The Name of Discrimination

I was raised in a completely Anglo-Saxon, majority Catholic city, where my name was as white as any other name. Exotic maybe. I have always liked my name, which means happiness in Spanish. I think it suits me well. As a natural impulse, I tend to be happy and try to make others happy. But since I moved the New York Area, I have come to realize that my name isn't just exotic, it is "black". Williams, is a very American last name. I'm told it was brought here by the British and in number, it is up there with Smith in popularity. But, it is also a commonly African American last name. In sports, there are a ton of African American players with the name Williams plastered across their backs. But the last name isn't the problem, when you combine my first name with my last, I am automatically assumed to be African American. I actually had a cashier at my favorite clothing store that shared the same name as me. Felicia M Williams. Happy, helpful, and "black". At the airport, the dark-skinned teller didn't believe my name was Felicia Williams and asked me for two forms of ID.

Yesterday, I went on an interview for an internship. I walked off of the subway to go to the brown house, that doubled as an office, on 135th Street. It was sunny and humid when I picked up the subway a half an hour ago and now I find myself walking into the hazy afternoon, in an unfamiliar place, lacking the comfort of sunlight. I am the only white person for miles. I can feel it. I see how every one is looking at me. I am dressed nice: jeans, dress shoes, a sports coat. So not only am I the only white person, but I am the only person dressed in more than comfortable day cloths, submitting to the Manhattan trends.

I have been in circumstances where I was the only Anglo person before. I have walked around Queens and parts of Brooklyn, where I was the minority. But, this time, I felt threatened. It occurred to me that the only reason why I was going on this interview could be because the entertainment company assumed that I was "black". What happens when I walk in, little miss whitey catholic in my shiny white leather pumps. People are always surprised when they met me after seeing me only on paper. But, normally, I am in the racial majority.

I don't know how I feel about what happened yesterday. I never went to the interview. After walking 5 blocks, I just wanted to not be there. I couldn't call them and be like, "I'm sorry I will not be able to attend my interview today on account of being stared at and harassed by a few men on the street". "I don't feel safe in this neighborhood." "I don't want to see the shock in your eyes when I walk in." So I just walked beck to the subway, back downtown, to the comfort of my East Village home.

Some one told me a few years back, that I should legally change my name for business reasons. They thought that my name was deceptive and that I might miss out on job opportunities based on assumption. Not just the assumption that I was black, but that I only got into NYU because of my heritage and not my hard work.

The worst part about this whole name stereotype is that I am one. This isn't a common occurrence. I don't know any one else who has ever been in this sort of situation, and I don't know what the logical or professional answer.