We're both on similar paths now -- two single women, enrolled in graduate school, both addled with a slight shopping addiction, and a desire to excel in our chosen professions. We still listen to Taylor Swift together and we each have a favorite album. At least twice a year, we get together for a girls' weekend, which is our deliberate attempt to step away from our studies, and pour into some much needed bonding. These weekends are pretty habitual in their scheduling. Lots of laughter. A little bit of liquor. And in the mornings, coffee and lemon pound cake.
On Saturday night, Brielle arrived around 8:00pm, her travelling closet bumping behind her. We debated whether we should wear leggings or leggy dresses. We sang along with Top 40 hits as we styled our hair, and we painted our lips with gossip and gloss.
Our night at The B.O.B was typical, filled with dancing and drinking, and giggling and greasy food. Just two twenty-something gals looking to blow off some steam. Just two of the thousands of drinkers and dreamers that congregate in bars all over the city on any Saturday night. Just one of the crowd.
Until we got to "Eve".
It's our favorite of all the bars at The B.O.B, and it's always the final stop of the night whenever we go out. As we sauntered together towards that dimly lit hallway, Brielle's arm linked through mine, and my cane sweeping across the floor in front of me, our excitement mounted. We had received a second wind, and at one in the morning, we were ready to dance until last call.
The bouncer at the entrance stepped out in front of us, both arms extended in a "Stop! Halt!" gesture. Even I could see his scared shitless facial expression. The whites of his eyes were intensified because of the black light above him. "I can't let you in there," he said as made us move to the side so that the other, normal, non-cane-wielding folks could pass. "Hold on now, what is this?" he asked.
Brielle and I looked at each other. She was the first to speak. "Wait. What?" she looked at him, genuinely confused. "I don't get it. Why aren't you letting us in the club?"
"That," he gestured to my cane. "Like, what is going on with that thing?"
Oh. My. Gosh. Seriously. This is really happening? Right now. So dumbfounded was I, that I couldn't speak. Thank God Brielle had the tenacity to respond. "What are you even..." she began, grappling for words that hung in the sweaty air. "It's her cane. She's visually impaired." Her tone implied the final word "dumbass", but my cousin is far too classy of a lady to say that stuff in public.
"Well, I didn't know. I thought it was like, a weapon, like you're gonna go hitting people --" the bouncer's tone became unusually defensive. Had it not been directed at me, I might have laughed at his absurdity.
His words, I could hear them, but in that moment, and even now, they seemed so far away. I felt myself slipping away, mentally. I just wanted to curl up inside myself. As I looked down at my cane, I mumbled something to the bouncer that felt like a dismissal of his ignorance. And maybe it was, but I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I don't even know what I said, but my legs were carrying me forward, my cane moving like a metronome to the beat of the unknown music down the hall.
Suddenly, Brielle's arm was around my shoulder, and she was asking if I was OK. I just kept saying things like, "Not now, not here. I'm fine. I'm really fine. Let's not do this. Can we just dance? Please. I need to get away from this place."
We finally reached the entrance to the dance floor.
"I never miss a beat.
I'm lightning on my feet.
And that's what they don't see-ee-ee.
Mmm. Mmmm. That's what they don't see-ee-ee.
I'm dancing on my own.
I make up the moves up as I go.
And that's what they don't know-oh-oh.
Mmm-Mmm.
That's what they don't know-oh-oh."
These familiar lyrics fell on our ears as we joined the throngs of dancers.
"Cassaundra!" Brielle squealed. "Do you HEAR what song this is, right now?!? Oh my gosh, this is PERFECT!"
"IT'S TAYLOR!!" I shouted this as if Ms. Swift and I were long-lost BFFs, as if she were walking across the room towards me at that very moment, singing her "Shake It Off" anthem just for me.
I folded up my cane, tucked it under my arm, and bounded with Brielle into the middle of the dance floor. Brielle held my hands and we sang the chorus together, belting out the lyrics as if our lives depended on it. Especially that "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate" part.
The middle portion of the song, in which T-Swizzle has her little rap, was beautifully performed by my cousin.
"Hey, hey, hey.
Just think - while you've been gettin' down and out
About the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world,
You coulda been gettin' down
To. This. Sick. Beat."
