making assumptions (lyn)

Every Wednesday I stop by the Corner Café and Bakery and every Wednesday morning the same person helps me.  She’s an African-American woman, always cheerful and definitely has it together.  She appears too smart to be working in a bakery.  She knows before I ask to get me two slices of angel food cake (one with chocolate icing and one with lemon), a small coffee with exactly two tablespoons of half and half, and two farm muffins for Alexander.  Over the course of the last few months, we’ve developed a friendly relationship.  Even though our conversation is limited to five minutes or so once a week, she’s gotten to know me a little, and I her.  She knows, for example, that I go to the WW meeting around the corner.  She’s been watching me shrink.  She also knows I have a son who’s a junior.  And I know that she works out religiously, has thought about joining WW, and likes to cook.  She has a youthful demeanor and I figured her to be in her early 30’s.  The other day when I was there to buy my usual weekly items, she surprised me and asked how my son was doing.  So we started talking and to be polite, I asked if she had any kids (totally expecting a no response).  So I was taken aback when she told me she had three-ranging in age from 22 to 28.  Further, she was a grandmother, who had had her first child at age 16.  She’s 44.  In a million years I would not have assumed this about her.  And I wonder, too, if I’d known these facts, would I have made different assumptions about her.

And so I wonder what assumptions people will be making about me as I begin knocking on their doors at night, displaying my Census Bureau ID.  I know that shouldn’t concern me but it does.

This morning I meet Cody (our crew leader) and two other enumerators (that’s what we’re called) to do a practice run.  It’s ten am and already it’s about 70 and sunny.  People are casually walking around dressed for summer and ready for play.  Not me.  I am armed with official census forms.  We knock on doors.  We climb five flights of stairs.  We enter sketchy non-doormen apartment buildings.  We conduct interviews.  Everyone we meet with is nice and willing to answer our questions.  Cody evaluates us all.  He is very positive about our performances.  We all pass.  We’re done at noon.

I expect the job will be a lot better than the training.  But still.  I can’t believe I’m really doing this.  I’ve become the girl in the bakery (qualified for more but settling for less), minus the positive attitude.