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I walked down the cereal aisle in the grocery store, determined to finish my shopping list. As I skimmed my eyes across the rows of boxes, I landed on what I was looking for: a jumbo box of Rice Krispies.

“Good choice,” a deep, bellowing voice confirmed. I turned around and saw a handsome black man waiting patiently, with a cart full of groceries and a warm smile that briefly invigorated my tired spirit after a long day of work. He was wearing a professional outfit, leather dress shoes and a brown wool houndstooth coat with the collar popped. I smiled and apologized for holding him up.

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“No problem,” he reassured me with a kind nod.

This encounter was nothing unusual; I frequently have similar encounters with strangers at the grocery store. However, as I strolled past this man’s cart full of baby wipes, pull-up diapers, fresh fruit and his own box of Rice Krispies, I felt an immense amount of guilt.

I am a black woman who has never dated a black man, and most days I don’t think twice about that. But sometimes, like when I encounter a well-dressed family man with a mutual love for certain breakfast cereals, I wonder if I am failing my people.