Here's what Julie, very reasonably, said about a time some years ago at a Quaker conference when I did not move my seat when a Black man wearing cologne sat down next to me, for fear of him thinking I had moved because he was Black:
My two cents is, just move when you have to move, and don't worry about what anyone else is thinking. You're responsible for taking care of your needs, not their potential or imagined reaction.
Julie is not wrong. But this is what I found myself writing in response:
The "just move" thing is a little hard for me, Julie. There are very few Black people at FGC Gathering most years, and I have heard some Black men in particular tell stories about women clutching purses or otherwise seeming wary when a Black man comes into the room or gets behind them in line at the cafeteria. I don't know how much of that is perception and how much is reality. I'm not a big fan of mind-reading in general, assuming you know somebody's motive, so when I hear "this white woman clutched her purse because she was afraid of me," I reserve judgment. I don't assume that's an accurate perception of what that woman did and why. On the other hand, I would like the Gathering to be a place where people of color feel welcome, like a part of the community. And having heard those stories, I just wasn't easy standing up and walking away.
As far as telling the man why I was moving--it can be so hard. One thing that happens with a perfume exposure, for me, is emotionality--I think emotion welling up is part of my body's response to the chemicals or whatever I'm reactive to, and part of it is just plain old weary, "I just want to sit here and worship God and all you damn people coming to morning worship straight from your showers with your hair still stinking-shampoo wet and your lotion freshly applied and your hairspray and deodorant are making it really hard for me to do that." So it's easy to imagine, sitting here, a really calm and rational response (and I have gotten better at this with practice, to be sure, because it's been a lot of years now) but it can be well-nigh impossible to do in the moment, especially if I forgot to be prepared for the possibility and am taken by surprise.
Perfume exposures in worship are about the worst for me. Not only do they mean that I have to get up and leave worship but I've of course been sitting there trying to get as open as possible. It's hard to open yourself up to Spirit while simultaneously keeping your guard up against the possibility of some patchouli-loving hippy sitting down in the next seat and wrecking half your week.
Here's an experience I had once with a Black woman at the downtown post office in Lansing, probably close to 20 years ago now. I was waiting in a long slow line, and this woman a couple of people ahead of me was wearing a really beautiful dress that just draped on her wonderfully. She was about my size, and I was lost in a reverie of thinking about how beautiful she looked and idly wondering how a dress like that might look on me.
And all of a sudden, she flew out at me. "What the fuck are you looking at? You got a problem with Black people? You got a problem with me?" I was so taken aback I couldn't say anything, let alone tell her that I hadn't meant to be staring at her but if I was it was because I thought she was beautiful.
That idea just doesn't seem to have been available to her, that a strange white woman in a public place would be staring at her in absent-minded admiration.
Sometimes I have an over-strong reaction to somebody wearing perfume not just because they're wearing perfume but because they're the 100th damn person this week who has made me give up a good seat in a movie theater or leave a restaurant before my dessert or drop out of the line at the grocery store or walk out of a kitschy little shop I wanted to browse in for awhile longer or go home and change my clothes even though my shirt was clean out of the wash two hours ago because the damn stink is all over me now just from standing five feet away in an aisle at Target. Or go back into my own house and close the windows instead of enjoying my yard because the neighbor's dryer sheets are so toxic and the wind is blowing my way. Or get out of the shower half-rinsed and run down the hall to my dorm room mostly naked because the person who just got into the shower next to me apparently doesn't understand what it means to agree to room on a fragrance-free floor and I value my ability to keep breathing over being clean and maintaining my dignity.
I told David the other day that I've had so many little aggravations lately that it's like I'm carrying this "Fuck you" around inside me right now and it's going to pop out at some, I don't know, perfectly nice lady at the grocery store who's doing nothing worse than moving too slow in the pasta aisle when all I need to do is dash in there and grab a box of rotini. That's how I feel if I've had a lot of perfume exposures, too, like I could just strangle some poor woman emitting a light and airy citrus scent because it's not just the light and airy citrus scent, it's that the light and airy citrus scent is the straw, baby, and citrus woman is the camel's back and I am so gonna break her.
So, this man who sat next to me was the metaphorical citrus woman, you see? And in the post office, I was the citrus woman. But I did not want to be the 100th person that week to do something that might or might not be a racist reaction to a Black man coming into the room or joining the line or sitting down to worship. I did not want to be his citrus woman. I wanted to be his Friend.
