Funny things, stereotypes. You have a few encounters with people and decide they typify everybody who shares their characteristics. So you make quick judgments about people you've never met. If the stereotypes get deep enough under your skin, and you meet people who don't match them, you decide that they must just be exceptions.
When Lynn and I travel by car, as we did recently on our two week trip to Wisconsin and back, we stop every couple of hours for gas, or a sandwich, or a restroom break. And there I'll be, unfolding Guido, my 3-wheeled walker, from the back of the car, struggling my way to the door of the gas station or rest stop or McDonald's (McDonald's being my default because the restroom is always in the same place and there's usually a handicapped parking place near the door nearest to it.)
People are generally lovely. I can manage most doors myself, but often there will be someone who'll notice and hold one open for me. And most consistently, that someone will be a young black man. It's so consistent, in fact, that as I'm making my way toward the building, if there's a black dude coming up behind me, or about to exit the place, I feel myself relax a bit, because I'm sure he'll get the door. Certainly, many of the other people who might be around are likely to help. But I don't count on them the way I've come to count on the black guys.
I have a theory about this. If you know that your skin color and your sex strike a visceral fear in a large segment of the population, and that because of that fear they see you as a threat, and that because of that threat you are a target and are vulnerable, you pay attention to everyone around you. You're exceptionally alert, because your life might depend on it. You got the talk from your Mom or your Dad or your grandmother or the uncle who took you under his wing. You don't make a big deal of it. Much of the time maybe you don't even think about it. It's not a conscious thing, it's just part of how you carry yourself. So you're going to notice the old white dude with the black hat and the scraggly white beard struggling his way toward the door. It takes less than half a second to see that you're probably safe from him and because you were raised right, of course you're going to wait and hold the door. Maybe you're even going to pick up your step to get past him to get to the door first. You probably won't make eye contact, you don't really think about it. It's just the right thing to do. When he looks at you and grins and says thank you, maybe you'll give him a quick nod.
I certainly don't mean to minimize the extraordinary kindness and helpfulness of so many people that we run into. My affliction offers me wondrous opportunities daily to marvel at the generosity of people. But the fact remains that for many people I'm invisible. They're not unkind or neglectful when they let the door swing back at me or when they push past me in a way that almost knocks me down. They'd be chagrined if they noticed. But they don't need to notice.
I'm never invisible to the black guys. I'm grateful for that. But I know it's because they can't afford the risk.