Since I came to Germany when I was about six years old, I’m used to being stared at in some way as soon as I enter the room. Not in my safe spaces like with my parents, at home or with some friends, but whether I take the train to work, buy yellow sausage from the butcher or am in the waiting room at the orthopedic surgeon: people stare at me. Before the comment column bursts at the seams: you, dear readers, will certainly be looked at as a white person in Sudan, for example, and children will perhaps even walk around you. But as a rule, people look away again after a short time. There’s a fundamental difference between looking and staring.
I don’t think I’m particularly unusual: I’m not noticeably fat or thin, tall or short, loud or quiet. I am simply myself. I am a black woman with an afro. But unfortunately it’s not that easy – and especially not when I visit a place in our hometown of Kassel with “all my children”.
It’s our 15th wedding anniversary and we wanted to celebrate it at the Italian restaurant around the corner. We, that includes my white husband, me black wife and our three black children. “Enzos” is not far from our apartment near the center of Kassel in a beautiful district with many buildings from the Wilhelminian period. It’s rather expensive, but sometimes we treat ourselves to it. We associate special memories with the restaurant.
This is where I said “yes” to my husband, this is where we celebrated my mother’s 70th, and this is where we love the tiramisu. Enzo greets us like family. While my husband casually engages in small talk with Enzo, I feel the two older ladies looking at one o’clock. First they stare at me and then they look from one child to the other. It’s not the curious, brief look at who else is coming into the restaurant. It’s an unabashed, penetrating, and never-ending stare. They put down their cutlery, take their cloth napkins from their laps, wipe the corners of their mouths and their eyes remain fixed on us. I shake my head slightly as if I can shake off the looks. “Popcorn, ladies?” it crosses my mind. At ten o’clock a similar Starr scenario, a group of four looks up briefly, takes a bite and looks back at me and the kids. I keep the gentleman in the saffron-colored T-shirt looking at eleven o’clock, indicate a smile and nod briefly. He realizes that he has probably been looking at me for too long and hastily continues to eat. “Phew. One down”, I think and hold my arm out to my eldest son so that he can give me his sweater. We sit down and the food must be cold by one o’clock. The two are still frozen and staring at us. “Honestly now?” I think, remembering that we’re here to celebrate. Bastian gives me a questioning look and I answer: “We have fans. At eleven o’clock and at one o’clock.” He nods and turns demonstratively to the two tables. Portions of the 11am group really don’t want to miss a thing and are curled up with their backs to their food to get a better view of us all. Basti manages to turn them towards each other and above all: away from us. The lady with the long pearl necklace at one o’clock smiles at Basti. She looks different, nods and finally starts eating again.
It’s always the same. Usually the staring stops abruptly when my white male comes into play. Those looks give off the vibe that we’re an interesting species that has invaded the safe space of the ladies and foursome uninvited and is now a place to be examined. Reality Check: We are people who go to a restaurant, go to work, buy sausage. No longer. Not less. I wonder what happened to these people’s upbringing. decency? Simple rule: we don’t stare at people. Doesn’t seem to apply to black people. During the appetizer, eleven o’clock and one o’clock resume observation. I poke around in my food sullenly. Malik points to the staring ladies with his fork: “Mom, we have new fans. Two old women!” Ever since our children asked us on a holiday in France why people are looking like that, I’ve explained to them that I couldn’t really say. But I just assume it’s our fans. As long and as closely as these people look at us, they must be fans.
Enzo refills the wine, congratulates us and asks what we would like. “Amore, don’t you have a screen for us? I would love to celebrate with my husband and children, but these gentlemen don’t give us any privacy,” I ask loudly, only half joking, pointing to eleven o’clock and one o’clock. Enzo laughs: “Naturalmente!” Less than a minute later, two of his employees set up a screen around us, which is actually around the cloakroom. Enzo is married to a woman from Cameroon.
