On the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr’s assassination, I thought back to the time I first saw a segregated bathroom. I came of age in the State of Indiana, moved to Chicago, and had no idea there was such a thing.

While growing up on the wrong side of  town, most of my neighbors didn’t go anywhere special for summer vacations. State parks, maybe.  Later, in college, I knew lots of kids who could afford to go to Florida for spring break, but not one of them ever reported having to watch where they went to pee. I had never traveled south to Florida until I was married at age twenty four.

In 1960, my then husband decided to return to college for a degree from the University of Miami.   After about a month of staying with in-laws, we rented a small apartment near the University.  I didn’t know a soul, was bored to death, and worried about money.  Two blocks away was a Sears Department Store.  I knew my college degree wouldn’t  mean much to them, but I had worked my way through school as a secretary, so figured that might qualify me for a job in the office at Sears.

I put on my best dress, a pair of high heels, walked in 90 degree heat to the store, and asked for directions to the Personnel  Office. (They didn’t call it Human Resources then.)  After climbing the stairs to the second floor, I thought I’d better stop in the restroom to wipe the sweat off my face and comb my hair.  I asked someone where the Ladies Room was, and a bored clerk pointed her finger.  Without paying much attention, I entered the restroom, surprised that it was dingy and smelly.

After I’d checked my appearance, I walked back into the store, and noticed all the white salespeople staring at me.  I wondered if I was trailing toilet paper. Alarmed,  I turned around, and realized  that I had made what appeared to be a serious mistake. A large sign said LADIES ROOM. I hadn’t noticed the two smaller signs underneath, above two doors. One restroom was for COLORED,  and the other WHITE.  I had gone in the wrong door!

I was so shocked that when I finally sat down for an interview, I was shaking. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job.  I suppose I was rejected for one of two reasons:  they thought I was either a nervous wreck or colored. Maybe both.