The Breakfast Meeting.

My empty stomach dropped as I stared fixedly at the electronic red numbers counting down in the darkly lit and heavily insulated hotel elevator. It plummeted soundlessly from the sixty second floor down to zero.
The doors hummed shut on a steady sixty two, and then the numbers spun faster and faster until, seemingly giving up, and showing fifty five, forty two, thirty, twenty, eleven, nine, five, four, three, two, one and ping, the ground level.
I took a steadying breath and stepped out, adjusting to the hive of activity before me.

I glanced around the unfamiliar palatial lobby of this grand hotel in Georgia.
I did not consciously acknowledge the complicated, heavy chandeliers, Elton John-style flower arrangements, marble and velvet surroundings. Traditional super-luxuries designed to pamper the affluent Southern visitors.
I found my bearings, and headed for the morning dining room, tinkling with teacups, tiny silver spoons and murmured conversations. The smell of black coffee permeated the air, and made me feel unexpectedly optimistic. An inappropriate emotion, I thought, as I was meeting with a senior, black female member of parliament who refrained from even pretending to like me. My directive was to help her in most any way she needed me to on this particular trip abroad. This delegation of dignitaries from South Africa had set out on a study trip to parts of the United States, and wished to get a first world perspective on a number of similar issues arising at home.

She had married a prominent man of the people.
He was a folk hero, a soldier, a fighter, a charismatic leader.
He championed the poor, exploited, and most of all, the oppressed.
He was loved, and like most enduring folk icons, died young, violently and unjustly.
No-one had really heard of her.
She had three children, and carried an impressive last name on her shoulders. In the new regime, someone gave her a job. Quite a good one, actually. Perhaps she had fought in the back trenches, like most women. Perhaps her sacrifices, and fight for the struggle had merely gone unnoticed and unheralded. Maybe she had given it her all. I did not know.

I did know that I more than likely epitomized everything she had fought against, considered unjust, cruel, and oppressive.
I was young, blond, looked educated, and as though I had not struggled a day in my life. My notorious family name had been a pillar of apartheid, and had to be uttered when one was being either formal or unfriendly. And that was just at first glance.


I saw her sitting alone in a corner of the huge dining room, a generic coffee cup placed to one side and the hand written menu ignored. She peered closely at a notebook in front of her, and frowned in concentration. She sensed my recognition across the room and looked up at me in irritation. Her eyes narrowed as I approached.

I mentally thickened my pale skin, placed an objective, professional smile squarely on my face, and sat down opposite her when she gestured that I should sit down. We had both already decided to keep this meeting efficient so that it could be short.
She began running through her notebook page of key words, and sharply added pointed instructions as she listed her litany of directions for me for the week. I took notes, my neutral expression reflecting no surprise or disbelief when she demanded something unreasonable.

She spoke urgently, with unnecessary emphasis. Her conservative white blouse was buttoned up to the top, and her ethnic hair pulled back tightly into a small, wiry bun at the nape of her neck. It looked like she had resigned herself to a bad hair day. Her severe hairstyle emphasized her wide forehead, unplucked brows, and unexpected narrow mouth. The overall effect was vulnerable, unsophisticated and disconcerting. She wore no jewelery.

I put down my pencil, sat back in my plush chair and wished for more courage in a coffee cup. My fairy materialized, wearing a traditional waitress uniform and brandishing a heavy silver coffee pot like a regal hostess. She smiled at my grateful anticipation as I met her gaze, and wordlessly poured a steady stream of coffee into my cup.
My boss was still talking quickly, reiterating instructions I had already mentally planned and arranged.
The waitress stepped back, and I noticed her elaborately braided African-American hairdo. It hung down her broad back in ropes of colorful beads and stiff, straightened artificial curls. She boasted a womanly cleavage which looked as though it smelt warm and inviting. Her face was buffed and smooth, and her brows dramatically arched and delicate. Her face bloomed when she smiled. She was beautifully chocolaty.

"Where are y'all from?" she asked loudly and confidently. Perhaps our accents had intrigued her. I deferred to my boss, and did not respond immediately. She stopped mid sentence, looked up at the waitress for the first time, and replied with quiet venom.
"That is none of your business."

The waitress gaped like a plump goldfish, turned quickly and threaded her way quietly through the white linened tables. I was surprised and embarrassed. I felt my growing indignation flush my cheeks and I focussed on ending the meeting as soon as possible.
I was not hungry.

I wondered if I had identified more with the waitress than she had.


I left shortly thereafter, and began my day. In parting, my boss mentioned that she had a hair appointment first thing that morning, and would not be available for a few hours. She was off to the best African-American hair salon in Atlanta, Georgia for a new 'do.