I wait for my husband, Ben, to join me inside the hardware store. Because hardware nerds munch while browsing, I grab myself a bag of Cheetos off the junk food shelf. The cashier is engrossed in a magazine, but sees me through the eyes in the back of his head. He scans the bag and turns the page simultaneously. “Dollar seventy-three,” he says to his magazine, then shoves the cash into the drawer. “Want your receipt?” he asks the cash register.
On behalf of the register, I say, “No thanks.”
Lousy service will not be allowed to ruin my Tuesday with Ben. When he comes in, we meander to housewares, on the hunt for picture hooks. No hooks in sight, but they do have a spiffy pop-open laundry hamper, which I snatch up.
We examine a red wagon and some bicycle tires. Total browsing satisfaction awaits over in automotive, plumbing, and possibly electrical supplies. Nothing beats a Cheeto-crunching tour of electrical--
A sales associate is creeping toward us. Half a mile away, he hesitates. “Hello?”
The same greeting had frequently floated my way across a tony department store. "Hello?" The unspoken questions trailing like cigar smoke: Are you lost? May I direct you back to the ghetto?
Ben says, “Hi, we’re looking for hooks.”
“Third aisle over, on your left.”
I spot them immediately, exactly what I need. Pinging from suspicious to triumphant, I wave at the associate. “Perfect. Thank you.”
Behind me, my white husband also says, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Ping. Incensed.
We circle around to the paint section, grab a bottle of mineral oil, and then head for checkout, where the cashier is still engrossed. As Ben drops the first item onto the counter, the cashier leaps to attention and beams. “Morning, sir. Find everything you need?”
Ping. Livid.
Our loot disappears into a plastic sack. Hating the plastic, hating the cashier, I remove our loot, dropping the bag like a dirty diaper. “You can keep the bag.”
Re-absorbed in his magazine, the cashier snatches the plastic off the counter, wads it up, and jams it into the trash. The eyes in the back of his head glare at me.
Ping. Deranged.
I unsheathe my Negress spear, with the intention of plunging it through the cashier’s heart, when I am stopped mid-stab by an epiphany: Living as a black woman just doesn't work for me.
I will stop being black.
To inform the public of my change in status, I’ll print up race cards. These customized notes will be handed out as follows:
Dear white cashier. It’s okay to make eye contact. I’m not black.
Dear white sales associate. It’s okay to not follow me around the store. I’m not black.
Dear white neighbor. It’s okay to skip asking me if I live around here. I’m not black.
Dear white restaurant hostess. It’s okay to seat me near the front door instead of the kitchen door. I’m not black.
Dear white contractor. It’s okay to repair my stoop. I’m not black.
Dear white traffic cop. It’s okay to forgo the speeding ticket for five miles over. I’m not black.
Dear white conference attendee. It’s okay to sit beside me. I’m not black.
Dear white church-goer. It’s okay to stop peeking. I’m not black.
Dear white funny guy. It’s okay to say you did mean it that way. I’m not black.
Dear white ally. It’s okay to acknowledge that all your friends are white. I’m not black.
Dear white girlfriend. Its okay to love your own hair. I’m not black.
And for occasions not otherwise specified, the general purpose race card. Dear white citizen. It's okay to treat me like a run-of-the-mill Cheeto-lovin' earthling. I'm not black.
On behalf of the register, I say, “No thanks.”
Lousy service will not be allowed to ruin my Tuesday with Ben. When he comes in, we meander to housewares, on the hunt for picture hooks. No hooks in sight, but they do have a spiffy pop-open laundry hamper, which I snatch up.
We examine a red wagon and some bicycle tires. Total browsing satisfaction awaits over in automotive, plumbing, and possibly electrical supplies. Nothing beats a Cheeto-crunching tour of electrical--
A sales associate is creeping toward us. Half a mile away, he hesitates. “Hello?”
The same greeting had frequently floated my way across a tony department store. "Hello?" The unspoken questions trailing like cigar smoke: Are you lost? May I direct you back to the ghetto?
Ben says, “Hi, we’re looking for hooks.”
“Third aisle over, on your left.”
I spot them immediately, exactly what I need. Pinging from suspicious to triumphant, I wave at the associate. “Perfect. Thank you.”
Behind me, my white husband also says, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Ping. Incensed.
We circle around to the paint section, grab a bottle of mineral oil, and then head for checkout, where the cashier is still engrossed. As Ben drops the first item onto the counter, the cashier leaps to attention and beams. “Morning, sir. Find everything you need?”
Ping. Livid.
Our loot disappears into a plastic sack. Hating the plastic, hating the cashier, I remove our loot, dropping the bag like a dirty diaper. “You can keep the bag.”
Re-absorbed in his magazine, the cashier snatches the plastic off the counter, wads it up, and jams it into the trash. The eyes in the back of his head glare at me.
Ping. Deranged.
I unsheathe my Negress spear, with the intention of plunging it through the cashier’s heart, when I am stopped mid-stab by an epiphany: Living as a black woman just doesn't work for me.
I will stop being black.
To inform the public of my change in status, I’ll print up race cards. These customized notes will be handed out as follows:
Dear white cashier. It’s okay to make eye contact. I’m not black.
Dear white sales associate. It’s okay to not follow me around the store. I’m not black.
Dear white neighbor. It’s okay to skip asking me if I live around here. I’m not black.
Dear white restaurant hostess. It’s okay to seat me near the front door instead of the kitchen door. I’m not black.
Dear white contractor. It’s okay to repair my stoop. I’m not black.
Dear white traffic cop. It’s okay to forgo the speeding ticket for five miles over. I’m not black.
Dear white conference attendee. It’s okay to sit beside me. I’m not black.
Dear white church-goer. It’s okay to stop peeking. I’m not black.
Dear white funny guy. It’s okay to say you did mean it that way. I’m not black.
Dear white ally. It’s okay to acknowledge that all your friends are white. I’m not black.
Dear white girlfriend. Its okay to love your own hair. I’m not black.
And for occasions not otherwise specified, the general purpose race card. Dear white citizen. It's okay to treat me like a run-of-the-mill Cheeto-lovin' earthling. I'm not black.