thought you were discriminated against because you are black.

It was a little after 8:00 a.m. The Starbucks was packed. You, me and a gaggle of other caffeine junkies were there to get our legal fix. With a line stretching out of the coffee shop doors, coupled with people ordering three-sentence-long coffee concoctions, it was a chaotic scene. Eventually you ordered your drink and moved over to the on deck area to wait to be served, then I ordered and moved next to you in the same area. After a few minutes, like you I noticed that people who ordered after us began to get their drinks, and this was when I began to feel your anger before I even looked at your face. We waited. And waited.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see you fidgeting and rocking on your legs like a kid who has to pee. You sighed, exasperated, at least a dozen times in the space of a minute. Finally, I had to look at you. I grabbed a newspaper from a stand behind us as an excuse to turn around and look your face directly. After seeing your face, I quickly threw the newspaper back down like it was on fire and turned around. You see, I was afraid that if I looked directly at you any longer I would turn to stone. I doubt your face is normally that ugly, but your palpable anger twisted your features into something so hideous that your visage made Medusa look like a chick I'd like to soul-kiss. Hell, I'd even like to fellate all the snakes on Medusa’s head before I’d consider looking at your anger induced ugliness. I’m just glad that your glare wasn’t trained on me, but I did feel sorry for the barista who was the object of your hate. I remember thinking, “She can’t be this mad because we got passed over. . .maybe the barista is fucking her husband.” Then, because I'm still naive sometimes in my desire to live in an ideal world, it dawned on me what your problem could be. Is this a "black thing?" I wondered. I glanced at you again. Your upper lip was now curled like a rabid dog's. You sighed. You fidgeted. You furrowed your brow up and down, up and down like you were exercising it. Yup. It was a black thing.

My heart actually skipped a beat when the barista called out your order, a caramel something or other. You walked up to the bar, slowly and deliberately, like a gunslinger taking his ten paces at a high noon duel. I thought the coffee was going to hit the fan. You reached the counter and to my surprise you didn’t freak out all over the place, but maintained control of your anger and focused it with laser-beam precision on the barista girl. As she was drizzling the final touches of caramel goop on top of your frothy "friend of diabetes" drink, the barista cheerfully asked, "Hi! How's you're morning going so far?"


“Ha!” Was your first reply, a bit loud, but quickly followed with a quiet and focused diatribe. You didn't want anyone else to hear what you were about to say. (why is that?) I strained to hear and caught most of your words. Through clenched teeth you said (and I'm paraphrasing a bit), "My day was going well. . .until you forgot about me and served three other people who ordered after me." The baristas smile dropped. Her face showed complete surprise. Then, oh oppressed black woman, you leaned in closer and whispered something else to her. I simultaneously wish I had heard everything you said, and am glad I didn't. Regardless, I did hear the word "discriminate." You also said something about “white people not liking serving black people.” Whatever else you said really shook up that poor barista girl, some idealistic, nineteen year old college kid who knows the landscape of racism as well as she knows the landscape of the planet Pluto. This kid was racist to the same degree that you, oh oppressed black woman, are a rational thinker.

While you quietly went off on the girl, her face turned to dread, and she was almost crying when she handed you your drink. You even had the bitchy-gall to add a sarcastic "have a nice day," to her as you walked out of the Starbucks like you just made a wonderful advance in the fight for equality.

I am not denying that racism exists or that you've been discriminated against in the past. I just had to let you know though that this did not happen today. You probably have been discriminated against in the past, perhaps simply for being black, but based on how you acted this morning over a situation that clearly had nothing to do with the color of your skin, I'm willing to bet that you're discriminated against a hell of a lot more for being a huge asshole than for being a black woman. Perhaps your past life experiences are now the filter through which you judge everything, and therefore many if not all unfair and bad things that happen to you are of course "racist."

You're no Rosa Parks. You're just a common bitch. In fact, you are the type of person who confuses being a "strong woman" with being a bitch. The only lesson that the barista learned that day is that people's own prejudices and fears can blind them from reality, and huge gaping assholes exist in the world.

I hope you enjoyed your coffee.

You're no Rosa Parks. You are a common bitch. In fact, you are the type of person who confuses being a "strong woman" with being an asshole and a bitch. The only lesson that the barista learned that day is that people's own prejudices and fears can blind them from reality, and huge gaping assholes exist in the world.