The Space Between Us...and Them

A Return to a Familiar Destination in a Less Friendly Time

Welcome back to another Sunday at The Writer’s Block Party. I’m happy you’re here.

Now, I get it, calendar wise there’s still a good bit of summer left. But practically, there’s a certain shift that arrives with the kids’ return to school. As I reflect on Summer 2025, I take pride in recognizing that I’m an entirely different person than I was a year ago with a new normal, new reality, and new set of challenges.

With so much change, I felt especially nostalgic about our family trip to Kiawah, a golf and beach island outside Charleston. I spent most of my childhood learning and loving the destination, from trips in middle school to my wedding seven years ago and so many memorable moments in between.

My favorite photo from our wedding in 2018.

With all the uncertainty, a weeklong trip to my childhood happy place felt like a much needed, timely return to something familiar, special, magical even.

Until it wasn’t.

The World Moves Differently Now

On our drive in, down the same narrow road where I normally belt out ballads, eager with anticipation, there was what looked to be a police or ICE checkpoint, stopping cars “at random” and rendering whatever consequences they saw fit.

Astounded and enraged, I couldn’t look away from the apparent injustice.

And still, we continued.

The very first night, we returned to the charming hotel where I got married to take family photos on the beach. But what used to feel friendly was noticeably chilled by cold stares, which made me question whether the difference was in the experience itself or my perception of it.

And it got worse.

And That Difference Is Tangible

One evening, I went out for dinner with my husband and our children. The kids wanted chicken and rice, so we pulled up to Fuji, the local sushi and hibachi spot. Nothing fancy, kid friendly, no frills.

I walked in to inquire about the wait and noticed the place was nearly empty. If you’re a parent, you know well the relief of being able to give your kids their desired cuisine, especially on vacation. So, I considered it a win.

An image of Kiawah at its best.

Until the hostess stared at me in utter disgust. There were three patrons in the restaurant at the time, so I know her look wasn’t rooted in a sense of being overwhelmed. In all honesty, I’ve gotten that look before and knew well what the experience was about to be. And I wasn’t in the mood.

When I returned to the car, I told my husband about the exchange, and he encouraged me (optimist that he is) that we should still go. “How bad could it be?” he asked.

Against my gut, we unloaded the kids and went in.

The same surly hostess reluctantly showed us a table without making eye contact.

And then, we sat.

No water, no acknowledgement, no wait staff member check-in.

Two minutes turned to twenty with more of the same as multiple waiters walked past us, overly attentive to the “other” patrons, checking in almost too frequently and smiling.

Sometime later, my husband walked to the back of the restaurant and (quite kindly for him) asked if someone could help us. The one Black employee diverted his gaze, walked past him without a word, and proceeded to the hostess stand where he whispered to the inhospitable host chick, pointed at us, and giggled, exceptionally well-trained in the rehearsed mix of racism and rudeness despite his own skin color.

Yet another staff member said he’d be over and acted as if he was moving in our direction.

He never came. No one did.

Instead, they continued to point at us and gesture in our direction, laughing and lollygagging.

So, we left.

On the way out, my husband addressed them: “Not okay that we sat there for twenty minutes while you all walked around and blatantly ignored us. Do better.” he said.

Blank stares. Snickers. No reply.

The thirty-minute exchange felt days long as I fought to keep my composure, entertain my kids, fight off hunger, and process the exchange all at once.

So much for sushi. (Maybe more of a win than I realized then since they have mediocre reviews anyway.)

My daughters, still too young to perceive the nuance, grabbed my hand with dough eyed expressions. And I, their mother, desperate to preserve their innocence for just a little while longer, guided them out.

“Why aren’t we eating there, mommy?” my six-year-old asked.

“Me and daddy decided we wanted tacos instead,” I lied, chest heavy as the words exited my tight, turned down lips.

We wrote negative reviews they’re unlikely to care about. We vowed never to return, which is what they want. We took our business elsewhere, which again, is probably their goal. And we turned our energies to things within our control for the sake of our sanity and our children’s sense of security.

