Just Once

As the middle-aged black man approached us on the sidewalk,

early August, my little Shih Tzu stopped, bracing her stride

against my amiable tug of the leash. I grinned at the man,

embarrassed, wondered what he may be thinking, the weight

of stereotype piled onto us like the heat of the day. He seemed

used to disarming a white woman – smiled, slowed his pace, prepared

himself for stepping off the sidewalk, over the parking block and

into the lot. “Is your dog stopping because of me? Is she afraid?”

His smile continued. “No, no,” my voice strained, I only had

these few seconds to explain as we passed. How could I ease

centuries of violence, systematic genocide inflicted by my kind?

“She is afraid she’ll burn her feet on the metal grate, it gets so hot

in the sun.” His ability to sink to the one down was automatic, instant

and I wanted to save him from that just once, let him know I saw him,

saw he was black and neither my dog nor I were afraid. I wanted him

to not blame himself for our flinching. I coaxed my dog to jump over

the grate that stretched the width of the sidewalk, like she always does,

as he passed by.