This is the journal entry I never wanted to have to do. And we all knew it was coming.

I don’t know what goes through a strangers mind when they have to verbalize their disdain for another human being. It just doesn’t compute with the life I’ve lived or the one I’m trying to live.

I remember the first time someone called me a nigger. I remember friends’ parents hanging up in my face when I called. We get it, the name Myesha is a very telling one. I remember being the butt of a wedding joke because I was “the dark past.” let’s not forget all the “it’s ok Myesha, you’re not like a real black girl” moments.

I digress.

I literally had no feelings towards the person in the moment. I guess we just build up a sort of tolerance. Yes I keep saying we.

The end of June marks a year living in Washington. We almost made it a year without a verbal interaction from a stranger.

I was alone. Just quickly running into the corner store. He backed outta his spot, spit a huge wad of dip in my direction and uttered words that should’ve stopped me in my tracks. I kept walking. Why give this coward in his truck driving away the satisfaction. Or was it, ‘why provoke him?’

I’m still processing.

I went inside and had the normal pleasant interactions with the people who work there. They know me. I’m not surprised. People who shop there stare sometimes. I’m use to the looks by now. I came home and continued cooking dinner for the family.

Eventually I told Christian what happened.

“Are you ok” he asked me. “Yes. I’m ok. I’m glad I was alone” is all I told him.

We try and explain things to the boy, but we know it hasn’t quite clicked for him yet. I’m not looking forward to the day he gets his feelings hurt. I remember mine. The way my brothers got their feelings hurt. The way my cousins felt it. Who wants their kid to feel what I hear my grandparents and parents talk about. We all think it’ll get better eventually right?

Funny this altercation took me back to an interaction in april. Walking back to the car from birding. An older gentlemen asked me if I saw anything. I knew what was coming because it always happens when I happily rattle off my bird sightings to a stranger. The look of surprise when I name more than just a few birds. Then the questions come.

“I don’t mean to sound racist but…(at this point I take my much needed breath and brace myself) how do you know so much about birds?” silence from me and an awkward “I’m so sorry” look from what I could only gather might be his adult son. Older gentleman continues “…i mean I don’t typically see many people of color outside on the trails birding.”

I simply explain that I met a wonderful friend that introduced me to the hobby. Which of course he then said “but I don’t see many colored people outside hiking.”

Y’all. When I hear someone say “colored” I literally have to stifle back a laugh. Still smiling I politely explained to him that I grew up in nature compliments of my mother and that there are plenty ‘people of color’ who enjoy the great outdoors. To which he replied “well, go mom! thank you for bothering to answer my questions and I’m glad to see you out here enjoying yourself.”

These kinds of interactions are exhausting. It’s exhausting when people stare. It’s exhausting trying to explain to someone that people like you enjoy living life too. It’s exhausting when you are made the spokesperson. It’s exhausting when within the first moments of meeting someone they insist you have to meet the other black people they know. It’s exhausting when you are the outlet for hate.

What isn’t exhausting is that this isn’t our narrative since choosing to live where we live. This isn’t a reflection of the people who have embraced us. This isn’t our feelings of the upper left portion of these states we are wandering. We don’t expect our wander to be an easy one. I am still forever thankful for the unpleasant life lessons that will come my way.