The young lads, wearing shorts, ball caps, white t-shirts, and $100 tennis shoes, ventured to the Westport Flea Market Bar and Grill because they had been informed that it was a great place to eat with a great atmosphere. Unfortunately (once again), it was a great atmosphere for someone whose skin may be a tad bit lighter than theirs.
Once inside the establishment, they sat down and waited for a server. And when I say waited, I mean they waited. The hungry young lads waited for what seemed like an eternity (twenty minutes) before a young lady came to serve them.
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It was obvious: we were the wrong color, and in the wrong place |
In the process of waiting for their drinks, the young lads noticed something peculiar. No more than twenty feet away, a table full of college-aged lads and ladies ordered alcoholic beverages. The only difference was the fact that the waitress took a quick glance at their IDs and quickly returned them, along with their drinks. The dark-skinned lads, who had been there for at least forty minutes, were still waiting on their drinks.
Not only did the poor fellas have to wait forever, but the lighter-skinned family that sat two tables away scurried away from their table to sit somewhere across the restaurant, as far away from the dark-skinned lads as they could.
Finally, the dark-skinned fellas received their drinks. Unlike the lighter-skinned lads and ladies, the dark-skinned lads had to pay for their drinks up front. After paying for their drinks, the waitress began to take their order, only to leave when an older, lighter-skinned fella called for her from clear across the restaurant. Rudely, she left the dark-skinned fellas' table to attend to another patron. Disgusted, the poor lads left.
The young lads were none other than my brother and I. Why were we treated so unfairly? The answer is obvious: we were the wrong color, and we were at the wrong place. Now, some people would say that this rude treatment could happen to anyone. The waitress who served my brother and I was kind of angry when she finally came to our table (without my alcohol, which really ticked me off); yet she showed unbridled courtesy to all the other people whom she was serving.
The one thing that pissed me off more than the blatant discrimination was the fact that we were at a restaurant that is in the middle of the most diverse place in Kansas City: the Westport area. If one is to venture to Westport, one will find everything: black skateboarders, white gang members, interracial couples, homosexuals, drug dealers, all kinds of things, which is great. Diversity is great. But how can a restaurant that is so used to serving such a diverse crowd treat their patrons like thieves? My brother and I were looked at like we were going to rob the place as soon as we walked through the door.
I'm not going to say that this is the first time that it has happened. It happens all the time in Johnson County. But the one thing I can say about Johnson County is that it is not as diverse as Westport. I don't get bothered when I'm racially profiled riding through Olathe, Kansas. But I do get bothered when I am treated like a crook in Westport, especially when there are black people working there.
What can be done about this? Truthfully, not a thing. As long as there are bigots who bring bigots into the world, we're screwed. I know one thing: I will never, ever, ever, ever again in my natural black life spend any of my hard-earned cash in the Westport area. I get more respect from the police.
If you are in search of a nice place to eat, I would not recommend the Westport Flea Market Bar and Grill to anyone whose pigment is a tad bit darker than the President's. My brother and I should've gone with our guts and just gone to Burger King in Klan country. We would've been better off.
And I still didn't get the drink that I paid for.
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