It was euphoric. I was laughing and tearing up all at the same time, so thankful for the blessings of beautiful music and my beautiful cousin. Both provided my words when I couldn't find them. The song ended, and Brielle declared that we must get one more drink to celebrate the serendipity of Swift.
We pushed our way to the front of the bar, where a Neil Patrick Harris look-alike with "hella good hair" (That's a "Shake It Off" lyric reference) asked the two of us what we wanted to drink, and then proceeded to pay for my Sex-On-The-Beach before wishing me a great night, and disappearing into the darkness.
Emboldened by my fruity drink, the kindness of attractive strangers, and the lyrics of everyone's favorite Cat Lady, I decided to confront the bouncer about his unkindness. "You should totally do it," Brielle yelled in my ear. "You're always such an advocate, Cassaundra, and he needs to know that he can't treat people like that. Plus, you're so good with your words."
Sometimes in life, you have to know which battles to fight. And maybe you shouldn't choose those battles at midnight. Or when you're tired. Or when you've had two cocktails. Or when your adversary is going to be a dick no matter what you say. But these are the things we learn in life.
I walked up to the bouncer. "I just need you to know what this is," -- I held up my folded cane. "just in case another visually impaired person walks through these doors. I just want you to know that you made me feel like a second-class citizen when you stopped me and questioned me. I know you didn't mean any malice. I just needed to talk to you about this. I need you to know how I feel."
"You were really rude about it," Brielle interjected and spoke to him.
"I was not," he cut in.
"Well, yeah, you kind of were," Brielle said again.
"I just need you to know how I feel," my broken record speech supplied these words again.
"Look, I thought we were done with all of this," his tone was angry. "If you feel like I was rude to you, that's YOUR feelings. I didn't stop you. I didn't say, 'Are you BLIND?' Would you have preferred if I had? Because I could have said that. I thought this was taken care of. And now you're back here, in other people's way, keeping me from doing my job. NOW who's causing the problem?"
Nothing was going to get through to this guy. And in that moment, I kind of hated myself for drinking that night. If I hadn't been drinking, I could have been more assertive. I could have asked for his name. I could have shown him that individuals with visual impairments are worthy of respect. But, because I was just another chick in a bar, and he was a dick on a power trip, nothing I said mattered.
It's time to surrender. Put up the white flag. Pick up your white cane. Go home.
I politely thanked him for hearing me out, just so I could escape the trainwreck of a conversation, and I grabbed Brielle's arm. We made our way to the crowded elevator, and down out into the summer night. Brielle grabbed my phone, and ordered the Uber. We waited together, and I began to cry. My cheap mascara was running all over my face, like something out of parody.
From the viewpoint of the partying passerby on the street, ours was a scene that might look like hundreds of others this close to last call. In this setting, my tears were not linked to my cane.To those strangers on the street, I was just a bewildered twenty-something weeping openly while her friend calls a cab, and comforts in soothing tones. Perhaps she's bemoaning a lost job, they might think. Or lamenting love gone wrong. There was an odd sense of peace in that perception of broken normalcy.
"I don't know what to say," Brielle said as we looked out on the city before us. "I've never seen you have to handle this before."
"That's Okay," I sniffled.
There was a moment of silence between us, and then Brielle said, "Do you think God gave you this for a reason? Like, He chose you, specifically, to deal with all of this?"
"I know that He is good," I answered. "so, yeah, maybe in a way, He chose me. But we all have our stuff, you know? Mine doesn't make me any more special."
Brielle nodded. "I now it sucks, but that guy, for better or worse, is going to remember this night. And I know it hurts now, but you may have made a difference for the next person. I really, truly believe that, Cassaundra. But please, don't let him get to you. Think of all the good peole in this world."
I bit my lip in determination. We waited a few more minutes in silence, my tears still falling. Suddenly,someone nudged my shoulder. I turned to see a kind man's face.
"Wipe that mascara off your face, girl," the Stranger said. "It's all going to be alright. You'll see."
And he ducked into the bar before my "Thank you" could properly reach his ears.
