No matter where I go, if I fly, I wear Chicago paraphernalia. You see, my very first flight was a rough one, and someone told me to wear something that makes me comfortable instead of a suit, which I was wearing at the time. I remember another flight where we were experiencing what I can only describe as midair mayhem. This little girl sitting next to me grabbed my hand and said, “Mister, don’t worry. This happens when the plane is flying. They’re like invisible speed bumps.”
Don’t you know this little heifer (“heffa,” if you’re from my side of the tracks) had the audacity to fall asleep, as if she paid extra for turbulence?
Subsequent flights were smooth sailing, and I happened to be wearing my Chicago Bears jersey (on one of the flights, someone even asked me if I had played for the Bears – funny what extra weight can do for you through the years). Over time, it became a ritual. Perhaps even a superstition, although I would openly claim not to believe in them. I’m not a fan of flying, so somewhere along the way, Bears gear became my armor. I wore it proudly, everywhere.
I even wore my Bears jersey while speaking on stage at the Champions of Safety Conference in 1998. My outfit had gotten damaged while I was preparing for the forum, and I didn’t want to wear the same suit I had worn the night before at the presentation ceremony. So I leaned into it and changed my intro to match the jersey, making it look as though it had been planned all along.
I talked about how safety is a lot like an offensive line: as long as they protect the quarterback, no one even notices or cares that they exist. But the one time the QB gets sacked, John Madden is on the screen circling exactly where the breakdown in protection happened.
My mother had a fit about me being on stage dressed like I “ain’t got no sense,” but it worked.
Anyway, I’m sure you can understand why it’s all about the Chi-town ‘nalia when I’m on the road.
Safety Management Institute
Boston, Massachusetts. Circa 1998.
At the time, I was working in the environmental health and safety field and attending the third and final week of a three-part Safety Management Institute series, put on by Liberty Mutual. The first session had taken place in Atlanta back in 1996 — and if you’ve been following my blog, you know that story. The second followed in San Antonio in 1997. This last one brought us to Boston.
The Night Out
This particular evening of the first or second day of the conference, as with most trips, our hangout group consisted of four people. We sat next to each other during the first day(s) and had hit it off fairly well. I was the only African American in the group, which was nothing new. The other three were white men, all over forty. I had just turned thirty — well, actually I’d been thirty for a year — and that was usually the way it went. I was almost always the youngest safety professional in the room and almost always the only person of color.
It never really bothered me. Safety wasn’t exactly a Black, male-dominated field, nor is it to this day. If anything, I took pride in it. I’d been told more than once that just being present was inspiring others to consider the profession.
That night, we decided to grab something to eat in a sports bar. Being in Boston, I suggested we go try some New England Clam chowder. You know, when in Rome, do as the Romans. I convinced my traveling partners to do the same. I told them about the SMI II, where my buddies decided to go to Taco Bell because they were “sure about what they were eating.” Really dudes? Really? You want Mexican food in San Antonio, Texas? And you go to Taco Bell?
I hadn’t given much thought to what I was wearing until the moment we walked in.
Enemy Territory
The reaction was immediate. It felt like a scene straight out of 48 Hours — Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte stepping into the honky-tonk bar.
I swear the fish stopped swimming in the tank. Every head turned. And more specifically, they were looking at me.
But unlike Eddie’s “Black elephant in the room,” believe it or not, my ink spot appearance was something far more dangerous.
I was wearing a red Chicago Blackhawks hockey jersey and a black Blackhawks cap.
That’s when it hit me: We had just walked into a Boston bar, with Celtics, Red Sox and Bruins fans.
Not my wisest decision. But it’s a free country. You wear what you want to wear. Right?
(crickets)
Not long after we sat down, I got up to use the restroom.
Mad Boys, Mad Boys. What’cha Gonna Do?
I exited into the dining area and, despite the stares, walked comfortably and calmly to the men’s room. When I exited, three men were standing there in the hallway entrance, blocking my path. One of them was wearing a Bruins jersey. All of them were my size or bigger. None of them looked remotely friendly, or the least be approving of my attire.
The guy in front stared at me and said, flatly, “I don’t like your shirt.”
Now, if you know me, you know I’ve got something to say about just about anything. Quick wit. No hesitation. No prisoners.
So I fired back instantly.
“Well, I don’t like your face. But I can always take my shirt off.”
That’s when the bartender stepped in. He pointed directly at me and yelled, “You! Get out of my restaurant!”
I looked at him, genuinely surprised. “What do you mean? Me?”
“You and your friends,” he snapped. “Get out. Now!”
We gathered our things and walked out, the entire bar watching as we stepped onto the street. I half-expected the three goons would follow us outside, but no one did. Still, it was obvious my colleagues were shaken.
As we walked on to find another place, one of them said, “Ken… that bartender really had a problem with you being a Chicago Blackhawks fan.”
Before I could respond, another guy said, “No. He probably saved your life.”
I laughed at the time. But I’ve thought about it often over the years. And as you know, age brings perspective.
Maybe it was a little of both.
Because if it were my bar and a group of Green Bay Packers fans walked in? I’d probably kick them out too. One, because of my deep and abiding hatred for the Packers. And two, because I might very well be saving someone’s life.
That’s just how things go when you’re a die-hard fan.
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