Cashier: “Oh, this must be wrong.”
Me: “Why, is it not going through?”
Cashier: “No, it is. But it says you’re using food stamps. You can’t be on food stamps. You’re white!”
Me: “…”
I went home and told my husband, who happens to be half-black. He was furious, to say the least, and said that I should have complained.
One day, in the breakroom, one of my coworkers loudly breaks out a REALLY sexist joke. The entire room goes dead silent while he is laughing and grinning around like he expects everyone, including several women, to join in on his fun. Finally, the guy he is talking to speaks up.
Coworker: “No, no, no. No. That isn’t funny.”
Sexist Coworker: “What? Man, it’s just a joke!”
Coworker: *Gesturing at the crowd* “And no one else is laughing, which means it is not a good one. Just… just don’t. That’s not okay.”
Sexist Coworker: *Starting to sound angry* “It’s humor! You just need to learn to not be so sensitive!”
Coworker: “Like the way you’re being sensitive over your joke falling flat?”
The sexist coworker didn’t have a response to that.
Forty years ago, I worked for a small microfilm publishing company as a newspaper indexer. While the company filmed the paper, the indexers read the articles, choosing subject headings for the article and writing a short sentence describing the content.
I had recently been promoted to assistant editorial which basically meant that, yes, I got a raise, but it also meant I did a lot of leg work when the big bosses decided it was time to fix things that weren’t actually broken.
The bosses, upon looking at the index, felt that African-Americans reading the index would be offended if the words “race” and “racism” were in an alphabetical list with the words “race track” because it was disrespectful to black people. From then on, anything about racing, the sport, was under the name of the item being raced — cars, horses, greyhounds, jumping frogs, etc. We could not even put in a “see” reference from racing to the new terms because that would be so hurtful.
The discussion of race then put them in mind that using the phrase “African-American” didn’t sound right, either. It was going to sound offensive and they didn’t like it.
So, it became my job, the vice president decided, to call every black cultural group on every college campus in the county until I got some kind of consensus.
In what was one of the strangest little projects, I called the three closest and largest colleges. The first two “African-American Cultural Centers” were, oddly, run by white people. They told me this up front. Number One said she had no clue as she wasn’t African-American and had no one to ask, but she felt sure that the term “Afro-American” was preferred over “Black” or “African-American” because it sounded “hip.”
Guy Two was some kind of didactic intellectual who went off on a long diatribe about how “Afro-American” and “African-American” were somehow insulting — he did not explain why — and it was much better to refer to them as “Black” which was descriptive and therefore preferable.
Then, I hit Number Three. The gentleman who answered had a deep James Earl Jones voice and what seemed a sour and disinterested manner. I explained my dilemma and I finished with, “And so, I am embarrassed to ask this, but my boss insists I ask exactly this: do African Americans prefer to be called ‘African-American,’ ‘Afro-American,’ or ‘Black’?”
There was a long pause and then he said, “I prefer ‘Steve,’ actually,” before he burst out laughing. He went on to say, “Your bosses aren’t very bright. We are people of African background who were born and raised in the U.S. We are African-Americans. What the heck else would they call us?”
We talked for a bit and he assured me that as a professor of Black History, he was pretty sure he knew his terms.
I went back to my boss with my findings and she took it to the big bosses.
And, despite what Steve said, they went with “Afro-American” because they agreed with the idea that it sounded hip, happening, and now.
Consequently, an entire year’s work had to be redone because a bunch of people who were so not equipped for their big important jobs needed to meddle in the work of their employees who knew what they were doing and how to do it.
The water in our neighborhood suddenly shuts off without notice. After checking the city website to make sure there are no planned outages for maintenance, I decide to go buy some bottled water in case it is a while before the utility department figures out what is wrong.
On my way back home, I spot a small construction crew doing some work a couple of blocks down. I stop and roll down my window to talk to one of the workers. For reference, I am a white woman in my early thirties and the employee I speak to happens to be a middle-aged black man. I don’t realize how this will come into play until later.
