Welcome to America. Now Show Me Some Papers

The bank's new building is slick and modern, at once open and strangely cavelike. I stepped under the lowered ceiling sheltering the counter, where the tellers sat in front of the soft blue glow of an LED illuminated backdrop. It looked eerily futuristic, and I halfway expected them to be dressed in the uniforms of the Starship Enterprise. Or to ask for my boarding pass and how many carry-ons I had with me.

I waited my turn, taking in the spacey modern decor, reflecting that no matter how progressive the surroundings become, the people still look pretty much the same, coming in with the same nondescript fashions, hairstyles, and often outdated and rigid ways of looking at the world.

As if in answer to my ruminations, I began eavesdropping on the customer just to the left of me. The teller was a lovely young woman, dark and beautiful, probably of Indian descent. The man wore the uniform of middle America--pleated khaki pants and a striped, somewhat rumpled button-down. He had that heavy-browed, dull look through the eyes so coveted by Hollywood producers looking to portray a certain Southern stereotype, but judging by his dress seemed to have evolved a bit beyond that unfortunate image. A bit.

"Whur you from?" he asked, in not a particularly friendly way. The girl, avoiding much eye contact, went about her business, making his deposit or whatever it was that he had plopped up on the counter with no discernible instructions or greeting, and mumbled something about whatever her heritage was. "You like Amurica?" he persisted, in a tone which to him might have seemed casual but at least to my ears came across as mildly confrontational. She responded with something about having been born here, and having lived in several of the United States as well as London and at least one other international location. Answering him, as she had from her first words to this man, in an obviously native English speaker's accent. Finally, apparently satisfied that this fellow U.S. born citizen passed his approval to remain in this country, he left.

I listened intently to this exchange, mortified for the girl. Here she was, just trying to do her job and be friendly, having to endure being interrogated by this hayseed cretin who, in addition to being incapable of using basic English grammar, apparently assumes that everyone of non-white descent just stepped off a plane or boat and furthermore, must give account to all the "real" Americans like himself. I couldn't help making the assumption myself that he was no doubt a faithful church member, and probably a Baptist. Unfair, but his behavior did not leave me feeling charitable.

Had the bank not been so busy, I might have gone over and apologized to the girl, said something to assure her that not every small-town Southerner gets ticked off and threatened every time they encounter someone different from themselves, that we're not all stuck in 1934 in our thinking. But the next customer stepped up, as did I. I left the bank pondering how nice it would be if we could remodel people's attitudes as easily as we can a bank building.