“Wow, you’re articulate”

I was dancing on stage at Ten’s World Class Cabaret in New York City the first time a customer said this to me. The stages at Ten’s were small. The club itself was small and intimate, the kind of place where our finance-bro customers felt comfortable approaching a dancer on stage to tip her and say hi.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“Thanks darling!”

“When you’re done, I’d love a private dance.”

“Sounds like fun! I’ll swing by your table after this song.”

That was the extent of it. No one gets into deep philosophical discussions while twirling on a pole. So I was caught off guard when the customer remarked that I was “articulate.”

Of course I was articulate. I grew up in the wealthy suburbs of New York. I graduated from Columbia. I was 31 and new to dancing. Until this moment, no one had ever condescended to my intelligence. I mumbled a confused, “thanks.”

The next day as I went about my business, I felt grateful to be the type of person that others tend to judge in a positive way. I was young and pretty. I smiled easily and walked with a skip in my step. No one knew I held a low status job unless I chose to tell them. And it made me think of all the people who have attributes that others tend to not judge so positively. In a new way, I empathized with people who are routinely condescended to. In their shoes, how easily would I smile? What would happen to the skip in my step?

So I took it as my mission to educate any customer who made this type of insulting observation. “Well, English is my first language,” I’d say. “For a lot of girls here, English is their second or even third language. Frankly, I can’t imagine moving to another country and doing a job like this. That takes guts. I’d be scared to death.”

The guys would always nod in agreement. “Oh sure,” they’d say. “That would be tough.”

Sometimes when a customer commented that I was “articulate” I’d tell him how I was born into foster care in the Bronx but, by a series of lucky events, I was able to go to Rye High School in wealthy Westchester County, where I was a cheerleader and played the flute. I hope I opened at least a few minds.

I never told any of my coworkers that I stuck up for them with the customers. What would be the point? Truth is, several of them stuck up for me when they’d translate a conversation I didn’t understand. “C’mon you guys,” they’d plead on my behalf. “Saturday is American. She only speaks English.”