Denied service for not saying my name.

Have you ever been denied a service for not having a name? Well it happened to me strangely. I arrived in US, two and half years ago. I knew nobody here. I was just a wanderer from city to city, looking for a hole in which I can find shelter. In-between my predicament, my hair and beard grew to the extremes. Mostly because I couldn't find a barber and once I did find one, it was expensive. A long the way, I made some friends who offered free haircuts in their homes and a human kindness gesture but these were whites, who hardly ever dealt with black hair yet it was almost impossible to turn away their much needed human love that I longed for in the first place. I found myself in Portland Oregon, where someone offered me a hand to start my troubled life is US without demanding back ground check ups that Americans are hysterically tagged on . He simply chose to trust me, all that mattered to him was that, I was a human being in need. Since that day, we are close buddies, like son and father. His wife, a very beautiful woman, offered to always help me wit haircut continuously I appreciated her generosity. When I started working, it was clear that I will look for professional barbers. For I needed one.

I moved street after street. No barbers for black hairs I could find even though,there was plenty of haircut shops. Finally, I landed on African American saloons. Barbers there were only interested in my money. I craved for a barber who can take me as a client but at the same time treat me like a brother. I couldn't find any. African American's hiked prices on me since they acknowledged that I am not from here. And offered the worst service to me. I knew that they hiked the prices because, earlier I checked out African immigrant saloons, who were charging 18 dollars yet African Americans were charging 25 dollars on addition to expecting a tip. I chose the African Americans, because deep inside me, I thought high price represented quality of what I wanted. I made an appointment, to have a hair cut in three days, as I left the saloon, the barber asked me "Brother where are you from" I am from Africa, I answered..." Now, listen brother, I only take cash. Come with cash" "okay?" I replied okay and left. Three days later, I was on this saloon, I was on time, the first client in the morning which I thought was a good thing, because I was to enjoy quality time and service without rushing him. I do admit that once I acknowledged how unfriendly my barber was, the whole environment changed,to rudeness. Nothing he said that made sense to me anymore.

I wanted to leave prematurely but I hated to lose my 25 dollars with a half cut head. It would have made me look like an insane man. I stayed for hair cut completion. I was burning inside me and raged. I left with a promise that I will find a place that meets my standards. One as I rode my bike, I spotted a hair school on MLK, I stopped by and asked if they can deal with me. They requested that I make an appointment. When I came in on the day of my appointment, the serious black man demanded that I consent on an agreement with a signature. I asked why? He explained that; knowing that it's a school, I should consent that if the haircut and beard trimming doesn't go to my liking, I shouldn't sue them. This was ridiculous. Why is everyone in US think that someone is harbouring a plan to sue them? What went wrong?

I thought this was just a haircut and a beard trimming, I knew it was a school but I didn't expect them to hand me to a new student, who would use my head as a try and error game. I thought they would give me someone who has gone through the basics hair and beard treatment. The demand to sign a document made me feel like an idiot. First, I hate the US courts that even if someone assaulted me, I won't sue or call the police. I wouldn't even fight back because I know how Justice will never be at my side no matter how innocent or right I am. That's even written on my note and gladly placed on my door, to read it every time I step out of my house, and I truly read that note five times a day!. This remind me to be careful outside because I have no way of getting justice if anything goes wrong. I once watered down the pressure and the promise of huge money when people wanted me to sue Buffalo wings--- when they denied me service on SW Morrison street town Portland. They asked me to present an ID and I presented a work permit, They openly denounced my work permit and demanded a passport. This work permit laid down everything about me including my photo and date of birth. Despite of that, when I said that it's against the law for a restaurant to reject my work permit and it's also against the law for a restaurant to demand the passport. They kicked me out. Several whites followed me and pressured me to protest and look for media cameras. The pressure lasted for a week including a lawyer who promised free representation. I watered them down because that's not my way of life. Yet, here I was, in a poor street side saloon, they want me to sign a consented agreement before they serve me before despite of being waited on appointment for a week. I silently cursed them and walked away.

