A few Saturdays ago, I did something that I had never done before; I cried in a club. Filled with anger and disbelief, I stood on the edge of the dancefloor at El Barril while tears rolled down my face. The reason: an idiot and his isms.
In retrospect, I should have left the place 15 minutes after I arrived, but I ignored the minor incongruences because I wanted to have fun. Nae and I were finally having a proper night out, not just at the coffee shop around the corner from my place, but out, wearing makeup and leather trousers.
For quite some time, I'd been raving about El Barril, telling Nae about the good music and vibez. I'd been there once before and loved how many Afro-Caribbeans I had seen. It almost felt like home. The drip was real. For these reasons–my yen for culture and familiarity–I stayed even after we had been asked to leave two different tables two times. I was told the first table was the boss'. The second, for a group of people, not just two women.
Determined to enjoy the night out, we went to the back of the club, where they had a second bar and another DJ. The back appeared to be even more fun than the veranda area up front. And astonishingly, that's where most of the black people were. So without thinking much about it, we bought tequila shots and found a spot near the dancefloor where we could stand.
Not long after, a few friends found us and joined us. We all stayed there long enough to have two more shots and dance a few songs. However, when the DJ transitioned from dancehall to house, we decided to check out the front area again.
Finally, we found an empty table right next to the last one Nae and I had been asked to vacate. We sat at it and started to order drinks. Five of us were at the table, minding our own business, spending our money, and having a good time. Three more were on their way. However, a little while after we took over that table, the same waiter who had previously asked us to leave came back and told us to move again.
Five customers consuming tequilas, waters, beers, and rum, awaiting their three friends, were asked to leave a table they had been sitting at long enough to buy three rounds of shots because four new customers had walked in and needed a place to sit.
Again, but not without questioning the waiters, we moved. When I was standing too close to the four new customers, now sitting where we had been sitting, two security guards came up to me and asked, "why are you being so difficult?"
I thought about what was happening as we walked towards the back of the club to meet our three friends: 8 black people were made to give up their place to make room for 4 non-black individuals.
The walk back felt long. When we arrived, I stood still for a while, unable to move or speak, anger boiling up inside me. My friend touched my arm, knowing, feeling, and anger rolled down my cheek, still hot.
-----------------
I don't have a clever end, a revelation, nor a piece of advice to close this out. I have one question:
Are we safe anywhere?
