Bye, Bye Monkey

Every parent has experienced a moment when their children have embarrassed, humiliated, mortified, disgraced, and otherwise humbled them. My wife and I are no different. You never know where or when it’s going to happen, but you can be sure it’ll come when you least expect and least want it to.

For several weeks, our daughter had two favorite toys: a blue monkey and a purple monkey. They were tiny, flexible figures, only about three inches high. Cute little fellers. She had become attached to them, and carried them around with her wherever we went.

One Sunday morning, we went out to brunch, as was our wont, to a tiny restaurant by our house. More of a dinner venue, it had a sturdy wooden bar and held less than ten tables. A fine white tablecloth covered each of the tables, but by the time the meal was over it ran bloody from Colleen’s ketchup and a ridge of scrambled eggs ejected from her plate stretched across the table.

Another couple sat at a table behind us, but I was absorbed by my wife, my daughter, and my cappuccino. It was only at the end of the meal, after she had chewed her last strip of extra crispy bacon, that my daughter began to miss her two monkeys.

She began to repeat herself: “Where’s my monkey? Where’s my monkey?”

“She’s at home,” I said.

She was persistent. “Where’s my monkey?”

“She’s at home, sweetheart.”

On and on it went. I paid the bill and my wife and I prepared to leave. I picked up Colleen and held her in my arms, and we walked to the door.

“Where’s my monkey?” she repeated.

“She’s at home, honey. We left them at home.”

“Bye, bye, monkey,” she said.

It seemed so innocent until I turned my head and noticed another patron in the corner. She must have entered while I was paying the check. She sat alone, gabbing on her mobile phone, but looked like she was waiting for a date to show up. All of these details were unimportant. The only one that mattered is this: she was black. I cringed.

We didn’t wait for a reaction. Lana and I didn’t look back. We left as quickly as we could and conferred by the car.

“What should we do?” I asked. “Should we go back and apologize?”

“What? What would you say? I’m sorry our daughter called you a monkey? It was unintentional. Colleen wasn’t even referring to her. You’d only make things worse.”

I hated to think what the woman thought of us. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had run out of the restaurant screaming and cursing at us down the pavement. What could I do though? We never taught our child to think that way, and she hadn’t. “You’re right,” I said.

I held the door for my wife. She looked at me. “I’m never going back to that restaurant again.”

I agreed. There was no choice. Our daughter had burned that bridge without meaning to. Have I overreacted? Have your kids ever embarrassed you like this? Should I even write about this?