Laundromat blues

I am dreadfully spoiled.  I admit it.  I have a washing machine and a dryer, and both are generally in good working order.  Well, until this last week....

I had thrown in a load of towels and when I pulled them out of the washing machine, each one was soggy and weighed about twice what they should.  Ut oh.  I played with the machine for a bit and determined that the spin cycle wasn't functional.  <sigh> And of course, it didn't happen AFTER I had all my laundry done, but before, as the towels were my first load.  crap crap crap.

We have one of those service contracts that some utility providers offer, and we love it.  The only down side is that it usually takes several days to get a repairman out, and this was no exception.  Repairman can't make it out until Wednesday of this week.

So, I loaded up the Caliber with my laundry and my essentials, and out the door I went.  I'm fortunate in that a laundromat is relatively close -- less than 10 blocks.  But I might as well have traveled across a continent in terms of where I was to where I went.

A word of explanation is in order.  I live in Brooklyn Park, in a little relatively nice lower middle class to middle class neighborhood.   When we first moved in about 15 years ago, it was almost completely white, and everyone owned their home, with the help of a bank.  Some homes in our neighborhood have been held by the same owners for all of its 30-year existence.  Now, of course, with the economic downturn, we have more rentals, but the split-level homes still are fairly nice -- if small -- and we are more diverse in our population.  But, like most neighborhoods these days, it's rare to see a neighbor, and only then we wave to each other as we rush off to our jobs, our kids' activities, or our entertainments.

Three blocks south of my home is Brooklyn Center, which is has a large number of what is euphemistically called "multi-family housing" -- a/k/a apartment buildings.  In the middle of about five or six of these apartment buildings sat my destination -- the laundromat.

I parked my fairly nice new little Caliber near the laundromat and began unloading.  I walked into the laundromat and realized right away that I'm not in Brooklyn Park anymore.  I expected the place to be busy, and it was.  What I didn't expect was that mine was the only white face in the place. Honest.  It was wall to wall black people, with a scattering of Asians.  And clearly, mine was the first white face to have made an appearance in that laundromat for quite some time, judging from the covert stares being aimed in my direction.

Another word of explanation -- I was not acquainted with a black person until I went to college.  Being raised in southern Wyoming on a cattle ranch will do that to a person. I've had a few black friends in my life, but no sustained relationships.  I am friendly with a couple of women whose sons are good friends with Ben, but somehow that's never translated into friendships in their own right.

Okay then, I told myself.  Just get in, get the work done, and get out.  I set myself up with the washing machines and begin working.  I kept my demeanor reasonably calm and matter-of-fact, when inside I'm wondering, "what are they THINKING?"  I knew my attire was low-key -- jeans, t-shirt and battered sneakers (my usual Saturday attire, if I get dressed at all).  No jewelry or makeup (I don't wear any).  By any objective measure, other than the color of my skin, I should have blended in. But I did have that white skin and I clearly did not blend in.

 I know, I know, it's the 21st century, for crying out loud.  But in many ways, judging from the stares and from my own discomfort, we haven't moved forward too terribly much from the days of segregation.

I ignored both the stares and my discomfort and focus on the task at hand.  Laundromats are incredibly noisy places, between the rumble of the machines, the laughter of children who came with parents who clearly had no other choice, and the sound of multiple TVs going.  (Jungle Book was competing with ESPN).  I softly sang along with Bare Necessities as I loaded and unloaded machines, and earned some more strange looks.

But then I caught something on ESPN that caused me to lift my head, drop what I was doing and go around the machines to stare at the TV.  As many of you know, a player for the Kansas City Chiefs killed his girlfriend and then himself, leaving an 3-month-old daughter orphaned (For the whole story see here)

I found myself standing in a group of four or five women, who, like me, had abandoned their laundry to stare at the television in open shock and anger.  One woman in her early 20s demanded "what are our young men coming to?  Why are they doing this?"

I shook my head and said, "I don't know.  It's crazy.  If he had to kill himself, okay, but he should have left her alone and let her raise their kid."

One woman, who was probably my age, but whose face bore the marks of a million years of sorrow, rumbled, "that's why I won't have me any more men."  She and I exchanged a look, and I remembered my own -- long since abandoned -- vow to never tie up with another man again. I think my sympathy and understanding must have showed, because she smiled at me.

In fact, for about five minutes, we all were focused not on our skin color, but on our mutually-shared outrage over the death of an innocent woman and the orphaning of a small baby.  (Jovan was not the object of our sorrow) We were all mothers, and we all knew how precious and fragile our babies were, and are, even if they are all grown up and in college (Yes, you Beth.)

We then returned to our various laundry duties, and I'd be lying if I said we all began chattering to each other. (I said the laundromat was loud)  But the tension eased considerably, and we all worked companionably side by side.  The group disintegrated gradually as tasks were finished and clean clothes were hauled home.  I was the last of the group to have arrived, and so I was the last to leave.

It seems that some lessons need to be learned over and over again.  The lesson I needed to learn was our outward differences only mask the more significant similarities .... even in the middle of things.