Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents

by Isabel Wilkerson

“Can you come here a second?” she called out to him as he passed again. “I know exactly what this is about. This is about racism!” Her voice was rising, she was loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. “You’re a racist! This restaurant is racist! We sat here all this time, and you served all these other people at all these other tables, and you ignored us this whole time just because she’s African-American.” People at other tables were now looking over at me, when I had not wanted the attention. I had no interest in making a federal case out of this. If I responded like that every time I was slighted, I’d be telling someone off almost every day. But she was just getting started. “I want your name, I want the manager’s name. I will turn this place out.” She pushed the bowl of pasta to the center of the table. “The pasta’s cold,” she said. “I can’t even eat it. Her fish is cold. She can’t eat hers. I’m not paying, we’re not paying. I’m telling everybody I know not to come here. This is crap.” With all of the ruckus, the manager came out to see what was going on. As it happened, the manager was a petite African-American woman, who seemed cowed by the ferocity of this newly minted anti-racist, anti-casteist, upper-caste woman, standing before her enraged at the unaccustomed humiliation. The manager apologized profusely, but my friend was having none of it. She stormed out of the restaurant, and I walked out with her. It took a while for her to calm down. Part of me wanted...