And we ate tacos, all the while feeling frustrated and unsettled.

Had we done enough?

…And Tough to Confront

My husband and I debated on the way back to our rental, brainstormed alternatives, unpacked our feelings, and sat in the anger.

When we got back, we sought the wisdom of older, wiser family and close friends who’d been in situations like this (and much worse) and could help us process.

And I’m so glad we did.

All smiles for family pics on Kiawah a couple of years ago.

The exchange of information, sharing of experience, guidance, and support that followed is so much of what life is all about…especially now.

The eldest in the group explained that we’d done just what we should’ve. With the benefit of life experience, training, trials and tests, he broke down that they wanted us to get angry; to act out so they could escalate things. Or to feel unworthy and let it ruin our trip.

We’d kept our cool, left peacefully preserving our own freedom (a victory considering we each had an alternate ending where we wound up in jail). We’d exercised our economic power of choice. We spoke up, both in the interaction and via online reviews. We shared the story with others (hi, dear readers) and we hadn’t let it ruin our vacation or run us off scared.

We won even if it didn’t feel like it.

So, It’s Time to Suit Up

I’m often frustrated by people who are blind to privilege, so I want to acknowledge mine: I’ve grown up expecting that, for the most part, when I walk into a restaurant, I will receive service. The reality is that generations of Black people were assaulted, attacked, and killed in cold blood for me to opt into that entitlement.

The fight is real, raw, hurtful, and hard. But it’s not new.

Now don’t misunderstand me. I’ve been in racist work environments, been called out of my name numerous times, felt paralyzed during a police stop, and been acutely aware of the impact of my race on most every interaction for as long as I can remember. But I have also grown up with a level of insulation that seems strained if not outright eliminated in Trump’s America.

While it’s easy to get in my feelings, the smarter thing to do is suit up. Step up. Speak up. Strategize.

One thing’s for sure: I now understand my mom’s frustration when we were growing up. A lifetime of living on edge, when you’re desperate to protect the people you love, is exhausting.

As We Continue to Hold Space for Soft Moments and Positive Experiences

By all accounts, and despite a certain coldness that crept in more than once, our trip was tremendously successful.

My daughters and nephews made memories.

One of my favorite photos from this week’s trip.

They took pictures on a beautiful beach. They played in the water and jumped for joy just as I had so many years ago. They enjoyed a boat ride and a birthday celebration with family. And they’ll look back on their trip with a fondness that are the point of it all.

And those smiles will always be worth the fight.

The realities of painful interactions and the power of being able to give them a beautiful trip are both true. Both are real. Both are important.

And I am, thankfully, equipped with the knowledge and experience of the most resilient race of people in the world who have existed, persisted, and prevailed in spite of it all since they set foot in this hostile land.

So, it’s the least I can do to show up here with you. To keep resisting. To write pieces I hope will create dialogue around timely topics, using whatever platform I have to be a voice of change.

Even if it often feels like it’s not enough, we must continue. In the chaos of it all, we must find peace in doing what we can, when we can. And we must think strategically and move thoughtfully like our sanity and survival depend on it.

Because they do.

Until next week…

Your turn. What would you have done? This isn’t a rhetorical question, I’m asking you to weigh in. “Success” in these situations requires strategy that goes beyond the instinctual impulse to react. How are you handling the unpleasant interactions and in-your-face instances of discrimination? There’s power in our collective brains and peace from our continued sharing as we all understand, unpack, and navigate this new normal.

If you’re in need of some extra credit reading on how to slow down and find more joy, you may enjoy The Monster’s Worst Nightmare, Slow Down, Savor More, or Happiness in the Hallway.

Mentally centering for the battle and need a piece that packs a punch? Got you. Take a look at Dear Columbia Law School or Still Short of Breath: On George Floyd, Memorial Day & Continued Dream Seeking.

And if you’re new to The Writer’s Block Party, Welcome to the Party, I (Still) Have a Brain Injury & An Unforgiving Minute give great context on who I am and what we’re building.

I’m so glad you’re here!