“Ahmad, Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte. Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte! Ahmad!” I am not the biggest fan of Starbucks, but I do appreciate chocolate chip cookies and free WiFi. What I do not understand is why patrons place an order and then, while the barista is crafting a designer brew more complex than a Boeing, they vanish, kicking off an unrequited game of “Marco Polo.”

“Ahmad, Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte. AHMAD!” Ahmad must be a Middle-Eastern hit-and-run Houdini, as the only remaining caffeine slurpers are a group of young women donning Uggs and yoga pants. As I look up from my computer, a barista with a fire in her eyes that could scorch a Buick plops a cuppa joe on my tiny table and barks, “Ahmad, your Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte.” Immediately offended that she assumed I would order a Pumpkin Spice Latte (or a “PSL” to the elite insiders), I politely said I was not Ahmad as she stormed off.

In an effort to avoid the human version of Frogger, I waited at a crosswalk in Capitol Hill on a late summer evening. A guy in his late 20’s or early 30’s came up and stood next to me. I could feel him staring at me, and so I finally turned to acknowledge his inquiry. Without skipping a beat, he said, “Hey, man, do you need help hailing a cab? I know it’s difficult for minorities.” I looked over my shoulders, did not see any “minorities,” and realized he was definitely talking to me. “Thanks, but I’m taking the Metro. And…I’m white.” As if I had pulled his grandmother’s head out of a grocery bag, he beamed a look of shock in my direction and said, “You ARE???? Oh, sorry man,” and quickly skittered across the street.

While I love airplanes, commercial flight is not a favorite pastime. The aircraft are crowded, the seats are small, and I always get squeezed between Mr. Seatbelt Extender and a plague-ridden sneezer. But the fun truly begins before even breaching the jetway. When I hit the security line, I’m typically diverted to the special checkpoint. I’ve been fabric swabbed for explosives, sniffed by a Beagle, scanned enough to retard my thyroid, held in the Plexiglas case of emotion, and patted down so many times it should warrant a second date.

After visiting my sister in Greece in 2007, she asked me to ferry a suitcase back to the States for her to lighten her load upon return from Study Abroad. As I passed through the X-Ray machine at Athens International, I was plucked from line and escorted by an agent to a nearby table. “Sir, did you pack your own bags?” she repeatedly asked. I thought nothing of it until she popped open my sister’s suitcase and the first item removed was an Ethernet cable, followed by a woman’s bathing suit, various knick knacks, and a handful of tampons. Fantastic.

After explaining that the contents were indeed “mine,” I was marched to a walled off holding area. When the agent put on rubber gloves and asked me to unfasten my belt, I quipped, “You could at least buy me dinner first.” Top 10 Things Not to Say to Airport Security. Finding NO humor in my nervous joke, she made a mumbled call on her radio in Greek, and in a flash, Ruben Studdard’s doppelganger appeared, snapped on a large pair of gloves, and led a scouting expedition that would have made Lewis and Clark proud. Once he had double-confirmed I was not harboring anything too unnatural (Ladies ;)), I was sheepishly allowed to board.

I have a beard, a good tan, and a dozen more similar stories. I get it. Sometimes, people don’t know what the hell I am. I’ve been accused of being Indian, Middle-Eastern, Jewish, Greek, Italian, Egyptian, Mediterranean, and “The Whitest White person that works here” by one of my former patients. (For the record, I’m Caucasian of Irish and Italian descent – sorry if I upset any bets.)

While I do find my racial ambiguity amusing and don’t take offense to any of my experiences, it has taught me to be less judgmental of appearance regardless of the circumstance, and reminds me that we are subject to the judgment and presumptions of others in every interaction. Perhaps an occasional reminder of sensitivity isn’t a bad thing. But before I attempt to change the world, I’m going to finish Ahmad’s PSL.