Me: “Good morning. Are you guys doing any water line work today? The water in my neighborhood went out about half an hour ago.”
Worker #1: “Yes, ma’am. Unfortunately, a water line cap was cracked and we had to shut the supply off. Our supervisor is on the way with a replacement right now. We’re really sorry about that.”
Me: “Okay, thank you for telling me. I know these things happen. I just wanted to make sure.”
I prepare to drive away when a sixty-ish-year-old white man who’s been standing nearby — with a hunk of chaw in his mouth so large it looks like he is chewing on a baseball — cuts in front of [Worker #1] and sticks his head IN my car window.
Worker #2: *Around his mouthful of tobacco* “Fraternizing with the help, huh?”
Me: *Stunned* “Excuse me?”
[Worker #1] gets a look on his face that says this happens often.
Worker #1: “She wanted to know about the water outage.”
Worker #2: “Oh, yeah! The supervisor is on his way now. No need to call the city!” *Grins* “What street you on, honey?”
Me: *Ignoring the question* “This whole area is out. He’s already explained what happened.”
Seeing that I was holding up traffic, I thanked [Worker #1] again and drove away. It wasn’t until I pulled back into my driveway that I really processed what that second worker had done. Not only had he made me feel uncomfortable, but he’d stepped all over the first man I spoke to and repeated the same thing he’d clearly already heard him tell me. Plus, there was that comment about “the help”. Anyone who has grown up in the southeastern US knows the racist connotations that phrase can have.
I also remembered his comment about “no need to call the city” and had a feeling he might have been some kind of foreman or supervisor himself not wanting to get in trouble. I knew a few of my neighbors had called the city already, and I decided to make my own report, too.
I have recently been hit by a gluten allergy that makes me break out in hives and makes the bottom of my feet swell up, so it can be hard to walk. It means I have to be careful about everything I buy, so a lot of my items are marked gluten-free on the container. I’m putting things on the conveyer belt with a growing line behind me. Behind me is a woman who has made rude noises behind me the whole time.
Cashier: “Your total is [high total].”
Me: *Laughing* “Ouch, that’s a kick to the bank account. It kills me that they make gluten-free food so expensive.”
The woman behind me glares at my heavyset body.
Woman: “Maybe if you didn’t follow the diet trends.”
Me: “Excuse me?”
Woman: “I know you fatties think that these fad diets are going to help you. Maybe if you actually put the candy bars down and started being active, you wouldn’t need these diets.”
Cashier: “Ma’am, you’re being rude.”
The customer behind this rude woman speaks up.
Customer: “If you’d look at the spots on her arm, you’d also realize you’re an ignorant b****.”
Woman: *Offended* “Who the f*** are you to talk to me like that? Fat b**** is complaining about high prices.”
Me: “Yeah, I am, because I have to buy this food. I’m gluten intolerant. I break out in hives all over my body if I have it. So I have to eat it so I don’t build up and have my f****** tongue swell up in my mouth.”
Woman: “You’re a f****** liar.”
Me: “I have pictures of my swollen tongue on my phone if you want proof.”
Customer: “Maybe if you’d stop being judgmental, b****, you wouldn’t be making assumptions. Besides, your fat a** could also stand to lose some pounds.”
Woman: *Getting red-faced* “F*** you!”
She slams her cart into my side, which makes me have to stand on my sore foot.
Cashier: “Ma’am, you need to leave now before I call the manager over here.”
Woman: “F*** you, too! F*** all of you. I’m going to find the manager myself!”
As I left, she was standing with the manager, yelling and pointing at me. The manager approached me about hitting the woman and verbally assaulting her just as I was going out. The cashier and I explained the situation to him and he ended up calling the police when she punched him and stormed out. On the plus side, I got a free gift card to the store.
Related:
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 10
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 9
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 8
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 7
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 6
