by Karen Conn
Yes, I voted for President Trump. Yes, I will call the police on you if you look suspiciously black. Yes, I get frustrated when my Sunday brunch at Cracker Barrel becomes miserable when the boisterous ‘COGIC’ crowd shows up.
Dear President Trump,
I am writing this letter to you because I am so frustrated. Recently, I have been judged by the color of my skin, but not the content of my character.
As I peacefully dined at a local restaurant that had recently reopened, a woman with a BLM pendant on her Sunday dress had the audacity to tell me, “Hey you hefty b*tch, check your white privilege at the door, Karen!’
I have never been so humiliated, upset and scared in my life. I tried to call the police!
Everything started when a loud, obnoxious group of certain people –apparently fresh out of a church service — came into the restaurant and interrupted my custom fritata brunch with all their loud singing and their children crawling under tables. Some of them were wearing masks, which absolutely scared me and reminded me of a recent episode of ‘Cops’ where a masked black man robbed a store. I could not tell if one of them was really the man from the episode just trying to hide in plain site as a church minister.
I quietly flagged down the store manager and asked him to have the people at the table wearing their masks for ‘protection’ from the ‘dangerous’ virus to take them off, so I could see if any of the men still looked like dangerous tv criminals.
The manager refused my request. So I had to take matters into my own hands and asked one of the elder ladies in the group to politely have the young men take off their masks in the restaurant. Who can eat with their mouth covered up?
That is when one of the younger women at the merged tables said the lines to me, causing a pain I will never forget: “Hey you hefty b*tch, check your white privilege at the door, Karen!”
My heart skipped a beat, for one, my name is Karen. Had they managed to steal my wallet or rummage my purse for an ‘offering’ while I went to find the store manager? I did not know, but I was not going to wait to find out. I pulled out my phone and yelled to them “I’m calling the police!”, but then suddenly a hand came from the shadows and held my hand.
“You know, if we bother you that much you can just either sit somewhere else, or maybe go home since your plate is almost finished?” It was the elder black lady, maybe even twenty years older than myself. She reminded me so much of my childhood and the housemaid who would spend the summers with us at our home in Georgia that I went ahead and left quietly, but the humiliation and injustice were just too much to bear.
Walking out of the restaurant, I heard some young teens called me a ‘boomer b*tch’. I later learned what the Karen and boomer reference meant and it is downright offensive.
Just because I am white, wealthy and come from a long line of Americans who do not tolerate being made to feel uncomfortable is no reason for these BLM ‘freedom rioters’ to try to upset the status quo by making me feel guilty for using by birthright to keep America great and comfortable for me. I did not ask to be born this way, but I was just born this way. If gays are supposed to be accepted for being born the way they are, then I should be accepted for being born the way I am and these incidents should turn out just like they would on any other lazy Sunday of my childhood home of 1950s Georgia.