parking ticket

Diary of a Mad White Black Woman – Cops Like Donuts, Not Oreos

Dear Diary,

I thought I was making more progress. But a slap on the wrist in front of the majority showed me how much work I still need to do and how I can never let my guard down for a second.

I had stopped off in West Hollywood to pick up some work from a client. I only left my car on the curb for a second and when I came back, a man with a badge and fancy flashing lights on his car was about to write me a ticket.

Thinking this could surely be cleared up sans city fine, I dusted off my pencil skirt, clicked my boot heels together and approached the nice man.

But as I pleaded my case, there was no sympathy in his eyes, no understanding, no pause to his pen and he kept writing. Then suddenly, a flash of recognition. He looked past me, nodded and put the ticket away.

What was behind me? My white client.

“Can we let this go,” Client said to the officer. “She didn’t know.”knight_m

Though I was relieved for my alabaster shield, my blanched bastion, my white knight, I was embarrassed and disappointed that I still needed one and that I’m still making newbie mistakes like this.

The ticket was for not angling my wheels at the curb. That’s what I didn’t know to do. Inexcusable.

I should have been ready for that. Parking on steep windy hills is part of privileged culture. I must remember these details if I am going to pass. It’s right up there with sending hand-written thank you cards and smiling through gritted teeth.

So it’s back to the books and away from the hills until I can conduct myself accordingly.