Years ago, Mom heard of a restaurant she wanted to try, so we took a taxi after that day’s Jazz Fest. It was hot and humid in New Orleans, and we were wearing shorts and t-shirts, like the majority of concert-goers.
Disapproval radiated from the owner-chef. There was a dress code. We didn’t meet it. She seated us anyway.
Mom was all southern graciousness and apologies. She left a big tip. We were made to feel… grateful.
That wasn’t hospitality. Hospitality is when you make a guest feel honored and welcome. We felt like mangy dogs, barely tolerated.
Yes, the food was probably good, but so what? How did her behavior create a more peaceful world?
La Madre liked to feel special, part of the In Crowd. At another restaurant, on another coast, she was mightily pleased when the owner allowed us access after hours. He fawned over her as though she were a celebrity. Which I think she wanted to be. She wanted to be seen. Understandable.
Another restaurant, this time in Beverly Hills. We were dressed to the nines in a chi-chi place. “They’re trying to figure out who we are!” she whispered. “They think we’re rich!”
Who the hell cares what others think? Yeah, we turned heads. So what?
I pee in a bucket ever since a so-called expert broke Habibi’s toilet. So what? I’m the same person who stopped traffic. I’m the same person who spent the night in jail on a domestic violence charge. I’m the same person who buys food for strays. I’m the same person who was homeless.
It’s unacceptable to disrespect someone, even if you yourself have been disrespected repeatedly. Instead say, Sorry, there’s a dress code, come back another time.
Books:
Diary of a Reluctant Traveler: 15 months on the road from coast to coast to coast—solo
Sea Change: stories & splashes
Shoulds are for Saints: the true life adventures of Suzy Le Speed
Dance First …ask questions later: poems & paintings
words & art by shé 
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