Here are three of their stories.

Part of our purpose with this part of the series is to explore why those of us of different races in Tampa tend not to mix and to help us understand each other better.

To that end, please send us accounts of your experiences with people of other races. It could be a story of discrimination, obvious or subtle, or it could be a story of being welcomed by people of another race or ethnic group. Both experiences can be illuminating.

Tanya Wilkerson

I spent the day at International Plaza with Beth Ann Drake. She's white. I am black. We decided to visit several high-end stores to see if we would be treated differently. For the most part, the clerks were courteous to both of us, but some subtle things happened that made me feel uncomfortable. That's the form racism often takes today. It can be maddening because you just don't know.

Our first stop was a jewelry store where the sales person let Beth Ann browse the store, but turned to me and said ``Let me know if I can explain anything to you.'' I wondered, what made her think that I needed explanations of the merchandise. I had eyes. Later another clerk approached Beth Ann and simply asked ``How are you doing today?`` I would have felt better with something similar or a simple, ``Hello, may I help you?``

Next was a clothing store where I was greeted warmly. The sales person introduced herself, asked if there was anything that she could show me and started a friendly conversation before suggesting I look around the store. Beth Ann was also warmly greeted - then shown the sale rack, which made her wonder. Still, I felt the store offered great customer service.

My most uncomfortable experience came as I stood outside one of the stores across from the jewelry store, waiting for Beth Ann. A staff person stood outside inviting people in, but as I stood directly in front of the store, this person ignored me while he greeted everyone else who walked past and invited them in. I couldn't help but notice that they were all white.

It may be hard for someone to understand why this is offensive, but the same thing has happened to me at other places. And it's happened to other blacks I know. It made me feel as if the struggles that my ancestors went through didn't make as much of an impact as we thought. Some things have not changed. Just because racism is not as overt as in the past, doesn't mean it is not a reality.

Beth Ann Drake

It took this Tampa Tribune project to get me, a white woman, into Frank El Restaurant. Located on Busch Boulevard, Frank El serves 'soul food' to a mostly black clientele. But the first thing I smelled there was from my own childhood. It was the comfort foods my grandmother, an old Florida girl, used to cook. Chicken, greens, squash.

Aside from a Latino couple, my companion and I were the only white people in the restaurant. On the walls were pictures depicting the lives of black people, including photos of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Even though we must have stood out, we were treated with the same courtesy as every other customer.

We did encounter an unfriendly hostess, who barely acknowledged us when we said how much we enjoyed the food. But then we noticed she acted that way to everyone.

It was a pleasant experience compared to one of the other few times I've found myself in the minority. A while back, I agreed to host the Tribune's suite at what I thought was an Earth, Wind & Fire concert. As it turned out, the band was just one part of the event.

As I approached the St. Pete Times Forum, I noticed no other white people, and everyone was very well dressed. I was feeling paler and more under dressed by the minute. I made my way to the suite, still seeing no other white people. The comedian who opened the show even joked with the crowd, ``Hey, look.........a white person!'' he said.

``Don't be scared!`` I wasn't. No one had done anything to make me even out of place. But still, I felt strange. And I was irritated that none of the other white people I'd invited to the suite showed up. It was their loss. I ended up running into some black friends from work and inviting them up to the suite. We had a great time.

I was also in the minority at a recent luncheon in honor of Dr. King. I listened to the speakers, one of whom had had his house blown up by the Ku Klux Klan. I wondered how he and others who'd been victims of racist violence could avoid hating white people.

I sat next to my friend from work, who is black, but still I felt like an outsider. I knew I could never really understand what it means to be a victim of racism because I had never experienced it myself. Also, I was struck by the fact that we all live together here, but we keep ourselves separate. We remain strangers, even though we all want the same things: good food, friends and the feeling of belonging.

Melonie Hall

My daughter and I turned into the visitor's lot of the New Salem Missionary Baptist Church, off Kennedy Boulevard. My 14-year-old hadn't planned to come with me but circumstances forced her to come along.

As we approached the parking lot, I couldn't help wonder if the attendants would wave us on through. They did seem surprised to see a white face and asked if I was there for the service. When I said 'yes' they directed me, without hesitation, to a lot near the church.

I was excited. I had long wished to be invited to a service at a black church. That may seem strange, but the fact is that most whites and blacks don't worship together. I have to admit that I was apprehensive. Everywhere I go, I'm in the majority. I felt a little silly about my apprehension when I saw the other vehicles, which were just like the ones in my church parking lot.

``Wow,'' was my initial reaction when I saw all the women in white suits and elaborate hats. These were the most incredible hats I had ever seen. The men wore dark suits, for the most part. I was wearing the tan pantsuit I'd put on earlier that morning for my church in Brandon, and I felt less than properly dressed. My daughter felt horribly under dressed, in torn jeans. I'm sure the other church goers noticed, but they didn't let it show.

The deacons out front welcomed me, though their mood was very somber. I couldn't find the colleague I had made arrangements to meet, and my daughter was increasingly uncomfortable. We were the only white people there. But we waded on into the church. Not seeing any empty seats, we stayed in back. After a few minutes a woman directed us forward, to the third row from the front.

Our section was filled with men, women and the most well-behaved children my daughter and I had ever seen. At our church, St. Andrews United Methodist Church, midway through the hour-long service, the children go to the front of the church for a ``children's sermon.`` Then they're escorted out of the church for ``children's church.'' I can't imagine them sitting for three hours, as the children of New Salem did.

I was surprised by other things at New Salem. They spent about 10 minutes thanking Jesus that they had survived another week and were able to return to church. It struck me because I have no doubt that every Sunday, I will be back at church. One preacher summed up his desire to give frequent thanks by saying, as I recall, ``If we wait another day to tell people about Christ, our daughters will grow up too fast, our sons will be locked up, our mothers will give up and our fathers will be shot up.`` ``Wow!'' I thought. What a different world I lived in less than 15 miles away. We take so much for granted.