The following week, I spotted another sign on NE Broadway advertising 5 dollars haircut. I said to myself, this is great. Let me check them out. They were smart and big, with so many students. They all looked professionals. I said to myself, I have found them. Not only were they prepared to offer service to me, there was no need to wait for a week, I could have a haircut on that very day. I placed my appointment at 6:00 pm and headed home. But as I pressed this appointment, they asked me my name and many other questions. Making this appointment was more like opening a bank account in US Bank. It was tedious. I have learnt that many Americans, regardless of their race, have problems picking my accent no matter how carefully I speak. Therefore, when people ask me my names, I usually prefer pulling out a note and write it down, and I also write the way it's pronounced. That way, people usually are able to read it and never forget it. On this day, the reception asked my details. I handed my ID that hard my names and photo. I thought that was enough. As she copied the names in the computer, she did exactly what I was expecting. She started asking me, "what's your name” In response, I said, you have my ID with a photo of me, read my name there and call me that. She stopped and looked direct in my face. "What's your name?" I thought that maybe she wants the pronunciation, so I provided it. Then she asked, "What’s your first name?" I asked her what does that mean. I had heard that question over and over and it irritates me now especially when someone is having my ID. I told her I don't know my first name. In Africa, we don't have this craziness of first name and all the prefixes that people in Western countries do value a lot. This is because we have clans, and each clan has specific set of names on which you can choose to name your offsprings. You hardly find Africans carrying their father's names, so as a matter of identification, that's one of the meaningless question to me and may be to all other Africans. I will specifically write about this sometime in future. Well, the receptionist finished her appointment questionnaire and I was ready to go, I will be back at agreed time later in the day and have my hair cut.

When my time came, I was ready in line and the person who was appointed to offer me a haircut picked me. The cut was okay though not perfect, it was better than my first haircuts in other locations thus I was happy. I paid and left, but as I left, the lady again asked “Remind me your name" I said, read it on my ID, that’s it. I continued coming to this location over and over. I was happy with their price, and the little care but every time,I came, I had to go through the same questions as if I was seeking a US visa to come to the US. Over the time, I was sure that they knew my names and stored it in their system,together with my phone number. And it was fine.

One day, I came to this very location to have the haircut. Again, the lady asked my name. I told her you have my name in your systems. She continued, “what’s your name?", I answered the same response. She asked for the third time, I told her that I have been coming to this location for a year and each time, you have asked me a name, since you cannot remember it, even though it's in your system, you can call me anything. She asked again, "Sir, what’s your name?". I answered that, I see no meaning in telling you my name anymore, call me anything. You can call me a frog, I am okay with that, I am not offended by anything you call me, besides I am not taking credit for this cut,in a way that you will need your books to show in records. She made the appointment in frustration and called a barber student who came for me.

As I sat on that chair, enjoying my cut from the student, whose name was Jesus, a giant white woman, came and asked “What’s your name?" I told her that, over the year I have mentioned my name, and it's in the data system now. She asked again "Sir, what's your name?" and this time I started losing it seriously, I responded that, call me anything. Call me a frog if you wish, I am okay with that. She already had her note to write on the name. Then she said “Sir, if you haven't got your hair started, you wouldn't have your hair done here" before she walked away in anger. A month later, I came back to have a haircut, when they asked my name, I told the lady that I have an idea. Use my phone number to retrieve my details which she did, I was surprised to observe that the receipt she printed out had "Abe" as my name. I didn't get angry. I said, this is okay if thats ‘what makes them happy and able to remember me.

A week past, I came back for a hair cut again. I came and made and appointment for the next day to be at 6:00pm, and happily reserved Jesus, for we have even developed friendship. She understood my head and the way I liked it. The next day I came. There were three white women on the reception. They checked in the data system to see my reservation. They then requested me to have a sit as my Jesus comes. I waited for 30 minutes. This was unusual; I noted that the Whites were murmuring themselves. One of them left the counter and went behind. She came back with a mean looking African American woman. The African America backed up like a little dog.

" Hello Sir, have you ever talked to the boss previously" The African American asked.

Which boss?, I asked “The owner of this school" she responded

Well I don't remember that, even though I did.

“Well, Jesus called in today and said that he is not coming, but also there's order here on record that you are not allowed to have service here again anymore. Please don't come back here". she sniffed.

I walked out of this place in humiliation. I felt sad for not taking Jesus's number because with this, I would have simply bought the haircut machine, and call Jesus to come to my home to offer me service. That's America for me and this is just an iceberg of what I go through daily. If you were in my steps, what would you have done?