Twenty years ago, few places would cause my nerves to seize and my demeanor to sour more than a trip to the hidden hippie hideaway that was the Red Cup, 3122 N. Classen. A then-favorite after-school hang-out for the beautifully pretentious enrollees of the newly-opened Classen School of Advanced Studies, it was a mostly ramshackle coffee-shop with very little to eat, a parking lot full of junkers and a game of hack ready to bust out at any moment.
For me, however, it was more of a quick lesson in learning to know your place. Whenever I would step through the door, all those years ago, it was immediately felt and made quickly known that obviously I didn’t get the memo about the secret handshake. Routinely ignored by the too cool for school staff and, when I was finally being helped, roundly dismissed and made to wait forever for a simple cup of coffee; I would often leave questioning what it is about me that they disliked so much, still naïve to the ways of the white world.