The Lesson of the Pink Sneakers
The summit of Mont Jacques Cartier is nearly a mile above sea level and snow remains on the upper slopes until late summer. The ascent is available to anyone in reasonable condition, and worth every blister and every screaming muscle, affording a view of the St. Lawrence in the distance and, on occasion, some of the endangered caribou who live on the stony heights.
A few years back, sweaty and sore, but quite pleased with myself, I made my way back from the ascent toward the lodge near the mountain’s base. Not only was my every muscle sore, but I was in very dire need of the facilities at my destination. Urgently, I raced the last hundred metres, dashed through the entrance and sped into the loo.
A very lovely lavatory it was, too, with marble floors and gleaming fixtures. Very, very civilized. The sense of relief was total.
Until, that is, two small pink and rather girly sneakers appeared on the floor of the next cubicle.
“What the heck?”, I thought to myself, “what is she doing in here? Doesn’t she know she’s in the men’s toilet?”
And then the terrible reality began to sink in: “What am I doing in here?”
And so I sat in prudent silence until she had finished her business, then spirited myself like a wraith out of the ladies’ washroom. Fortunately, my embarrassment remained entirely private.
But it got me to thinking about perspective and prejudice. How much of our worldview is founded upon our very personal preconceptions and prejudices? How often are our proprietary positions based on shaky foundations?
The lesson for me, at least, is that before I get too excited about the incursion of others into my space and my privilege, I would do well to take a moment to be sure I’m in the right washroom!