by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop and enjoying a rare summer day of clear skies in Pacifica when a young woman with a sun-quenched tan strolled through the glass door.

“My manager came in,” the woman, dressed in a green cotton dress, groaned to her equally young friend, “and said, ‘You’re so dark, you look black.’ ”

I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help myself. From the tone of her voice, I knew she didn’t want to look African American, but perhaps her manager knew something I didn’t know. Perhaps she was racially mixed, like me. I pressed my glasses against the bridge of my nose and squinted hard.

“Oh my gosh!” gasped her friend, whose short shorts were etched with the word “Italia” across the rear.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. No she didn’t, I thought. No, she didn’t gasp in horror about being called black. I was incensed. Did they know what year it was? They lived in the Bay Area? Or, who was running for president?

I was sure the women would quickly say something about how silly they sounded. Instead, a tall blonde in his 50s said with a chuckle: “You’re going to get an afro.” The man continued stirring his cream and sugar into his coffee.

My ears grew hot. Did these two young women and man just make fun of being black? How many times had I heard people make fun about being black or looking black? How many times had I held back — too afraid to upset others, or worse, become the butt of their jokes?

“And what’s wrong with that?” I asked in a voice so loud and deep that even I was surprised by it.

I prepared myself for a response, either from the cream-stirring coffee man, or even the girls in their too-cool summer fashions. If he or they wanted to joke about being black, I wanted them to look me right in the eye and say it straight to my face.

But the man never turned around; the girls rushed out the glass door.

A few days later, while sitting in the same coffee shop, I came across a headline that reminded me of the girls in what I now call the “Oh my gosh” incident. The High Court in South Africa had ruled that Chinese South Africans could be classified as black people.

“It made the order so that ethnic Chinese can benefit from government policies aimed at ending white domination in the private sector,” according to a June 18 story from the BBC.

How ironic, I thought. Just a few days ago, I listened to three people in my seemingly progressive hometown gasp at the idea of being black. Yet across a vast ocean, in a country marked by racial strife and division, thousands of people were celebrating the news that they could be called black.

For a moment, I thought about tracking down the girls and guy from the coffee shop and telling them that not everyone gasps in horror at the idea of being black. But that moment passed; I went back to enjoying my latte and quiet morning in the sun.