A few weeks ago, my girlfriend and I went to the Vogue on a Thursday night to have some drinks and see a couple of local bands play. Usually, the Vogue wouldn't be our scene. But we went that night because we were invited by a friend of hers, who is also a member of the rock band Loretta.

BTW, Jason Weidner, YOU ROCK! I'd have never guessed such a little guy could be so intense.

Anyway, as we made our way to the end of Broadripple Ave and turned the corner at College, we made a mental note to ourselves that, yet again, we would be what we call "flies in the buttermilk", two Black people swimming in a sea of White folks.

We got quite a few quizzical looks during the night, which I did find somewhat surprising coming from Broadripple, the land of the free and the home of the strange. But the more we drank and the more we danced, the less we all seemed aware of us being the only ones.

Because of my eclectic interests and tastes in music, art and people, I often find myself in places where I am the only one. And it is not always a comfortable feeling. I try to explain this feeling to my White friends, who claim they just don't understand.

"We are all just people right?"

Yeah, sure we are. That is until I invite one of them to come with me to a predominantly Black event or neighborhood. Then something changes.

Most of them never say it. But I can see the apprehension on their faces, as they struggle with the thought of being the only one. The feeling of being out of place or out of ones element.

Like once I invited one of my White friends from Moorsville, with me to a church function. "Will I be the only White person there?" She asked.

"Yeah. Probably".

Then she asked me with the sincerest look on her face, "Will I be okay?"

I paused, and thought about all the times where I've been the only one. Then I reassured her that she too would be just fine.