How Do I Look?

I'm a big, goofy, white guy - in case you haven't noticed. I can't really say I know what discrimination based on appearance is like.

I guess my closest encounters with discrimination because of appearance would have been on the golf course and on the basketball court.

After Greg Norman gained fame in golf he successfully marketed a golf line with hats, clothes, clubs, the whole deal. Suddenly there were all these short, stocky men on the golf course dressed like Greg Norman.

Then, of course, came Tiger Woods and suddenly the golf courses were littered with people who had never golfed before.

It became like a secret men's club, and you had to dress and look the part, and have a brand new set of clubs, and the latest "super juiced" golf ball with built in honing sensors that automatically found the short grass.

Growing up my idea of golf was a pair of cut-off shorts, no shirt, and a nice day outside hitting a silly, little, white ball around. That idea has never changed. That's still my idea of a good day of golf.

Of course it doesn't cost $1.50 to play all day anymore. It costs $30-plus for one round. And you can't even walk anymore. You have to take a cart to speed up play so the course can jam as many little Greg Normans through as possible.

I keep my shirt on since a club house attendant screamed at me some years ago at Galen Hall in Berks County. I still say the screaming was more rude and disruptive than me getting a little tan.

But I still do dress like I always would, cut-off shorts and a t-shirt. I don't have any fancy golf spikes. I don't have any fancy golf hats or clothes. My clubs are an odd assortment of hand-me-downs and pick-me-ups that have been collected over time. My golf balls all come from my Dad's yard. He has to pick them up before he mows.

I would show up at golf courses and hear the giggles and jokes from the foursomes with their $1000 worth of clubs, and $1000 more worth of accessories. I looked like a goofball to them who didn't belong there, and they were out to make me feel uncomfortable.

The last time I ever played golf was with two dozen golf equipment sales professionals at a company outing. You can imagine how these guys were decked out, nothing but the latest, greatest, most expensive gear from head to toe. They talked down to me, giggled and whispered and laughed.

Then I took the first tee, took out my 1-wood, the driver (which is actually made of wood and not metal like all of them are today). I let it rip, a huge swing with my 6'4" arms flailing, 260-yards just down the left side of the fairway.

There was a soft "Ooooooooo," from the crowd of sales reps behind me. They were disappointed and amazed. I guess I was supposed to miss the ball.

I don't play golf anymore. I don't dress right. I don't look right. I know it's not nearly as serious as some of the discrimination that goes on in this world, not very serious at all compared to most. But it gave me a taste of what it's like.

Growing up playing basketball everyday as I did, I would drive into downtown Reading now and again and find a game on a playground to join. I would stand along side the court with my ball, the only white guy in site.

It never failed, sooner or later, a couple guys would laugh and say, "Hey get that white guy in." Like lions approaching an antelope, you could tell that they couldn't wait to rip me apart.

Surprise, surprise, I was good. I would score from inside and out. I was a slasher who could handle the ball, passing and dribbling like my hero Pete Maravich.

Unlike the golfers, I would gain their respect. They never learned my name. I was still "the white guy." But again, it's a memory of discrimination because of appearance that I remember.

Recently I asked my brother and sister if I look like a guy that is sick.

Without hesitation they both answered "Yeah."

No hard feelings. I wanted their honest opinion. I appreciated their honest opinion.

I've discussed this with Barb. I've briefly discussed this with my Mom. They've both said that I do look ill to people who've known me a long time. But they argue that to people who don't know me I look normal.

I just don't know.

As we start to pull the Albert Design Studio business back together I wonder how much I should be involved in meeting new customers. Can they tell? Maybe I should just be a hidden secret weapon and let Barb handle all of the customer interaction. I mean I have lost over 40-pounds, have multi-colored chemo hair, and I'm sitting here typing with six different needle marks down my arms. Can they tell?

I don't know.

Would people make decisions on a potential business vendor because of their appearance?

Well they do on the golf course. They did on the basketball court.