Does Your Hero Have A Color? Be Honest.

You would think that because it’s late-April, you could start wearing mermaid skirts and crop tops. But then the weather dips ten plus degrees in one afternoon, and the next morning you wake up with a sore throat. When the rest of the symptoms arrive — congestion, sneezing, coughing — it’s time to buy medicine.

You hate buying medicine because of how unnecessarily expensive it is, but more than that you hate walking alone to the nearest store, two streets over from another street where people frequently get harassed or sometimes mugged. You keep your headphones in, hands in your pockets, and avert your eyes whenever you cross paths with someone.

The surrounding New Haven community is predominantly poor and black, and we all know that poor + black = danger. When you see a black male coming down the street, you clutch your phone in your pocket. You are a lone, attractive girl, and you don’t want any trouble. It doesn’t matter that it’s broad daylight. It doesn’t matter that it is a busy street and there are numerous cars driving by. Your autonomic nervous system responds regardless of your good intentions, and you breathe an inaudible sign of relief once you are safely past him.

You have a father and younger brother who are tall and black-looking, and you would hate for people to react this way to them. You want to be calm when you interact with strange black males, but you cannot. Past experience, the news, and society has taught you to be wary. What do they have to offer anyways, especially if they are trapped in a poor neighborhood with inadequate public schools? They can only harm you.

You arrive at the store with your headphones still in, and you breeze through the store to make your purchases, including the medicinal syrup. There’s a slight hiccup when the cashier asks you for identification. You wonder if it is because you are using your roommate’s discount card. You are even more surprised when she rejects your university ID (which clearly states your date of birth) and requests a state-issued license instead.

You don’t have your license. You have never encountered this issue before in your home state, and wonder if it has something to do with the contents of the medicine. You know that some people take cough syrup to get high, but you are obviously sick. After all, your voice is hoarse and you are clutching Kleenex in your hand. You tell the cashier you don’t have your license, but she doesn’t budge.

Maybe you can get the pill version of the medicine? But no, that is also not possible. The cashier and her supervisor, who has also arrived, are adamant. You are embarrassed, and the first thing that runs through your mind during moments like these is: is it because I’m black? But you don’t want to hold up the line, so you pay for your other items hurriedly and leave.

There is one man behind you, black and alone, who attempts to smile at you. But you don’t smile at lone black men; you know better than that. That is why you left one headphone in throughout the transaction, so that you didn’t have to speak to him. You avert your gaze and hurry off. Before leaving the store, you glance back and see the man gesturing to the cough syrup, and saying that he will buy it. You are confused; he didn’t seem sick — but you ponder no further. You don’t really care, and you don’t want to be late to your lunch date.

As you walk back, you begin to recount your experience to friends via a group texting application. You are still in shock at being turned away from buying cough syrup. Your clever friend jokingly suggests that perhaps the cashier thought you were a meth addict. Your persistence with the pills as a substitute probably didn’t help matters. While you do sometimes get a pleasant euphoric feeling after taking certain cold or flu medications, you have no desire to consume them merely to get high. And you definitely don’t want to cook meth — Breaking Bad has taught you how dangerous that can be. Thankfully as you are distracted in your virtual conversation, there is no one else on the street pay attention to.

You barely notice the man walking up to you with his hand out. He smiles tentatively, and holds the orange bottle of cough syrup towards you. He says, “For you.” You are taken aback, and stammer, “No, it’s okay, please . . .” (leave me alone!)

”I thought you needed it?” says the man from the store, the black man who was in line behind you.

This you cannot deny, and he sees you wavering. He holds it closer to you, tells you not to worry, really. You take it. He smiles, and walks away. He has driven in his car to catch up to you, and you can barely say thank you before he gets back in and cruises away. With slight exaggeration, this is the kindest thing a stranger has done for you.

In awe, you reflect. You did not offer any sort of motivation for this man to help you. In fact, you did everything you could to ward him away with your unfriendly body language. His solitary blackness increased your wariness as a lone female. You did not think this man had anything to offer you beyond a salacious look-over. But you were wrong. You have to accept the uncomfortable truth: the Good Samaritan was black. While he did not risk his life to save you, had you made a bigger fuss about his approaching you, he could have been arrested. After all, you are the Yale student and he is the black man.

In the eyes of society, the white male is typically ascribed acts of heroism or generosity. The Good Samaritan is rarely ever a lone black man. You are excited to now offer your counterexample.

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