I now know how my mother must have felt when she was mistaken for the cleaning lady when she opened the front door of her own house, more than two decades ago.

Sometimes, it’s the little things – the looks exchanged, the words whispered, the meanings inferred – that make an otherwise sunny day in the life of a black person suddenly fill with metaphorical storm clouds.

It just happened to me on Halloween, a holiday I programmed myself into not overanalyzing, with its pagan origins or ritualistic undertones, in favor of festive freedom and frivolity, so my three-year-old could enjoy herself with the abandon I, too, fondly recalled from my youth.

We took to the streets in our somnambulant subdivision turned kiddy carnival, with lighted doorsteps, elaborately carved pumpkins, glowing orange lights strewn across awnings, porches bedecked with scarecrows, shorn-sheet ghosts in trees and suburban moms and dads dressed as pirates, witches and nameless boogie-people.

I donned the costume of the withered mommy – eyelids straining to stay open, well-worn sweat pants, street kicks not actually designed for exercise and a plastered smile of maternal sacrifice. My peppy urgings and upbeat votes of confidence for my child to “Go get it!,” “Go for it!” and “Be careful; you look too cute to fall” belied my internal weariness.

She was none the wiser then, nor after our humanity was subtly undercut by what most would interpret as the innocuous blabbing of a loquacious suburbanite trying to make conversation.

As we jaunted from house to house, giddily received by adult neighbors who likely were deriving as much joy from the occasion as the children, we departed with “Goodbye,” “Have a nice night,” “Don’t eat too much candy,” and “See you later” from our neighbors. However, one stop gave me pause from the evening’s hilarity.

“ Do you live in this subdivision?” she asked, after doling out candy to my daughter.

“ Yes,” I answered summarily, then exchanging pleasantries before moving on to the next house.

Most people wouldn’t understand why, the next day, I am seething about the question asked, my mind generating a variety of insolent comebacks that could have, should have taken place of my civilly clipped tongue and precise, safe parlance.

Why am I mad? It’s the little things.

It’s the way things are said. It’s what is spoken. It’s the gaze that is exchanged.

It is the look of unwelcome surprise. It is the anticipation of engrained expectation. It is knowing they have fallen into the hype of a black stereotype. It is the palpable disappointment when it is seen that I don’t belong on Black Entertainment T.V.

Yes, I live here. And I am black and, presumably, at least 20 years your junior.

Yes, I work a so-called professional job, have a college degree and drive a car whose music you cannot hear blaring out the windows. In fact, you’re most likely to hear jazz originals or current events commentary.

Yes, I know the difference between Stravinsky and Kadinsky. I know the difference between Blue Nude and Blue Note, too.

Yes, I speak multi-syllabically with an accent that knows no place or bears any race.

Yes, I am the mother of daughters, and I am actually married to their father.

Yes.

Yes, I.

Yes, I … belong?

BC Columnist K. Danielle Edwards is a full-time communications professional, is a Nashville-based writer and poet. She is the author of Stacey Jones: Memoirs of Girl & Woman, Body & Spirit, Life & Death (2005) and is the founder and creative director of The Pen: An Exercise in the Cathartic Potential of the Creative Act, a nonprofit creative writing project designed for incarcerated and disadvantaged populations. Click here to contact Ms. Edwards.

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