Last year my sister and I were at K&W Cafeteria getting take-out for dinner. As I was telling the server what to place in my take-out box, my sister stood next to me waiting her turn. A man, probably in his 30s or 40s, holding a tray of fresh food walked up to the counter where the food was sitting. As he approached, I first thought he may have been mentally disabled because of his mannerisms and because he was carrying on a conversation with someone who was not around.

As he replenished the food, he stopped the conversation he was having and quickly glanced at my sister and I, then said, “High yellow!” (FYI: High yellow is a slang term for a black person who is fair-skinned. In some neighborhoods, it’s also considered to be fightin’ words. Such is the case in mine. Or at least in my family.)

What’s funny is that I didn’t even hear him say this because I was so focused on the large piece of fried chicken the server had selected for me. It wasn’t until we left and got in the car to leave that my sister asked me, “Did you hear what homeboy said?”

I told her no but had I heard him, I would have … well, let’s just say I would have set him straight. My sister explained how she stood there dumbfounded over what he’d said about us and over the fact that I didn’t react to it.

I busted out laughing because he obviously had a moment of clarity and realized that two black (aka high yellow) women were standing before him. I was tickled that I missed his epiphany. I spend my days editing so it’s not unusual for me to loose my gumption or wit by the end of the day. This particular day I was beat and hungry.

I’m southern. Fried chicken is serious business. Some days I just don’t have time for ignorant folks.