Your Ass Is Showing

Last week, I was involved in the funniest situation.

I was at school, in the hallway, waiting for some political science type-class to finish, so I could go in for the next class, Western Lit.

The professor of the political science-type class is a fifty-ish, pompous, middle-eastern man. I say pompous because I have heard his interactions with his students, and I have observed his demeanor - trust me when I say he is very sure of himself, and of everyone else. But I could tell, in the way that he would always catch my eye, and smile, possibly say "hello" that I was a confusion to him. Like many people who operate on a compartmentalizing mode of thought (categorizing people), he could not quite figure out how to label me. When you are bi-racial, you learn to recognize this trait in people, this need to define and label. I don't mind it, it's just that the older I get, the more it cracks me up. He would say "hello" to me in the hopes of catching some accent, or inflection that could provide him with clues to my ethnic/racial identity.
So it was with great delight that as he exited the room, he caught my eye and I knew our time to tango had come.
His curiosity would wait no longer.
He drew up close to me, and in lowered tones said, "Where are you from?" I smiled my most pleasant smile. "Georgia," I said simply. He chuckled, recognizing the game, "The Southern Georgia, or the Georgia in the Middle East?" I smiled again, acknowledging the invitation to dance. "My mother is French and English...and my father...(he cocked his head, one ear toward me, the better to hear) is Nigerian." He nodded appreciatively, "Ahhhh. That is what I wished to hear. That is what I could not quite place." I smiled again, a smaller smile. "So then you are close to Obama," he said, very satisfied. "Not hardly!" I quipped, moving away from him, and raising my voice over the students that had begun to stream past us. His smile faltered, began to slip. "What do you mean? Not close to Obama? Not personally, or politically? "Either!" I countered happily. Now his smile was completely gone.
I had reached the door of the class room and was holding it open, my fellow classmates behind me. They were also listening, enjoying the repartee between distinguished teacher and cheeky student.
"Who did you vote for? Surely Obama," he tried, one last time.
"Absolutely not! I wrote in Ron Paul!" I said, with a wink to the girl behind me. She grinned.
"Ohhhh no!" he cried, as he was swept down the hall in the surge of students.