Moments of miracle. Taylor Swift. My cousin. Neil Patrick Harris' twin. That kind stranger. All of these little seeds of blessing, blooming before me amidst the weeds of ignorance and cruelty. And it is these moments that keep me moving forward, that keep my steps even and steady in the pursuit of love and kindness and acceptance.
These miracles are the music of life. And I am going to keep dancing to This. Sick. Beat.
Our night at The B.O.B was typical, filled with dancing and drinking, and giggling and greasy food. Just two twenty-something gals looking to blow off some steam. Just two of the thousands of drinkers and dreamers that congregate in bars all over the city on any Saturday night. Just one of the crowd.
Until we got to "Eve".
It's our favorite of all the bars at The B.O.B, and it's always the final stop of the night whenever we go out. As we sauntered together towards that dimly lit hallway, Brielle's arm linked through mine, and my cane sweeping across the floor in front of me, our excitement mounted. We had received a second wind, and at one in the morning, we were ready to dance until last call.
The bouncer at the entrance stepped out in front of us, both arms extended in a "Stop! Halt!" gesture. Even I could see his scared shitless facial expression. The whites of his eyes were intensified because of the black light above him. "I can't let you in there," he said as made us move to the side so that the other, normal, non-cane-wielding folks could pass. "Hold on now, what is this?" he asked.
Brielle and I looked at each other. She was the first to speak. "Wait. What?" she looked at him, genuinely confused. "I don't get it. Why aren't you letting us in the club?"
"That," he gestured to my cane. "Like, what is going on with that thing?"
Oh. My. Gosh. Seriously. This is really happening? Right now. So dumbfounded was I, that I couldn't speak. Thank God Brielle had the tenacity to respond. "What are you even..." she began, grappling for words that hung in the sweaty air. "It's her cane. She's visually impaired." Her tone implied the final word "dumbass", but my cousin is far too classy of a lady to say that stuff in public.
"Well, I didn't know. I thought it was like, a weapon, like you're gonna go hitting people --" the bouncer's tone became unusually defensive. Had it not been directed at me, I might have laughed at his absurdity.
His words, I could hear them, but in that moment, and even now, they seemed so far away. I felt myself slipping away, mentally. I just wanted to curl up inside myself. As I looked down at my cane, I mumbled something to the bouncer that felt like a dismissal of his ignorance. And maybe it was, but I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I don't even know what I said, but my legs were carrying me forward, my cane moving like a metronome to the beat of the unknown music down the hall.
Suddenly, Brielle's arm was around my shoulder, and she was asking if I was OK. I just kept saying things like, "Not now, not here. I'm fine. I'm really fine. Let's not do this. Can we just dance? Please. I need to get away from this place."
We finally reached the entrance to the dance floor.
"I never miss a beat.
I'm lightning on my feet.
And that's what they don't see-ee-ee.
Mmm. Mmmm. That's what they don't see-ee-ee.
I'm dancing on my own.
I make up the moves up as I go.
And that's what they don't know-oh-oh.
Mmm-Mmm.
That's what they don't know-oh-oh."
These familiar lyrics fell on our ears as we joined the throngs of dancers.
"Cassaundra!" Brielle squealed. "Do you HEAR what song this is, right now?!? Oh my gosh, this is PERFECT!"
"IT'S TAYLOR!!" I shouted this as if Ms. Swift and I were long-lost BFFs, as if she were walking across the room towards me at that very moment, singing her "Shake It Off" anthem just for me.
I folded up my cane, tucked it under my arm, and bounded with Brielle into the middle of the dance floor. Brielle held my hands and we sang the chorus together, belting out the lyrics as if our lives depended on it. Especially that "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate" part.
The middle portion of the song, in which T-Swizzle has her little rap, was beautifully performed by my cousin.
"Hey, hey, hey.
Just think - while you've been gettin' down and out
About the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world,
You coulda been gettin' down
To. This. Sick. Beat."
It was euphoric. I was laughing and tearing up all at the same time, so thankful for the blessings of beautiful music and my beautiful cousin. Both provided my words when I couldn't find them. The song ended, and Brielle declared that we must get one more drink to celebrate the serendipity of Swift.
