It was a dreamy evening. We drove out to Buffalo holding hands, talking about travel and books and football (the real kind, not the imaginary seasons our sons enacted on an hourly basis). We parked on a side street and walked past old, beautiful houses, occasionally crunching one of autumn's first leaves under our feet.
He dropped me off at the front door, where I found two tickets waiting for me at will call. Two tickets! Is there no greater indicator of the love he has for me than to save me an extra seat just so I wouldn't be squished in between strangers? I gripped the tickets with an inner joy as I made my way to the hall entrance.
I was 5 rows from the front. Normally this wouldn't be a great spot to hear a professional symphony orchestra (father back means a better blend), but this was a Cirque show. In other words, gymnastics and classical music. In other, other words, heaven on earth. I had a perfect view of every split, flip, muscle, and the acrobats literally flew over my head from straps and silks suspended from the rafters.
If I stretched my head to the right I could occasionally get a peek of my handsome husband, tucked behind the basses and cellos, dressed in his tux, playing Spanish and Latin American music on his trumpet. He's a hottie. I was so proud sitting there, watching him do his dreams. Also, if I stretched my head to the left I could rest it on the empty seat next to me. (Did I mention how luxurious this was?)
The performance felt as if it were over much faster than the actual two hours. I sat a bit longer after the crowed had dispersed, waiting for Roy to pack up his horns and say goodnight to his colleagues. By the time he found me the hall was empty. We kissed, he grabbed my hand, and we headed towards the musicians exit. "We need to stop by next week's rehearsal schedule real quick on the way out so I can double-check some times," he said.
We approached the exit, only to have an older gentleman with a stern face glance us up and down, then frown at me and say, "You'll have to go through another door." Obviously, I wasn't dressed as a member of the orchestra, but the hall was empty, the stage cleared, and I was holding hands with my husband. I looked at the usher and responded, "I'm with him..." He put his hands out in front of me to prevent me passing by and pointed to the side door. "You can't go that way. You must go through the side door. You can meet him back there. Please, please. We can't have you going that way."
The doors were literally only fifteen feet apart.
Roy walked incredulously back to me, grasped my hand, and we both went through the "lesser" doors to find the rehearsal schedule.
My embarrassment quickly turned to indignation quickly turned to sheer anger. My ear canals were literally pulsing with fury as we exited the hall. Roy muttered some choice words under his breath about "that old codger" and "completely unnecessary power trips."
That old usher really put a damper on our dreamy date night. I don't know if I was more angry about his self-importance or in his rudeness deflating what had been a perfectly lovely evening of music and movement.
"Unfortunately there are a lot of ushers like that in classical music," Roy said.
"Well, they're not doing anything to encourage patronage," I retorted.
Once my ears stopped pounding and I was able to find a little perspective, three thoughts came to my mind:
1. My church has an usher team that's an awful lot like what I experienced on Saturday night. A team of good ol' boys that's been together for decades and hasn't done an awful lot to foster much more than the impression of a very exclusive club. (No women, children, people of color, or individuals younger than 50 allowed. Preferably have attended the church for at least three decades prior to serving.) This needs to change, immediately.
2. It was, perhaps, my first spoonful of what it must be like to be a racial minority. To be "politely" shown to an alternative door. To define and judge based by outer appearance. To be separated by someone you are traveling with because you look unalike in some manner. To those who have to deal with this on a regular basis, I ask your forgiveness, I pray for change, and I am grateful for your long suffering. It wouldn't take a whole lot of discrimination for my burning for revenge to outweigh my logical longing for peace.
3. If it had been a man with Roy, I bet the usher wouldn't have shown him the other door...
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