I was twenty-four, and it was 1984 in Petersburg, Virginia. With my newly-minted English degree I took a job selling college textbooks in the state of Virginia. This day took me to one of Virginia’s two historically black colleges. One — Virginia Union University, in Richmond — laid claim to being the home of the Black Panthers, a radical group dedicated to promoting civil rights for African Americans in the 1960s. Virginia State, where I was that day in Petersburg, was still almost entirely black, with a few white instructors, even fewer white students, and the occasional white textbook salesperson.

That day I wore a beige linen suit and short stacked heels. My short light brown hair all in place, I carried my briefcase. Inside it were a notebook, several brochures about new books, and sample copy of Random House’s newest Chemistry text. My manager told me to carry mace, but I ignored her advice.

As I walked from my car to one of the faculty offices, I felt eyes on my back. Soon I could hear several young men behind me on the sidewalk, several steps behind.

“Buttermilk, buttermilk…sure do like that buttermilk!” one of them said gleefully. Laughter erupted among the group. I kept walking straight ahead, purposefully not increasing my pace or stiffening my body, to avoid the appearance of fear. As I rounded a corner I noticed a phone booth off to my right near a building. A group of young women congregated at the building steps. I thought quickly that to walk through or around them would give me some time, and perhaps distract my entourage.

As I walked through the group of females I suddenly felt a sense of safety and relief. At the top of the stairs I could see down the hall to a department office, so ducked in side. It was the chemistry department, as luck would have it. So I asked who was teaching the introductory class that term, and who would be teaching it in the fall. “That would be Dr. Brown,” replied the secretary. “His office is down the hall on the left hand side, #105.”

Dr. Brown was miraculously “in” so I made my pitch for why this textbook was so much better at teaching chemistry than the fifteen others on the market that year, using my handy dandy comparison chart provided by the marketing team in New York. I left him with a review copy, and thanked him for his time.

In front of the building, the young men and women were still congregating in front of the stairs. I wove my way between them as I stepped down out of the building, and surveyed the campus to determine the most direct route to my next stop, the English department.

“Buttermilk, buttermilk…sure do like that buttermilk!” the young man repeated as I walked on past. And again I could hear my entourage collecting to follow behind me. The feeling was not overtly threatening, but I was uncomfortable just the same. Not wanting to look back I estimated that there were four of them by the sounds of their feet and voices. I kept on walking that sidewalk, not exactly knowing where the English department was in relation to where I was at that moment.

For a moment, my need to know overcame my fear. I stopped, turned around, and asked, “Say can you guys direct me to Jones Hall?” I pulled out my campus map from my bag while they competed with one another as to who would give me directions.

“Why sure Ma’am,” spoke the buttermilk lover, who stepped right up next to me with my map. As I continued to puzzle over the map with the other three, he pointed, “It’s up the hill there on the right. I’m heading up that way so I’ll take you there if you’d like…”

“Sure,” I said as I refolded the map and stuffed it back in my bag. As we walked up the hill together the class bell rang, so the others split off into their different directions to get to their classes. Buttermilk said goodbye at the door to the English department and I thanked him for his help. I didn’t see him or the others the rest of that day or on subsequent visits, but I still muse over my fear and the reactions we have to people of other colors.