Exercising My Right to Pee
By Chele.
October 6, 2010
We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men (ahem and women…) are created equal and that we are endowed by our creator with certain inalienable rights, life liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Well, apparently the security guard at a local eatery in Washington DC disagrees with that statement, because last weekend, he restricted my God-given, constitutionally protected right to pee. Yes, you read that correctly. This glorified bathroom bouncer said out right that I, a full grown adult and professional, was not allowed to pee even if I was a paying customer.
The exchange began soon after I entered the McDonalds on 18th Street NW in DC, in the neighborhood known as Adams Morgan. I was staying nearby with close friends as another friend was getting married that weekend. After a full night of celebration at the rehearsal dinner, my Lilliputian bladder could not wait the remaining 10 blocks to the apartment before I succumbed to kidney failure.
I am not kidding. My Kidneys were locked in mortal combat with each other and sooner rather than later they were going to rebel and my insides would be shattered like an IED had exploded.
Having had the good fortune to travel through Europe, I am an advocate of contributing to a restaurants business in order to use their facilities. I will buy food and or drinks or pay the requested fee. Hey, it’s not a public washroom and I see the necessity of charging to maintain them.
So, I enter the McDonalds along with my boyfriend going over the the events of the night en español, since…duh… it’s our native language. We made our way to the register to purchase whatever value meal my novio wanted, thus clearing the proverbial path to offer my kidney’s some much needed liberation from the tyranny of my smaller than normal bladder.
Seeing as my partner had already ordered and was about to pay, I made my way to the restrooms past a tall African-American gentleman sitting in a booth, while in another table a woman was texting on her phone. I could never have predicted what happened next.
Bathroom Bouncer: You, hey, what do you think you’re doing?
Me: I was hoping to use the bathroom…
BB: Well you can’t. You got a receipt?
This is when I notice that the guy is not some weirdo trying to start a conversation, but a rent-a-cop hired to keep the bathroom safe from tiny bladders like mine.
Me: Not on me, my boyfriend is paying as we speak (as I point to the suited up individual at the register, who turns, smiles and continues to talk to the woman at the counter)
BB: Well YOU can’t go. You don’t have a receipt yet. So you can’t!
Me: um ok, I mean he’s paying right now…
Cashier: Yes, she’s with him, let her go.
BB: Well I don’t give a shit, I’m not gonna let you go anywhere. AND DON’T YOU LISTEN TO ANYONE ELSE, I SAY WHAT GOES!
This is when he stands up steps towards me and tries to place his hands on me to block my way. The cashier and my partner share a look of shock and confusion, not understanding why me, a five foot tall woman is being denied the right to pee. As the Bathroom Bouncer moves to block me and prevent any further movement, I step back towards my partner to stop him from engaging in an altercation with this man.
The Potty Cop continues to tell the near empty establishment that I can’t use the bathroom until I take the receipt and give it to him to inspect. The cashier is still insisting that it’s okay for me to go and, like an idiot, I have frozen into place afraid of what this man could do if feeling more provoked. I was humiliated. For no discernable reason this man was shaming me in public for wanting to pee!
Before things escalated anymore the cashier approached the man, gave us the receipt and let me pass, all the while the Potty Cop was still cursing at me.
As a young, female, Puerto Rican woman I am not a stranger to discrimination for being Latina and speaking Spanish. At times I have had to explain that yes, even though I speak with no discernable accent I am Hispanic. Yet I was never hated for looking “white”. I have never been the target of such visceral unprovoked aggression.
This whole situation, bizarre in itself, feels even more so as I try and place into words. Almost a week later it feels sad and unnecessary. I’m at a loss as to how to explain this man’s anger and hostility towards me. Was it because he thought I was going to pee and dash? That I was some sort of danger to him or to others? Or the sad but real reason that he hated me because of the color of my skin?
All these questions and more swim through my brains. But more than anything, I feel sad; sad for the events of that day, for how I was treated and for the possible physical altercation between Potty Cop and my companion. What saddens me the most is this; that this man must lead a dismal life if this ego trip was the only way to feel good about himself.
Moral of the story is, always go before go and avoid the McDonald’s on 18th street Adams Morgan in Washington DC at all cost.
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