We woke up early on Sunday to fit in our long bicycle ride and climb before heading to church. We were out the door by 8 o’clock, and then were greeted with sickness. Two little kiddos: a two-year-old and four-month-old with fevers and vomiting.
So we headed to a local clinic with hopes it might go faster than the hospital. We had taken a little girl with a badly infected finger there just a week ago, and the clinic went so much faster; it was like a breath of fresh air. We decided for future, non-emergency situations, this was the ticket.
We signed in the babies’ names and ages, and then sat down amidst a large crowd to wait our turn.
And then we looked up to see a sign posted to the wall,
WHITE AMERICAN PEOPLE
(Grammar & spelling errors intended for accuracy of reporting.)
Yikes. That would be us.
We weren’t sure what to do: should we leave? We’re not being treated, really; but are we even allowed to be present? And we had already signed them in, so how do we explain we’re going somewhere else to start the process over?
We waited. We sustained a significant number of glares.
And for a short while, we were on that side: experiencing the scowls and the hatred; the judgment for skin rather than character, attitude, or anything deeper, for that matter.
I’m not sure I even know how to describe it or respond; it was a miserable couple hours–in my soul, sitting next to written word that I, specifically, was not welcomed. I suppose I just want to document it here; perhaps that feeling shouldn’t be forgotten–or extended.