When I signed up for my Sunday hot yoga class, I noted that the class would be taught by a sub. Although I really liked the regular instructor, whose thematic playlists included “spelling bee” (songs that spelled at least one word), and cars/”riding” (songs that mentioned cars or sex), I knew that I’d still get a good workout.
Since I’d attended class at that studio several times, I confidently set up in the front row beside the only other person in that row, a Black man. A few minutes later, one of my dance friends set up in the front row on the other side of me. My attention totally went to talking with her as we did our pre-class warm ups.
After finishing my hip-opening exercises, I laid on my back with my eyes closed for a few minutes.
When I heard the substitute yoga instructor welcoming the class, I didn’t immediately open my eyes, but, I’d hoped that he wasn’t looking at me since I trust that I pulled a face.
The Black guy beside me was the sub. I knew that the sub would be a guy, yet I wasn’t expecting a Black guy. I’d practiced yoga for over 30 years and had white/Asian/Latino/gay/recovering addict male yoga teachers, but NEVER a Black male.
I admonished myself for initially picturing a white sub. I wouldn’t have mentally put myself in the time-out corner if the sub had been in any other demographic.
Throughout class, I processed my assumptions, but not to the point that I didn’t keep up with class. I still got my experience’s worth, especially with one of my exercise friends right beside me, who motivated me to do my best. After all, in the other stretch class that we attended, that instructor would literally call us out if we didn’t take the advanced modifications for certain stretches.
After class, I thanked the sub, just like I did after every other class I’d attended. I also took myself out of the corner, comforting myself that other than my initial reaction to discovering that the yoga teacher was a Black man and possibly his seeing a brief change of my facial expression if he’d happened to be looking at me in that moment when he started class, I hadn’t outwardly acted differently.
Since I believe in being the change I want to see in the world, I openly acknowledge my bias. I also realize that no matter how open-minded I am, assumptions still sneak up on me. My only saving grace was that I still practiced as I would have normally. I even avoided any awkward or microaggression of over-thanking him for being the first Black male yoga teacher I’d ever had after three decades.
I’m going to save that revelation for after I know him for a while.