We pushed our way to the front of the bar, where a Neil Patrick Harris look-alike with "hella good hair" (That's a "Shake It Off" lyric reference) asked the two of us what we wanted to drink, and then proceeded to pay for my Sex-On-The-Beach before wishing me a great night, and disappearing into the darkness.
Emboldened by my fruity drink, the kindness of attractive strangers, and the lyrics of everyone's favorite Cat Lady, I decided to confront the bouncer about his unkindness. "You should totally do it," Brielle yelled in my ear. "You're always such an advocate, Cassaundra, and he needs to know that he can't treat people like that. Plus, you're so good with your words."
Sometimes in life, you have to know which battles to fight. And maybe you shouldn't choose those battles at midnight. Or when you're tired. Or when you've had two cocktails. Or when your adversary is going to be a dick no matter what you say. But these are the things we learn in life.
I walked up to the bouncer. "I just need you to know what this is," -- I held up my folded cane. "just in case another visually impaired person walks through these doors. I just want you to know that you made me feel like a second-class citizen when you stopped me and questioned me. I know you didn't mean any malice. I just needed to talk to you about this. I need you to know how I feel."
"You were really rude about it," Brielle interjected and spoke to him.
"I was not," he cut in.
"Well, yeah, you kind of were," Brielle said again.
"I just need you to know how I feel," my broken record speech supplied these words again.
"Look, I thought we were done with all of this," his tone was angry. "If you feel like I was rude to you, that's YOUR feelings. I didn't stop you. I didn't say, 'Are you BLIND?' Would you have preferred if I had? Because I could have said that. I thought this was taken care of. And now you're back here, in other people's way, keeping me from doing my job. NOW who's causing the problem?"
Nothing was going to get through to this guy. And in that moment, I kind of hated myself for drinking that night. If I hadn't been drinking, I could have been more assertive. I could have asked for his name. I could have shown him that individuals with visual impairments are worthy of respect. But, because I was just another chick in a bar, and he was a dick on a power trip, nothing I said mattered.
It's time to surrender. Put up the white flag. Pick up your white cane. Go home.
I politely thanked him for hearing me out, just so I could escape the trainwreck of a conversation, and I grabbed Brielle's arm. We made our way to the crowded elevator, and down out into the summer night. Brielle grabbed my phone, and ordered the Uber. We waited together, and I began to cry. My cheap mascara was running all over my face, like something out of parody.
From the viewpoint of the partying passerby on the street, ours was a scene that might look like hundreds of others this close to last call. In this setting, my tears were not linked to my cane.To those strangers on the street, I was just a bewildered twenty-something weeping openly while her friend calls a cab, and comforts in soothing tones. Perhaps she's bemoaning a lost job, they might think. Or lamenting love gone wrong. There was an odd sense of peace in that perception of broken normalcy.
"I don't know what to say," Brielle said as we looked out on the city before us. "I've never seen you have to handle this before."
"That's Okay," I sniffled.
There was a moment of silence between us, and then Brielle said, "Do you think God gave you this for a reason? Like, He chose you, specifically, to deal with all of this?"
"I know that He is good," I answered. "so, yeah, maybe in a way, He chose me. But we all have our stuff, you know? Mine doesn't make me any more special."
Brielle nodded. "I now it sucks, but that guy, for better or worse, is going to remember this night. And I know it hurts now, but you may have made a difference for the next person. I really, truly believe that, Cassaundra. But please, don't let him get to you. Think of all the good peole in this world."
I bit my lip in determination. We waited a few more minutes in silence, my tears still falling. Suddenly,someone nudged my shoulder. I turned to see a kind man's face.
"Wipe that mascara off your face, girl," the Stranger said. "It's all going to be alright. You'll see."
And he ducked into the bar before my "Thank you" could properly reach his ears.
Moments of miracle. Taylor Swift. My cousin. Neil Patrick Harris' twin. That kind stranger. All of these little seeds of blessing, blooming before me amidst the weeds of ignorance and cruelty. And it is these moments that keep me moving forward, that keep my steps even and steady in the pursuit of love and kindness and acceptance.
These miracles are the music of life. And I am going to keep dancing to This. Sick. Beat.
Fight the power, Cassandra. This shouldn't happen to you, me, or anyone. This is Chris, the director of DisArt. Let me know if I can help.
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