On the spot, I rapidly search my memory. Who is this? Where do I know her from? How rude am I to draw a complete blank on who this is when she clearly knows me. Her excitement, her thrill at seeing me again, filled the room. Everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to match, or reflect, her excitement for me, with my excitement for her.

The tension was broken when the next person in line spoke up. She’s addressing me directly? About my order? Once again, I frantically search my thoughts, good god am I losing my mind? Am I so arrogant that I can’t remember these people who think so much of me, who I ordered something from, obviously having spent time, energy and a healthy amount of money on this order, I must know them, right?

“How can I help you?” he asks. My thoughts break away and I turn towards the voice. He is actively approaching me with pen and paper in hand, ready to jot down a note, an invoice number, a reminder for himself. Finally a question I can answer. I’m holding the paper gift certificate proudly. I asked for, and my darling husband responded with, a gift certificate for painting classes. I haven’t found a lot of local art classes that would entertain using oils, which is what I learned to paint with back when I was 8 years old. This frame store hosts art classes and the instructor is experienced enough with oil paint to include them in her classes. For good or for bad, they didn’t take my husband’s information when he bought the gift certificate so I wasn’t getting any information on scheduled art classes. Today I finally walked into the store to inquire. It the was the first time I had been in the store in over two years. I had just finished getting my black Asian hair highlighted for the first time, to a dark brown caramel color. It was beautiful and I loved it, even if it was still so subtle that hardly anyone else could detect the difference. The salon was 2 blocks in the other direction and I had parked in the town lot between the two locations. I was feeling good, and it was convenient.

“My husband bought me this gift certificate for oil painting classes. I was wondering when the next classes begin,” I replied.

A hush fell over the room as if the air had been vacuumed out of the small space. The warm friendly feelings that swirled and filled the room only moments ago, was replaced with tension. Awkwardness, discomfort and embarrassment filled the silence.

They, everyone in the room, had mistaken me for someone else. Very clearly for someone else.

It’s happened before, me being mistaken for someone else. I’ve even mistaken someone for someone else. I’ve learned to quickly apologize, clarify how we know each other, hopefully make a comfortable connection and assure them that I am present and connected again, and then continue on with the conversation.

No one said a word. No one made eye contact. As I continued briefly chatting with this gentleman who was helping me, I glanced around at a sea of shoulder blades, the backs of heads, their brown and blonde hair in various states of style.

Their silence, their embarrassment and their non-response, I get it. But am I not human enough to say something, to acknowledge and laugh about it then move on? This moment makes me question: how did I offend? How is their embarrassment so paralyzing that all of them, and I mean a group of 5 adults, believe that if they act as if what they just did didn’t happen, then it didn’t? That I’d forget? That I’d believe that what just happened, didn’t? Were they hoping it didn’t just happen?

It made me feel like I don’t belong. It made me feel like I literally blend with the only other Asian female in my town. When they realized I wasn’t whomever they thought I was, their silence made me feel like I didn’t exist. It made me feel like I am less than and don’t deserve to be treated with human respect.

After the now awkward exchange with the gentleman had finished, with him taking my email down in his notepad, promising to send emails out announcing their next art session, I left a room full of people making hushed conversation. There was no polite, “Thank you for coming in!”, there was no, “So good to see you again!” (as if we still knew each other), there were just eyes that surreptitiously followed me indicating as I walked through the store door and out onto the sidewalk, that they could breathe and talk freely again as the door closed behind me.

I walked to my car, got in and closed the car door behind me, creating a cocoon that was familiar and mine. I was numb. Not angry, not embarrassed, not confused. I felt small. I felt unimportant. I felt like ‘an other’.

A full year later, I have yet to receive any emails about art classes.