Shawan

'Hello', says the security guard standing by a stained glass window in a modern art museum.  She is a big black woman with short back and sides.  The top is an diagonal asymmetric fringe.  She is wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat.  'Hello', I reply.

'Where are you from?' she asks.  I tell her.  She shudders.  'That's what got me into trouble the first time', she says.  'My son's father was from Birmingham'.  I ask if it brings back bad memories.  'It just makes me wanna choke you', she says taking two steps forward.  I take two steps back.  'Sorry', I say.  'No, no', she says, 'I'm over that now'.  'I'm not from Birmingham', I say.

The tension averted, I ask my question.  'What's yours?' she asks with suspicion.  She gives me hers in exchange.  I ask where it comes from.  'My mother just made it up', she says.  'Just like my first name'.  We introduce ourselves and shake hands.  'It's nice to meet you, Richard', she says.  I go to look at the stained glass.

(An hour later we pass again in the main hall.  She puts up her hand and waves her fingers.  'Hello Richard', she says.  'Hello', I reply.)