I received two $2 bills in the mail from the Census Bureau. The note enclosed read: “Just a small token of our appreciation.” At first glance I thought it was a scam, but my good friend was visiting for a “girls day “ and she informed me that the $2 bill, though rare, was real and was a token of good luck. I gave her one and took the other crisp and novel bill outside with me as we both sat down to share our vegan dishes and spill some “tea” by the pool.

I toyed with the bill as I ranted on about how the Census misrepresented Black people as property for years, and that it was just a bunch of nosy government WASPs (white, Anglo-Saxon, protestant {males}) trying to trace who is in their country, even though no one really belongs. My pro Black, pro people, anti-government tracking my every move talk, must have released an energy into the air, because there came the WASP-iest of WASP ever buzzing around like a yellow jacket attacking your favorite popsicle.

He came to steal the sweetness right out of our nice summer day. Wearing his khaki cargo, "I pretend I hike" pants high over his belly button and his matching hat tightly secured under his chin, he inserted himself in our space, disregarding the key word OUR and making it his. His dog's collar (the metal inhumane choker kind) twinkled in the sunlight as the dog gingerly approached our table to try and eat the edamame shells that had fallen on the ground.

So there he stood, blocking the sun as he hovered over us with his unleashed dog (we love dogs but he couldn’t have known that), blowing puffs of smoke out like an old western movie. He then says, without the cordial hello or "how are you" introduction: “You two aren’t from around here are you?” Feeling lighter than most days I answered, “No we aren’t Georgia natives but I do live in this community.” He took another drag of his electric pipe and then proceeded to say “What’s in there, weed?” gesturing to our hookah. He continues to ask about the price of such an instrument and adds how he likes living around here because “you people are so interesting…”

Let’s take a moment to pause here. My friend and I are women of color, millennials and present as Afrocentric. And although not physically detectable by those who practice labeling by looks, we are queer. Based on all of these characteristics, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he meant "You people" as in hip youngsters, BUT yet and still, how could he ever think using "You people" to fit the conversation when communicating with Black females? It rings the alarm for social / gender / racial bias and for his cultural insensitivity, as he categorizes us as YOU PEOPLE and himself as something different when we all are humanoids.

However, for some reason that only the universe knows (maybe the purpose was for me to write about it) I engaged him further, more so out of curiosity and my desire to not play the “race card” without further investigation. AND then to our surprise, our diet not our hue became the conflict between us three. Taking notice of our vegan spread of delectable dishes, he asked the question, “Are you vegetarian?” while squinting his eyes as if it hurt him to say the word. “Yes” we respond. “Why?” he says, and my friend a vet tech, takes the lead and explains to him that it is her personal decision, because she, a lover of animals cannot rationalize eating them. I join in, stating that it makes me feel better physically and emotionally to know that I am not over consuming meats (I, unlike her, eat meat sparingly and rarely) nor perpetuating the worlds over manipulation of farms and exploitation of animals.

Our reply stiffened his already rigid body, and turning red, he stammered out a rebuttal like someone who is thrown off by the opposing team’s defense. He unleashes the raft of anti – veggie rhetoric, proclaiming that “Vegetarians are cult like, promoting anarchy, and just because it feels good to us not to eat meat it doesn’t make it right to ignore our human instinct and God given right to eat flesh.”

“Sir, no one at this table is saying what is right and wrong. We are answering for ourselves when we explain our decision. For example, don’t you love your dog?” we ask in an attempt to help him better understand our position. “Yes I do, but this dog is my property by law. I can do with him what I please; I cut his tumor off with my bare hands. He is just a dog.” Angered now by the poor treatment of an innocent life, I reminded him that “all laws aren’t meant to be followed without moral reprieve. It is not OK if you are not trained to subjugate your dog to at-home surgery. Even though the law says it’s your property to do with it as you please, moral values must come into play when making a decision, especially on something as delicate as life. So morally I choose not to consume animals nor operate on them when they need real medical attention.”

Now packing up our stuff to indicate the ending of our conversation because it was apparent that we could not have a democratic debate, we bid him farewell, but he having to have the last word barked, “Laws are in place to keep people in their place, in their respective classes!” I clinched the $2 bill thinking of the same law abiding ideas echoed back during slavery, when all we were allowed to consume were the scraps of pigs and the choice to eat a healthy, balanced and morally digestive meal was out of the question. Eating what was thrown away and working for free while profit was made on the demoralization of our Black bodies. I couldn’t help but feel the whip lash of the crisp, novel $2 bill I held in my hand.

GOOD BYE! I waved him off, all the while haunted by the irony of this $2 bill and wondering what luck it had brought.