The Taxi Driver
Never dim your light for others just because it is shining in their eyes!
I distinctly remember the January afternoon in 2008 when I moved into my Upper East Side Manhattan high-rise apartment. After hours of unpacking, night had fallen, and I was both physically and emotionally taxed. I plopped down on a stool by the window with a cup of tea and stared out into the darkness. The view was breathtaking. The moon’s silvery glow on the East River painted a vibrant backdrop for the headlights and taillights that meandered along the FDR. My heart was full, and I felt immense gratitude for this new chapter in my life. My new apartment was more than just a shiny new space; it was a serene retreat from the chaos that had brought me here.
However, as I began to adjust to my new environment, I was disheartened that my neighbors didn’t look like me. In the elevators, lounges, and gym, I felt the weight of that reality. Despite the friendly greetings, I caught glimpses of double takes, sidelong glances, and awkward smiles. In the laundry room, domestic workers assumed, based solely on my skin color, that I must be a maid. They would approach me with warm hellos, asking if I was new and who I worked for. When I explained that I worked for an international investment bank and lived there as a tenant, their shocked expressions and awkward profuse apologies were hollow. It was disappointing to see such assumptions made purely based on my skin color. Soon after, I met another Black tenant, an attorney, and we struck up an instant rapport, chatting like old friends. I cherished our encounters; they provided a sense of connection in the building. But one day, she shared that she was moving out, and before long, she was gone.
I absolutely loved my apartment. The amenities were outstanding, and I could easily walk to my office. The staff was very friendly, and the neighborhood was quiet, vibrant, and full of interesting spots. I had worked very hard to create this life for myself, and I had no intention of leaving.
A few months later, after watching an off-Broadway show, I hailed a yellow taxi in downtown Manhattan. As I shared my address with the driver, a white man, I noticed him studying me through the rearview mirror. He pulled into traffic but kept glancing back. It was becoming uncomfortable, and I was about to ask if there was an issue when he asked,
“Is that where you live?”
“Excuse me?” I replied, confused by the question.
“Is that where you live?” he repeated, smiling awkwardly.
“That’s an odd question. Why do you ask?” I retorted.
“Just making conversation.”
“Well, if you must know, yes, I live there,” I answered, trying to gauge his expression in the dim lighting.
“How do you live there?” he asked, staring straight ahead.
My face flushed with indignation. “What do you mean, how do I live there? How does anyone live anywhere?”
“But it’s such a nice neighborhood and …”
“And?” I interrupted, my frustration boiling over. I took a deep breath, biting my lip to suppress the urge to unleash a torrent of expletives. “I live there the same way anyone else does. I pay my rent!”
His implication was crystal clear: he was astonished that a black woman lived in a luxury building on the Upper East Side. His words stung. I contemplated asking him to stop and let me out, but why should I stand in the cold, dark street to wait for another taxi because he was a jerk?
We rode in stony silence.
When we arrived at my building, I stormed out of the cab, paid him, and left no tip. As I entered the lobby, I quickly thanked the doorman and rushed past him, my heels echoing on the marble floor.
Inside my apartment, I took deep breaths and tried to push the experience from my mind, but I just couldn’t. I climbed into bed and tried to sleep.
The next day, I was still seething but less so, and by the end of the day, I decided to stop stewing and move on with my evening. After all, he was likely somewhere driving his cab and being a jerk, certainly not thinking about me - so why should I allow him to take up space in my head?
Later that evening, I went to a show in midtown Manhattan. When I left the theater, I was met with a long winding line of folks waiting for yellow cabs. The cold air hit my face as I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and moved to the back of the line. After twenty minutes of inching forward, it was finally my turn and I climbed happily into a cab, and gave the driver my address.
He pulled into traffic, and I closed my eyes, listening to the hum of the car.
“I remember you,” he said. My eyes flung open. His voice, familiar.
I leaned forward to check the rearview mirror.
Eyes looked back at me in the dimly lit car.
Wait.
What?
No way.
Breathe girl. Breathe.
“And I remember you,” was all I could manage to say.
In a city with over 10,000 yellow cabs, what were the odds that I’d end up in the same cab with the same driver two nights in a row? A whirlwind of emotions coursed through me and I really wanted to throw something at the back of his head, but in that moment, I also realized that the universe was granting me a chance to release my anger and forgive. Not for him, but for me. I needed to use this serendipitous opportunity wisely. I doubted I would get a third chance.
We rode in silence, except for his attempts at small talk, which fell flat. While he didn’t directly apologize, there was a noticeable shift in his tone from the night before. An air of contrition lingered. When we arrived at my building, I paid him and even left a tip. As I stepped out of the cab, he wished me a good night.
“I wish you the same,” I replied, closed the door behind me, and strutted towards the doorman who was holding the door open for me. I entered the lobby with a pep in my step, feeling lighter, energized, and empowered. I turned back to see if he had pulled off. He hadn’t. He was watching me.
Our eyes met. He smiled and waved.
I nodded and headed for the elevator to my home.
It’s hard to believe that seventeen years have passed since that cold January day when I moved in, feeling like an outsider. I am still here. Still happy. Although I now see more faces that look like mine, we still have a very long way to go, and I’m here for the ride.
I often reflect on that encounter with the cab driver whose actions reminded me that my worth is inherent and that others’ opinion about me or where I belong, or do not belong, has nothing to do with me and everything to do with them.
Belonging transcends the simple act of fitting in; it is rooted in your inherent belief in your right to carve out your own space in this world and curate the life you want. It means doing so without conforming to the expectations of others or molding yourself to fit what is considered acceptable or normal.
So let us silence the voices of the taxi drivers in our lives who constantly try to put us in the mold they think we belong in. Whether those voices come from parents, spouses, friends, siblings, bosses, teachers, society, neighbors, etc., never ever dim your light for others just because it is shining in their eyes.
