I picked up three young men in Millcreek. They were on their way downtown to City Creek Mall.
All three piled into the back seat. I offered to have one of them sit up front, but they said, nah, it’s not that far of a ride.
I pulled up to the first stoplight. We were in the left-turn lane. A car pulled up next to us, and a woman rolled down her window, smiling. She pulled out her cellphone and took a picture. One of the men in the back seat chuckled. I assumed the picture-taking woman was a friend.
We got to the next light, and a van pulled up. A kid in the back seat rolled his window down and he, too, took a picture.
At this point, it was strange enough that one of my passengers commented, “People sure do seem to be very fascinated by the back of your car.”
“Well, it is a really nice car,” I said, trying to ease the tension.
The thing is, it’s not that nice a car. In fact, it was a very uncomfortable moment because — and perhaps I should have led with this — the three men are black. I am a white woman with blond hair. I omitted that part because I don’t make it a habit to include the color of a passenger’s skin as a part of a story. But when a man in a third car discreetly snapped a photo, it became easier to believe it had to do with race, more so than the off chance that these guys had a lot of friends who said hello by taking a picture.
It would happen one more time before we arrived at the mall.
I became hyperaware of every car around us, but perhaps more interesting was the fact that my passengers continued their conversations and ceased to notice it, at least outwardly.
Later, I told my poker group this story and asked for thoughts, because nothing says wisdom like a room full of middle-aged people drinking, gambling and throwing cards.
There were lots of theories as to why it happened, and we tried our darnedest to find one that didn’t involve racism.
Maybe the people with the cameras thought my passengers were music moguls or movie stars. (I can vouch for the fact that given the multifamily house where I picked them up, they were most likely not famous.)
OK, so the only reason three black men would be chauffeured is because they are famous? I’m no expert, but … racism.
Maybe they were documenting how far we’d come since “Driving Miss Daisy.” Finally, Miss Daisy is driving Hoke! Still … racism.
One of my friends wondered if they were taking pictures because they were afraid I was driving these men under duress and they wanted evidence for later.
Oh jeesh. That one is really racist, but more concerning to me is the thought that if someone believed I was in trouble, the only help I would get is a picture that would be used later in a court of law? Highly disheartening.
Maybe we were all wrong. Maybe the people in the other cars were really impressed with the back end of a Toyota Avalon and didn’t notice that three black men were sitting in the back seat.
But, I can say this, nothing like that had happened before that ride and nothing like it has happened since.
Brodi Ashton is a New York Times best-selling author who lives in the Salt Lake City area. She’s also an Uber and Lyft driver who shares stories from the road in this occasional column.