It was late when we returned to the hotel. We parked the rental cars in the back lot, nearest the entrance that opened to the shortest walk to our block of rooms. A sign posted on that door directed that the rear entrance not be used after 9 p.m. My coworkers were fatigued from a long workday followed by an evening out with drinks. One objected to walking around the building to the front of the hotel. While we all stood in the dark, she exclaimed that we should disregard the sign because, after all, "We are free, White, and over 21." The ease with which the phrase fell from her mouth left no doubt that she had uttered it comfortably many times before. However, on that occasion, her mouth spoke before her mind caught up.
I was the only one who did not fit her description. I was born with a permanent early summer tan and tight curl to my hair. Her declaration of privilege was based on her membership in a group to which I do not belong. Admittedly, after dusk and from a distance, my African ancestry might not be noticed. That was not the case that evening; these colleagues knew me. Everyone grew silent. The offender noticed the change in the group's disposition. Then, as responsible U.S. Department of Justice employees in town on official business, we all walked to the front door.
